A trooper shoots a wounded policeman.
I take the Beretta from under my shirt. Approach the white Impala from behind.
The two soldados sit in the dark, observing the carnage. One of them has a handheld radio to his ear.
More shots ring out from the checkpoint. The army is not interested in taking prisoners.
I walk straight to the driver’s window. It’s been rolled down in the heat. I raise the Beretta to the driver’s ear and blow his brains out. The passenger turns, radio in hand. I shoot him twice in the face. The driver has slumped to one side. I shoot him a second time under his jaw. The bullet blows the crown of his skull onto the passenger’s lap.
More shots ring out from the checkpoint. Killing wounded, the army are having themselves a high old time.
I yank open the driver’s door and haul the body out of the car. Push it against the wall of the restaurant. Go around to the passenger side. Most of the passenger’s brains landed on the concrete surface of the island. Mirasol arrives in time to watch me drag the passenger around the front and lay him next to his buddy. I tear their shirts off and return to the car.
The radio, lying on the passenger seat, is crackling. Someone on the other end of the net is hollering in Spanish. I pick up the handset. It looks simple enough to operate. I make sure the radio is not in send mode and hand it to Mirasol. “Listen to what they are saying and translate for me.”
“They’re panicking. They want Manuel and Javier to answer.”
I get in the car, slam the door, and reach over. Brush bits of scalp and brain off the passenger seat. Take one of the shirts and wipe blood from the upholstery. I fold the other shirt carefully and lay it on the seat. Sir Walter Raleigh spreading his cape for the queen. “Get in,” I say. “Try not to get blood on you.”
Mirasol climbs in the car and closes the door. I hand her the bloody shirt. “Do the best you can with the door,” I tell her. “Throw it away when you’re done.”
I fire up the engine. Spin the car around, drive past the gas station pumps, and turn onto the eastbound lane.
The stream of Spanish coming from the radio continues unbroken. Mirasol listens, trying to tell the different voices apart. “They say the police are running.”
“Which ones. There are no police alive back there.”
“Police guarding the other bridges. They are refusing to man checkpoints.”
I speed away from the intersection. We’re doing sixty miles an hour in an empty lane. The long line of cars waiting for the bridge has backed up two miles.
“The cartel is recalling its men,” Mirasol says. “At Bridge of Americas, Paseo Del Norte.”
“We’re going the wrong way. Where can I get off? I want to go to Paseo Del Norte.”
“Half a mile further. Make a right.”
I make the turn. “What happened back there?”
Mirasol raises the radio, still crackling with voices speaking Spanish. “When we escaped La Cueva, the cartel called the police with our description. Had them set up checkpoints. They planned to kill us when we tried to cross.”
“What about the army?”
“I don’t know. The president has sent the army to control violence and crime in Juarez. They might be employed by a competing cartel.”
I look at Mirasol with disbelief.
“One never knows,” Mirasol says. “Avoid army patrols because they make people disappear. Maybe their victims are bad guys, but—maybe not. They have detained police and policewomen. There are stories the policewomen are raped. Never written about, never reported. Reporters in Mexico are regularly executed.
“Of course, the police are no better. Three times, a town’s entire police force has been arrested. Every single police officer. Once, during municipal elections. For complicity in the murder of a mayoral candidate.” Mirasol pauses. “That is the real Mexico.”
We are approaching the city center. The radio crackles again “Manuel. Javier. Respóndeme.”
Driving at a comfortable speed, I turn north on Avenida Francisco Villa.
The next voice that crackles from the radio speaks English. The accent is sharp, Middle Eastern. “Breed.”
Mirasol looks at me with frightened eyes.
“Breed, I know you can hear me. It was a pleasure to meet you this evening. I want you to know—I am going to kill you.”
A burst of static.
The radio falls silent.
33
Juarez, 0200 Hrs Thursday
The old bull ring towers over our heads.
