[Ryan Lock 04.0] The Devil's Bounty

by Sean Black

  A voice came back from the darkness of the trench: ‘Why should I trust you?’

  ‘Because you don’t have any choice. If I wanted you dead all I have to do now is get out of here and leave our compadres over there to deal with you. I lose the money, but if I don’t care about the money it makes no difference to me. I should just get out of here.’

  It was a hard sell and he didn’t have time to make a winning case.

  ‘So, go.’

  He needed something else. A distraction. Something for Mendez to chew on, however briefly. Something to buy him the moment of doubt he needed. He patted down his jacket and something crinkled under the fabric. He reached inside and pulled out a wad of paper, waving it over the edge of the trench.

  Mendez’s voice came from the void. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your mother gave it to me to give to you. It’s a note. You want it?’

  ‘What’s it say?’

  ‘How would I know? Look, do you want it or not?’

  Lock edged forward until his head was back over the lip. He tensed, ready to spring back, but Mendez lowered the gun by a fraction.

  ‘Throw it down.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, shuffling forwards on his elbows.

  He swung his legs over the lip so that he was sitting on the edge of the trench. ‘I could bring it down to you,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Mendez. ‘I don’t trust you.’

  ‘Hey, you’re the one with the gun but, okay, I’ll throw it down.’

  He folded it up, first into halves and then over again so there was a bit more weight to it. He reached down and tossed it towards Mendez. It fell about a foot from his reach. He looked up at Lock, eyes out on stalks, finger back on the trigger, waiting for him to try something. But Lock stayed perfectly still.

  Mendez shuffled on his hands and knees towards the paper. Still Lock didn’t move. Not a muscle.

  Withdrawing his left hand from his ankle, Mendez grabbed the note, struggling to unfold it with one hand.

  ‘Can you read it?’ Lock asked.

  Mendez screwed up his eyes as they tracked the white piece of paper, the gun loosening in his right hand.

  Heels already dug into the side of the trench, Lock pushed off as hard as he could, launching himself into the air directly above Mendez, the air rushing around him, the ground and the barrel of the gun, which was coming up fast.

  Mendez’s body cushioned the landing. There was a shot, and a piercing scream as Lock’s knee came down hard on Mendez’s left ankle.

  Lock knew better than to concern himself with whether he’d taken the stray round. You fought until your body stopped you. He threw a big, swooping right elbow at Mendez catching him high on the chest, just enough to send him off balance.

  Mendez tried to twist his right hand around to get the angle for another shot but Lock dug the heel of his boot back into his ankle, drawing another shriek of pain. His hands grabbed at Mendez’s shirt, and he crawled up the man’s body so that they were face to face, so close that the gun was now redundant.

  Lock head-butted him. It was enough to loosen the gun. He prised it from Mendez’s fingers, clambered off him and stood up.

  The shouts were getting closer, the flare a busted flush, the search party no doubt pivoting round and moving back towards them, realizing they’d been punked by what was known in the trade as a come-on – the oldest but most effective trick in the book.

  Lock reached down, grabbed Mendez’s hair and yanked him to his feet. Using sheer brute force, he began dragging him up the shallower side of the trench and towards the barrier. Now he could only trust that the coordinates he’d given Ty were accurate. If they weren’t, there was no way he could manhandle a fully grown man with an injury over ten feet of sheer steel on his own.

  He was almost there. He let go of Mendez’s hair and instead threw a supportive arm around him. Mendez began to struggle.

  To hell with it, thought Lock, as he half turned, planted his feet and unleashed a ferocious right hand to Mendez’s head. Mendez folded like an old dollar bill and began to sink to the ground. Lock picked him up, slung him over his back and staggered towards the wall of cold metal as the first live rounds slammed into the ground behind them.

  Half walking, half running, he stumbled onwards, his heart sinking with every step as he saw only sheet metal. He was already contemplating a dive back towards the trench when he heard the sweetest words: ‘Yo! Over here,’ Ty shouted, all six foot four of him materializing like a phantom from the darkness, falling into a crouch and letting loose a volley of covering fire towards the advancing search party.

