The Breakout

by Ryan David Jahn

  It dug into his flesh, cutting off his oxygen.

  George gasped for breath, let go of the steering wheel, and instinctively pushed back to lessen the pressure on his throat, forcing the gas pedal to the floorboard.

  The engine roared and swerved right, into the desert sand, rolling over shrubbery and rocks, bouncing across the unpaved ground, dust flying up into the air around it.

  But George paid none of this any mind.

  He was trying to force his fingers down between the chain and his neck. But couldn’t do it. He tried to suck in air, but his throat felt like a kinked garden hose. His vision was going gray at the periphery, darkness moving toward the center, and he knew when it did, he’d lose consciousness.

  He turned his head to bite the hand, hoping pain would startle the man out of the homicide attempt, but couldn’t find the right angle.

  He reached for his service weapon, fumbling with the snap, and the gun dropped from the shoulder holster. If it hit the floor, he wouldn’t be able to reach it, his head was pulled back, so he went for it blindly, felt his hand wrap around the cool metal.

  He shifted the pistol to his right hand.

  Diego must have seen this because he redoubled his efforts, putting his knee against the back of the seat and yanking with his full weight, grunting as he did.

  Except for the sounds of his grunts and the engine’s roar and the car’s rattle, the inside of the vehicle was silent. George had never before felt so close to death, and if he were able, he might scream. But sound couldn’t escape his clamped-shut throat.

  The car continued bouncing through the desert, thumping over a sharp boulder, the left front tire exploding with a pop and a brief hiss.

  The sound of it flapping, loose against the desert floor.

  George aimed the pistol over his left shoulder and fired off three rounds—his ear going temporarily deaf but for a high-pitched whine like tinnitus—but Diego must have been able to shift out of the line of fire: the pressure didn’t lessen.

  “Die already, motherfucker,” Diego said through gritted teeth.

  George dropped his arm so he could fire through the seat under his left arm. The torso was a bigger target than the head and he thought he had some chance of hitting it. He pulled the trigger until his clip was empty.

  The car smashed into a large boulder and came to a stop. George flew forward, his throat slamming against the chain. The airbag deployed, suddenly in his face, covering him with white powder. Steam rose out from under the hood.

  The pressure on his throat ceased, the arms resting lightly on his shoulders.

  He dropped the gun, grabbed the arms, and pulled them from around his head. Heard Diego flop back in his seat. He gasped for breath and rubbed at his throat, which was quickly swelling. Looked into the backseat and saw Diego sitting there with slumped shoulders, arms slack, chin resting on chest. His torso had been Swiss-cheesed with bullet holes.

  Francis looked from the dead man beside him to George. His shocked face was splattered with blood. His eyes were wide.

  “Just sit there,” George croaked, his voice barely audible. “Don’t speak.”

  He shoved the transmission into park and tried to start the car. After three attempts, during which the engine only whined, it coughed, backfired, and roared to life. He reversed away from the boulder, pushed open the driver’s-side door, and stepped out of the car.

  The sun was low in the sky, now sinking below the horizon, but it was still hot out. A brief wind swept up the desert sand and blew it against his face and body. Black dots swam in front of his eyes, like amoeba, and dizziness overwhelmed him. He stepped left, off balance, and almost fell, but managed, with an awkward shuffle, to keep his feet under him. He rested his hands on his bent knees and took several deep, painful breaths, looking down at the desert floor. At a row of ants marching across the sand. Drool hung from his mouth, snapped, and splashed against the ground. It formed a bead there.

  Finally he stood up and rubbed his neck. It felt taut with swelling.

  He walked to the front of the car to look at the damage.

  The fiberglass bumper had splintered and was hanging off the car on the right side. The grille was shattered. The hood had buckled. The front left tire had to be changed.

  He stepped around to the front of the car and pulled the bumper away so it wouldn’t drag. Tossed it to the side. Pulled away pieces of the grille. With those things done, he walked around to the trunk and removed the small spare tire, a jack, and a tire iron. He loosened the lug nuts, raised the car, switched out the flat for the spare, and lowered the car.

