by Aimée Thurlo
Kurt and she were making love atop their big bed. Once, not long after he’d bought the camera, he’d decided to film them in bed, but she’d refused to allow it. He’d argued that it would be a real turn-on, and had called her a prude when she’d continued to say no.
Leigh Ann crossed the room, furious. She’d burn the tape, that’s what she’d do, and hope Kurt’s sorry butt would burn in hell right along with it.
By the time she found the remote, Kurt was done and had rolled over onto his side. Endurance had never been his strong point in bed. As she reached for the Stop button, the image suddenly changed. All she could see clearly of the redheaded woman on the screen was her backside as she mounted Kurt, impaling herself with a gasp.
Leigh Ann stepped closer. Kurt had wanted her to role-play, but she’d never worn a wig in her life. Who the hell was that woman?
As she watched closely, Kurt laughed, then rolled the redhead onto her back, moving away from the camera. He picked her up, then shifted them toward the center. After looking over at the camera, probably making sure they were still in the picture, he began his usual routine—hammering his partner into the mattress. He continued until they were both covered with sweat, then collapsed with a loud whoop onto the mattress, out of breath. Another lack of endurance record. The woman laughed and threw her hands up against the headboard. It was then that Leigh Ann saw Rachel’s face clearly for the first time.
Leigh Ann covered her mouth with one hand, ran into the bathroom, and threw up. By the time she returned to the living room, another clip of her sister and Kurt was running, this time with Rachel sitting astride him, pumping away, her head toward his feet.
Leigh Ann was trying to find the remote to turn it off when she heard the front door slam.
“I’m back in record time. Got some extra snacks for you, too.” Rachel came into the room, glanced at the screen, and gasped. “What the hell?”
“You tell me, little sister.”
“Oh … I…”
Leigh Ann found the remote, turned off the TV, then held up one hand. “No excuse could ever explain this. Don’t say a word.”
She couldn’t stand looking at Rachel anymore. Leigh Ann grabbed her purse off the coffee table, ran out to the garage, and jumped into the Jeep. The possibility that maybe they’d made love here, too, on these seats, made a bitter taste rise to the back of her throat. She pushed the button on the garage door opener, turned on the engine, and nearly hit the rising door backing out.
Leigh Ann raced out of the neighborhood and headed west. No one had ever felt comfortable speaking of Kurt even when she’d be the one to bring the subject up. At first she’d assumed that it was because he’d been killed in that hunting accident and it made them uneasy. Now she saw another, more disturbing reason. Something assured her that they’d all known he’d been sleeping around.
Humiliated, she wondered if everyone at the trading post had also known. They’d wanted to spare her, she was sure of that, but she couldn’t bear the thought of facing them now.
Then she noticed the direction she’d automatically taken as she left the house—the route led to Melvin’s home. He was the only person she really wanted to see now. Just being around him made her feel like a woman, not one who’d failed as a wife, but one who was desired and respected.
Wiping the tears from her face, she settled down to the speed limit, easing pressure on the gas pedal. There was no need for recklessness. Her life was far from over. Looking ahead for the turnoff, she suddenly remembered that she’d promised Regina she’d fill in for her.
Leigh Ann swallowed hard. She’d be there. Unlike the sex-crazed pervert she’d married, she kept her promises. But first she’d visit Melvin, if only for a little while. Being around him would help her more than anything else could right now. Afterwards, she’d head in to work.
* * *
Driving the rental van, Ben circled the Juárez neighborhood. He’d made the trip alone. Jo had been swamped with last-minute paperwork transferring ownership of The Outpost to her, so he’d volunteered to do the return run to León’s. According to Jo, León had promised to have at least forty replacements available; all Ben had to do was pick them up.
As he studied his surroundings, Ben noted that sidewalk vendors and foot traffic had all but disappeared from this area. The lack of activity in what had always been a busy street sent warning signals to his brain. It was like Iraq on his first deployment—during the Surge, when danger lay everywhere.
