But the car coming toward him wasn’t Diego’s.
The car coming toward him looked like …
It tore into the gravel parking lot and he saw the faces behind the windshield, George Rankin driving, Gael Castillo Jimenez in the front passenger seat. The car came to a locked-brake stop, the tires kicking up gravel as it slid across the blanket of stones.
Francis jumped off the stairs and began running around the side of the church even as car doors opened and men stepped out. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he couldn’t let George Rankin take him in. He might end up in prison with people he’d put there, and if he did, he wouldn’t last a week.
He ran to the back of the church, and gun in hand, waited with his back to the wall. His hearted thudded against his rib cage. Scattered thoughts swirled through his head like hurricane debris. He was fucked.
“Come out, Francis,” George Rankin shouted. “There’s nowhere to run.”
Francis was silent for a long time, trying to think of a way out of this. George was right that there was nowhere to run, and if it turned into a shootout, he was likely to get himself killed. There were two of them. They could easily pinch him, circling the church from both sides, and the church was his only shield. Open desert surrounded it.
Francis holstered his weapon and stepped out from behind the building. He walked toward the parking lot. George and Gael were both standing in the gravel with guns gripped in their fists. He smiled at them and said:
“I didn’t realize it was you, George. What are you guys doing here?”
“Cut the shit, Francis.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know I shouldn’t have been working the case independently, but I tracked one of the bitches who works for Alejandro to the church here. I think there’s an underground tunnel somewhere on the premises that leads across the border. She’s still in there unless she made it out the other side already.”
George raised his weapon. “Walk on over here, Francis.”
“I don’t like that you’ve got your weapon trained on me.”
“I don’t like that you’re in Alejandro Rocha’s pocket.”
“Now hold on, there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I’ll admit I shouldn’t have been working the case, but I was trying to help out. I’m not in any motherfucker’s pocket.”
“I need you to start walking toward me.”
“I’m not gonna do that if you have a gun on me, George. I’m not one of the fucking bad guys and I won’t be treated like one.”
“If you don’t wanna be treated like a bad guy, you shouldn’t work for bad men.”
“How many times do I have to say—”
“You need to shut the fuck up, Francis.”
“This is a misunderstanding, George.”
“Yeah—it’s you misunderstanding the situation. Shut your mouth and walk toward me.”
“I’m not gonna do that.”
George looked at Gael and said, “I’ve got another set of cuffs in the glove box. Mind grabbing them and taking care of this?”
Gael nodded, walked to the sedan, and pulled open the front passenger door. He leaned into the car a moment. Francis watched him and considered his options. He could either continue with his story—which wasn’t working—or cop to what he’d been doing and agree to talk. If he did the latter, he might at least be able to make a deal, get a reduced sentence served on a protective wing. All time was hard time, but at least he’d have a chance.
After three years of working for Rocha, he had plenty of information to trade. Like the fact that he wasn’t working for Rocha at all. Mulligan Shoibli was the true head of the cartel, and though that wasn’t the man’s real name, Francis thought he knew what his real name was. He’d done some digging on his own just so he’d be able to cover his ass. It looked like that digging might pay off, allow him to push someone else into the hole to keep himself out of it.
Gael walked toward him with handcuffs gripped in one fist and a pistol in the other.
Francis swallowed, but his mouth was dry, his throat only clicking. He didn’t want to go to prison, reduced sentence or not. He wouldn’t be able to handle prison, and even if he ended up on a protective wing, there’d still be ways to get to him. He knew of other people being protected in prison who’d still ended up dead. Sharpened toothbrushes in their carotids. There was no such thing as complete safety in prison.
Gael tucked the pistol into the back of his Levi’s while he walked. Francis watched him as he reached up for his raised right hand, moving to slap a cuff around the wrist.
There still might be a way out of this.
He’d have to disappear afterward, but that would be better than prison.
As Gael reached for him, Francis grabbed the man’s arm and twisted, turning him around, and with his other hand, reached down and pulled the weapon from the back of his Levi’s. He put it to Gael’s head and said:
“You’re not taking me in, George.”
“You let him go, Francis. You’re crossing a line you can’t step back from.”
“I crossed that line a long time ago, George.”
21
Normal ran his fingers through his hair and cursed under his breath. He was sitting on the edge of the unmade bed in Coop’s room, shoulders slumped, looking down at his Emericas. Black suede shoes with two white stripes on either side. The suede on the outside of his left toe box had been sanded away by grip tape when he’d last been skateboarding.
He looked up at Bogart, who was sitting at a table by the window, across from Coop, nervously doing one riffle shuffle after another with a deck of Bicycle playing cards. Looked to Pilar, still standing by the door. She blinked, her face expressionless.
“What the fuck are we gonna do now? It doesn’t matter that your uncle agreed to set us up with a vehicle, Pilar; we can’t do the job without guns.”
Bogart set the cards down on the table. “We know that, Normal.”
“I know you know it, but what the fuck are we gonna do?”
