On one occasion she tried to run away.
They bound her wrists and ankles with leather cords. The bonds were so tight she thought she would go mad from the pain. When she began to scream and beg, they gagged her. Then they loosened the cords. The return of circulation was excruciating.
When she grew quiet, they tightened the cords again. They repeated the process for two days. The process left no permanent marks, but rearranged her mind.
Nevita did not try to run away again.
“It is a common story,” Mirasol says. “I have heard it many times.”
Mirasol’s tone surprises me. Not indifferent... Fatalistic. This is the way things are, there is no hope of changing the system.
“Do you think they’ll send her across the tunnel?”
Mirasol shrugs. “Impossible to know. She is attractive. Light skinned. We do not know how well she pleases. The torture may have damaged her mind beyond repair. If they don’t send her across, they will dispose of her.”
I’ve learned enough to know what that means. If she’s lucky, a shallow grave in the Arroyo del Navajo.
I feel sick to my stomach. “I don’t want to hear any more of this.”
Nevita stares at the wall with dead eyes.
Mirasol says, “This is Juarez, Breed. You wanted to come.”
I look at my watch. “Not for this.”
In the corridor, a floorboard creaks.
31
Juarez, 0015 Hrs Thursday
In the corridor, a floorboard creaks.
It is a stealthy sound. We have only been in the room forty minutes. I have heard men walking in the corridor. Not creeping. I lift my finger to my lips, motion for Mirasol and Nevita to keep quiet.
A center-fed room. Two blind spots, two cuts. Mirasol and Nevita are close to the left-hand cut. They will naturally draw the attention of an intruder. I step to the cut between the door and the bathroom. Flatten myself against the wall.
How many? If there are two, it will be a holy mess.
Mirasol looks away from me. Takes Nevita’s face in her hands and holds it to her breast.
A hand pushes the door open. The intruder leads with his pistol, a Beretta nine millimeter. Points it at the back of Mirasol’s head.
We’re both committed. I twist the man’s wrist and bear him to the floor. I step on the back of his elbow, haul, and snap his arm like a twig. The pistol falls with a clatter.
The man’s scream is choked off as I fall on him and shove his face down. I drive my knee into his back, kick the door shut. Grab his head with both hands. Break his neck.
There is an audible crack.
“My God,” Mirasol gasps. “Breed.”
It’s Man-Bun. He has my money. Why would he want to kill us?
I put my ear to the door. Nothing. He was alone. I reach into Man-Bun’s pocket, take my money back. Pick up the Beretta, unload it, pull the slide back. A live shell rattles on the floor. I look into the chamber, slap the magazine into the grip, charge the pistol. Loaded, I decock the weapon, take the safety off, and stuff it into my waistband. I’ve started quite a collection.
Mirasol and I have two choices. We can either leave together, or one at a time.
Impossible to know why Man-Bun came to kill us. It doesn’t make sense. Whether it was Hamza or cartel business, he wouldn’t come alone.
I go to the window and open the inner panes. The plantation shutters are latched, but not locked. I swing them open wide and look out. The side street is fifteen feet below. Equivalent to a fully loaded combat landing. I can jump it, Mirasol can’t.
“We have to brazen it out,” I tell her. “We’ll leave together. Now. Before they miss him.”
“They will wonder where he is.”
“But—they won’t do anything. Until after we’re gone.”
Mirasol goes to the window and looks down. “I can’t jump that.”
“That’s why we’re going out the front together.”
“All right.”
I look at the young girl sitting on the bed. “What about Nevita?”
Mirasol shakes her head. “She’s lost.”
Mirasol steps into the corridor and I follow her. I glance back at Nevita. The girl sits motionless, stares at me. She looks numb.
I close the door on the young girl and the corpse.
The corridor is deserted. No sign of Hamza or the Quds.
“Don’t look anyone in the face,” I tell her. “Especially the bartender. If anyone challenges us, say we had a good time, we’re going home.”
