Betrayal on the Border

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  Chris struggled to his feet and took a few limping steps, teeth gritted. Sure, his head might tell him to sit quietly and let himself be taken, but something in his core couldn’t give up that tamely. A deep anger drove him another few steps on the down-angled path. He couldn’t let Jess and his ilk win so easily.

  Crack!

  Chris froze, staring around. Was someone shooting at him?

  No, the sharp blast had come from the roadway not far below, but which remained concealed behind a tumble of rock and brittle chola. He sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. What a bitter stench! A trickle of black smoke dissipated into the air from the same vicinity as the noise.

  The throaty bay of a dog closing in behind him raised the hairs at the base of Chris’s neck. He struggled forward. A female figure popped around the crumbling rock slide at the far edge of the road. She was dressed in a dingy white peasant blouse and brightly colored, calf-length skirt that was bound to her slender waist with what looked like twine. Her head was covered by a bandanna scarf. Only the face was the least bit familiar.

  “Maddie?”

  Instead of answering, she assumed her usual supportive stance with his arm around her shoulder. The feel of her was soft and feminine, but oh, so strong. Would they ever find a time when he could hold her close—offer her comfort and support—instead of being a weight she must bear? Who was he kidding that his heart wasn’t already nine-tenths gone in spite of his vow that business and romance must never again mix? People made unkeepable promises to themselves all the time.

  “Hustle up, Mason,” she hissed. “We’ve got about ten seconds before that dog nips chunks out of us.”

  Chris clamped his jaw together and double-timed his limp. Just now, he’d maybe rather shake her than hug her, but she was one hundred percent right.

  They made their way around the rock pile, and Chris nearly stumbled when he caught sight of the conveyance filling the narrow gravel shoulder of the road. The Beverly Hillbillies would be right at home in this rattletrap pickup truck with a skewed rear bumper that looked like it was attached to the chassis with the same kind of twine that held Maddie’s skirt to her middle. Scarred wooden slats encased the truck bed, and red rust splotched once-blue paint so that the exterior of the truck was the color of a Smurf with the measles. The acrid trail of black exhaust spewed by the chugging engine explained the backfire noise and smoke stink from seconds before.

  “Get in.” Maddie hustled him around to the passenger side and helped him heave onto a seat that had more exposed springs jabbing his backside than upholstery padding it.

  She raced around to the driver’s side and piled in. “Put this on.” She thrust a brightly striped poncho and a floppy straw hat into his lap, then threw the jalopy into gear.

  They peeled out—or more like jerked in fits and starts off the shoulder and onto the pavement. Traffic was blessedly sparse on the two-lane county road this time of day, and only one vehicle—a zippy little sports car—darted around them, the driver shooting them a nasty glare. Thankfully, Chris had his head ducked, putting on the poncho, and his arm was up, partially covering his face. He only caught the passing scowl from the corner of his eye. Hopefully, that was one potential witness who wouldn’t be able to identify them if he was ever asked.

  “Where on earth did you come up with this crate? And these clothes?” He sniffed the poncho he’d thrown on and wrinkled his nose. “What is that smell?”

  “Goat, no doubt.”

  She chuckled as they widened the distance between them and pursuit at a whopping thirty miles per hour, as far as Chris could tell by the wavering speedometer. How long this tub would continue to run at all was anybody’s guess.

  “I never made it to that convenience store,” Maddie continued. “There are some interesting residences tucked away in this hilly area. I came upon a rickety trailer house set off by itself in a small coulee, and the kindly, goat-raising inhabitants were happy to sell me this truck and these clothes for more than what they were worth. But now I’m broke, so I’m glad that wallet of yours is still plump and sassy.”

  Chris frowned. “Don’t you think the cops will happen upon the same house as they comb the area?”

  “Trust me, these folks aren’t the kind to tell the cops anything if they can help it. I expect they’ll play dumb, but even if they don’t, we need to ditch this jalopy and our goofy disguises before much time passes. Where to, Sherlock?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “You’re the man with the plan, aren’t you? Isn’t that what you were doing while you were sitting on your backside waiting for me?”

  Chris twiddled his fingers against the door’s armrest, a chunk of padded rubber that looked as if a goat had taken bites out of it. “I pieced together a few things.”

  He told her about his conclusions regarding the date, time and place for the next drug shipment, and she agreed without argument. A major milestone.

  “But,” he continued, “unless we can find someone in authority willing to take our word against a state representative’s, what we know is useless. The key to digging ourselves out of this hole will be to determine if we have any contacts out there we can trust. But first, how about we round me up a wheelchair so I have a little more mobility? I know just where we might find one—if you can get us there in this thing.”

  “Bonita Bates’s house?” Maddie frowned. “Sure, she might have an extra wheelchair we could borrow or buy. She might even like us enough and resent the government sufficiently to keep our visit quiet. That’s a big ‘if,’ considering why we’re wanted. But you in a wheelchair isn’t exactly going to be inconspicuous.”

  “Neither is me limping like my left foot is on fire—which it is, by the way. We don’t need to ditch our disguises, just change what they are. Then we need to rattle some cages.”

