by Robena Grant
“Ah…do you think Fred can be trusted?” Michael asked.
Stanton looked up. “Absolutely.”
Mantis nodded. “Yeah. He’s cool.”
“Anyone know his phone number?”
Stanton pulled out his cell phone. “Got it right here.”
“Give me a sec before you call.” Michael turned to Rachel. “Okay. Now, I don’t want any argument. You and Ralph will stay with Fred, if he agrees. If all goes well, and we make it out of Ocotillo Flats in one piece, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She looked up at him, her face streaked with mascara and tears. “And if you don’t?”
“Then you can attend my funeral.”
She shook her head at him. “Don’t be an ass.”
“Sorry,” he said, and shrugged. “But it’s always a possibility, and you know, you have to make light of stuff when you’re in my business.”
Her bottom lip quivered, and she snagged it with her top one, pressing them tight. His heart pained something awful. He wanted to hold her, tell her he loved her. But damn, he hardly knew her. And he wasn’t even that sure, because he’d never been in love before. But whatever the feeling, he knew he wanted her in his life, and not short-term. He slapped one fist against an open palm. Anger welled up inside of him. When had that happened? He didn’t have time for love. He had a case to solve. And what an absurd thing to happen, especially as he might walk through this door, into another cabin and get his head blown off.
“Grandpa?” she whispered. “What about?” She turned watery eyes up to him.
Michael walked over and stood in front of the chair she sat on. He pulled her head against his abdomen. Held her tight, cupping the back of her head. Oh, hell. How many times had he seen the old man comfort his mother this way?
“I hope he’s there,” he said, and smoothed her crazy red curls. Then he took a deep inhale, absorbing her perfume so he could recall it in his time of need. He drew her up, held her tight to his chest and kissed her soundly. The taste of her mouth, the sweet perfume, would be the last thing he’d think of if he lay dying on the desert floor somewhere near Ocotillo Flats. He shook off his doom and gloom. You will not die.
He eased back and looked down at Rachel. “I hope the old man is Henry. I hope they’ve been holding him hostage for some good reason. That they still feel he’s valuable to them. That way he’s got a chance. We’ll do everything we can to save him.”
She nodded, and sniffled against his shirt. He released his hold on her, and tilted her chin upward. “There are no guarantees…not for any of us.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice came out on the end of a sob.
She blinked hard, straightened her shoulders. “I know you’ll do whatever you can, but I want to be there. He’s my grandfather, he’s—”
“It wouldn’t be safe, Rachel. One false move, one emotional reaction, or breath drawn sharply at the wrong time, can blow a mission apart. Stealth is our best weapon. Trust me on this. I’ve done this hundreds of times.”
“He’s right, Rachel,” Stanton said. “We could call Debbie and Jack—”
“No!” Michael turned toward Stanton and scowled. Hell, Jack was the last person he wanted around. That would be another person to protect. Jack was the whole reason for this undercover assignment. And knowing what he knew about Jack, the man wouldn’t stand around waiting with his arms folded across his chest. He’d be in there with guns blazing.
“Sorry,” Stanton said, raising both hands. “It’s your show.”
Mantis stood by, observing, and wisely keeping his mouth shut. Not that he knew Jack, or what to expect at the take-down. Michael filled his lungs with air and exhaled slowly. He’d have to warn Mantis of his own safety; he was a civilian.
“I could wait in the car,” Rachel said, her voice soft, wistful.
“No. I promise I’ll do everything I can. Now go wash your face and grab whatever you think you might need. There could be a stand-off. Take at least enough food for Ralph for a day or two. Fred will have human food, not sure he has a dog.”
Once he’d given her something to do, she hustled around organizing things. He had to get on the phone to the chief. They needed time to get SWAT back up. And he needed to know for sure that Fred was trustworthy. And he wanted someone to question Manuel. The guy better have a damn good alibi.
“Hey, Rachel,” Michael said, thinking of yet another hazard.
She looked up. “What?”