Together, we descend the staircase. The pink walls ripple with colored lights thrown from the glittering disco ball.
We reach the ground floor landing. Walk past the soldados at the foot of the stairs. My eyes sweep their friends at the table by the door. The bouncers. The dancers. I check out the bartender in my peripheral vision. He is staring at us.
He’s suspicious. How long before he acts?
Past the bouncers, through the front door. We walk along the sidewalk toward the corner. The sentry on duty is watching the street. It’s a river of red and white lights. Arm in arm, men and women make their way along the sidewalks. La vida loca.
We walk past the sentry. Turn toward the car. Mirasol unlocks the doors. We’re almost there when someone shouts from the entrance of the club.
“Matarlos!”
Fucking bartender. Must have gone upstairs to check on Man-Bun.
There’s a chorus of shouts. “¿Cuáles? ¿Dónde?”
“El Americano y la mujer!”
We dive into the car and Mirasol starts the engine. Through the windshield, I see the soldado on the corner look this way and that. He realizes we just passed him, draws his pistol as I dive into the passenger seat. I draw Man-Bun’s nine millimeter from my waistband.
The windshield stars as the soldado opens fire. Two rounds pass between me and Mirasol. She floors the gas and the car leaps forward. He fires twice more before the Camaro plows into him. Neither shot touches the car. Instead, we’re jolted by the impact, and he is thrown onto the hood. Mirasol spins the wheel and pulls into the street.
We’re stuck in traffic.
I look behind us. Men with rifles are spilling out of the club.
“Go down the sidewalk.”
Mirasol hesitates. “There are people.”
“Do it.”
Mirasol pulls onto the sidewalk and steps on the gas. It’s not Formula 1, but she’s doing thirty miles an hour. She crashes into one stall, then another. Pedestrians scatter in all directions. This is what it’s like to part the Red Sea.
I twist in my seat. The soldados with rifles open fire. Bullets rip the back of the Camaro. They’re falling behind. Mirasol turns down a side street.
“We need to get across fast,” I say.
“They will wait for us at the bridges.”
I look over my shoulder. The cartel will radio ahead, but they are also piling into cars as we speak. “Take the most direct route. When we get close, we’ll check things out.”
For the next twenty minutes, we drive in silence. Mirasol concentrates on the road, I keep my head on a swivel.
I begin to parse the possibilities.
“We can get across in the car, or we can get across on foot. We’ll have to determine the best approach when we get there.” The weight of the Beretta on my lap reassures me. “You said four dead guys rolled up to a border crossing.”
“Yes. We are not safe until we are across. The approach to the border is very dangerous because one is stuck in a queue with nowhere to escape.”
“And on foot?”
“They can chase you right to the inspection kiosk and shoot you on the doorstep.”
“It’s pretty late. What’s the crossing like at this hour?”
“If no one is after you, easy. If the cartel is chasing you, there is nowhere to hide.”
We approach the city center. There are many people out on the sidewalks. They take in the sights of the
city at night, enjoy the street food and music.
“The Puente Rio Bravo is closed,” Mirasol says. “That leaves us three options. Paseo Del Norte, The Bridge of the Americas, and Zaragoza.”
“Which one is closest?”
“Zaragoza,” Mirasol says. “It has two four-lane bridges, one of them for commercial traffic only. The other bridge has two walkways where one can cross on foot.”
Where does a soldier begin.
“I need to see the land,” I say. “Pull over, someplace dark and quiet... Over there.”
Mirasol parks on a side street and shuts off the engine. I take my phone and browse to Magellan Voyager. Type in “Zaragoza Bridge, Juarez.”
We are treated to a high quality map of the Mexican side of the bridge. I touch the 3D icon. In a flash, the image changes to a bird’s eye view of the approaches.