  He walked to the back door on the driver’s side, pulled it open, looked down at the dead man. Reached in and dragged the body out, letting it drop limp to the desert floor. A cloud of dust kicked up around him. The line of ants began to march over the open palm. Though rigor mortis had yet to set in, nobody looking at the man would think he was anything but dead.

  George turned his attention back to the car. The seat was stained with blood and several bullets—both those that had traveled through Diego and those that had missed him—had punched holes into it that looked almost like cigarette burns. George had signed out the vehicle, which meant the DEA knew he had it, and there was no explaining the damage away.

  A man had been killed in this car.

  He grabbed the ankles and dragged the body to the back of the car. Hefted it and folded it into the trunk, streaking his pants and shirt and forearms with blood. He frisked the body, found the wallet, and slipped it into his pocket. Walked back to the front of the car and picked up the bumper. Threw it into the trunk on top of the body.

  Slammed down the trunk lid.

  He leaned down, grabbed a fistful of sand, and rubbed it against his arms and hands to clean off the blood. Once that was done, he dusted himself off, got into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut, his clothes damp with sweat, his heart thumping in his chest. He shoved the deployed airbag back into the steering wheel.

  Too many things had gone sideways too quickly. The dead man in his trunk had tried to kill him, but he’d done so under circumstances that might get George into trouble. Diego Blanco was a Mexican citizen. George had no right to have him handcuffed in the back of his car. Had he called La Paz police in, he’d be all right. He’d witnessed an attempted homicide and stopped it. But as soon as he cuffed the man and put him into the back of a DEA sedan, things had entered a legal gray area at best. Only he couldn’t call La Paz police in, since every detective on the force and several beat cops besides were in the pocket of the Rocha cartel.

  Now the man was dead and in the trunk of his car and George had no idea what he was going to do about it.

  * * *

  George drove the car through the desert toward the road. His arms felt weak and rubbery. His mind was turning. He glanced in the rearview mirror and looked at Francis Waters. Man hadn’t said a word since George shot Blanco; he was probably still trying to think of a way out of this situation. But he wouldn’t find one.

  There were people in the DEA—in every law-enforcement agency—who thought their fellow agents—or cops—must be protected from the consequences of their illegal activities. They covered up the theft of drugs and money from evidence lockers, turned a blind eye when their coworkers sold shit back onto the streets, lied in reports about how shootings had gone down.

  George was not among them.

  He believed dirty cops were worse than the criminal class. Criminals were the opposition, simple as that, and you could at least respect them for owning what they were; dirty cops, on the other hand, used their positions in law enforcement to play both sides. They were Judases, and being Judases, should be sentenced twice as severely as citizens.

  George reached the road and turned the wheel right, leaving the bumpy unpaved desert for relatively smooth asphalt. He was still thinking about what to do about the body in his trunk when Francis finally spoke:

  “We should talk, George.” />
  “I’d prefer a quiet drive.” His voice was both thin and gravelly. His throat throbbed where the chain had been pulled against it, as if there was a ghost of the metal still there.

  “You’ve got a dead body in the trunk.”

  “Which is no concern of yours.”

  “But it’s a concern of yours and I want you to know that I don’t have to tell anybody I saw you kill him in cold blood. I can keep it to myself. But if you take me in, I might have to tell them the truth: you unloaded your weapon into Diego Blanco without cause.”

  George pulled the car to the side of the road and slid the transmission into park. He turned in his seat and looked at Francis.

  “If you think you can blackmail your way out of this situation you’re fucking delusional. You’ve been in Rocha’s pocket for who knows how long. You’ve gotten people killed. You put your weapon to the head of another agent. You’re not walking away from this, Francis, and you can tell anybody anything you like. Nobody’s gonna believe a word of it. So sit there, keep your fucking mouth shut, and take what’s coming to you. Be a man for once in your miserable goddamn life, you duplicitous sack of weasel shit.”

