by Hilton, Matt
Rink often pokes fun at my motoring abilities, even though I’m skilled in tactical and defensive driving. He doesn’t trust me to remain on the right side of the road. Usually I counter by telling him the left side is the right side back where I come from, but Kirstie wasn’t familiar with our usual banter. I let his jibe go.
‘Just finish your food and go back to sleep,’ I told him. ‘You too, Kirstie. Try to have a nap because we can’t be sure when you’ll get any decent sleep.’
‘I couldn’t sleep if I tried. I’ve too many things going through my mind.’
A sign at the side of the highway indicated that we were nearing the tiny town of Rio Rico, but the approach to the town was sheathed in heat haze rising from the asphalt, so I couldn’t make out any signs of life. We were only a few miles off the border town of Nogales where we’d chosen to cross into Mexico. Assuming that Jorge Molina’s influence stretched that far north, it was possibly the first place that his watchers would be stationed. It could also prove the first point where we crossed paths with those I was certain were keeping tabs on Kirstie. Just because we hadn’t spotted a tail at Tucson didn’t mean there was none there. There was every likelihood that they’d called ahead and arranged a welcoming committee for us the minute we crossed from North Grand Avenue – the southernmost tip of I-19 – to Adolfo Lopez Mateos Highway on the Mexican side.
‘Even if you can’t, pretend that you’re sleeping,’ I said. ‘We don’t want anyone getting a good look at your face as we cross the border.’
‘Won’t we have to be checked by the border patrol?’
‘Don’t worry. It’s easy getting out of the country. Not quite as simple getting back in. I’ll do the talking; you just keep your head down, OK? And it’s probably best you stay like that until we’re on the Mex Fifteen south of town and can be sure we’re not being followed.’
We passed an old mission church with an arched façade and walled garden standing lonely on parched earth. There were a number of cars parked on the lot outside, but no tourists or pilgrims in evidence. The church was reminiscent of the Alamo, but then my opinion was coloured by the old John Wayne movie because I’d never seen the original building. Pushing through Rio Rico I found houses and a few retail premises on widely spread lots, so perhaps my earlier description of it as a town was a tad grandiose. Then we were past the houses at the southern outskirt and surrounded once again by desert. Next stop Nogales. I checked for our friends in the panel van and made it out as a dull smudge in the heat haze behind. As we approached the border crossing, Harvey would fall back and place more distance between the two vehicles so that we were not pegged as travelling companions. If we picked up a tail, then it would be good to have back-up behind them.
We had valid – though under bogus details –WHTI-compliant travel documents and passport cards with us and, also in preparation for traversing the border, Walter had smoothed our passage by supplying documents for the van produced under the trilateral Security and Prosperity Partnership that existed between the US, Canada and Mexico. Under the documents the van was registered as a vehicle from a trusted traveller/trader company and therefore should go through the checkpoint without too much fuss. I hoped that was the case, because the van was now carrying all our weapons in hidden compartments. I felt naked without the familiar weight of my SIG down the back of my jeans.
Nogales loomed ahead of us, a sizeable urban sprawl. There were a couple of border crossings at the heart of the city, but we’d chosen to continue on the main highway and cross from Arizona into Sonora by the busiest route. Vehicles would queue on both sides, making the border officials more hurried as they fought to cut the waiting times and meet the targets set by the SPP agreement. It was our hope that we could pass through without raising any suspicion. Not that we expected trouble entering Mexico, but you never could tell.
Entering Nogales proper it was apparent that things were cosier this side of the tall fences that split the city, and it was hard to imagine the slum-like neighbourhoods on the southern side when passing familiar commercial chain stores and food outlets along the main strip. But I wouldn’t have to imagine for long, because pretty soon we’d pass through the checkpoints into one of the poorest areas of North America. On the southside lived families struggling under the burden of unemployment and poverty, in shantytowns that pressed almost to the chain link fences. Day by day, people on that side of the marker must look north and pray for the day that they tasted the sweet fruit of the American Dream. No wonder so many immigrants threw themselves at the mercy of the coyote gangs to smuggle them to a new and better life.