Two spans, four lanes each. Viewed from the Mexico side, the span on the left is used for private traffic, the span on the right for commercial. Each has its own separate approach. The approach to the private span is Avenida Waterfill. The street is straight and a mile long. Traffic flows north and south, but once on it, there is no easy way out. Side approaches are blocked off with yellow concrete bollards. The commercial approach is at right angles to Avenida Waterfill. It runs parallel to the river, then sweeps onto the span in a smooth, sharp curve.
Everywhere, the buildings look like warehouses and customs brokerages. This is an industrial section of the city, stocked with goods from the maquiladoras. Trailers waiting to be shipped north. Fodder for the consumption junkies on the American coasts.
It’s a death trap.
I don’t want to believe how dangerous this bridge is. “Zaragoza can’t be busy at this hour.”
“The commercial bridge can be very busy,” Mirasol says. “The private bridge, not so much.”
I search for “Paseo Del Norte Bridge, Juarez.” The application brings up a three-dimensional plan. The city center to the south, flanking the grand Avenida Benito Juarez. To the west, the cathedral, to the east the old bull ring. We glimpsed them on the way in.
The Bridge of the Americas approach is much like that of the Zaragoza. Multiple spans, long avenues leading to the border checkpoints. No cover.
Paseo Del Norte, Zaragoza, and Bridge of the Americas. Three very different battlefields.
“What do you think?” Mirasol asks.
I bookmark the views. Close the browser. “The Paseo Del Norte is safest. The city center is built up, with a lot of civilian traffic. Pedestrians and vehicles. We can approach on the Avenida Juarez. If there is trouble, there are more streets through which we can escape. The Bridge of the Americas and Zaragoza are closer, but more dangerous. The approaches are bottlenecks. Once on, we’ll be sitting ducks unless we cross quickly.”
On either side, the street is dark. Mirasol has parallel-parked in a long column of cars. I look over my shoulder at the brightly lit thoroughfare. Early morning in Juarez. The traffic, while lighter, remains substantial.
I open my phone and check the wait times at the crossings. Half an hour for vehicles, no wait for pedestrians. “Half an hour is a long time to wait with nowhere to run.”
Mirasol puts her hands on the wheel. “Okay, Breed. What do you want to do?”
The girl amazes me. Her combination of vulnerability and brass.
“They’ll be looking for this car,” I say.
“In Juarez,” Mirasol tells me, “fifty cars a day are stolen. Junkies take them to finance their drug habits.”
I rummage in the glove compartment. Empty, except for registration and insurance. “Pop your trunk,” I tell her.
Inside the trunk I find a spare tire, jack, lug wrench, and a toolbox. I rummage in the toolbox, select a flat-head screwdriver.
I pocket the screwdriver and slowly inspect the column of parked cars. Mexico. Low income. These people are not in the habit of trading up their vehicles every year. Most of the cars are old beaters. In the middle of the street, I find a late eighties Ford Taurus.
The car’s locked. I look up and down the street, take the Beretta from my waistband. Holding the pistol by the barrel, I use the butt as a hammer and smash the driver’s side window. Reach in, unlock the door.
Once inside, I inspect the ignition. Take the screwdriver, squeeze its head into the slot. Again, holding the Beretta like a hammer, I pound the tool into the cylinder. The molding splits, but the shaft of the screwdriver is firmly seated.
I lay the pistol on the seat next to me. Take a breath, twist.
The engine roars to life.
Not just another pretty face.
I look in the rearview mirror. Mirasol gets out of the Camaro and walks quickly to the Taurus. She climbs in and slams the passenger door shut.
“Breed, you amaze me.”
32
Juarez, 0100 Hrs Thursday
We’re two miles from the Zaragoza bridge. Behind us, a siren whoops. I swallow, check the rearview mirror. The traffic in our lane is slowing down and pulling over to the side of the road.
Three black-and-white police pickup trucks drive past in the direction of the bridge. The pickups have cages of black metal roll bars mounted on their beds. Two of the pickups have two men in front and four in the back, armed with M4 carbines. The third has two men in front and two in the back. They stand, manning an M240 pintle-mounted, belt-fed machine gun. A hundred yards back, a white civilian Impala brings up the rear.
