Rocha was silent for a long moment. He let out a sigh. “So there’s nothing I can say to make you change your mind about this.”
“No.”
“Fair enough, but as I said, you can still walk away from this. If you walk away from this. I know I’ve been portrayed in the media as some kind of animal, but I’m a businessman first, and a smart businessman doesn’t take unnecessary risks. There’s risk in keeping you alive, but there’s also risk in killing you. It’s a matter of weighing each decision against the benefits. So here’s what I’m willing to do. If you agree to walk away from this after today, to walk away from me, we’ll play a game, giving us each a nearly seventeen percent chance of death. That six-chambered revolver holds a single bullet. Put it to your temple and pull the trigger. If you live, I let you live. I’ll put it to my temple and pull the trigger. If I live, you let me live. We walk away and never look over our shoulders again, never look back, but this is contingent on you agreeing to walk away. You strike me as an honest man, so I’ll take your word for it. I understand your motives now, and I’m sympathetic to a degree, despite your hatred being aimed in my direction, so I’m inclined to let you live if you can look me in the eye and say you won’t try to harm me.”
“Then why the game—especially if you aren’t inclined to take unnecessary risks?”
A faint smile touched Rocha’s lips. “Because if you kill yourself, I won’t have to worry about you anymore.”
“And if you kill yourself?”
Rocha shrugged. “All my worries will be over. I am not eager to die, Mr. Murphy, but the prospect doesn’t frighten me.”
“You’re not afraid of hell?”
Rocha laughed. “We’re not children anymore, Mr. Murphy. Let’s put away childish beliefs.”
“What about the charges?”
“Dropped.”
James reached out for the revolver, but Rocha grabbed his wrist. “Do you agree you won’t shoot me with it?”
“I do.”
Rocha removed his hand. James picked up the revolver, flipped out the cylinder to make certain there was only a single bullet loaded, and snapped the cylinder back into place. He spun the cylinder and put the revolver to his temple while looking Rocha in the eyes. Thought about the fact that this man was responsible for his sister’s death. He wanted to kill him right here and now. Wanted to squeeze this trigger as many times as it took to push a bullet through the son of a bitch’s forehead. If he did this, it would be the first time he’d killed with emotion, with murder in his heart, and he knew that would change him. But he didn’t care. His heart was full of love for his sister and equal to that love was the hatred he felt for the motherfucker who’d taken her from him.
But now was not the time.
If he killed Rocha here, he’d be dead himself within the next five minutes. If that.
He still had hope that he could walk away from this.
He squeezed the trigger. The hammer dropped with a loud click. He pulled the gun away from his head and set it down on the table. Pushed it toward Rocha.
“Maybe you should have gone first,” he said.
“Why is that?”
“I had a sixteen-point-six percent chance of putting a bullet through my head. You have a twenty percent chance.”
“In fact, I have a zero percent chance.” Rocha picked up the gun and aimed it at James. “You do, in fact, strike me as an honest man. But people change their minds all the time. Today’s truth is tomorrow’s lie.” He squeezed the trigger—click. “Because of this, I’m not at all inclined to let you live.” Another squeeze of the trigger, another rotation of the cylinder—click. “This would be true even if you weren’t a trained killer. Which you are.” Click. “Where are we now? Two chambers left. Fifty-fifty chance that this next pull is the one that kills you.”
James said nothing, only looked at the man sitting across from him, waiting for the squeeze—click.
“You don’t seem worried, Mr. Murphy.”
“I’m not.”
Click.
Rocha laughed. “You removed the bullet.”
James raised his right hand, the .38 round pinched between index finger and thumb. “I’m not one to take unnecessary risks either.”
“You know I have more where that came from.”
“Try and load them—see what happens.”
“No need.” Rocha got to his feet. “You’ll be taken care of tomorrow, and I won’t have to get my hands dirty.” He slid the revolver away. “Enjoy your souvenir.” Rocha walked to the door and knocked. A moment later James heard a dead bolt retract. The door was opened from the outside. Rocha stepped through it.
James rolled the bullet between his fingers, thinking he might have his way out of here, if he played it right.
All he needed now was a gun.
17
Gael Morales backed Rocha’s BMW 650i out of the garage, vermillion red leather cushioning him as the car purred out into the sun. He slid the shifter into drive, turned the wheel, and rolled toward the gate. Danielle Preston and a girl named Monica sat in the backseat. He skipped through the discs in the changer while he drove. Finally found one he liked, the Stones’ Some Girls, and turned up the volume as “Miss You” kicked off the album. He tried not to think about Sarah, fifty miles away but a world apart, living alone in their house, grocery shopping for one, lying alone in their queen-size bed and watching bad reality television, laughing at something and glancing toward the place he should be to see if he was laughing too, to see if he’d looked up from his book at the sound of rising voices and caught whatever ridiculous thing was happening on TV, finding the bed empty beside her.
Yes, that was exactly what he tried not to think about.
They approached the estate’s wrought-iron gate. He squeezed the brake pedal to slow the car as the gate swung open with a creak of dry hinges. Once the gate had swung its arc, he pulled out into the street, headed north for three blocks, made a left, and cruised along, stopping at two red lights before he reached his destination.