I’ve been to bullfights in Spain. Nowadays, the events are entertaining because of their pageantry. The organizers have the bulls’ horns filed. This ensures less risk of matadors being gored. Decades ago, in the time of Hemingway, bulls’ horns were not filed. The contest between man and beast was more equal.
Mexican bullfights are no different. Exercises in pageantry.
Occasionally, you hear of a severely injured matador. Wonder how it happened, because bullfights have become little more than ritual slaughter. Contests aren’t exciting unless both sides bear risk.
I park the car in a dark alley off Calle Abraham Gonzalez. Shove the Beretta under the driver’s seat and get out of the car. We will walk across the Paseo Del Norte.
Of course, the decision has been made for us. Well before we reached the booth, the US Border Patrol would know whether the car was stolen. Once we got there, questions would be asked about blood and brain tissue on the upholstery.
Mirasol and I check each other out—to ensure bloodstains on our clothes are not noticeable. I put my arm around her, and we walk to Avenida Benito Juarez. Toward the bridge.
“Who was that man on the radio?” Mirasol asks.
“I think he killed my friend Keller. His wife and son.”
“He’s not Mexican.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“Tell me, Breed. Have I not done enough you can trust me?”
I do trust Mirasol, though she has not told me everything.
“All right. His name is Faisal Hamza. The dark man we saw with Bledsoe the other night. He is using the tunnel to smuggle terrorists into the country. The attacks in New York and Los Angeles.”
“He is working with men who traffic drugs and women?”
“Yes. Building the tunnel was expensive. Far more than Bledsoe could afford. Hamza and the cartels formed a joint venture to share the expense. Profits to share. And Hamza can get his killers into the country.”
“There is no limit to the evil these men do, is there?”
“No.” I stroke her arm. “They have to be stopped.”
We join the flow of tourists and partiers walking toward the bridge. Like a pair of lovers, we stroll past the cathedral. Look up at the structure’s illuminated facade. In the square, a tired mariachi band plays a tender song.
As we walk, Mirasol lays her head against my shoulder. My eyes restlessly quarter the ground. I sweep the street, the squares, the elevated positions. I search for any sign of soldados sent to kill us. I search for police and army. I am learning the border.
The song suits the procession of tourists toward the Paseo Del Norte. “That’s a beautiful song.”
“That is La Golondrina,” Mirasol says. “The Swallow. It is an old song, about Mexicans who live away and miss their homeland.”
“It’s sad.”
“We would not leave if our choices were not so terrible.”
“Why did you leave?”
Arm around my waist, Mirasol clutches me. “I’ll tell you, but not now. It’s not easy.”
“All right.”
Two army Humvees are parked on either side of the Avenida Benito Juarez. The troops wear digital camouflage, American-supplied body armor and load-bearing vests. M4s low-ready. Soldiers stand at the fifty caliber machine guns. Their posture is casual, but their eyes are sharp.
No sign of police anywhere. I haven’t seen a single policeman the length of Benito Juarez.
Mirasol’s hand tightens on my waist. I grip her shoulder.
The soldiers are content to watch the procession of tourists file past. The mariachis’ song is faintly audible in the distance.
We reach the Mexican border guards. Show our papers, answer superficial questions. We walk across the bridge, look down at the Rio Grande. Nothing grand about it. A mere trickle, the water glistens in the moonlight.
The Border Patrol on the US side are only slightly more difficult. I cringe as Mirasol displays her green card, but she meets only a courteous tip of the hat.
“How do we get back?” Mirasol asks.
“Find a car.”
We make our way to the Greyhound bus station and find a cab. Ask the driver to take us to a twenty-four-hour car rental firm.
“Why didn’t we take the taxi back?” Mirasol asks.
“Hamza’s men will watch the hotel. We’ll go to the Lazy K and call Stein to meet us there.”
I fill in the paperwork, and we are escorted to a late-model Taurus in the back lot. In minutes, we are driving down Alameda toward Salem.