The police are masked. They wear black uniforms and helmets, like storm troopers. Mirasol tells me police wear masks so the cartels will not know who they are. It is a fiction. The cartels know all their names. Juarez has a memorial to assassinated police officers. Killed for one reason or another. Beneath it, the cartel posts a list of police officers marked for death—“Those who do not believe.”
Once the odd convoy has passed, the traffic resumes normal speed.
“What’s going on there,” I ask.
Mirasol frowns. “They are going to the bridge. The car behind them, I don’t know.”
“Unmarked police vehicle.”
“Possibly.” Mirasol does not sound convinced. “Breed, this doesn’t feel right.”
We’re a mile from the bridge, approaching a three-way intersection. The traffic slows measurably. Ahead, in the direction of the bridge, the police vehicles have set up a checkpoint.
“Pull over, Breed.” The urgency in Mirasol’s voice brooks no argument. “This is our last chance.”
Without hesitation, I pull well over to the side. Switch off the headlights, shelter in the shadow of a warehouse. The traffic stalls, bumper to bumper.
There is a wide island at the center of the three-way intersection. A gasoline station, a restaurant, and a parking lot. The gas station and the restaurant are closed, the island is shrouded in darkness.
Lights off, the white Impala is parked next to the restaurant.
“They’re looking for us,” Mirasol whispers.
“The police?”
“Breed, you still don’t understand Mexico. The army, the Federales, the state police, the municipal police. All, at one time or another, perform contract killings for the cartels.”
“The cartel is paying the police to set up checkpoints.”
“Yes. They want to kill us.”
“What about the white car?”
“Soldados. Observing the operation.”
“Shit.”
“They are waiting at all the crossings.” Mirasol looks over her shoulder. “We have to get out of here.”
The cars behind us have piled into a healthy traffic jam. The southbound lane is clear... Traffic from the American side is non-existent. It won’t be easy to turn around.
The pickup with the machine gun on its bed is parked beside the road. The other two pickups are parked in a V, blocking the way to the bridge. Their front ends leave enough room for one car at a time to pass. Masked police, carrying M4s, stand in the gap. They are checking every c
ar. Shining flashlights inside, matching faces to identity papers.
The white Impala sits in the dark. I strain my eyes. Two men occupy the front seats. They are a hundred yards away, on the other side of the queue. From where we sit, that is all I can see.
Half a mile south on Avenida Waterfill, horns blare. The long column of cars inching toward the police checkpoint ripples. Five armored Humvees are pushing past the civilian vehicles. Finally, the army column pulls into the left lane and forces southbound traffic off the road.
“Now what?”
“Anybody’s guess,” Mirasol says.
The Humvees halt in front of the police checkpoint. Each of the military vehicles is armed with a pintle-mounted fifty caliber. Six troopers per vehicle—a full platoon, including an officer. The troops dismount, M4s at high port.
An officer gets out and motions the civilian drivers to pull off the road. He turns to the police and shouts at them. “Dejen sus armas! Ahora!”
The policeman on the M240 swings the machine gun to bear on the army. Jerks the charging handle.
The soldiers open fire with everything they have. The fifty calibers rake the pickups from one end to another. The policeman on the machine gun is cut in half, blown off the truck. Heavy caliber rounds stitch the police. At point-blank range, there is no protection against half-inch armor-piercing ammunition. Caught in the hail of fire, the cops dance like puppets. Their bodies are slammed against the vehicles before collapsing to the ground.
Instinct takes over. Leaving the motor running, I get out of the car. “Come on.”
Dodging between the cars, Mirasol follows me across the road. Without waiting for her, I stride to the island at the center of the intersection. At the checkpoint, army troopers inspect the policemen and their riddled vehicles.
Crack.
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 15
