by Aimée Thurlo
“You do that with your breathing when you’re feeling tense, usually right before your hands start shaking,” he said quietly, not looking directly at her.
“I’ve had plenty of reasons to get the shakes these past few weeks, Ben,” she said, not apologizing or denying it.
“You’ll get no argument from me on that one.”
“You’ve lived through your own version of hell. How do you cope?” she asked him.
“It isn’t easy. There was a time when I almost drank myself into an early grave. I tried counseling for a while, but talking about it endlessly—well, that didn’t work for me. If anything, it just kept the memory alive.”
Jo immediately noted that he’d used the word “memory”—singular not plural. From what she’d put together on her own, she had a feeling that whatever haunted him was tied to his days as a sniper. Though it was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, she didn’t ask him anything more about it. She wanted to respect the boundary he’d set.
They rode in silence for several miles. “I really expected León to try to bargain with me,” she said finally. “I replayed the scene in my head dozens of times, trying to decide how to best present my position and hold it without making an enemy. Yet when it came down to it, he never even countered.”
“The look on his face—I’ve seen it before on the faces of shop owners and villagers who live in the disputed areas,” Ben said. “They would talk to the marines or GIs if they knew nobody else was around, but they were always looking over their shoulders and locking doors. It’s all about survival.”
“It’s hard to imagine León, or anyone in that section of town, having problems with the drug cartels. They’re just people trying to make a living.”
“I think the gang influence is everywhere in Mexico these days. Armed confrontations get the press, but the greatest danger lies in what you don’t see.”
“It’s not a war zone, not like Afghanistan or Iraq.”
“In a way, it is. There aren’t blown-out bridges or destroyed villages, but the violence or threat of violence is always there. León may worry that his association with the ‘gringos’ could bring him major trouble,” Ben said.
“I hope not. He’s a good man who works hard. In that respect, he’s no different from you and me.”
“Troubles come to everyone, rich or poor. It’s part of life.”
Jo thought about the Navajo Way. Everyone and everything was connected, and that slender thread that bound them all could bring chaos or harmony.
NINETEEN
They stopped for dinner in Albuquerque, choosing a family restaurant in the city’s north valley. Though it had cost them close to an hour of travel time, he’d needed the break and something to eat.
Behind the wheel again now and much closer to home, he recognized the area of dry juniper hills from their earlier drive south. There were lights from isolated houses in the distance, though they were few and far between along this stretch.
Jo had grown steadily quieter since they stopped for gas in the forested area around Cuba, the biggest community for seventy miles. In the darkened interior, he could see her dozing, her eyes closed, and her head moving with the motion of the big SUV. She’d stuck her Windbreaker behind her head as a pillow and looked as peaceful as an angel at the moment.
Though Jo tried hard to look as tough as the devil himself, he could tell that the events following the murder of his father had hit her hard, and that something had been bothering her. Of course, there was the obvious—the threat to her and the business coming from the killer or killers, and the search for whatever had led to his dad’s murder in the first place.
He wished he could have taken her someplace safe, away from the trouble that had remained half a step behind them. Yet even as the thought formed, he knew the only way he could have done that was to kidnap her. No matter how scared, she’d never run away from the trading post or the ones who were counting on her.
Most important of all, Jo didn’t need, nor want him to protect her. He stole another glance at her as she shifted. For a brief moment, he envisioned her beneath him, crying out his name over and over again.
Yeah, that was going to happen—the day after hell froze over.
As they left the Jicarilla Apache Indian Reservation, he slowed to navigate a curve and saw a pickup ahead, blocking the right-hand lane. Its headlights weren’t on, but he could make out a man in a jacket waving a flashlight. A deer hunter orange–colored plastic triangle was in the center line, indicating a hazard.
Ben fought the GI training that told him to either come to a full stop while still some distance away or race past at full bore. Ambushes, IEDs, or suicide bombers weren’t part of daily life here in the States. Then he noticed a second person by the raised hood of the pickup, staring in his direction.