“No phone calls from your cell phone. Or from Fred’s place. Promise me?”
“What about work?” she asked, a frown creasing her forehead. “They’ll worry if I don’t call in in the morning.”
He shook his head. “Nope. No calls to anyone. We have no idea if lines are tapped at Cliffs. Somebody has had access to our every movement. Check now on my phone, it’s secure. See if you have any missed calls, or messages.”
She took his phone, and then sat on the chair. A few seconds later, she looked up. “Debbie and Jack. No message. Manuel, and—”
“What time did Manuel call?”
“Eleven fifteen. There’s a message.” She listened for a moment. “He’s giving a report on the day. He’s closing out the bar himself. He said it was a slow night. I’m to call him anytime, and that he hopes I enjoyed the play.”
Michael nodded. “What time would he have left Cliffs, if he had to close up?”
“The bar closes at midnight,” Rachel said. “He’d never allow anyone else to close out the register. If it’s a slow night, he lets some of the staff go at eleven. But at the earliest he couldn’t leave before twelve-thirty. Sometimes we leave as late as 1 am. It depends on clean up, and if we eat a late meal there, or stand around and chat.”
Michael thought about that. Even if Manuel had left at midnight, he couldn’t have been part of this. So who was the snitch in Almagro? Who would know Rachel’s movements? Another barman, or a waitress? Clocking out at eleven would be perfect timing for someone at the bar to meet up with his gang and get down to Henry’s cabin. Maybe someone close to Manuel?
His pulses quickened. Had Rachel been right all along that Manuel was her friend, and loyal employee, and one of the good guys? “Who are Manuel’s closest friends?”
Fernando and Stanton turned toward him, both frowning at the sudden inflection of excitement that must have been in his voice.
“He has a roommate,” Rachel said. “The guy is a bus boy at Cliffs. He’s fairly new.”
“Okay, I want names, usual work hours. The chief will want Manuel’s assistance, we’ll start with him. We’ll say you’ve been reported missing.”
Rachel nodded.
“Give me five minutes of shut-eye.” Michael rested his head against the shattered cushion. He wouldn’t sleep. He was too fired up to sleep and wished he could stop his tired eyes from burning. Even for a few minutes. He could see everything falling into place. The Suarez brothers could have assumed he was Jack Davis, or Jack’s partner. They thought they were taking out either the agent who had destroyed their compound, or someone close to him. They knew from Henry that Rachel either knew, or had once known the agent.
Then I showed up, and with her.
His eyelids flickered, but he shut them tight. Why did they need Henry? Would he be used as barter; collateral in case of a stand-off? Or did he have evidence he could use against them, evidence he’d hidden and that the guys wanted? Something other than the film he’d shot of them? Either way, he’d been blind-folded and led to a new camp. Michael closed his eyes tight.
Before sunrise we’ll either blast the bastards off the face of the earth, or preferably, have them all in custody. What about Henry? The voice came into his thoughts loud and clear.
He hated these situations where an innocent victim got mixed up in the takedown. He couldn’t look in Rachel’s direction. He’d do everything he could to save the old man. But part of him knew, if the guy was still alive, the next twelve or so hours would be the most harrowing of hi
s life. If Henry died, would he be forgiven?
Michael stood. He took out his cell phone and walked to the other end of the room, and dialed the chief’s number. They organized, their voices soft, conversation clipped.
Rachel had gone back into the kitchen.
“Chief says to go ahead and call Fred,” Michael said to Stanton.
Stanton walked along the hall and did that. Michael could hear the soft tone of his voice, a brief laugh. The chief had also told him that Fred was a good guy. He’d watch over Rachel like she was his own daughter. He wondered how far the chief had gotten in organizing the SWAT team. They’d be out of Brawley PD. Maybe even San Diego. He wouldn’t be working directly with his own team. Even though a relatively new group of men than he’d known in Riverside, he’d have liked his Indio team.