  Francis Waters only stared.

  George turned back around, slid the transmission into drive, and started down the street once more.

  The engine rattled and whined.

  He thought about what Francis had said. He doubted anyone would believe he’d killed Diego without cause. His neck was swollen and bruised. There was evidence to corroborate what had happened. But George didn’t want the truth out any more than he wanted Francis’s lies out. He probably wouldn’t lose his job—though he might face suspension—but what happened to him if the truth came out was the least of his worries. Mostly he was concerned with Rocha’s reaction. Gael was still working for him, still trying to build a solid case, and if circumstances surrounding Blanco’s death came out, Rocha would know Gael was undercover.

  “Maybe I took the wrong tack,” Francis said.

  “There’s no right tack, Francis. Just keep your mouth shut.”

  “I have close to a quarter million dollars. It’s under the black rock in the northeast corner of my backyard. Let me out of here and I’ll figure out the rest. Tell Horace Ellison I escaped. Tell him whatever you want to tell him. Just let me out of the car.”

  “You don’t want to run, Francis. We’ve been through this.”

  “I don’t want to go to prison.”

  “You’re going to prison either way—unless Rocha catches up with you before the DEA does. He won’t arrest you. He’ll put a bullet in your head and bury you where you drop.”

  “You think he won’t be able to get to me if I’m in prison, where I can’t even run, where I’m fucking caged?”

  “I think you’re fucked no matter what you do but staying put requires less energy from everybody. Also, I don’t want your money. It’s dirty. But I do appreciate you telling me where I can find more evidence to back up my case against you.”

  Francis didn’t respond.

  George pulled his cell phone from his pocket and made a call.

  26

  Coop emptied his duffel bag, tossing clothes onto the bed, and with the bag in hand, made his way out of the hotel room. He checked his watch while he walked. Everybody in the group was supposed to meet in front of the Toyota ten minutes from now, so he expected to sit on the sun-warmed hood in the cool night and smoke a cigarette before the others arrived, but when he stepped into the parking lot and glanced left, he saw them all waiting there.

  They were nervous with anticipation and unable to think about anything else. Coop could see it on their faces. He thought that each of them had probably resisted the urge to head out for as long as possible but had finally succumbed. Just like he had. They could concentrate on nothing else anyway; might as well wait by the car.

  Bogart was smoking a joint and looking toward the moon, a bone scythe in a purple sky. Pilar was standing with her hands in her pockets, thinking whatever she was thinking, her face expressionless but her eyes flickering with worry. Normal was leaning against the car, arms crossed, right foot tapping against the faded asphalt to the rhythm of an inaudible rock song, two hundred and forty beats per minute.

  A second duffel bag sat like a loyal dog on the ground beside him.

  If he’d done what he was supposed to do, there’d be bolt cutters, a drill gun, screws, a hammer, and an angle bracket hidden within it.

  Coop lit a cigarette and walked toward them.

  “Did you get everything?”

  “Of course,” Normal said. “I don’t wanna be doing this, but since it’s happening, we might as well do it right.”

  “You didn’t forget anything?”

  “I said I got it all.”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “Already answered.”

  “All right, man, forget it. You’re worked up about the job.”

  “I’m not worked up about shit. I just don’t like to be second-guessed.”

  Coop pulled the key from his pocket and thumbed the fob. The doors unlocked. He yanked open the driver’s-side door and slid in behind the wheel, tossing the empty duffel bag onto the passenger side floorboard. He reached under the dash and popped the trunk.

  Looked in his rearview mirror to see Normal raising the lid. Heard the sound of the second duffel thumping heavily against the carpeted floor. The trunk lid slammed shut.

  Pilar got into the front passenger seat.

  Bogart and Normal slid onto the back bench seat from opposite sides.

  Coop took a drag from his cigarette and started the engine. He cracked the window. Slid the transmission into reverse, backed out of his parking spot, and shoved it into drive. Soon they were rolling out of the parking lot and into the street. Headlights splashing angles of light onto the cracked asphalt. Coop’s mind was not on what they were about to do but on what they had planned for tomorrow because, if they failed tonight, they would be stopped before they’d even begun.