Ben took his foot off the gas and eased down to thirty. This wasn’t Afghanistan, it was Sandoval County, New Mexico, USA, and somebody needed a mechanic or a replacement fan belt—or whatever.
“What is it?” Jo asked in a groggy voice. “An accident?” she added, her voice rising an octave.
“No, it looks like a breakdown. I’m going to stop and help them get that pickup off the road. If one of those oil company eighteen-wheelers comes hauling ass down the highway with a load of well casings, things are going to get ugly.”
Ben stopped on the shoulder of the road about fifty feet away, highlighting the pickup with his headlights. “Need a hand?” Ben yelled, sticking his head out the window.
“Sure do. Maybe you can give us a jump. I called triple A, but nobody can get here from Bloomfield for another hour or so, and it’s dangerous as hell stuck out on the highway like this,” the man with the flashlight yelled back, walking slowly in their direction.
Ben climbed out of the SUV and Jo did the same.
“I thought there were two of them,” Jo said, putting on her Windbreaker. “Where’d the other guy go?”
“Right here,” a deep voice came from the darkness behind them. “Turn around slowly.”
Ben tensed his body, ready to strike at the first opportunity.
Ten feet behind them stood a man holding an M16 clone, the barrel pointing at Jo. “If you try and make a move, dude, I’ll kill your girlfriend.”
“And I’ll kill you,” flashlight guy added, pointing a pistol at Ben’s midsection. “Keep your hands where we can see them, tough guy.”
A third man, the one who’d been in front of the hood, came over, waving a short-barreled pump shotgun back and forth. “Give me your cell phones.”
“Haven’t got one. Search me,” Ben said, hoping to draw him in. He’d left his in the SUV.
The guy with the flashlight looked over at the shotgun man, who then waved the barrel at Jo. She brought the phone from her pocket and dropped it onto the sand.
“Now, get over there by that rock,” he said, pointing the shotgun to a spot about twenty feet downslope from the highway shoulder.
“We’re being robbed, right?” Jo said, sounding almost hopeful.
“Shut up, lady,” the man with the shotgun said, then turned to the guy they’d seen first. “Karl, hand me the flashlight, then get the pickup off the highway before a car comes along.” Glancing at his other companion, he added, “Don, pick up the cell phone, then keep an eye on them. Shoot them if they make a move.”
The man with the shotgun, clearly the leader, took the flashlight from Karl, walked to the back of Jo’s SUV, and looked inside.
“You can take the rugs,” Jo offered, her voice wavering slightly.
“Shut up, bitch,” the man guarding her snapped, jabbing Jo in the back with the barrel of his assault rifle as he reached down for her cell phone.
Ben’s move was lightning fast and straight out of hand-to-hand. Grabbing the weapon in the forestock and magazine, he swung the butt upward with a quick twist of his wrist.
The man’s head jerked from the blow to his chin and he staggered back. Ben, in contro
l of the weapon now, swung the barrel around and caught the man across the neck. He gagged, clutched his windpipe, and sank to his knees.
“Run!” Ben pointed to an arroyo. “Down there.”
Jo bent down to pick up her cell phone, then raced over to the gully. As she jumped down into the blackness, she tripped over something and landed flat on her face on the damp earth. For a moment she just lay there, disoriented.
Ben, who’d slid down behind her and kept his balance, grabbed the back of her Windbreaker and hauled her to her feet. “Keep moving.”
They raced upslope, running blind in the mushy sand. Somewhere behind them, Ben heard the dull thud of someone jumping down into the wash.
“Don’t slow down,” he whispered, trying to make out the terrain ahead.
Ben aimed for higher ground. There was a good chance they could make a stand there. Defensible terrain was all they needed. He could pick them off as easily as Pepsi cans on fence posts.
Though they were making good speed, he could hear someone racing along above the arroyo, paralleling their escape route and with better visibility. He had to find a way to slow them down.