  Looking towards him, Lock saw the access door, three feet wide and a little over six feet tall, swing open. He ran for it as Ty moved in front of him, still firing. A round pinged off the steel barrier.

  Barely through the door, he crouched and dumped Mendez unceremoniously on the bare ground. Mendez sprawled on his back, legs and arms flailing in the air, like a turtle’s. Lock drew his leg back and kicked him hard in the side for good measure. ‘Welcome home, asshole.’

  Seventy-six

  TY DROVE THE vehicle in which he had arrived at the RV point, the white Ford Ranger, as Lock sat in the back with a cuffed, shackled and subdued Charlie Mendez. Ahead of them lay a mile and a half of rutted farm track, not that anyone farmed cattle so close to the border. From here they would pick up a secondary road that would lead them eventually to the freeway. By Lock’s calculations if they made it that far they would have slipped, at least temporarily, from the cartel’s grasp. A set of headlights behind them, though, and they were done.

  ‘I think you broke one of my ribs,’ Mendez whined.

  Lock glanced at him. ‘If that’s all that’s broken you can count yourself lucky.’

  ‘So, what now? What are you going to do with me?’

  The question prompted Lock to trade a glance with Ty. Lock took a deep breath. ‘That’s down to you. And your family.’

  Ty twisted around in his seat. ‘Say what? We’re handing him over. Or have you forgot about that promise you made to the girl’s momma?’

  Lock checked the surprise that registered on Mendez’s face. ‘There’s five million if we don’t versus a couple of hundred grand if we do.’

  Ty didn’t seem appeased. ‘And you think we can trust this piece of shit?’

  Mendez seemed to forget his bruised ribs. He bounced forward in the seat. ‘You can. I promise you.’

  ‘Like your word counts?’ growled Ty. ‘Naw, Ryan. Hell, naw. We know the government will pay out, but this guy? Dude could peel a banana in his pocket and we wouldn’t know about it.’

  Lock eased back in the seat. ‘That’s why we’re going to see the first three million in an offshore account by midnight tonight. Isn’t that right, Charlie?’

  Mendez’s cheeks filled with air and he exhaled slowly. ‘That’s a lot of money to move all at once.’

  Lock smiled, thinking back to their previous conversation about how the cartel had been paying to protect him. ‘But someone in your family must know how to get it done, right?’

  Ty turned round to stare at him – badder cop to Lock’s bad cop. ‘Course, we could just drop you off with the Feds.’

  ‘I’ll make the call,’ said Mendez.

  They kept moving, at first tacking north to put more distance between them and any pursuing cartel members, then heading west.

  Forty miles further along Interstate 10, they passed an Arizona State trooper parked on a crossway. His head swivelled as they passed. He pulled out, tucking in behind them for a few miles. It was no great surprise. This was a well-known drug route, and three males in the same vehicle were bound to attract attention. Ty stayed cool, keeping to the speed limit. After a few more miles the trooper grew bored and passed them, giving them a final sideways glance as he roared off into the distance.

  ‘Here,’ said Lock, handing Mendez his cell phone. ‘Time you spoke to Mommy.’

  They drove through t
he rest of the day. After some tense early calls, Mendez made the final arrangements for the initial transfer of funds. The money was scheduled to move at midnight. Ty would call the bank to confirm it had been lodged.

  In the meantime, exhausted, they decided to take a break. They pulled into a motel parking lot a few miles shy of Phoenix. Lock got out first, leaving Ty in the car with Mendez, who had already fallen asleep, like he had in the shack: Lock had noticed then how he slept like a baby – not a care in a world. He guessed that was what money bought you: the knowledge that, no matter how bad things got or how far you screwed over other people or destroyed their lives, it would always get you out of a corner.

  Lock pushed open the door of the motel office and walked inside. The carpet stuck to his feet. There was a Coke vending machine to one side and a long desk, behind which sat a young Hispanic man wearing blue jeans and a bowling shirt.

  He smiled at Lock. ‘How can I help you, sir?’

  ‘I’d like two rooms. Adjoining if you have them.’