“This man, Hamza,” Mirasol says. “How did he know your name?”
“We saw each other in the corridor. He called Bledsoe and described us. Bledsoe and Frank already tied us together. It wasn’t rocket science.”
“Now he wants to kill you.”
“Now he has to kill me.” I turn the air-conditioning on full blast. Point the vents at my face to stay awake. “Stein’s management don’t believe her. Don’t believe a businessman would build a tunnel under an American factory. Stein has no direct evidence. She needs a statement from me to provide probable cause to obtain a warrant.”
“Or me,” Mirasol says.
“I didn’t tell Stein you were at the lookout. I’ve tried to keep you out of it.”
“She must suspect.”
“Yes, but that’s different from knowing. In any case, Hamza and Bledsoe have their reasons to kill us both.”
One hand on the wheel, I take my phone and call Stein. Three rings and I’m kicked to voicemail. I can’t imagine Stein turning off her phone. She might be working on her presentation, she might have gone to bed. “Stein, it’s Breed. I’ve found the other side of the tunnel. Call me.”
Mirasol gives me a skeptical look. “I thought Stein can’t do anything in Mexico.”
“She can’t. I’ll tell her I saw Hamza and his Quds in La Cueva. That will strengthen her case.”
We drive in silence.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” I say at last. “We should never have gotten out of La Cueva. Man-Bun should have alerted Hamza and his friends. He didn’t tell the bartender. The bartender watched us leave, ran upstairs, and found the body. That’s when the shit hit the fan.”
Mirasol is silent. I’m wide awake now, calculating possibilities.
“Why,” I ask, “did he come to kill us—alone.”
“He didn’t come to kill us,” Mirasol says. “He came to kill me.”
34
El Paso, 0300 Hrs Thursday
“He came to kill me.”
I glance sideways. Mirasol’s expression is serious. She stares at the string of white lines flashing under our headlights. If Man-Bun had something personal against Mirasol, it would explain a lot.
Mirasol’s profile is beautiful.
“Tell me,” I say.
She does.
Mirasol’s story began in a manner little different from Nevita’s. She was fifteen when she and her mother came to work in the maquiladoras. They came from Michoacán, west of Mexico City. Michoacán itself suffered a high rate of homicide and violence. Murders and kidnappings were daily fixtures. Mirasol grew up in a Catholic school, Sagrado Corazon, where she learned to speak English.
There was never a question of a father. In Mexico, men frequently marry, then abandon their families. Mirasol never knew her father. When her mother lost her job, she took Mirasol north to Juarez. At the border, women could find jobs. Mirasol was of working age, got a job to help her mother. Together, they made a little more than Mirasol’s mother had made as a secretary in Michoacán.
Mirasol was intelligent, spoke English, and was hard-working. At the maquila, she kept to herself. Having grown up in Michoacán, she was street-smart and knew to avoid trouble. The factory assembled laptops and personal computers for the American market.
If anything got Mirasol into trouble, it was her looks. She earned fifty dollars a week at the maquila, plus a production bonus. She worked twelve hours a day, the 6 AM to 6 PM shift. In the factories, line supervisors wielded arbitrary power over the workers. Her manager offered her a raise if she would sleep with him. She refused, and her life became more difficult.
The company rented US surplus school buses. To transport workers from their neighborhoods to the factory and back. The factory operated 24/7, churning out product for the Walmarts and Radio Shacks of America. The white buses, marked Transporte de Personal, operated to a schedule. Mirasol’s supervisor forced her to work extra hours. In the evening, she finished long after the last bus had gone.
Mirasol was faced with a choice. She could find another way home, or she could spend the night at the factory. Return to the production line in the morning.
Mirasol tilts her chin at me. “I was not a virgin, Breed. But I knew if I surrendered to my manager, he would own me.”
I watch the road, keep Mirasol in my peripheral vision. “Life is a string of decisions. Some are right, some are wrong, most you can’t tell until you’re in the shit.”