The department store sat on the north side of the sun-faded asphalt, the parking lot on the west end of the building about three quarters full, cars twinkling beneath the hot sun, reflecting its white light.
Gael pulled into a driveway and rolled through the parking lot until he found a spot near the back of the lot between a Ford Escape and a Mazda 3. He backed into it so he’d be able to watch the department store and shoved the shifter into park. Leaned left and pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his 527s. Removed one of Alejandro Rocha’s credit cards. Handed it to Danielle Preston, and said, “You girls have five thousand pesos each to spend on clothes, no more, and I need the receipt.”
“Okay, Dad.” Danielle smiled at him in the rearview mirror.
Monica, however, was less than pleased. “Five thousand?”
“Five thousand. If you spend a penny more, I’ll return everything you bought.”
“Whatever.”
The girls pushed out of the car. Gael watched as they walked across the faded asphalt to the department store, weaving between cars, the sun throwing its light and heat down on them.
Once they pushed into the store, Gael lighted a Camel and leaned the seat back. He’d probably be out here for an hour or two before the girls finished their shopping. Maybe he’d try to catch a nap. He hadn’t slept well last night.
He was worried about what might come next, so his mind kept folding back in on itself as he worried over the situation he was in, over the variables and what the consequences of each might be. All night this had happened.
He finished his cigarette and flicked it out the window.
* * *
Francis Waters, parked on the street, watched in his side-view mirror as Gael Castillo Jimenez pulled into the department store driveway. He wasn’t here to identify the DEA agent working undercover. He was here to test the loyalties of Danielle Preston. But dumb luck had accomplished what questions and sneaking through
George Rankin’s paperwork had not.
Francis didn’t recognize the man at first, maybe because he hadn’t been expecting him, maybe because he’d never spoken to him, only seen him around the office, but after a moment it clicked in his mind: an image of the man walking from the kitchen at work with a coffee mug in hand, nodding at Francis as he shuffled by.
He pulled his second cell phone, a prepaid burner, from his pocket. Dialed Diego Blanco and put the phone to his ear. Listened to it ring and waited.
“Francis.”
“You oughta get down here.”
“What is it?”
“I found your undercover DEA agent.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know what you know him as, but his real name is Gael Castillo Jimenez.”
A long pause before Diego spoke. “You’re sure?”
“I am.”
“What about Danielle?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Find out. I’ll be right there.”
The line went dead. Francis slipped the phone into his pocket, killed the engine, and with the key ring hanging from his hooked finger, pushed out of the car.
He walked toward the department store.
* * *
Danielle Preston was standing at a shirt rack, sliding through hangers, picking up blouses that caught her eye, when a bad feeling shuddered through her body, raising the hair on the back of her neck and arms. She stopped what she was doing and looked around. About fifteen feet behind her stood a man in a well-tailored, well-made suit and expensive shoes. He had dark wavy hair dusted with gray at the temples. He was watching her, his hands in his pockets. There was a bulge under his left armpit that almost had to be a holstered weapon.
Until this moment, she’d been glad Gael had stayed outside, glad she had brief freedom, time away from the life she’d been living, but now she wished more than anything that he was here with her, standing by her side.
The man raised a hand in greeting.
Without thinking, she raised her own.
He walked toward her. His face was friendly and open. He had kind eyes. But she didn’t believe the face. She believed her own assessment, believed the hair on the back of her neck and arms. This was the dirty cop who’d either killed Layla or gotten her killed.
“Danielle Preston,” he said.
“Do I know you?”
“Not yet.” He held out an identification card with his left hand. In the top right corner, a picture of the man. In the top left corner, the emblem of the Drug Enforcement Administration, below which were words identifying him as Special Agent Francis Waters, working out of the El Paso, Texas, Intelligence Division. He held out his right hand and she shook it. His touch was cool and dry, his hand soft and powdery, like wood to which fine-grain sandpaper had been applied. He looked her in the eyes while they shook, looked for far too long, making her uncomfortable. She dropped her gaze and pulled her hand away.
“Sorry to approach you like this,” Francis Waters said, “but I needed to do it while you were alone. This was my only opportunity.”
“I don’t know what interest the DEA would have in me.”
“You work for Alejandro Rocha.”
“I live with Alejandro Rocha.”
“Still, you must have seen things.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“He runs a drug cartel. He’s murdered people. You’ve lived with him for three years.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you have evidence, you should arrest him.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“As far as I know, he runs a few businesses in town. He’s a businessman.”
“We’ve been watching him. We know what he is.”
Danielle shrugged. “Then you know more than I do.”
There was a long moment of silence during which Danielle could see the gears turning behind the man’s eyes, then he said, “Gael already told me what you told him. We’re working this case together. He wanted me to talk to you in a place he was sure wasn’t bugged. Rocha can be paranoid and we wanted to make sure you were safe.”
“Gael wouldn’t—” She stopped herself, but knew it was too late. She’d just revealed to a dirty cop that she had been talking to Gael. He’d been fishing and he’d caught her.
Francis Waters smiled. “Gael wouldn’t what?”