“I’m not sure, Normal.” Bogart paused a moment. “I’m too upset to think.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a prescription pill bottle and a pack of Zig-Zags. He broke a bud into one of the papers, licked it, and rolled it tight. He put it between his lips and put a flame to the end of his joint. Inhaled and held the smoke in his lungs. Exhaled.
He did all this in a silent room.
Finally, Coop spoke: “We’re gonna break into the pawnshop.”
“We’re gonna what?”
“We already paid for those fucking guns. We’ll just be collecting what’s ours.”
“Make sense to me,” Bogart said before taking another hit from his joint. He tapped his ash into a Pepsi can sitting on the table.
“I was drinking that,” Coop said.
“Sorry. I’ll get you another one from the machine in a minute. Pilar?”
“Makes sense to me too.”
“So now we gotta rob a pawnshop before we break our friend out of jail?”
“We’re not gonna rob it,” Coop said.
“Then what the fuck are we gonna do?” Normal said.
“Burglarize it.”
“Oh, great, that makes it better. Thanks for the clarification.”
“Do you have a better suggestion?” Pilar said.
“No, but maybe on the way home, since we’ll have guns anyway, we can stick up a gas station or something. You know, just to round out the fucking day.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Coop said.
Normal looked at him in silence for a long time. Coop stared back, his expression blank.
“Are you fucking—”
“Yes, Normal, I’m fucking kidding.”
“That’s not funny.”
Bogart said, “The look on your face, man—it was kinda funny.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck me? Motherfucker, we’re supposed to be in a p
artnership. You’ve been going along with Coop and Pilar ever since this started, undermining everything I had to say.”
“James is in jail, Normal, and unless he gets out tomorrow he’s gonna die there.”
“That doesn’t mean we have to get ourselves killed too. He baked that shit cake, he can eat it. You people are out of your goddamn minds. Every day brings some kind of new crazy bullshit, and I’ve been going along with it but, goddamn it, I’m supposed to be the crazy one here. You motherfuckers live on Mars.”
“I never do this,” Bogart said. “But have a hit.”
Normal looked at the proffered joint, got to his feet, and walked to the table. Took the joint and put it to his lips. Inhaled, held it, exhaled. He was going for a second draw when Bogart grabbed his wrist with one hand and took the joint with the other.
“I said have a hit, Normal, not two hits. Shit.”
“Are you in or out?” Coop said.
Normal ran his fingers through his hair. Sighed. Cracked his knuckles one after the other. Finally, he spoke: “Fuck it, I’m in.”
“Okay, good,” Coop said. “You were at the pawnshop, Bogart. What do we need to know?”
Bogart tapped his ash into the Pepsi can.
22
Gael Morales could feel the cool metal of the gun barrel against his left temple and the pain of his right shoulder being twisted near its breaking point, but still couldn’t believe he’d gotten himself into this situation. He should have anticipated it and been able to stop Francis before it got to this point. But he hadn’t thought the man would be desperate enough to pull this kind of shit. Francis Waters might be crooked but he was still law enforcement and had to know this situation almost never played itself out well.
Gael looked across the gravel driveway to George Rankin, who was holding his gun steady as stone, no shake in his hands at all, but his eyes were darting quickly from Gael to Francis and back again.
“Calm down, George, it’s fine. Francis doesn’t want a murder charge against him.”
“I don’t give a fuck about a murder charge. I go to jail for a week, I might as well get the death penalty, because I’m dead and we all know it. I won’t be locked up.”
“You kill me, you won’t make it out of an interrogation room alive.”
“You know if you shoot him, it’s over for you,” George said.
“I’ll only shoot him if I have to.”
“Can you ease up on my shoulder a little?”
“Shut up.” But Francis did ease up on his shoulder some and the pain subsided. It was still there, throbbing, moving through his body in waves, but it wasn’t as sharp as it had been.
“What’s your plan, Francis?” George said.
“My plan is to leave.”
“How are you gonna do that?”
“Gael is gonna drive me out of here.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’m not standing here with a gun aimed at my face, what do you think?”
“I think it’s a shitty plan.”
“I’m not real interested in your opinion of my plan, George.”
“You should be.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m the one who can save your life. You get into that car—and I won’t make it easy for you—you’ll be dead within thirty minutes. I know exactly what it leads to, and that’s you in a shallow grave.”
“You have no fucking idea what I’m doing or where I’m going once I leave this place, which means you have no fucking idea what happens. So cut the shit, Uri Geller.”
“But he does know, Francis.”
“Bullshit.”
“Do you want to explain it to him or do you want me to?” George said.
“I’ll do it,” Gael said. “I’m just standing around anyway.” But instead of explaining the situation to Francis he said, “Bullets come right out the end of that gun, you know. You don’t have to push the barrel through my fucking skull.”
“Shut the fuck up.” But he pulled back.
“Thank you. Now let me explain what happens if you make it to the car and have me drive you away from here.”
“I’m all ears.”
