“Better than later.” Much, much better, as far as she would be concerned. “I’ve got a busy couple of days ahead of me, and I can’t waste time.”
“The streets aren’t safe. It would be better if we waited until morning.”
I shook my head. Greer’s 72-hour deadline pressed on me. I was already half a day in, and there was no telling how long it would take for me to figure this mess out.
She sat up straight. Looked at me like a lioness realizing she wasn’t totally helpless. “What if I refuse?”
“Normally, I appreciate somebody with iron in their blood.” My eyes motioned down to my Glock. “But now ain’t exactly the best moment to refuse me.”
She stretched her full lips flat, then she stood up, resigned. “We’ll need to get my car.”
Chapter 20
WE HIT THE STREET OUTSIDE her apartment building like two barn cats wandering into pasture. There were coyotes nearby. Even if I looked up and down the street and didn’t see a soul, I knew somebody would be on us.
Maybe they wouldn’t pop out of the alleyway and demand my wallet. A distant, low sound rumbled to the north. Reminded me of visiting one of my old buddies at a Longhorns game, walking toward the stadium where thousands of people hollered like they’d all gone rabid.
Carolina nervously stared northward. She’d probably seen a couple mad howlers in the last few days.
“You stay near me, and I’ll make sure nobody hurts you,” I said.
She gave me a look like I was full shit. I had just held a gun on her.
“Nobody except me, I guess,” I said.
Nothing funny about that to her. She turned right—east—down the street.
We passed the colorful sidewalk chalk art of those kids I’d seen earlier. Though, in the pure white street lights, most of the color had been drained from the little building they’d sketched out. Likewise, for the dozens of stick figure people lined up neatly outside the building’s front door.
Carolina clicked her teeth and shook her head. Something about it bothered her. Something I didn’t get.
“What?” I said, motioning toward the drawing.
“It’s a food line,” she answered.
“So, what, they’re going to a food kitchen?” My brother and I had been to a few. They weren’t terrible, though I never got the craving to go back to one.
“A what?”
“A food kitchen.”
Carolina didn’t get it. I guess the phrase didn’t translate.
“Free food,” I said. “For people who are starving. Who can’t pay for their own.”
And as soon as I finished talking, she hit me with an expression like I was a complete dumbass. How could somebody as ignorant as me even keep their pants around their waist?
“It’s not free food.” She continued walking down the sidewalk. Another ambulance zoomed past us, moving the same direction as us.
“Pardon my being a dumb Yankee.” I followed. “But aren’t people starving around here?”
“They are.” She walked briskly, the heels of her shoes beating the sidewalk with the temper she barely held in. “But there is little to eat—and not for free. What food there is, is priced so high, a stack of Bolivars can barely buy a loaf of stale, moldy bread.”
Explained why I was admitted to the country with a cooler full of steaks. I must’ve been hauling around enough food to buy a nice Cadillac. If they sold Cadillacs in Venezuela. Probably not.
“Well, sorry for not knowing,” I said.
“I wouldn’t expect you to know, and I don’t expect you to feel sorry.”
Carolina had a real way about her. Bet if I didn’t have a Glock tucked in the back of my pants, she’d chew me down to the bones for being so damned stupid.
I was about to compliment her when somebody beat me to it.
“Pretty woman shouldn’t be walking the streets alone at night.” A rough looking guy darted out of the alley to our right. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, facing us, blocking the way. I could barely see his face—just a mangled ear outlined by a window behind him, and wet clumps of hair falling to his shoulders. But I figured he hadn’t meant the compliment in earnest.
“She ain’t alone, friend,” I answered. “Thanks for worrying about her.”
I took Carolina’s arm in mine and brushed past him. He was a head shorter than me. I wasn’t worried about him.
But, when two of his friends oozed from the darkened stoop of an apartment building and stood in our way, I had to rethink things.
I stopped. Let Carolina go. The way his two buddies looked at me, I figured I’d need both my hands free.
“We’re just minding our own business,” I said. “Don’t really have a lot of time to stop and talk.”
“Us neither,” the one behind Carolina and I said. “Since we’re both in a hurry, let’s make this quick, yeah?”
Carolina inched away from me, toward the street to our left. I hoped she wouldn’t try to run as soon as the fun started, but she probably would. I’d just have to make this quick, so she wouldn’t get too far away from me.
I thought about the Glock in my waistband. The two guys ahead of me were about six paces off. The one behind me, I couldn’t say for sure. But I could get two quick shots off on his buddies, then take him hand-to-hand before Carolina got down the block. Especially with the fat heel on her boots slowing her down.
A car passed by us. The headlights briefly lit the two men in front of me. I didn’t notice anything about them, except that the one on the right had a .38 pointed right at my gut.
Well, there goes my plan. Soon as I drew, he’d shoot me.
“Raise your hands,” the man behind me said. I didn’t argue or hesitate. Neither did Carolina. Smart girl.
I heard footsteps behind us. Then, I felt the guy’s fingers dragging over my sides, my pockets, then to my waistband. His hand stopped on the Glock.
My chance was coming. But I had to move quickly. No hesitation.
“Well, what’s this?” he said.
