“What are you thinking?” Pilar said.
“What time is it?”
Pilar looked at the clock on her nightstand. “Two thirty.”
James sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. His body felt bruised and tired from his fight in the yard and he was tempted to fall asleep beside Pilar—a large part of him wanted to do just that: fall asleep beside the woman he loved and forget about everything else—but now that he was out of jail, there was something in him that demanded action.
“What are you doing?”
James got to his feet, picked up his clothes, and began slipping back into them. “I’m gonna borrow Coop’s car and drive to Rocha’s estate.”
“And do what?”
“Nothing. Not tonight.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“I don’t know,” James said. “It’s just something I need to do.”
“You shouldn’t be out in public. If the police see you—”
“The police will be occupied with escaped prisoners who are actually committing crimes. I’m just gonna drive by the estate.”
“I just got you back, James,” Pilar said. “I don’t want you to go out that door. I—I don’t want you to go after Rocha.”
James sat on the bed, leaned over, and kissed her. Stroked her neck. He said, “I have to.”
“You could get yourself killed.”
“I can’t walk away when I know the man responsible for Layla’s death is breathing the same air as me.”
“It was an overdose.”
“I don’t believe that. I’ve had time to think about it and I don’t believe that anymore.”
“Maybe you don’t believe it because you need to justify what you plan to do.”
“I don’t need justification.”
“Why would he kill her?”
“I don’t know, but I do know that four days before she turned up dead in El Paso, she was here in La Paz and she didn’t sound like she had any intention of leaving. I talked to her on the phone, Pilar, and I knew her better than anybody else in the world. Something happened after we last talked, and maybe I don’t know what, but I do know that Rocha is responsible. He killed my sister, he stole her life, and I’m gonna take his as payment.”
“I can’t talk you out of this, can I?”
“No.”
“I’ll never forgive you if you get yourself killed.”
“I won’t.”
He walked to the door and stepped through it.
39
Gael Morales and Danielle Preston stepped out through the front door, Alejandro Rocha walking behind them with a gun in his hand. Gael hadn’t said a word to Danielle, nor she to him, since this had begun, but they’d shared a few knowing looks, and that was enough to tell Gael that she’d said what she had to save her own ass, just like he’d done. They were in a bad situation, two people who should be working together forced by circumstance to bury the other. But because the situation was what it was, Gael was determined to bury her. He wasn’t going to die today.
They walked down the steps and across the cobblestone driveway to the garage.
“You’re driving, Gael,” Rocha said, throwing him the key to the BMW. “Danielle, you get into the front passenger seat.”
They all got into the car, Rocha slipping into the back, keeping his gun at the ready. Gael started the engine, slid the transmission into reverse, and backed out of the garage. He shoved it into drive and they began to roll toward the estate’s wrought-iron gate.
Rocha hadn’t explained what he was going to do but Gael didn’t need an explanation. He knew what came next. He knew what the two possibilities were, anyway. Rocha would have him drive out to the desert and he would either have Gael kill Danielle in order to prove he wasn’t a DEA agent or he would simply put a bullet in both their heads and be done with it.
If Gael were in Rocha’s position, he thought he’d do the latter. It made sense. Kill both potential sources of trouble and wash your hands of the entire situation. When things got complicated, it was almost always best to simplify them in the most efficient way possible. It was how one survived. The more parts a machine had, the greater the chances it would break down at some point. If you could cut out parts and ensure it still worked, you should.
They reached the gate and it squeaked open. Gael stopped the car at the end of the driveway and said, “What do you want me to do?”
“Turn left.”
Gael pulled the car out into the street.
* * *
James was driving the Toyota while Coop sat in the passenger seat, smoking a cigarette, looking out the window. James glanced at him, but the man said nothing, only sat there and thought his thoughts.
“I should thank you,” James said. “I’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for you.”
“You’d have done the same for me.”
James had asked if he could borrow the Toyota, but Coop insisted on coming along. He’d also insisted that they both be armed, so they each had a pistol tucked into the front of their pants, James a Ruger LCP 380 and Coop a Kahr CW9. He didn’t expect that either of them would use their weapons, but considering their situation, he supposed it was best to be prepared.
He was driving east on Calle Herboso, about to roll through a green light at El Dorado, when a man in a gray jumpsuit ran in front of the car. James slammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop. The man ran up to the driver’s-side door, yanked it open with his left hand while he held a knife gripped in his right, and told him to get the fuck out of the car.
James aimed his pistol at the man’s face and said, “You’re trying to jack the wrong vehicle, pal.”
Guy looked from his face to the pistol in his hand, turned, and ran.
James pulled shut the car door and continued on.
Five minutes and three turns of the steering wheel later, James made a left onto Avenida la Armonia, the street on which Rocha lived, his estate about half a mile up on the right.
“What’s your plan exactly?” Coop said.
“No plan. I just wanna see it.”
Coop nodded.