“That is an interesting way to put it.”
“You can’t live your life hiding in a hole.”
“I never have.”
“You decided to go home.”
“Yes, and that decision changed my life forever.”
This won’t end well. But—I want to know Mirasol.
Mirasol’s maquila was centrally located. It was a mile and a half from the Rio Grande. In an industrial park between the Bridge of the Americas and the Zaragoza bridge. We passed it earlier, in our mad flight from the massacre.
Juarez is split in two. Most of the maquiladoras are located south and east of the city center. Residences are located north and west. The city center is a halfway house, a place people stop between work and home. It is where one changes buses. This makes the city center dangerous.
Those who live on the coasts cannot imagine the vastness of West Texas and Northern Mexico. Hundreds of miles of flat land. Broken by foothills and mountains further than they appear. Juarez is flat. A high plateau with the Franklins to the north and west. The maquiladoras stretch across the landscape in an endless sprawl. From a distance, the ground looks cramped and congested. In reality, distances are measured in miles.
The sun had gone down by the time Mirasol left the factory. The company school buses collected workers inside the maquila gates. Public transport was available on the city streets.
Having grown up in Michoacán, Mirasol was wary of strangers. She kept a pointed nail file in her purse. As she walked to the bus stop, she palmed it in her right hand. As much as possible, she kept to the lighted sidewalks.
I could have told her that was a mistake. Predators like their prey lit up for all to see. Standing in the light, her night vision was compromised. She should have walked in the shadows. Reduced her profile, preserved her night vision so she could detect threats.
It was a hot evening. The wind kicked up to twenty miles an hour. It whipped her hair, blew choking dust in her face. She covered herself as best as she could. Ducked her chin against her chest as she hurried along the sidewalk.
Heart pounding, Mirasol made it to the bus stop. Stood under the light and waited for the bus to arrive. There was no shelter. She squinted in the wind, blinked dust from her eyes. Nervously, she looked this way and that, searching the shadows. She was glad when an older woman joined her. The bus arrived. Overcome with relief, she boarded and found a seat. Put her nail file back in her purse.
A two-mile ride, and she found herself on Avenida Francisco Villa. She got off and rushed to the department store on the other side of Avenida Benito Juarez. If the store was still open, she could buy towels for the kitchen. Catch a bus outside for the trip home.
The store was closed. In frustration, she turned away from the darkened storefront. Bumped into a man who casually put his arm around her. Surprised, she tried to push him away. He gripped her more tightly. She felt a hard metal object jammed against her ribs. “Be quiet,” the man said, in Spanish. “I’ll shoot you. No one will come. No one will care.”
Terrified, Mirasol obeyed. She had always imagined a kidnapper would be oily and smelly. A hard, ugly man. This man was nothing like that. He was ordinary. He wore a clean, pressed jacket and trousers. There was nothing remarkable about his odor. The pistol was small in his hand, barely noticeable.
She didn’t know where the clean man came from. He might have followed her from Avenida Francisco Villa. On the other hand, he might have been waiting near the department store. Shopping for a victim.
He guided her behind the cathedral and toward the Mariscal. There, in a side street, he led her to a car. It was a four-door sedan. A man was waiting in the back seat.
“Get in,” Mirasol’s escort said. “Remember. If you make trouble, I’ll kill you.”
Mirasol obeyed. She got into the car and sat in the back seat. The other man was rougher than the first. Stocky and dark, with an unkempt beard. His shirt was the color of his complexion. A shirt that had burrito stains on the front. He took Mirasol’s purse and handcuffed her wrists behind her back. Then he made her slouch low in the seat and pulled a cloth hood over her head.
The darkness closed around her, and Mirasol struggled. The clean man told her to be quiet. “It’s all right now,” he said quietly. “It will be harder on you if you make trouble.”
The man got into the driver’s seat. She heard it creak as he sat down. Heard the driver’s door slam and the engine start.
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 16