Still, he knew the principle attitude of a SWAT team. And that was team. Whoever the guys were, they’d be good. No sense worrying about that now. He looked at Stanton’s back. A cop is a cop, first. “Almost ready?” he asked Rachel.
She nodded. Stanton strolled back down the hall and gave him the signal that everything was fine.
“You want to be deputized, Fernando?” Stanton asked. “It might be in your best interest.”
Michael eyed Mantis, who sat on the floor, his back against what was left of the couch. That would be interesting.
“You’ve been a good help to us,” Stanton said.
That comment surprised Michael. This morning he’d been riff-raff. Mantis shook his head, and stood, dusting off the back of his pants. He shot Michael a quick glance. “Nah. I’m in it for the money. Don’t worry about me. Once I lead you to the new location, you dudes are on your own.”
Michael nodded. Yeah, he could understand that.
Mantis shrugged then and gave a quick laugh. “I didn’t see nuthin’,” he said, and raised his skinny arms high.
Stanton laughed. “We’d have your back.”
“I’d rather have my own.”
Michael nodded again. He understood Mantis. His survival came from being able to slip in and out of the shadows undetected. He’d have made a damn good undercover agent. He watched him for a moment, and wondered about his real story. Mantis waited. Michael pulled out his wallet, reached in and drew out the cash. “You get half the cash now. The other half when you identify the cabin.”
“Fair enough, Doc. Fair enough,” Mantis said, and stuffed the five one hundred dollar bills inside the boot on his left foot.
Michael touched Rachel’s shoulder as she tucked Ralph underneath her arm, and then he lifted up the sack of items she’d packed. “Time to go.”
Chapter Fourteen
“I’ll do the laundry,” Pedro said to his brother.
Ricardo glanced up from the small television for a second, and then returned to it, totally enthralled. He didn’t answer, or even nod. Pedro scowled, but kept his lips zipped. No need to start an argument. That would piss Ricardo off, and then he’d retaliate by attacking the old man.
Anyone would think this was the latest gigantic flat screen instead of the cumbersome old style TV from the eighties with a nineteen inch screen. Pedro figured after the days spent with no electricity, no entertainment, and no hot running water, his brother deserved some happiness; the luxury of cable television, even if it didn’t get all the channels.
Mi familia. He took in the disarray of the cabin. They’d crashed on arrival, each grabbing a bed, and it had been 3 AM when everyone began to stir. The old guy went to the shower. Pedro glanced at the bathroom door. It was safe. There was one small window in there, but even a cat would find it a squeeze to get through.
Ricardo roared with laughter at something on the TV. Pedro walked over and slid back a drape, glancing out the main cabin window. The sky remained dark. He did most everything under cover of night. An overhead light gave off a faint amber glow outside the distant community bathrooms, and at the end of that building were the coin operated laundry facilities. Nothing, and nobody, stirred. The rest of the camp, with its few scattered motor homes, was in complete darkness.
The four cabins were set far back from the motor home park. The attendant had said their cabin would be the only one occupied. He’d apologized, and looked up at Pedro like he might feel lonely or something. Pedro had assured him it would be fine, and that he had his brother and grandfather with him for both safety and company. He dropped the drape he’d been holding as the bathroom door opened. The old guy shuffled out into the middle of the cabin, his thin gray hair still wet and pasted to his pink scalp, and then he stood there. He looked around the room with vacant eyes. He was getting too thin. When his eyes lit on Pedro it was without recognition.
“What you looking at? Sit down,” Pedro said gruffly.
The old guy sighed and sat, almost sinking to the floor in the old sagging chair. He didn’t seem to notice the television. He pulled a blanket across his knees and closed his eyes, reminding Pedro again of his grandfather, long since gone.
“I’ve made coffee,” Pedro said to Ricardo, and held the pot high. “Want some?”
“Sure. Sure,” Ricardo said, his gaze never leaving the television set.
Pedro poured three cups, added the powdered milk, and then stirred them all with a plastic swizzle stick. He handed Ricardo a cup. He and Ricardo had used every threat and torture they could think of to extract information about the undercover agent and nada. The old dude still wouldn’t even admit to his own name.