  “The Dishonorable Representative’s?” She glanced at him with raised eyebrows.

  “Jess and his mystery bodyguard and their pet DEA agent. But that’s an incomplete set. There’s someone else lying in the weeds, and we need to know who it is. Let’s see if we can flush out whomever in the local police force or federal agency ordered the assault on us at the motel with sirens blaring.”

  Maddie clucked her tongue. “Risky business. I like it! But how do you intend to accomplish this without getting ourselves caught or dead?”

  Chris chuckled. “For our purpose of the moment, my wallet also contains an item handier than mere cash. Listen closely, Grasshopper.”

  ELEVEN

  “Get on in here. Hurry!” Bonita motioned urgently for Maddie and Chris to cross the threshold into her house.

  Maddie stepped forward, but Chris stuck out his arm, blocking her path. What now? She sent him a dark look, but he paid her no attention. His focus was upon their potential hostess.

  “You do know who you’re inviting into your home, don’t you?” Chris said to the woman.

  “Not a couple of murdering traitors.” She snorted. “But I figure you folks are on the trail of the ones who are.”

  Maddie crossed her arms over her chest. “You know that how?”

  Bonita lifted her chin. “You treated me more than fair when you didn’t have to do it. That’s not the character of greedy graspers hand-in-glove with drug dealers. But this mess you’re in sure smells like some weasel in authority has set you up to take the fall. I know how this works. Hector taught me all about conspiracies.”

  Maddie met Chris’s quick glance. Some might figure this woman certifiable—except she’d stated nothing less than the truth in this case.

  “Now quit dolly-waddling on my doorstep,” the older woman said, “and get inside where the neighbors can’t take a closer look at you goat-farm rejects.” She sniffed audibly in the direction of Chris’s poncho, then whirled her wheelchair and scooted deeper into her kitche
n.

  Maddie helped Chris enter and then shut the door behind them. For the first time since guiding that rattletrap truck through city back streets, half expecting police company on their tails at any moment, a deep breath filled her lungs. She savored the cooking smells in the air, then let the oxygen out slowly.

  “You’re hurt.” Bonita motioned toward Chris’s leg.

  He offered a half smile. “I took a tumble.”

  “Sprained or broken?”

  “We think sprained,” Maddie said.

  Bonita pursed her lips. “Go on in the living room and get that foot up. The best thing for a sprain is rest.”

  “This isn’t a good time for us to kick back,” Chris said. “We were hoping you might have an extra wheelchair we could buy from you.”

  “Happens I do, but you can borrow it at no charge.”

  Chris shook his head. “With the kind of trouble we’re in, it’s hard to say if we’ll be able to return it to you or what damage it could suffer.”

  Maddie studied the whorls on the plaster ceiling. Bonita didn’t know the half of it, and it was for the best that she didn’t. She and Chris had no idea what shape they’d be in after tonight, either. Chris’s plan was a long shot, but since she didn’t have a better idea, she was going to go along with it. While Chris dickered on the wheelchair—Bonita trying to sell her chair for little or nothing to help with “the cause,” and Chris insisting on a fair price—Maddie took stock of their surroundings. She sniffed the air again and eyed the slow cooker on the counter. Her mouth watered.

  “Tell you what,” she broke into the negotiations, “you split the difference between what Chris is offering and what you are asking, throw in a couple of platefuls of whatever you’ve got cooking, and help us put together better disguises than what we’re wearing right now—”

  “At least better smelling,” Chris broke in.

  Maddie shot him a glare, and he answered with his lethal grin that sent her heart careening around her rib cage like a pinball. She forced the unruly organ back into place and turned her attention toward their hostess. “Help us come up with something that will pass without a second glance in public, and we’ll consider it a good deal.”

  “Done!” Bonita pronounced. “Grab some plates out of the cupboard, and we’ll put our thinking caps on over some of the best chili you’ve ever tasted in all your born days.”

  Three hours later, Maddie’s gullet was still warm from the potency of that chili, but Bonita hadn’t been joking when she said it would be the best she’d tasted. Spicy-hot food didn’t bother her...or Chris, either, apparently. The guy was humming under his breath and tapping a jaunty rhythm against Bonita’s scuffed leather overnight bag on his lap as Maddie wheeled him toward the check-in counter of a major chain hotel in the heart of downtown Laredo.

  From Bonita’s house they’d called in a reservation, and then donned their disguises as a married couple several decades older than their real ages—which included salt-and-pepper wigs, spectacles with glass lenses and the addition of fake dentures for Chris in order to alter the shape of his too-public face. Their hostess had known of a costume outlet offering cheap prices that would help them conserve the rest of Chris’s cash for other vital equipment that might not be so reasonably priced.

  Costumed and with wheels under Chris, they grabbed a ride downtown in the handicapped accessible mini-bus taxi that normally picked Bonita up for her shopping expeditions. They left the rattletrap truck under a tarp in their hostess’s backyard. Maddie had told her to junk it and get what she could for the scrap metal. Then their chili-meister hostess had insisted the broken-down vehicle was more than enough payment for the wheelchair Chris rode.

