“You knew where the keys were?”
“Yes. Not to the gun rack. But Papi kept the keys to his cars and trucks in his desk. He had a red Toyota pickup that was always ready to go. I saw him drive in it with his bodyguards. To the bullring. Late that night, I took the keys.”
“Didn’t they hear you start the car?”
“I’m sure they did. But it was a fiesta. Guests came from all over northern Mexico. People had been coming and going all day and night.”
“And the compass?”
Mirasol shrugs. “Cars have compasses.”
Mirasol left just before dawn. It was easy enough to take the red Toyota. She started the engine, checked the fuel and compass. Her plan was to drive straight north. At a speed of fifty miles an hour, she was certain she would reach a major highway in less than two hours.
She shifted the truck into drive.
An orange ball of fire, the sun rose in the east. Soon the temperature outside the truck stood over a hundred degrees. The air-conditioning worked hard, the truck swallowed fuel like a thirsty animal. Mirasol wasn’t worried. There was plenty of gas.
The Toyota raced north. For the first time in months, Mirasol felt free. She allowed herself to dream of Juarez. She would walk into the apartment and hug her mother. She would forget everything that happened.
The plain was scarred by arroyos. Most were shallow enough, she could drive right across them. Down one bank, across the wash, up the other. At times, the arroyos were deeper, the banks steeper. On those occasions, she turned west and followed the bank until she found a spot shallow enough to cross. Twice, she went down one bank only to find the other bank too steep to climb. Again, she turned west and sped along the wash until she found a gentle slope.
The compass did not fail Mirasol. Her plan was perfectly sound. I might have done the same thing.
But—the lateral forays along the arroyos cost her time.
The temperature in the desert climbed to one hundred and twenty degrees. She was in the middle of a wash, racing west. The machine warned her.
Danger of overheating. Turn off air-conditioning.
She turned off the air-conditioning.
Before long, she was drenched in sweat. The red warning light on her console wouldn’t stop flashing.
Engine overheating. Stop immediately.
She wondered how long she could go on. What would happen if she continued against the flashing red light.
She found out.
No water, stuck a hundred miles from nowhere.
The twin-engine Cessna saved her. The only way to spot the truck was from the air. The banks of the arroyo hid the Toyota from view. The pilot flew over her once at three thousand feet. He banked sharply, dropped to a hundred and fifty feet, and flew over her again. She stood on the bed of the wash, staring up at the plane. When the pilot rocked his wings, she did not wave. She was overcome with despair.
The fear came later.
Came with the Hummer and the big pickup trucks sent from the ranch. The Hummer looked like a tank. The pickups were monster trucks with raised suspensions and oversized tires. Banks of floodlights were lined up on the roofs of the cabs.
The men with rifles stood high on the arroyo. Waited for her to climb the bank.
They brought her back to Papi.
In the living room of the ranch, knees shaking, she stood in front of him. Two of his cowboys flanked her. One man in his thirties, with a rodeo belt and an embroidered shirt. The other a kid in his twenties. Hard, with a .380 Walther stuffed in his jeans pocket. Three girls sat together on a sofa. Other men stood along the walls.
Papi stared at her. “This is how you repay my kindness.”
Mirasol said nothing.
“A man such as I survives on respect. You understand?”
Papi stood, held out his hand to the cowboy in the pretty shirt. The man had a clasp knife in a leather case on his belt. He unsnapped the case. Flicked the knife open, handed it to Papi.
Mirasol shut her eyes. She felt the blade against her cheek. Papi traced a line from the corner of her mouth to her ear. Softly, without breaking her skin. He did the same on the other side.
“How shall I make an example of you?”
Mirasol could not speak. Tears flooded her eyes.
Papi folded the knife, handed it back to the cowboy. Left the room.
In front of the other girls, the men beat Mirasol to within an inch of her life.
“Papi cut you a break,” I say. “No pun intended.”