Rink reclined in the passenger seat, relaxed and loose, his hooded eyes hidden behind a pair of shades. Any casual observer would think he was asleep, but he was alert and on the lookout for hidden watchers. I checked on Kirstie and found her gaze in the mirror once again.
‘Now would be a good time to get your head down,’ I said.
‘We’re not at the border yet,’ she replied.
‘Near enough that someone might see you. Just do as I ask, OK?’
Kirstie pulled her cap brim lower, tucked her chin into her shoulder and crossed her arms over her chest. From the rapidity of her exhalations her anxiety levels were rising.
‘Just stay cool. If anyone does ask you any questions, play dumb. Let me answer for you.’
‘Now you sound like my ex-husband,’ she muttered.
‘I’m asking nicely.’
‘Fair point.’ Her lip curled into a smile.
There was something about Kirstie that I was beginning to like, beyond the fact she was damn good-looking and had captivating grey eyes. I made myself pull my attention away from the mirror and concentrate on the road ahead. We were entering a built-up area, where signage indicated directions to the border checkpoints. Beside me Rink exhaled, and I wondered if he was again going to offer to drive.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it.’
‘It isn’t your driving I’m worried about, brother. Check out the near corner of the building on your right.’
A CCTV camera was mounted on a pole secured to the building and was definitely tracking our progress along the street. Could have been an arbitrary incident, some bored camera operator deciding to check us out, but in my business you can’t ignore even random occurrences.
‘Could be nothing.’ Rink clucked his tongue. ‘Then again, it could be something to worry about. Who knows we’re heading this way?’
He didn’t have to elucidate. He was referring to Walter. But I didn’t think our old handler had anything to do with the surveillance of our progress this side of the border. Why would he do that when all he had to do was to ring me on my cell phone for an update? There was no indication who the camera belonged to; perhaps it was shared by various agencies.
‘Maybe they twigged on to us because of your ugly mug,’ I said, making light of the situation.
‘Or they think you’re a drunk driver,’ Rink countered.
‘Could Jorge have enough influence to control officials on this side of the border?’ Kirstie’s question sobered me somewhat.
‘I don’t doubt it, but I don’t think that’s what this is about. Keep an eye out for other cameras, Rink. If they stay on us, it means we might have something to worry about.’
By now we were under the camera, forced to proceed slower as traffic built up in preparation for entering the lanes to the border crossing, still about a half-mile ahead. Checking in my wing mirror, I saw the camera swing to follow our progress.
‘Another on the left tracking to find us,’ Rink announced.
‘Shit. I don’t like this one bit.’
‘What if someone’s realised what we’re up to and they’re going to stop us entering Mexico?’ Kirstie’s voice was a few octaves higher than usual.
‘Then we find another way in.’
‘How could they be on to us?’
‘Did you mention it to anyone, because I’m positive none of us did.’
‘So maybe we’re worrying about nothing. Maybe they’re on the lookout for a similar rental car and picked on us,’ Rink said.
‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ I said, pushing the car on and joining the now-static queue waiting to pass through the checkpoint. More than ever I felt the missing SIG as a hollow point at my lower spine. ‘OK, now’s the time to pretend you’re sleeping, Kirstie.’
She tucked down again, following the charade even to the point of snoring softly. I checked out the camera on the left and saw that it was indeed focused on us. From its vantage it would get a clear shot of my face, but Kirstie and Rink would be hidden. I forced myself to relax and ignore the scrutiny.