  He was determined to get James out of that jail. His friend couldn’t die in there. What happened after they got James out he didn’t know, but they could confront that question when the time came.

  “What kind of guns did he have?” Normal asked.

  “I didn’t get a chance to examine them,” Bogart said.

  “I just don’t wanna be doing this for no reason.”

  “Whatever we find’ll be better than nothing.”

  “If all he’s got is shotguns, we’re fucked.”

  “Not if he’s also got deer slugs.”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re optimistic. We’ll be firing at eight hundred yards or so and deer slugs are good at what, a hundred max? We’ll have to lob them like footballs. Aim ten feet above the target and hope it makes it.”

  “Can’t you take a Xanax or something? You’ve been yapping like a dog since this shit started.”

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  Coop drove past the pawnshop, slowing down to look at it. A dilapidated two-story building. Windows dark. Parking lot empty. He turned a corner, reached the back alley, and made another turn onto the dark, narrow strip of asphalt that ran behind the buildings. He brought the car to a stop, turned off the headlights, and killed the engine. Everybody sat motionless in the silent darkness for what felt like several minutes but was, in fact, less than forty-five seconds.

  Finally, Coop took one last drag from his cigarette, flicked the butt out the window. It bounced off a graffiti-covered wall to the left and fell to the asphalt. The ember glowed orange in the darkness. Not even the moonlight reached this narrow alley, cut off by the buildings.

  Coop reached down and popped the trunk. Looked at Pilar.

  “Mind grabbing the duffel bag at your feet?”

  Pilar nodded, grabbed the duffel, and handed it to Coop.

  “Let’s do this.” Coop pushed open the driver’s side door, and stepped out into the night.

  27

  George R
ankin, trying to keep his face relaxed, pulled up to the border checkpoint and handed the guard his DEA identification card. He tried not to think about the corpse in his trunk or the fact that a flashlight beam aimed into the backseat would reveal blood and bullet holes. The guy looked at his picture, looked at his face—George flashed a false school-photo smile—and handed the card back.

  “All right. Go on through.”

  George took his foot off the brake pedal and cruised forward. The knot in his stomach loosened. His heart rate began to normalize. He’d known that was how things were likely to go down, but nothing was ever promised, so he didn’t feel safe until he’d made it through.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror. Francis sat silent in the backseat looking out the passenger window at the night. Behind Francis, through the dirty rear window, George saw the guard kiosks retreat, shrinking until they vanished.

  He drove through the El Paso night, wondering if he’d done the right thing when he called Horace Ellison, but he supposed he hadn’t had much choice. Francis had witnessed what had happened. It was best if events as they actually happened were on record as soon as possible. If they came from Francis, they’d be distorted to incriminate him. Eventually, one way or another, Ellison would hear about what happened. He was the top man in El Paso, which meant he knew everything.

  After fifteen minutes on the road he pulled up to an auto mechanic’s garage on Doniphan Drive, CHARLIE NELSON’S AUTO PARTS & REPAIR hand-painted in red on the building’s blue stucco façade, below which, in smaller writing, were the words FOREIGN & DOMESTIC. The place should have been closed at this hour, but the roll-up door was wide open and the lights were on inside. George could see Horace Ellison standing beneath them, to the right of the oil-change well in the floor, talking to a blond fellow about forty years old with an unshaven face and a waxed mustache, mesh John Deere cap perched on the back of his head like a trucker yarmulke and a blue grease-stained jumpsuit covering his body.

  George pulled the sedan into the driveway and brought it to a stop. Looked at Francis in the rearview mirror. Man looked back at him but said nothing. After he’d heard George talking to Ellison on the phone, he’d seemed to resign himself to his fate. There was no talking himself out of the situation now. He couldn’t buy his way out with blood money; couldn’t blackmail his way out either.