“What happens is, you have me drive you to Rocha’s estate. You and Diego will tell him what happened and offer me up. He’ll kill me. That’s a given. I’m undercover DEA and I know too much about his operation. But what you don’t seem to realize is that he’ll kill you too, because you know more than I do. He’ll be worried that the cops will catch up with you and that if they do, you’ll spill like a toddler’s milk glass.” Gael gave him a few moments to think that through before he went on. Once he believed it had sunk in, he continued.
“Now you’re thinking that through, and it’s making sense to you, so you’ve decided you can’t go to Rocha’s estate. You’re thinking, fine, I’ll get into the back of the car, kick Diego out—if I’m not going to the estate, Diego’s dead weight—and have Gael drive me south. You’ll get to Mexico City and take a flight from there to Costa Rica where your brother has a vacation home. He isn’t there right now and you can hole up for a while and decide what to do next.
“Problem is, the DEA knows that’s what you’re thinking. George is standing right in front of you. Rocha will probably know that’s what you’re thinking too. Question is, who gets to you first?”
“I’m not going to Costa Rica.” His voice sounded weak.
“No, you’re not. But the only reason you’re not is because I just told you what happens if you do. Let me tell you this too. What you’re thinking of doing now doesn’t work out any better for you. So why don’t you put the gun down? There’s no good outcome for you. But there are better and worse outcomes. Cooperating now will lead to one of the best of the bad.”
Francis was silent for a long time, thinking through the situation. Finally, he dropped his weapon to the gravel.
Gael turned around, shoved Francis against the wall of the church, and slapped handcuffs around his wrists. He paused a moment. This idiot would have had no problem killing him. He was supposed to be a good guy but he’d have triggered a bullet through Gael’s temple without hesitation if he thought it would save his own ass. Gael grabbed the back of Francis’s hair, pulled back, and slammed his forehead into the wall.
It bounced back with a ripe-melon thud.
“That’s for putting a gun on me, you dumb shit.”
He led Francis to the black sedan and put him into the back of the car next to Diego. He slammed the door, looked at George, and said:
“Let’s get Danielle Preston out of that church.”
“How did you know he’d go to Costa Rica?”
“I heard him talking to Sylvia in the break room about his brother’s vacation home once.”
“What if you’d been wrong?”
Gael shrugged. “I wasn’t.”
* * *
Danielle was sitting on the stage, staring blankly down the length of the center aisle to the back of the church, thinking she was a dead woman. She knew there was a tunnel that led across the border, but she’d been unable to find it. Any minute now men would break down the door and kill her. She was trying to find some sort of acceptance, since death couldn’t be avoided, but she wasn’t able to. She wanted to live. She wanted to leave Rocha behind and live like normal people lived. It was too bad she’d never have that opportunity. She’d waited too long and now she was going to die. She wanted to cry, but couldn’t. The shock of reality—the reality of this situation she’d put herself in—made it impossible. She felt almost numb.
A knock on the front door.
A voice: “Danielle, it’s me. Diego Blanco and Francis Waters are handcuffed in the back of a DEA vehicle. You’re safe now.”
She looked toward the door and wanted to believe what she’d heard. Gael might be lying, and if he was and she stepped out the front door, she’d be shot as soon as the sunlight hit her face. But despite this, she felt hope. She’d trusted Gael once and wanted to
trust him again.
Anyway, she couldn’t hide in here forever.
She looked toward one of the stained-glass windows. Jesus in a white robe, a halo of light hovering above his head. She’d never been religious, but the image of Jesus had always made her feel calm, and as she looked at that stained-glass window, she felt peace seep into her pores and find a home in her chest.
She got to her feet and walked down the aisle. She reached the front doors and twisted the dead bolt. It retracted with a clack. She grabbed the handle and thumbed the paddle and pulled. Bright light slanted into the church, a dark man-shaped silhouette partially blocking it. Her eyes adjusted and she saw Gael take on form and definition. He reached out his hand to her.
“Let’s get out of here. You’re safe now.”
She took his hand.
* * *
The three of them stood in the gravel driveway. Gael lit a Camel and took a deep drag, smoke filling his lungs. He exhaled through his nostrils. His hand shook as it pulled the cigarette away from his lips, but he tried to hide it.
“What are you gonna do now?” George said.
“We’re gonna act like nothing happened.”
“What if Rocha knows?”
Gael shrugged. “Then we’re dead. But I don’t think he does. Only way he would is if Diego told him and, knowing Diego, I think he’d want to handle the situation himself.”
“You sure that’s the best decision?”
“No. But it’s the decision I’ve made.”
George stood silent a moment before he said, “You want a ride back to the department store?”
“We’ll walk,” Danielle said.
“Okay. I’ll take care of these two.” He nodded toward the sedan.
“What are you gonna do with them?”
“Francis is going to jail. I haven’t decided what I’m gonna do with Blanco yet. He needs to be in prison too, but he’s a Mexican citizen in Mexico, and even if he weren’t, we don’t want his arrest to get back to Rocha. I might hole him up in the Juarez safe house for a while.”
Gael nodded. “Okay. We’re gonna head back to the department store. Danielle has to finish her shopping.”
The Breakout Page 16