Ahead of us the traffic began a slow crawl and I could see where they passed through lanes not unlike those at regular toll roads, the difference here being that a structure stretched above them one side of the highway to the other, with observation windows lining it; smoked glass made it impossible to tell if anyone watched from inside. It was more like driving into an underpass than most border crossings I’d ever been through. Nearing it, I noticed the steady flow of pedestrians making their way in and out of the country via turnstiles and walkways behind tall metal railings. Hundreds of Mexicans – possibly thousands – worked on the Arizona side of Nogales and must traverse the same route on a daily basis. It would be just another mundane facet of their day and something that they performed by routine. I watched for anyone who did not move at the same pace as the others, but no one stirred my suspicion. Checking my rear-view, there was no sign of the van or our friends. Probably that was a good thing considering we still held the attention of the observation camera. I rolled on, approaching the gate,with a dust-sheathed bus spewing diesel fumes from its exhaust alongside the car. Traffic cones directed me into a bottleneck, but there was no option but to press forward. Cars were stalled ahead and behind now, and if anything should kick off we’d be stuck. Still, I didn’t fear ambush here at the crossing; not where armed Border Patrol officers were stationed, so again I forced myself to relax.
When it came to it, a bored-looking uniformed woman, who barely glanced at the documents I flashed, flagged us through the crossing. It was good that our concerns had been unwarranted, but almost too easy. Then we were in that short strip of no man’s land and facing the Mexican side. Whereas the US port of entry had the look of most other utilitarian governmental buildings, the Mexicans had erected two large interconnecting arches that reminded me of a seagull’s wings in flight. It was beautiful in its own way. It was also anomalous when compared to the backdrop of the older structures around it, painted in pastel colours, and a complete contradiction to the hovels in near sight on the crests of hills to the east. Again we passed beneath the seagull’s wings with no trouble. I immediately began checking for cameras swinging our way, but it appeared we were no longer under scrutiny.The road opened before us and I gave the rental gas, moving away quickly should anyone decide to take a second look. I couldn’t say why I was worried – apart from the relative ease with which we’d entered the domain of our soon to be enemy – but I had developed that itchy feeling on the back of my neck that we were in someone’s sights. Usually when the old spider sense strikes, it’s something I pay close attention to. Yet, there and then I was relieved to be moving, heading for the prearranged meeting place we’d set up with Harvey. The only thing that would ease the feeling was having my gun back where it belonged.
Chapter 8
We followed Mex 15 south, and pulled into the parking lot of a freight company beyond the outskirts of Nogales. The dusty lot was lined with empty cargo containers, but its fleet of trucks must have been out on the roads. Parking out of sight of the office buildings, we waited until the panel van drew alongside and approached as Harvey alighted from it. Across an unpaved road was the entrance to a water park that also offered paintball ranges on a chunk of fallow land beyond the pools and water slides. Business didn’t appear great today and if we were noticed, an untrained observer would think the weapons we began to unload to the trunk of the car were paintball guns. I checked the action of my SIG before slapping in a magazine, and inserting the gun in its usual carrying position. Already I felt much better.
‘You know the route you have to take for Hermosillo, right?’ Harvey asked.
I tapped my head. ‘Up here, buddy.’
‘We can take the lead if you like, but I’m guessing that you’d prefer us to cover your ass?’
‘Yeah. Did you catch any attention back at the checkpoint?’
‘None.’
I told him about the CCTV cameras filming our progress across the border.
‘Chance?’ he offered, but I could tell his take on that was the same as mine.
‘If someone is on to us, you can bet it’s not good news. I’d prefer it if you guys held back here and let us get a head start; see if anyone is following our trail.’
‘I’ll let Velasquez and McTeer know.’
‘OK, we’ll get back on the road.’ I checked my wristwatch and it was later than I’d assumed. We planned to be at Hermosillo by daybreak, in order to launch surveillance on Molina’s compound. With an idea of his day-to-day activities, we might find an early opportunity to snatch Benjamin from under his nose. This time tomorrow, I fancied we would have a plan in place, but not if we dawdled.
‘Gimme the keys, brother.’ Rink held out a hand.
I didn’t mind handing over driving duties, so I tossed them to him. Kirstie eyed me.