“I know.” Mirasol folds her arms, shivers. “He should have cut me a smile. They beat me about the face, my kidneys, everywhere. I lost control. There was blood in my urine for a week. It took a month for the bruises to fade.”
“What happened next?”
Mirasol wipes tears from her eyes.
“Next—I came to the United States.”
37
Lazy K, 0400 Hrs Thursday
“Next—I came to the United States.”
Mirasol’s manner is so matter-of-fact I can’t believe my ears. “Papi sold you?”
“Something like that. I think he was fond of me, but could not afford to appear weak. Another jefe would have marked me and sent me to a whorehouse. Or had me killed. I was lucky.”
Papi did not touch Mirasol again.
When her bruises faded, she was handcuffed, hooded, and put on the Cessna. It flew her to a grass airfield high in the mountains. She stepped from the plane, steadied by her escort. The air was fresh and clean, unsullied by the dust and pollution of Juarez. She could smell it through the space at the bottom of the hood. Blades of grass brushed her ankles.
The men hustled her to a waiting vehicle. Another truck. They drove her to the house. It was the same treatment she’d received when she arrived at Papi’s ranch, but rougher. She missed the presence of the clean man. His manner and familiarity had reassured her. Now she was among strangers.
There was none of the activity and bustle that marked Papi’s ranch. The men who handled her were silent. They took her to a room and undid her handcuffs. Made her sit on a metal-framed bed and handcuffed her to a bedpost.
The men left her alone, hooded.
She waited for hours. Finally, she tried to sleep. Slipped her shoes off and stretched out on the bed. She found a pillow on which to rest her head.
The door slammed, waking her.
“Oh my,” a voice said. “Nice little package. Let’s see how pretty you are.”
An American accent. From the West.
The man sat her up and tore the hood from her head.
Mirasol blinked.
The old man was in his late fifties. Not as old as Papi. He wore the same western garb. His face was tanned, and he looked rough. But—he was soft around the edges. Like he was a knife grown dull from years of use.
He ran his hands all over Mirasol. Caressed her face, brushed back her hair. Stroked her knees and thighs. Her skin crawled. The old man’s hands did not match his face. They were soft, like he had never done physical work. He unlocked the handcuffs. Stepped back, ordered her to strip. She had been well conditioned to obey.
He raped her.
Something snapped in Mirasol’s mind. From the moment she landed at Papi’s ranch, she strove to please. Here, with this rough old man and his soft hands, she lost the will to please. She lay flat on her back and allowed him to manipulate her limbs.
When he finished, he was angry.
“Do something,” he said. “Goddamn you, don’t just lie there.”
Mirasol said nothing.
“We are going to fix your malfunction, girl.”
The man dressed. On the way out, he slammed the door.
Mirasol put her shift back on and surveyed her room. It was smaller than the one at Papi’s ranch. Smaller than the one in the hotel. The window was locked, but she could see out. She was surprised to find herself in the mountains. Gone was the dusty brown of Chihuahua. Grass and green trees were everywhere. The
room was on the second floor of a sprawling ranch house built like a log cabin.
A man entered the room. He may have been the one who escorted her from the airplane, but she couldn’t tell. He was in his thirties, clean-shaven. He wore jeans and a blue work shirt. She shuddered when she saw the clasp knife he wore on his belt. In his hand, he carried long strips of leather cord.
“Lie on the bed,” he commanded. “Face down.”
The man was American. Mirasol decided she had been flown to a ranch in the mountains of the United States.
Mirasol obeyed. The man knelt on the bed next to her. First he bound her wrists behind her back. Then he tied her feet together at the ankles. Finally, he took a long strip of leather and bound her elbows together. Her shoulders screamed.
The man left and closed the door behind him.
After an hour, Mirasol’s hands, feet and arms were on fire with pain. The old man returned. Stood over her, hands on his hips. “Hurts, don’t it.” He smiled. “When you’re ready to show me everything you showed Papi, you let me know. We’ll make it stop.”
“The same technique that was used on Nevita,” I observed.