“Gael wouldn’t be involved with the DEA.”
“I don’t think that’s what you were saying.”
“This conversation is over. Now excuse me, I have to use the bathroom.”
Danielle turned away from Francis Waters and started for the back of the store, where she’d seen the ladies’ room. She didn’t run—she didn’t want to draw attention to herself—but her pace was brisk. She looked over her shoulder while she walked. Francis Waters was there, following her, hands in pockets. He walked casually, but kept pace, making sure he could see her at all times.
She thought about Gael parked in the lot next to the store, thought about getting to him, but didn’t know if that was a good idea. She liked Gael—she had liked him—and she’d trusted him, but maybe she’d been wrong to like him, and even more wrong to trust him. Maybe this man and Gael were working together. If so, she’d be running into the arms of a man who might kill her.
She had to find a way out of La Paz. She didn’t know how she was going to do it but knew she must if she hoped to survive. She had one of Rocha’s credit cards, but if she used it, he’d be able to track her purchases, follow her by using the trail of expenses. She’d have to make a large cash withdrawal and then toss it.
After that, she could make her way out of Mexico.
If she stayed hidden for long enough, he might start to believe she wasn’t a threat. He might eventually forget about her. She could work some kind of under-the-table job, as a waitress at a place that didn’t mind her working for tips alone, and disappear for a while. It wouldn’t be a good life, but she could survive, and that was the important thing.
But first things first.
She pushed her way into the ladies’ room and walked across the tile floor to one of the toilets; she stepped into the stall and locked the door behind her. It was small, the walls painted blue, a toilet paper dispenser to her left, a steel receptacle for tampons and sanitary napkins to her right, the toilet directly in front of her with pee on the seat because some dumb bitch had hovered while urinating rather than sitting down.
And above the toilet, a small window: her way out of this mess, if she was lucky.
She stood on the toilet seat and pushed the window open. Punched out the screen. Pulled herself up by the windowsill, and grunting, began to slide her way out into the hot day.
* * *
Francis Waters pulled a Glock 17 from his shoulder holster and pushed into the ladies’ room. The Glock 17 wasn’t his service weapon but one he’d stolen from the evidence room. It was always good to have a weapon on hand that couldn’t be traced back to you. If he ended up having to kill Danielle Preston himself, he could wipe the weapon clean and dump it.
“Danielle?”
She didn’t respond but he heard grunting from behind the only stall door that was closed. He drew back his right leg and kicked. The cheap aluminum lock snapped and the door swung open. Slammed against the left wall and bounced back. He saw feet slip through the window above the toilet. Heard a thud and a grunt. Feet pounding against asphalt.
He jumped onto the toilet and looked out the window.
Saw Danielle Preston running through the parking lot on the north end of the department store, making her way toward Calle de Plata.
He cursed under his breath, jumped off the toilet, and hurried out of the bathroom. Made his way through the stock room to the back doors and pushed out into the day. Ran after Danielle, telling her to fucking stop or he’d shoot, but she didn’t fucking stop.
If anything, she ran faster.
* * *
Gael Morales lit another cigarette and blew smoke out the side of his mouth. Watched it drift through the cracked window and break apart as the hot desert breeze caught it. Looked at his watch. Only twenty minutes had passed since Danielle and Monica disappeared into the department store.
Gael saw movement in his rearview mirror. He looked up at it, but by the time he did, whatever he’d seen back there was gone. The window was empty of movement.
The passenger door swung open.
Diego Blanco sat down, looked at him, his expression unreadable. He tongue-shifted a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. He had a pistol in his right hand. Gael, however, was unarmed.
“What are you doing here?”
“I think you know what I’m doing here, pendejo.”
“Afraid not.” But, of course, he did know. Diego Blanco had found out who and what he was. Gael didn’t know how, but how didn’t matter. Unless he could extract himself from this situation, he was about to die.
“You aren’t stupid. You know what this is.”
“I don’t.”
Diego Blanco aimed his weapon. “Get out of the car,” he said. “I don’t want to ruin Alejandro’s upholstery with a stain like you.”
Gael thought about going for the weapon, but there was no way he’d reach it before Diego squeezed the trigger. He didn’t know if his moment would come, but he knew this wasn’t it.
He pushed open the driver’s-side door.
18
Bogart and Pilar took a cab to a pawnshop in the heart of the slums. The streets were punctuated by potholes, the buildings crumbling. Stray dogs with their rib cages showing like tarp-covered roof beams wandered about. Even the air felt depleted here, oxygen poor.
Guns were illegal in Mexico—or nearly illegal, as you had to get approval for weapons from the Defense Ministry—but Bogart thought that if they were careful about how they approached the subject, there was some chance they’d get taken to a back room where weapons were available.
His dad owned half a dozen pawnshops in Florida, and he’d worked at two of them, which meant he’d heard stories. Most pawnbrokers were careful about the law. Quick cash usually wasn’t worth the price you eventually paid for it. But this place was surrounded on all sides by people without enough change to make a Mason jar rattle, which might mean trading in illegal contraband just to stay in business. Guns, passports, that sort of thing.
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