James looked back to the street ahead. A white BMW pulled out of the wrought-iron gate that blocked the entrance to Rocha’s estate. It made a left out of the driveway and rolled toward them. James slowed down and squinted through the glass, trying to see the faces of the people in the approaching car. They were too far, so he braked completely, not giving a shit that he was in the middle of the street, blocking the lane, and picked up the binoculars from the center console. He put them to his eyes, adjusted the focus, and looked. A man and a woman he didn’t recognize in the front seats, but sitting in the backseat, holding a gun, was someone he did recognize. Rocha was in that car.
“Motherfucker.”
“What is it?”
James glanced at him. “Buckle up.”
“What are you gonna do?”
James moved his foot from the brake pedal to the gas, forcing it to the floorboard. “Buckle the fuck up, Coop.”
Coop strapped the belt over his shoulder, clipped it.
James felt his stomach knot with anticipation. All he felt now was the determination to get to this man right now. He didn’t think of consequences. He didn’t think of anything that might come after this moment. He had laid eyes on the man who had killed his sister, and for the first time, he was in a position to do something about it.
The car screamed down the faded asphalt, the distance between the two vehicles cut in half—and then cut in half again.
Once the cars were close enough that a collision would be unavoidable, James yanked the car left, screeching into the oncoming lane, and pulled his hands from the wheel so his arms wouldn’t be broken.
Less than a second later came the crash. It thundered through the vehicle. The airbags deployed. Glass shattered. James was flung forward, slammed against his seat belt, and then jerked back into his seat. Smoke rose from the hood.
He looked right a
nd saw Coop sitting there dazed. “You all right?”
Coop nodded.
“Then let’s go.” He pushed open the driver’s-side door and shoved out of the car. He walked around to the back of the BMW, pulled open the door, and yanked Rocha from the car, throwing him to the street before the man had even recovered from the shock of the accident.
Rocha, sitting on the street, looked up at him. Blood dripped from his nose, covered the lower half of his face. James aimed the gun. Rocha’s eyes were bright with fear.
“You killed my sister. Now you’re gonna pay for it.”
“Diego Blanco killed your sister.”
These words made James hesitate—not because he questioned what he intended to do but because they were a confirmation that Layla had been murdered—and for a moment, he stood there and absorbed what they meant.
“Why?”
“She was gonna talk to the DEA.”
“You fucking coward,” James said. He put the barrel of the gun against Rocha’s forehead. “I don’t care who did the job, it was done because you ordered it. Diego Blanco was just your weapon of choice.”
“I didn’t order it. Mulligan Shoibli ordered it.”
“Fucking liar,” James said.
“I swear to God.”
“James.” At the sound of Coop’s voice, James glanced over his shoulder. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get the driver out of the car.”
“And the woman?”
“Leave her.”
Coop nodded, pulled his pistol from his belt, and walked to the BMW.
James turned his attention back to Rocha. “Who the fuck is Mulligan Shoibli?”
“I don’t know—I don’t know his real name—but he ordered her killed. I know you think I am, but I’m not in charge of this organization.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I can prove it.”
“Get to proving it then. You’ve got thirty seconds so you better talk fast.”
“I can do it here, but I can also get you to him.”
James considered this. He knew there was a chance—maybe a good chance—Rocha was saying whatever he could to save his own ass. But even the possibility that he might kill the wrong man bothered him. It wasn’t that Rocha didn’t deserve to die—even if he was telling the truth, he did—it was that James wanted the man at the top to pay for what had been done to his sister. Everybody else down the line was a tool, but the man who ordered her dead was the reason it had happened. His decision made it happen, which meant he was responsible for everything that followed.
But, be that as it may, this couldn’t be handled in the street. The risks were too great.
James took a step but kept his pistol aimed. “Stand up.”
Rocha got to his feet.
* * *
Gael sat behind the wheel of the BMW, dazed, and watched as a tall man with a pistol walked to the side of the car, yanked open the door, and pulled Rocha out into the street. He watched as a black man got out of the passenger side of the car that had run into the BMW. Watched as that man pulled a pistol from his belt and walked toward him. The man pulled open the driver’s-side door of the BMW and looked down at him. “Let’s go.”
“You don’t understand what—” Gael began.
“Explain it to me later. Let’s go.”
Gael stepped out of the vehicle. He looked at the man currently aiming a pistol at his face. This guy wasn’t part of a rival cartel. He wasn’t a career criminal at all. Gael had encountered enough of them that he knew when he was dealing with one.
“Turn around.”
Gael did as he was told and the guy frisked him.
“Okay, go stand with your buddy.”
“He’s not my buddy.”
“Go stand with your fucking pal then. I don’t give a shit what you call him.”
“You don’t understand,” he said again.
“I don’t need to understand,” the guy said. “I need you to fucking listen.”
“Okay.”
* * *
James watched the driver walk over and stand next to Rocha. Watched Rocha give the man an untrusting look. “Did you have anything to do with this?”
“I don’t even know what this is,” the driver said.