‘You want me to climb up front and give you the back seat?’
‘Nah, there’s room for the two of us,’ I said.
Rink and Harvey shared none-too-subtle smiles. Kirstie glared at them, but softened a touch as her cool grey gaze swept me top to toe. With a shrug, she climbed back in the car, hoisted the cooler box over the front headrest and placed it on the passenger seat. ‘I hope you don’t snore like your buddy.’
‘You ain’t heard nothing yet, girl,’ Rink said. ‘Think buzz-saw crossed with a rutting yak: that’s Joe’s snoring for you.’
‘Ignore him. I don’t snore.’
Rink and Harvey shared a look of disbelief.
‘We’ll see. Just be warned. I might not be responsible for how hard my elbow hits you if you do.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said with a grin. I gave my friends a stern look. ‘Arseholes.’
Rink clapped Harvey on the shoulder in parting, offered McTeer and Velasquez a lazy salute and we set off, a long journey ahead of us. ‘Wake me after four hours, Rink, and I’ll spell you.’
‘You got it,’ he promised.
Yet it wasn’t my friend who woke me hours later, but the anguished cry that broke from a woman’s throat.
Chapter 9
A man was silhouetted against the full moon; his figure featureless and flat, two-dimensional. He held a knife down by his right thigh, the only thing about him that caught reflection. He aimed the knife at Kirstie’s throat.
She was running again, her feet sinking deep in loose sand that threatened to hold her in its embrace. The baby she held tightly to her chest further hindered her flight. The child was terribly silent and for a moment Kirstie experienced sickness rising in her throat: what if she had crushed the life out of the baby in her desperate attempt at keeping him safe? She wanted to check that the boy was breathing, but to do that she would have to halt, and the shadow man would catch her. She ran, uttering moans and curses at the clinging sand.
Ahead of her loomed two massive boulders. Unlike the spectral blue of the moonlit sands, these boulders were the red of copper, or dried blood. A narrow gap offered flight between the towering columns and she rushed towards them. In her peripheral vision the shadows flickered as her stalker gained on her. If she could make it through that narrow gap surely the shadow man would not pursue her, because on that side assistance was waiting. There was blacknes
s between the boulders, yet weirdly she could see through it, all the way to the beckoning figure at the far end. She did not know who her saviour was, couldn’t make out his face, but his beckoning arm was enough to tell her he was her lifeline. A ragged cry tore from her throat and she ran on, her feet slipping and sliding now in mud that had no place in this terrain.
She tripped and fell.
To save the baby she twisted, and went down on one side, sliding in the deepening quagmire. She floundered to get up and in her haste the swaddled child flew from her grasp. Kirstie bit down on her bottom lip, straining to reach the child. Unable to grab the trailing blanket, she went to her hands and knees and scrambled forward, the mud now baked-hard clay as she toiled up an incline towards the sanctuary of the boulders. Almost as if the baby was attached to a line and the distant figure between the boulders reeled it in, the blanket continued to slide away from her grasp. She lunged and grabbed it, pulling the bundle tight to her chest.
Distantly a voice called to her.
The figure continued to urge her forward. In the swirling shadows she could make out eyes, at once blue, green and brown as though the colours shifted like the desert sand. She recognised those eyes, and she felt the burgeoning of hope.
She stumbled on, and now the rocks rose up on both sides. Yet the gap between them was too narrow, and so black she feared she’d been struck blind by fear.
But that didn’t last.
Eyelids flickered open in the dark wedge where light failed to exist. The irises were the same pale grey as her own and those of the baby in her arms, a family trait. Kirstie stepped backwards; more afraid of this than anything that had gone before. The blanket was moving now against her body, and she looked down, hoping to find her baby boy squirming in her grasp. The baby was as inert as the desert around her. Naked, it was cold and hard to the touch. She stared at a porcelain face, the painted features cracked and crumbling to dust.