“Keep going,” he said again, then turned and snapped off two quick rounds in the direction of the sound.
“Shit! Take cover!” one of the men yelled.
As Ben raced to catch up to Jo, the arroyo grew shallow, blending into the hillside. “Up behind that rock,” Ben said, running around an outcrop of hard sandstone.
Jo, breathing hard, looked back and nodded.
There was a loud blast, and buckshot whistled past them like angry bees. Ben whirled, saw the shooter, then returned fire, aiming a foot over the man’s head and forcing him to dive to the ground.
Ben caught up to Jo just as she reached the eroded formation of sedimentary rock. It was steep here, and there was only a narrow ledge to stand on, but they had a three-foot-thick wall of solid sandstone between them and the arroyo below.
“Keep your head down,” he said.
“Want me to call for help now?” Jo asked, gasping for air.
“Good a time as any,” Ben said, drawing a bead on his end of the arroyo.
As Jo tried to contact the police, he kept watch. His night vision was good and the moon was out, but he couldn’t see anyone moving around. Any of the men hoping to approach unseen would have to use the arroyo, but three men had been in on the ambush. That meant he’d have to watch for eventual flanking moves, though their assailants would have to climb like goats to get behind or above them.
Three minutes went by; then he saw a head poking out from the arroyo, moving right into his sight picture. There was no way he was ever going to kill again, not unless it meant saving Jo’s life, but he could, and would, scare the hell out of these assholes.
He sent the bullet downrange. The round struck just to the left of the target, breaking off a large chunk of clod from the arroyo bank. The man ducked back out of sight.
“State police are on their way. An officer is at Counselor, north of here. That’s not too far,” Jo said.
Another two minutes passed; then Ben saw movement on the left side of the arroyo. Somebody was trying to climb out and flank them. He sent a round that direction, close enough to scare the idiot back inside.
“You are—were—a sniper. Did you hit him?” Jo whispered.
“No, but I’ve got a twenty-round magazine, and I’ll do whatever’s necessary—if they come any closer.” Ben heard the faint wail of a police siren in the distance.
“Here comes the cavalry,” Jo said.
“The officer knows these men are armed?” Ben asked.
“Yeah, and that there are three of them.”
“He’ll need some backup. You stay here,” Ben said, moving out from behind cover, the rifle still pointing toward the arroyo.
“No, I’m going with you. I’m the only one here who’s not armed. No way I’m staying by myself,” Jo said.
As they inched down the slope, they could see three figures in the distance racing across the highway toward the truck and their Expedition. Ten seconds later, both vehicles raced off to the east.
“They’re gone, along with our wheels,” Ben said.
“And a thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise,” Jo grumbled as they ran toward the road.
The state police officer, who’d slowed to a crawl, aimed his spotlight in a wide sweep and caught them in the beam.
“Come out with your hands where I can see them.”
Ben placed the assault rifle on the ground and stepped out into the clear. “We’re the ones who called you.”
“The three men who robbed us are gone, along with our 2006 white Ford Expedition. It’s loaded with a shipment of Mexican rugs for my trading post,” Jo added. “The license plate is ALO-566.”
“I appropriated one of their weapons and used it to keep them at bay. The guy I took it from wasn’t wearing gloves, so he probably left fingerprints. Mine are on file, so you can rule them out.” Ben waited as the officer in the black uniform climbed out of his unit. “You got a description of their vehicle, right?”
“A dark Ram pickup, right?” As he responded, the tall, slender officer picked up the weapon by the trigger guard.
Jo nodded. “Yeah, it’s dark blue or black.”
“You two okay?” Seeing them nod, he continued. “Roadblocks are being set up outside Cuba. Hopefully they won’t get far.” He looked at Ben, then at Jo. “Can you describe the merchandise you were carrying?”
“Sixty inexpensive, Mexican-made cotton-blend rugs with Southwest patterns and colors. They’re all in tight clear plastic wrap. We just picked them up in Juárez. The Expedition, our company vehicle, has over a hundred thousand miles on it. It has two seats and a cargo area. There’s a sign on the door that has our business’s name—The Outpost.”