“Shut the fuck up, both of you,” James said. “Coop, can you open the trunk of our car? Transfer the guns to the backseat.”
“Got it,” Coop said.
James heard his footsteps fading, heard the sound of the trunk unlatching. The hinges creaking as it swung open. The duffel of rifles and pistols being pulled from the trunk and being tossed into the backseat. To Rocha and the other man he said, “I think you both see where this is going. Let’s get this done.”
Both men started walking toward the Toyota, and while they did, James kept his gun trained, ready to squeeze the trigger if necessary. He followed the men to the back of the Toyota and the open trunk.
Rocha looked from the trunk to James and James motioned with his pistol that Rocha should climb in. After a moment’s hesitation, he did.
“You too,” James said to the driver.
“Can you listen to me for a second?”
“I’ll listen to you for ten.”
“I know it looks like I work for Rocha,” he said, “but my name is Gael Castillo Jimenez and I’m an undercover DEA agent. Or I was an undercover DEA agent. Rocha found out today and he was making me drive to the desert so he could kill me—kill me and the woman in the car, who’d agreed to talk to me. If you put me in that trunk with him, one of us is gonna be dead when we get wherever we’re going. I understand if you don’t believe me. I understand if you don’t trust me. Keep the gun on me if you want, but let me ride in front—or make me drive. I won’t try anything.”
James thought about this for a moment—thought about the look Rocha had given the man—and decided, if not to actually trust the guy, then to operate as though he did for the time being.
“Fine,” he said. “Close the trunk.”
Gael slammed the trunk lid down on Rocha.
“Coop, give him the key.”
Coop tossed the Toyota’s key to Gael.
“My friend and I are gonna ride in back. You’ll drive.”
“That’s fine.”
* * *
Gael slid in behind the wheel of the Toyota Corolla while the two men who’d abducted Rocha got into the backseat. He was in almost exactly the same situation he’d been in ten minutes ago, except these people didn’t want him dead. He might have been able to manipulate the situation with Rocha, he thought he would have been able to, but this eliminated that need.
“Start the car.”
Gael tore away the airbag, tossing it to the passenger floorboard, and stuck the key into the ignition, turning the key. The engine whined, turned over slowly, but for what felt like a long time refused to spark. Finally, all at once, it did. Gael had been pumping the gas, so once it started, it roared.
“Do you know how to get to Hotel Amigo?”
“I do.”
“Then get us there.”
“No,” Coop said. “Too many people. There’s an empty building on the west side of Hidalgo, just north of El Tule.”
“The old church,” Gael said.
“Okay,” James said. “We’ll go there.”
Gael put the car into gear and backed it away from the accident. Something at the front of the car dragged against the road, but he wasn’t worried about it. He wasn’t worried about anything.
He finally knew how to bring this case to an end.
He shoved the transmission into drive, and rolled around the wreckage. Something under the hood thumped, and smoke rose from the grille, but he thought the car would make it. When he reached Calle de Oro, he made a left. The old church was only three miles away.
40
James kept the pistol aimed at Gael as the man pulled the Toyota to a stop behind the old church, a wood-sided building covered in graffiti, its
windows boarded up with plywood, its asphalt shingle roof collapsing inward.
James glanced at Coop. “How’d you know this place was here?”
“Saw it when I drove into town.”
James nodded, and said, “Keep an eye on this guy.”
Coop raised his weapon and trained it on the man behind the wheel. As soon as he did, James pushed out of the car. The lot on which the church sat was littered with trash—rusting Coke cans, convenience store cups, a few mismatched hubcaps, several dirty diapers. A few desert shrubs erupted from cracks in the earth.
James walked to the church and paced its perimeter. The windows and both doors, front and back, had been boarded up at one point, but someone had already ripped the plywood off the back entrance. James stepped inside.
It was dark and smelled of wood rot. Sunlight slanted in through the collapsing roof, dust motes drifting through an array of beams.
Several of the pews had been knocked over. Bibles and hymnals lay open on the floor like dead birds with their wings spread. A breeze blew in through the open back door and pages flapped. The sound of their ruffling vibrated through the air. Several used condoms littered the floor like popped balloons after the party was finished. Graffiti had been spray painted across the walls.
Two doors interrupted the otherwise solid back wall. James walked to the one nearest and pushed it open to find an office with a desk, a chair, and a shelf of books, a lamp on the desk with a rotting paper shade, and an overhead fan with sagging fiberboard blades.
He walked to the next door and pushed that one open to find what looked like the room for Sunday school. A low table and small plastic chairs filled the center of the room. There were children’s books stacked on a shelf in the back of the room. Games littered the floor.
A few bats clung to the ceiling.
The place was perfect.
* * *
Coop was sitting in the back of the car, thinking about what was happening here, when he decided he needed to call the others. They needed to get down here, find perches from which they could shoot, and be ready in case everything went sideways, as he had a feeling everything would. He had a bad feeling about this. It knotted his stomach and made his muscles tense.
The Breakout Page 24