  They neared the hotel desk, and Maddie’s chest constricted. Her toes protested the snug fit of Bonita’s granny-style loafers that squeaked faintly on the marble floor. She was probably walking like that shoes-too-tight Special Agent Blunt. The sacklike dress swish-tickled against Maddie’s calves, annoying her to no end, and the quilt batting strapped around her middle itched her sides. Minor inconveniences. This outrageous plan had better work like a greased turbine, or the hotel staff was not going to be pleased about cleaning up after their dead bodies. She brought Chris’s chair to a halt at the counter.

  The statuesque lady behind it beamed at them. “May I help you?”

  “Reservation for Chris Morse,” Chris answered and produced from his wallet the item he’d promised was better than cash—a credit card in the name he had given.

  The desk clerk accepted the card and began processing the check-in.

  Sweat prickled Maddie’s scalp under the mesh of the wig. That card had better be good. He said he’d used it during a recent story when he needed to travel undercover, and he didn’t think his television station had canceled it yet. Didn’t think? As if that was a sure thing? She ground her teeth together.

  “Sign here, and you’re good to go, sir.” The clerk laid the charge slip on the counter, along with a pen.

  Chris reached up awkwardly from his seat in the chair and scribbled on the signature line. Maddie’s pulse rate slid back toward normal as they headed for the elevator with their key cards. A couple of minutes later, they were in a hotel room, but the fifth floor and a dead bolt were no comfort when they were about to invite their would-be killers inside.

  Maddie kicked off the tormenting loafers and breathed thanks for soft carpet beneath her bare soles as she strode to the window and drew the curtains shut on gathering dusk. Chris rolled up to the desk and then reached into his mouth. Maddie raised her eyebrows. He pulled out the fake dentures, rolled his jaw and smacked his lips.

  “Uncomfortable as my shoes?” She laughed.

  “Tell me about it.” He opened the leather bag on his lap. On the desktop, he laid out the three small, motion-activated camcorders they’d purchased at an electronics store.

  “Do your thing, Ms. Communications Officer,” he told Maddie.

  “My pleasure.” She sat down and got to work programming the cameras and syncing them to transmit to a handheld touch screen about the size of an iPad.

  If she was the type to be made nervous by someone watching over her shoulder, she’d be ready to bop Chris. He leaned so close his breath ruffled the wig hairs against the side of her neck. Tingles cascaded to her toes. On second thought, maybe she should at least snap at him—get him to back off. She enjoyed his nearness way too much for her own good—or his. How could there be any future for them, even if they outlived this mess? But, oh, how her heart longed to go there.

  “You really believe they’ll make a play for us in a public hotel?” At least her voice came out sounding halfway normal, though her throat was a little tight from her battle against raging attraction.

  “They’ve got to be desperate to shut us up,” Chris answered. “They’d be fools not to grab any opportunity. Yes, I think we can count on catching Ramsey’s mug onscreen—him and someone else. Probably whoever is the mole among the feds or the local PD.”

  “I’d be in favor of getting some good shots of the very special Agent Blunt.”

  Chris chuckled. “You really didn’t hit it off with him, eh?”

  “To put it mildly. He all but accused me of complicity, and the questions he asked about my dead fellow rangers were downright insulting. If my leg hadn’t been in traction in a hospital bed, I might have tossed him out of the room on his ear. But why are you so sure Ramsey won’t handle this by himself?”

  “With you in the equation?” Chris snorted. “Jess’s pet DEA agent would need to have his head examined to take us on alone.”

  Maddie chuckled. “I appreciate the compliment. My second favorite candidate for Ramsey’s helper would be Jess’s mystery sidekick. A few shots of him attempting murder would connect the representative directly to illegal activity.”

  “Exa
ctly why I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure it won’t be him. Those two will insist on keeping a deniable distance and order their lackeys into the field.”

  “Jess and his muscle-bound shadow are rat-hole cowards.” Maddie turned and handed Chris one of the programmed cameras. “But they have no way of knowing that we’ve already identified them—or at least the representative.”

  Not the bodyguard. How could she even begin to verbalize the dread that fell on her at the memory of the man’s face hovering over her—the click of a round chambering in a handgun as she lay helpless?

  Her grin melted. Who was that man she’d seen in the desert? How could Chris have missed running into him? If they weren’t in cahoots, why was Chris still alive? For that matter, why was she still alive? What had stopped the mystery man from pulling the trigger? All unanswerable questions—so far. But that could change with the chain of events they were initiating tonight. It had to change, or they might as well stop fighting the inevitable death and dishonor.

  She ducked her head and went back to work at the desk.

  “No worries,” Chris said. “As soon as we get to a computer somewhere, it won’t take me long to find out the name of that Popeye clone. But for our purposes right now, it’s best if Jess and Popeye Two keep the illusion of anonymity.”

  Maddie frowned. If Chris had some connection to Representative Jess’s bodyguard then he was doing a stellar job of behaving otherwise. Oh, how she wanted to believe that another person could have survived the attack who was not a party to it.

  “Once we identify whoever else is in the picture—literally—” Chris wagged the camera in the air “—we can make an informed decision on who might be open and interested in our film and what we have to say about the situation, without shooting or locking us up.”