“Here you go, Old Man,” Pedro said, and handed him a cup.
The old guy took it but said nothing. Pedro settled into a chair and took a sip of coffee and thought back to their first meeting. It had not gone to plan. They’d circulated information through their underground network and enticed a snoop. And they hoped it was the DEA agent doing the snooping. Then the old guy had hurried up the beach snapping photographs and calling out something to the man.
Pedro had stopped his brother from firing. The last thing they’d expected at five in the morning was a witness. They both knew that meant there could be more. Taking out both men had been too high of a risk. The snoop had been long gone when Pedro had stepped outside. And the old guy had run off to his cabin. Ricardo had been beyond pissed and certain the guy had photographed them standing in the window. The camera had a telephoto lens. He’d followed and searched the old man’s cabin and taken all the film, photographs, and the camera. And the old guy.
Now he wondered if the old guy had even taken photographs of the gringo. He drained the last of his coffee. He wasn’t good at killing. Ricardo had no qualms about killing, but then he was the Kingpin. A lot of their men had worked the drug routes through Mexico and into the United States: renegades, retired soldiers, ex-policemen, bandits. They had been loco, most of them, but not half as crazy as in other cartels. The Suarez cartel didn’t relish killing. Or kill for no reason. And they were against beheading and dismemberment. Because of that stupid gringo and his thirst for blood, their compound had been destroyed last year.
Midnight.
A smile curled Pedro’s lips. His cousin had said “give me the word and I’ll take care of business.” Once he’d made up his mind, it hadn’t been so hard to make that call. He hadn’t even discussed it with Ricardo. Maybe he’d become exactly like his older brother? He’d made the phone call last evening and then slept like a baby. He wondered how it had all gone down. Would the early morning news show it? He’d better get the damn laundry done and get back over here so he could watch the TV. His cousin had not called. He’d said for Pedro not to call him. He’d make contact. Surely a shoot-out at a local bar would make the news, even a run-down bar at the Salton Sea.
The old guy looked over at him. Pedro straightened. “I need to secure you,” he said, and collected the cups. Then he approached the old man with his usual rope restraints.
“Let me go,” the old man said. “I’m holding you back. Drive me to the nearest highway and turn me loose. I’ve no idea where we are.”
“Shut up, and stay put, or Ricardo will put a bullet through your head,” he said sharply. Then he flicked a finger against the old guy’s forehead and watched him flinch. “Yeah. Right there, between the eyes.”
Ricardo looked from one to the other then returned his gaze to the television. He looked like he had not a worry in the world. His brother had gotten soft. It seemed the longer they were in hiding, the weaker he became. Pedro turned away abruptly and began piling clothes onto the end of one bed. On the way to the laundry room he’d detour into the brush at the base of the hills. Sandy soil made for good burial ground; easy to dig. He’d do the job while the clothes were in the dryer.
They were paid up for a week, but now with the deaths at the bar, little more than an hour long drive away, it was time to get moving. Again. He walked around the one room cabin, picking up bits and pieces of stinking clothing. He tossed aside the old man’s clothes. No sense in washing those. Then not wanting to arouse suspicion, he shoved all of the old guy’s clothes into a pillowcase. With a handful of quarters, scooped off the edge of the coffee table and shoved into his pocket, he turned toward his brother. Ricardo was transfixed by an old slapstick comedy.
He put the gun on his brother’s lap, leaned closer, and whispered.
“Stay alert. Keep watch over the old guy. He’s up to something.”
****
At three-thirty in the morning, Rachel stood next to Michael in the bar at Fred’s. Mantis lurked somewhere in the shadows. Stanton loaded supplies into his car, and Fred fussed around behind the bar, while Ralph sniffed the dance floor. Too much damn testosterone floating in the air.
Fred walked back upstairs and looked over his shoulder. “Come on up when you’re ready. Wife’s made up a bed for you on the couch.”