  The hotel clerk rose from the stool he was perched on and walked over to check an old-fashioned ledger. His fingers traced over the paper. He looked up. ‘I think we can accommodate you. Just the one night?’

  ‘Yeah. One night,’ said Lock. ‘What time’s check-out?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock on the button. Not a moment later,’ said the clerk. ‘We like our guests to be punctual when it comes to checking out.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Lock, reaching over to take the single key fob.

  With Ty babysitting Mendez in the room, Lock headed out to grab some food and supplies. In the parking lot of a nearby Walmart, he dug out his cell phone, powered it up and checked his messages. There was one from a man whose name he didn’t recognize, but who obviously worked for Miriam Mendez, saying that matters had been taken care of and the money would be transferred at the designated time. Lock smiled to himself and punched in a Santa Maria number. He got a switchboard operator and asked to be transferred to Police Chief Gabriel Zapatero. He was informed that the chief was a busy man. Lock gave his name, asked to be put through to his secretary, if the chief wasn’t available, and waited.

  Less than twenty seconds later, Zapatero came on the line. Lock didn’t waste time. He told him what he required for the return of the fugitive they were looking for.

  ‘Of course, I could hand him straight to the US authorities myself, but it might look better coming from you,’ he added, knowing that Charlie Mendez wouldn’t make it back across the border, once he was handed over to the cartel. He gave a time at which he would call back and give a general area for the person collecting Mendez to wait in. Finally, he specified that the person had to be the chief and that he had to be accompanied by Detective Rafaela Carcharon, no one else.

  ‘If I see anyone else with you, the deal’s off and Mendez gets handed to the FBI,’ Lock added.

  After a few seconds’ deliberation, Zapatero agreed to his terms with a grunt. Lock felt relieved. That meant Rafaela was probably still alive. He took down a cell-phone number where he could reach the chief the next morning and hung up.

  He powered down the cell phone, removed the battery and walked into Walmart. With his three-day stubble and a dead-eyed expression, he blended nicely with the local clientele as he cruised the aisles, scooping up what he needed and dumping it into his cart. He stopped off in the sports section to load up on fresh ammo.

  Back in the motel room, Mendez was in the shower when Lock got back with dinner. After a few minutes, he came out with a towel wrapped around his waist. Ty and Lock did their best to ignore him. As he dressed, they ate. They watched some TV, then Mendez turned in for the night. Ty took first watch. The cartel would be out in force, checking motels like this one, which was why Lock had told Zapatero they were nearer Tucson than Phoenix. Still, they weren’t about to take any chances.

  Lock got into the bed opposite and, relying on a habit acquired with years of practice, and knowing tomorrow was a busy day, he was asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow.

  Ty woke him a little after midnight. The transfer had been made by the Mendez family. Three million dollars into an offshore account. They were millionaires. Lock told him to enjoy the feeling, rolled over and went back to sleep.

  Lock slept until three in the morning, then took over guard duty while Ty got some rest. Mendez woke around eight, the sun already up outside, the day threatening to be unseasonably pleasant. Outside, a couple of cars came and went. Lock watched them through a slit in the curtains.

  At nine o’clock he announced they were going out for breakfast. Mendez seemed spooked by the idea.

  ‘Relax,’ Ty told him. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere.’

  Lock opened the door and together the three men walked into the sunlight, got into the Ranger, and drove to a diner a half-mile down the road. They took a booth near the door, Lock sliding in one side so that he had a view of the entrance and the truck, Ty sitting opposite so that he had a view of the back door. Mendez was jittery, his nails dancing across the Formica table as he scanned the menu.

  ‘You got the money?’ he asked, after the waitress had taken their order and brought coffee.

  Lock nodded. ‘We’re all good. You’re getting collected at noon.’

  ‘Who’s picking me up?’ Mendez asked.

  Ty smiled. ‘Mommy’s coming in person.’

  ‘Getting off her deathbed to see you. Guess blood really is thicker than water,’ said Lock. ‘I presume she’ll have security with her and they have plans in place to get you out of the States.’

  Mendez looked taken aback but didn’t say anything.