As he approached León’s warehouse, Ben spotted a pale blue Toyota pickup parked across the street. It felt like a stakeout, so he decided to drive by and get a better feel for what was going on. The two men inside the cab watched him pass; then the one on the passenger’s side raised a cell phone to his ear.
Somebody was definitely watching the warehouse, but he had no idea if they were good guys or bad. The line between them was getting more blurred with each passing day. Many police officers were being paid off by the gangs here—and if they refused to be corrupted, that usually meant their gruesomely staged death.
León was obviously expecting him, but instinct told him that a little extra caution was called for, along with an indirect approach.
Ben parked in an open slot at the busiest market he could find, about a quarter of a mile away, then got out. His day-old beard, inexpensive old sneakers, cheap ball cap, baggy tan slacks, and short-sleeved sweatshirt wouldn’t automatically label him as a gringo, a tourista.
At least one skill he’d learned in sniper school was transferring to the private sector. Knowing how to find his way through an urban combat zone filled with hostiles was, hopefully, about to pay off. If everything was okay at León’s, he’d go back for the van—assuming it hadn’t been vandalized or stolen—then pick up the replacement rugs and head for the closest port of entry.
Ben strode past local civilians without much notice, adopting their strides and walking at their pace to fit in. Everyone here avoided eye contact and remained as invisible as possible. He’d seen the same behavior in Afghanistan, where nobody knew when or where violence would erupt next.
Fifteen minutes into his “mission,” Ben went up to León’s side door and knocked. There was a distant voice—he couldn’t make out the words through the sturdy metal door, then silence. Ben took off his sunglasses and cap and looked straight at the one-way glass window behind the metal bars to show León who he was.
Another minute went by, but Ben heard nothing but the sound of traffic in the distance. Finally he reached out and turned the knob. To his surprise, it wasn’t shut and actually moved back a few inches.
“León?” Ben called. The door should have been locked. He remembered that from his last trip.
Putting on his hat again, Ben stepped inside. The small entryway led down six wooden steps to the concrete floor of the warehouse. No lights were on, but enough illumination came through the two high, barred windows to show that the warehouse had been thoroughly trashed.
Cardboard boxes and wooden packing crates were ripped or smashed apart and strewn across the floor. Their contents, bolts of fabric, rugs, curtains, and metal hardware, were everywhere. Packing peanuts were scattered like snowflakes from burst shipping containers. Oily footprints stained the merchandise, and the acrid stench of bleach told him why many of the darker items were spotted with white splotches and stains—ruined deliberately.
Ben took out his pocketknife, an old four-inch Craftsman lockback blade his father had given him for Christmas way back when they were still getting along. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but his training would give him an edge if things got up close and personal.
Halfway across the floor, right below the long staircase leading up to León and his wife’s living quarters, Ben found a familiar sight in his line of work—a blood trail. It began with splatters, those seen when someone was struck enough to bleed, then became smeared in places where shoes and boots had slid on the slippery stuff.
Wary of a conceale
d assailant, he glanced quickly from side to side, listening for movement as he searched for victims. There weren’t any within view. Then he saw more blood on the stairs. Taking them two at a time, careful not to step on the drippy places, he climbed up. “León?” he whispered.
There was a grunt that sounded like his name.
Ben took another step, high enough to see onto the second story. León was slumped against the closed door leading into the private quarters—bedroom and bath. The older man’s face was bloodied, almost unrecognizable, with a torn lip, blackened eyes, and a nose that had to have been broken in at least two places. There was blood on the front of his shirt, mostly dried, and he was holding a rosary in his broken fingers.
“Ben,” León whispered, struggling to speak. “Go, before they come back.”
Ben rushed to León, pushing aside the tipped-over wooden chair that was now missing a leg. Even at a glance it was clear the man needed urgent medical attention.
Ben brought out his cell phone. “An emergency medical team. What number do I call?”
“No. Even if I made it that far, they’d finish me off at the hospital, and maybe kill the doctor and nurses, too.”
“Your wife—where is she?”