The state police officer, a man in his mid-forties with very short cropped hair, spoke into the radio clipped to his shirt, then turned back to them. “Maybe they thought you’d have something more expensive onboard, like jewelry,” the officer said. “Mexican silver, maybe?”
“Or maybe we were their target,” Ben said. “I’m sure they planned on killing us.”
“What makes you think that?” the officer asked.
“They used names and didn’t bother to hide their faces or avoid leaving fingerprints,” Ben said.
“But all we had was an old four-thousand-dollar Ford loaded down with cheap tourist rugs! Surely lives are worth more than that,” Jo said.
“The value of a life … I’d say that depends entirely on who you ask,” Ben said. Seeing the shocked look on her face, he wondered what she would have thought of him had she known about the incident back in ’Stan that had turned his life inside out.
One thing was clear. No possible relationship between them would survive that knowledge. He’d saved the lives of many that day, but it had come at a high price.
Like his dad, Jo lived in a world of black-and-white answers, but his world was shaded in grays and bloodred. There was no way Jo could live with what he’d become. Some dreams just weren’t meant to be.
* * *
The following morning, Jo woke early. After offering her prayers to the dawn, she got ready to drive to Hosteen Brownhat’s place. She and Ben had caught a ride, courtesy of the state police, and when she arrived home late last night, she found the note Hosteen had left pinned to her door. He wanted to know if she intended on continuing her apprenticeship.
Since inheriting The Outpost, she hadn’t been able to help her teacher prepare for upcoming Sings or meet with him other than at the Blessing rite he’d done for the trading post. The Navajo Way demanded that Hosteen Brownhat and she, as his apprentice, walk the path of beauty, but her life had changed drastically. Fear had her in its grip, and without inner peace, she’d never be able to bring harmony to anyone else.
Jo was locking her front door when an unmarked but easily recognizable sheriff’s department car pulled up bes
ide her pickup. It was Detective Wells.
“Good morning, Detective,” Jo said. “I guess you heard what happened last night and that’s why you’re here so early?”
Detective Wells nodded. “According to the state police report I found on my desk this morning, you were only transporting several dozen cheap Navajo-style rugs. Your SUV isn’t exactly last year’s model either. I know you were coming in from Mexico, so what else did you have in the vehicle?” Detective Wells looked at her closely.
“Nothing but Ben and me,” Jo said firmly. “And anyone out to steal rugs would have known the low value of those knockoffs. I find it very hard to believe that those men were willing to risk their lives and jail time just for the Expedition and our cargo.”
“But you still can’t add anything new to what you’ve already told the state police?” Wells looked skeptical.
“Sorry, no, but talk to Ben. Maybe he can remember something helpful.”
“I’ll do that, and in the meantime, watch your back.”
Jo watched the detective as she drove away. What happened to her and Ben the night before seemed to finally have lit a fire under the detective. Hopefully, Wells’s renewed efforts would pay off.
As the county police’s unit disappeared from view, Jo climbed into her pickup. She still had time to visit her mentor before work.
* * *
Katie knew that what had gone down last night was far more than a simple carjacking and robbery, but she wasn’t getting the answers she needed. Stuart’s son didn’t trust her, and Jo Buck either didn’t know anything, or was holding back. Either way, what she needed now was an informant.
She’d done the dirty work before sunrise. Among all the trading post’s employees, Del Hudson appeared to be the one most vulnerable to intimidation. The teen was also in a great position to watch everything and everyone at the trading post. With some luck, she’d get answers—and maybe she’d also find the leverage she needed to finally slip out of Roberto Hidalgo’s clutches.
Although she hated the thought of setting up a seventeen-year-old kid, she had no choice. The boy was in no danger from her, of course. The trick would be to make him believe that life as he’d known it would come to an end unless he helped her.