  Ty glanced at Lock. ‘Man, must be nice to be a rich asshole who can mess up other people’s lives and walk away from it every single time.’

  ‘Hey, have a little respect. That’s what passes for the American Dream, these days. So don’t be ragging on it, you hear me?’ said Lock.

  As Mendez glared at them, Ty saluted across the table. ‘Sorry, boss.’

  Two hours later, a black limousine pulled up in front of the motel and the crew-cut driver, a roll of neck fat bulging above the collar of his white shirt, got out and opened the rear passenger door. Clad in a suitably conservative blue pants suit, Miriam Mendez stepped from the limo. The driver walked alongside her as she headed for room twenty-seven. He knocked at the door and waited. Miriam took a step back and surveyed her surroundings with an air of distaste. The door opened.

  ‘Mr Lock, it’s good to see you again.’

  Lock took her proffered hand and smiled. ‘Likewise. Come on in,’ he said, eyeing the driver and the bulge under his jacket. ‘Wait in the car, buddy. We won’t be long.’

  The driver didn’t move. Miriam turned. ‘I’ll call if I need you,’ she said, dismissing him.

  She walked past Lock, into the room, and the door closed.

  Her son was sitting on the bed. He didn’t look up as she entered and she made no acknowledgement that he was in the room.

  ‘Was the transfer to your satisfaction, Mr Lock?’ she asked.

  He gave a curt nod. ‘Received with thanks. And I’m glad to see you looking so well.’

  She did her best to force a smile. ‘A new treatment.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Well, if there’s nothing further …’

  Mendez got to his feet, still not making eye contact with his mother. Miriam Mendez started for the door but Lock moved to block her passage as Ty emerged from the bathroom, gun in hand. He crossed to the door that connected to the adjoining room.

  ‘Before you go, Mrs Mendez,’ said Lock, ‘there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

  Seventy-seven

  TY TURNED THE handle, and opened the door. A middle-aged woman stepped into the room.

  Lock made the introductions, his voice perfectly even. ‘Mrs Mendez, this is Mrs Warner. Your son raped her daughter, and the cartel that was protecting him sent someone to kill her. I figured you’d have quite a lot to talk about.’


  Mendez dove for the door, head down. Lock shifted his weight, using the turn of his hips to generate the power to send a crushing elbow into his face. He spun backwards, arms flailing, and landed on the bed. Lock drew a hand gun and pointed it at his head. Miriam Mendez gave a yelp and drew back her hand to strike Lock. Ty raised his weapon and levelled it at her face.

  For a moment no one moved. Jan Warner took four steps towards Miriam Mendez and slapped her hard across the face. ‘That’s for Melissa.’

  Miriam Mendez put a hand to her cheek, which flushed red. ‘How dare you? I’m a sick woman.’

  ‘You got that straight,’ muttered Ty.

  Mendez grabbed the edge of the bed and tried to haul himself to his feet. Lock pivoted and kicked him hard in the side. ‘Stay where you are, Sparky. We have some more visitors on the way.’ He turned to Jan Warner. ‘You okay?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘You can hit her again if you like,’ said Ty, generous to the last. ‘I ain’t gonna say anything.’

  Jan shook her head, her eyes shifting back to Miriam Mendez. ‘I just wanted you to know what you’ve done.’

  Miriam ignored her. ‘You can’t keep us here,’ she said to Lock. ‘My driver will come back in a moment.’

  ‘No, he won’t. I guarantee you.’ Lock waved to a seat in the corner of the room. ‘Make yourself comfortable. A sick woman like you shouldn’t be standing.’

  Ty opened the interconnecting door and ushered Jan Warner back into the other room. She paused in the doorway, her eyes boring into Mendez before she glanced back to his mother. ‘You might have money, Mrs Mendez, but that’s all you have.’

  Miriam Mendez sat down, glaring at Lock. He was beginning to see where her son had got his sullen demeanor from.

  ‘This is kidnapping,’ she said.

  Lock exchanged a look with Ty as he walked back in, closing the door to the other bedroom behind him. ‘You want to explain to Mrs Mendez what the word “irony” means, Tyrone, or shall I?’