“Dead. They killed her. They made me watch.”
“Who are they? Tell me, and I’ll make sure the police go after them.”
“No police, no justice … not for me, not for your father.”
“My dad? What did he have to do with this?”
“Your father wanted to know, and the answers killed him.” He coughed, paused, then began again. “He wanted to force them to let us both go. He had evidence that would hurt the cartel.”
“Cartel? Where did he hide this evidence?”
“In a rug? I don’t know for sure. He had all he needed to stop them … but they came to take it back.”
Ben heard the sound of a siren in the distance, but instead of growing hopeful, León looked away. “They own the police. Go while you can.”
“Not yet. What were they after?”
“They were using us … to take drugs into the U.S.” He paused, gasped for air, then continued more slowly. “Tom threatened them, so he had to die. Now it’s my turn.” León started to cough, and blood came up from below, coating his tongue. For a moment, his eyes began to fade, but then he inhaled sharply.
Gripping Ben’s forearm, he struggled to speak, English and Spanish mingling in his mind. “Find rug, muchacho, and the prueba … need both. Let everyone see and hear. That’s your only chance. Corre, run…,” he managed, switching back to English. “They’re coming.”
“What prueba? You’re talking proof, but what is it? A video?”
The sirens were getting louder. As Ben watched, León’s eyes glazed over and the rosary fell out of his broken hands.
Ben hurried down the stairs and looked out through the barred window, keeping well back and to the side. A police car passed by the warehouse slowly, then parked just within sight. The officers didn’t jump out immediately, obviously expecting trouble.
His shirt bloodied, Ben looked around for another way out. Seeing a back door, which opened onto an alley, he moved quickly in that direction. On a hook by the door, he found an old cloth jacket and a straw hat and put them on, tucking his cap into his back pocket. He unlocked the door’s heavy latch, then slipped out into the shade of the overhanging roof. Pulling the straw hat low over his eyes, he walked purposefully down the alley in the opposite direction of the border crossing.
Moments later, he crossed the street at a jog, right behind a smelly city bus throwing out clouds of smoke. A white police car turned the corner, but Ben slowed to a walk, never looking in their direction. He knew from the screech of brakes that the police had pulled into the alley leading past León’s warehouse.
Moving as quickly as he dared, Ben circled around and walked toward the market where he’d parked the rental van. While still a block away, he spotted two more police cars staking out the market. Knowing they were probably watching the van, he veered away casually.
He deliberately avoided the logical, closest crossing and headed farther down. He stayed off the main streets and encountered no one curious enough to approach him.
Two hours later, it was dark. Ben approached the Mexican side of the border, crossing as casually as possible. He’d already ditched his cap, sunglasses, and bloody shirt, and bought a cheap T-shirt to wear beneath the borrowed jacket. Finally he stopped at a liquor store just a street over and purchased a bottle of Bacardi, which he carried in a paper sack. If he tried to pass through empty-handed, it might have led to questions, especially because he was on foot.
The uniformed Mexican guard, a woman, seemed more interested in his ass than anything else, though her male border guard had insisted on looking inside the bag.
After fifteen seconds, they waved him on. Forcing himself to stroll at an unhurried, even pace, he walked across the bridge’s walkway above the river. He was in no-man’s land now.
Just as he began walking downhill, the halfway point, and was closing in on the El Paso guardhouse, he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Ben turned his head and saw three men making double time, narrowing the gap. They weren’t in uniform, but they were focused on him.
Knowing this was no time to take chances, Ben jogged toward the American border guards and reached the U.S. side first. When he glanced back casually in the men’s direction, he saw they were suddenly very reluctant to make eye contact. Suspecting that the danger hadn’t passed, Ben remained on the alert. If they were on his trail, he could be jumped anywhere from here to The Outpost. He’d have to find a way to lose them—and the sooner, the better.