“Yes. But—I beat them.”
“How?”
“I found if I could bear the pain long enough, I grew numb. I felt nothing.”
“There’s a problem with that—gangrene.”
“I didn’t know that at the time, but they did.” Mirasol smiled. “They loosened the cords. The old man was quite frustrated.”
“Good for you.”
“You know better than that, Breed.”
I do know better. Everybody breaks.
“They spread me naked on the bed—used electricity.”
“I don’t need to hear this.”
“I told you, Breed. You won’t see me the same way.” Mirasol looks angry. “You said we should find out.”
“All right, tell me.”
“The man in the work shirt brought in a heavy battery. Two long copper wires... on metal rods with insulated handles. He attached the wires to steel wool. Moistened the wool with an ointment. Then he left. The old man came in and pulled up a chair next to the bed. He spent hours with me. I screamed as much as he wanted.”
“How long did they keep you there?”
“Weeks. Months. One day they hooded me again. I lay in the back of a truck. They drove for hours, took me to another hotel. I was placed with other women. Illegals from Mexico. Common prostitutes.”
Mirasol leans forward. Hands clasped, elbows on her knees.
“That is what I became. In New York, we were sold over and over. One day, the FBI raided the hotel. They arrested the traffickers. Put us in custody.”
“Did the FBI help you?”
“Only as much as I helped them.” Mirasol looks at me like she is a thousand years old and I am a child. “To the FBI and ICE, I was also a criminal. Of a different sort.
“I testified against the traffickers. In exchange for a U-Visa. A document given to victims of crime who aid the police. In my case, trafficking a minor. Sexual abuse. A long list, I forget. The case took two years to prepare and take to trial. The FBI and the federal prosecutors helped me. In exchange for my testimony and cooperation, they got me a green card.”
“Did they arrest the old man?”
Mirasol shakes her head. “No. The FBI couldn’t find him. Their best guess is that I was held at a ranch somewhere in Colorado. The Rockies. They rounded up the traffickers who took me to New York. Put them away.”
“And Papi?”
“The Department of Justice turned over all their information to the Federales. Papi is well known to the Mexican government. He finances their lifestyles.
“The authorities did nothing.
But—I am marked for death.”
“Couldn’t the FBI put you in the Witness Protection Program?”
Mirasol shakes her head. “No. They might have, if my testimony resulted in the conviction of a big fish. The people I put away were foot soldiers. No one higher than middle management. I was lucky to get the U-Visa and green card.”
“That’s why Man-Bun wanted to kill you.”
“Yes. It is the only explanation. All this happened many years ago. My photograph was circulated to soldados, but few remember. I disappeared into the United States. Should have been happy to disappear, but could not stay away. I risked my life several times—searching for my mother. But I was careful. I think it was a coincidence Man-Bun recognized me. He did not want to share the reward, so he came alone.”
Now I understand Mirasol’s hesitation when I asked her to come with me.
“Did you find your mother?”
“No. The mutilated bodies of murdered girls were found in the desert. The Mexican police want to close outstanding cases. They told my mother I was dead. The body was not fit for viewing. My mother left Juarez. I searched everywhere, travelled to Michoacán. I could not find her.”
I lean forward, take Mirasol’s hand in mine. “When this is over, I’ll help you find her.”
Mirasol squeezes my hand. “Thank you, Breed. You need to know something else.”
“Tell me.”
“The old man at the ranch—Paul Bledsoe.”
38
Lazy K, 0415 Hrs Thursday
“The old man at the ranch—Paul Bledsoe.”
I swallow hard. “How long have you known?”
“Two weeks.” Mirasol shrugs. “When I saw him from the lookout, I couldn’t believe my eyes. But everything makes sense.”
“There are no coincidences.” The diabolical web is spread before me. “Paul Bledsoe has a relationship with Papi. Papi is involved with Faisal Hamza. Papi’s cartel and the Quds financed Bledsoe’s tunnel.”
Mirasol stares at me. Her eyes blaze in the half-light. “Breed, I want Bledsoe in prison. I want to look in his eyes when I testify against him.”
I say nothing.
In the distance, a pair of headlights approach.
“Stein and Garrick are here.”
Mirasol looks over her shoulder through the picture windows.
The headlights are high and closely set. I make out the distinctive outlines of the windshield and roll bar of Garrick’s Jeep. He parks in the drive.
“Let’s go.”
I sling the rifle over my shoulder, walk to the front door. Mirasol follows me. I cross the porch and walk down the front steps to the Jeep.
Garrick switches off his headlights and dismounts. He’s alone.
“Where’s Stein?” I ask.
“At the hotel,” Garrick says. “Doing a Q&A. She told me to get over here.”
“I told you to stick together.”
“There’s no sign anybody’s staked out the town.”
I look back at the house. Mirasol stands in the open doorway, listening.
Garrick hitches up his belt. Stands with his hands on his hips. “Now what’s this all about, Breed?”
“We found the other end of the tunnel. A club in Juarez.”
“You have anything to do with the action over there?”
“What action?”
“Bunch of Mexican police got themselves killed in a shootout with the cartel.”
“Pity.”
“Yeah. Happened right at the foot of the Zaragoza bridge. Biggest bloodbath in ten years.”
Mirasol cries out—a muffled sound.
I twist to see—
Hamza, standing behind her, one hand clamped over her nose and mouth. His other fist is pressed to her belly. Gripping a blade buried under her ribs.
I unsling the M4.
Behind me, Garrick’s unhurried drawl. “Hold on there, Breed. Don’t move.”
Garrick’s hand holds a Beretta Model 92. The pistol he never draws. Well, he has drawn it once before.
“That the pistol you used on Keller?”
“Put the rifle down, Breed. Slowly.”
I bend at the knees and set the M4 on the gravel.
Garrick re
laxes. Takes a step back. His gun hand does not waver.
Hamza extracts his knife from Mirasol’s lifeless body. Contemptuously, he casts her aside.
He’s dressed as he was at La Cueva. Dark shirt, black jeans, boots. He unslings an AK47, descends the front steps. He does not hurry. Approaches me with the rifle in one hand, a Bowie knife in the other. The moon is setting. Its cold light falls on the blade—black with Mirasol’s blood.
My teeth clench as Hamza steps to me and raises the knife. More like a machete, it’s a foot long. Three inches wide at the haft. Without smiling, he presses the flat of the knife to my right cheek. First he wipes the blade on one side of my face, then the other. Sheaths the weapon.
Hamza steps back. “The United States and Mexico are not so different,” he says. “Policemen can always be bought.”
I see it all, plain as day. “Is this how you got the drop on Keller?”
“Of course.” Hamza covers me with his rifle. “Keller went to Garrick with what he saw. Garrick pretended not to believe the story, made Keller show him. That night, they both climbed the hill. Your friend was so trusting, he did not bring a weapon. I was waiting.”
Of course. I’d wondered how his murderers knew Keller was on the hill. He wouldn’t have given himself away. He was vulnerable only to betrayal.
“Garrick shot him.”
“I did.” The admission doesn’t trouble Garrick one bit. “I always wondered what it would be like to use this popgun. Figured I should do it once in my life.”
“Moving the body made sense. Taking his head was extreme.”
“That was Hamza. His people have a thing for cutting people’s heads off.”
Hamza’s voice is cold. “The prophet commands we strike their necks. To cast terror into the hearts of kafir. It is written—in the Quran.”
“Yeah, never could understand that.” Garrick has become jovial. “It’s in your holy book, ain’t it. The cartels, they do it for show. Arms, legs, what-the-fuck-ever. Heads. It don’t matter none to them. You people have rules.”
The Quds colonel glares at the sheriff. “And you have nothing. That is why your people no longer believe in Allah. That is why He, through our prophet, has perfected the teachings.”
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 18