He held out the paper bag to the tall, fit Dallas Cowboy–look-alike guard, knowing he’d have to pay duty on the rum. He paid in cash, but when he was asked for his ID, Ben pretended not to know where it was. He set his wallet down on the counter, searched through his jacket, then his pockets. Eventually the three guys behind him were waved on to the next guard and the man processing him grew annoyed.
“You got some ID or not, boy?”
Ben looked down the line. The three men were walking slowly away from the checkpoint, but one was looking in his direction. He glanced away when he saw Ben watching.
“It’s here somewhere. Maybe it’s with my cocaine, in my boot.”
“Shit, boy, now you’ve done it. Come with me, we’re going to have a talk and maybe a strip search.”
Ben smiled. “Whatever you say, sir.”
* * *
An hour later, Ben was in the backseat of an air freshener–scented cab on his way to an El Paso hotel. He’d confessed to having a few drinks, then produced his military ID from a compartment in his wallet and volunteered to be X-rayed. He then allowed a drug dog to come in and give him a good once-over.
The guard he’d given a hard time to had a nineteen-year-old son stationed in Kuwait and they’d shared a few anecdotes. Hearing that Ben was scheduled to be deployed to Afghanistan, the guard wished him a safe return and let him go.
Ditching the men he’d suspected were on his tail had been worth the delay. Once inside his El Paso hotel room, an inexpensive place east off Highway 62 rather than I-25, his most likely travel route, Ben used his cell phone to call Jo.
Jo answered within two rings. “Hey, it’s me,” he said immediately. “I had to leave the rental van across the border. I’m temporarily stranded in an El Paso motel now, but I know a lot more now about what happened to my dad. I’ll fill you in when I see you, but there’s something you need to know right away. We’re both in danger, I’m talking about our lives now, and that might extend to the rest of the trading post staff.”
“If they came after you before, they’ll be watching for you to rent transportation. Stay where you are, Ben. I’ll come and get you.”
“No.”
“People are watching you at the moment, Ben, not me. I’ll be careful and watch my back, but I’m coming, so st
op arguing.”
“Okay. But don’t rent a vehicle unless absolutely necessary or drive anything connected to The Outpost. Make sure you don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Well, maybe you should confide in Leigh Ann, but insist she not tell anyone else, especially Detective Wells or anyone else in law enforcement. León said that there were cops involved on his side of the border. I’m thinking there may be dirty cops on our side as well. Once we get a chance to talk about this, we’ll decide how much Detective Wells needs to know. I want to make sure I don’t end up in the hands of the Mexican police, accused of killing León and his wife. My fingerprints are there, and I have no idea how hard the Juárez cops are going to be working on this case.”
“Probably not very. They’ve got enough to do staying alive. Just listen to the news.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Stay where you are. I’ll be there in about five or six hours,” Jo said.
“Watch your back—and bring the shotgun—just in case. We’re targets for sure now, and we’re in this together.”
“We always were. We just didn’t know it,” Jo said.
* * *
Ben was reading a newspaper, watching from the farthest corner of the small lobby of the Mesquite Motel, when Jo drove up. She came in a car, a good thing since it would throw others off who might have expected a van. He hurried outside and grabbed the passenger door handle. It was locked.
“Sorry,” Jo said, unlocking the door with a click from the console next to the stick shift.
Ben slipped in, fastened his seatbelt, and she put the car in gear.
“It’s good to see you—alive,” she said, pulling out into traffic and driving west toward El Paso.
“Whose car is this?” he asked, looking in the rearview mirror.
“It’s a rental—but under Leigh Ann’s name. She paid cash.”
“Good thinking.” He leaned back. “Did you notice anyone following you?”
“No, and I kept one eye in the mirror all the way south.”
Tense, they drove in silence until they entered New Mexico. “Okay, how about telling me what’s going on,” Jo said at last. “Coming down, I heard on the radio that two bodies were found inside the burned-out Almendariz Imports/Exports warehouse. The El Paso station picked up the story because of all the smoke. Officials in El Paso are speculating that it’s related to the violence between the drug cartels, but the Mexican authorities aren’t giving out any details except for the deaths.”