But I barely heard him. My pulse slapped in my eardrums. Adrenaline barreled through me. Every bit of my attention focused on the Glock. His hand on it.
Time slowed down. I felt the front sight brush the tiny hairs on my lower back, the damp air making the pistol’s skin stick to mine, the two pulling apart, and the weight of the gun lifting from the waistband of my loaned pants.
A reaction kicked through me like electricity arcing off a busted wire.
I kicked my left leg out, spun on my right heel. The guy behind me had a firm hold on the Glock. It slipped from my waistband as I moved. Good.
When I spun behind him, his body shielding mine, his buddy fired. The muzzle flash lit us all up, a quick slice of time on a steamy, grimy sidewalk in the jungle. Carolina was one step into a dead sprint. The two goons looking at me had faces twisted with shock and anger, and then, a moment later, I felt the guy shielding me jump and grunt.
My left arm slipped under his jaw and wrapped around his neck. My right hand slid up to his, took hold of the Glock, then pulled the trigger. One, two. Bam! Bam!
The shots connected. Two nine-millimeter bullets, one for each of them.
The guy on the right spun back to the stoop he’d come down. The other one fell backward to the sidewalk. Somebody groaned in pain, somebody else wheezed. I didn’t have the time or inclination to check who was doing what.
Carolina was halfway across the street. I dropped the man shielding me.
“Hey!” I shouted as I tucked the Glock into the back of my pants and took off after her.
She looked over her shoulder, her eyes flashing white with terror. She didn’t want a damn thing to do with me. Big heel on her boots or not, she ran like her life depended on it, which it might yet. To be determined.
“Carolina!” My legs pumped like mad. A car horn sounded to my left. I hopped to a leaning stop as a sedan buzzed past me, bleating, tires screeching as it narrowly missed me. The air disp
laced around it, tugging on the hems of my pants, trying to drag me after the car.
But as soon as I stopped, I ran again.
She plunged into an alley ahead. I lost sight of her in the darkness, but it wasn’t like I was keen on stopping now.
I barreled ahead. And about two steps in, I heard trashcans ringing against pavement. The snare drum roll of metallic lids.
And Carolina softly cussing to herself in Spanish.
I slowed down. Didn’t want to break my leg tripping over the same crap she’d just tripped over. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I saw her there, sitting on the concrete, elbows on knees, head in hands.
“You can’t do this to me,” she said into her palms. “I won’t let you take me wherever you want me to go. I’ve never been a woman who lets herself be pulled around.”
She talked like someone who didn’t want to be heard. If she were at home, she might dip into the closet and mutter these things to herself. Sure, I was here to kill her, but I had the decency to shut up a minute, let her get it all out.
“Carolina... Carolina!” she said to herself. Then she shook out her hands, brushed her hair from her eyes and turned her face to me.
“Tell me your name,” she said.
I had to tell her my real name. The second I looked her in the eyes, I couldn’t have stopped myself. I guess I felt sorry for her. I never denied Greer’s accusation that I had a soft spot for women and children.
“It’s Barrett.”
“Barrett? Who are you?” Her face pinched. She held back tears. “You come into my apartment, break down the door, and sit in the living room like you couldn’t give a shit about someone finding you. And then—” she motioned toward the mouth of the alleyway, at the wounded men on the sidewalk “—those three are terrible men. Do you realize who they are?”
“No,” I said. “Should I?”
Carolina pinched the bridge of her nose. “They’re Collectivos. Since they don’t talk about the PDVSA in America, they probably don’t talk about the Collectivos, either. Do they?”
“Ma’am, the place where I spent my last couple of months in the States, we didn’t talk much about anything past our own noses.”
Carolina hopped up, brushed the crap off her jeans and scowled at me all the while. I think my answer pissed her off.
“Well, you won’t be seeing much of anything, in that case. Our noses might be cut off if those men live—if anyone saw you attack them.”
“The way I remember it, they attacked me,” I said. “That one with the gun shot first. All I did was defend myself. They with the government?” They didn’t look like G-men to me. Plain clothes, ratty hair, the cheapest pistol money could buy. “Were they a gang?”
“They’re both,” she said.
I curled my lip at her. I didn’t have the mental energy to untangle that statement. Besides, the sound of gunshots tended to draw out the wrong type. We had to get moving.
“Where’s your car?” I moved toward her, then grabbed her by the shoulder.
“No.” Carolina shoved me off. My foot rolled over a beer can and I would’ve split my head on the concrete, had I not caught myself against the brick wall to my right.
What the hell was she on?
“You realize I could’ve just let them kill you, right?” I asked. “If I were a less even-tempered man, I might’ve killed you myself just now.”
Her fire-hardened gaze told me she couldn’t care less what I might or might not do.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t want to start trouble with you. I know I busted into your apartment and pulled a gun on you, but weird as it sounds, you might be the closest thing I have to a friend in this country.”
She spat on the ground between us. “Is that how they make friends in America?”
“In some places, probably.”
Carolina balled up her fists. For a second, I thought she might try me. She was tall for a woman, but I easily had a hundred pounds on her. Still, I knew my act was wearing thin. I wasn’t surprised.
“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry for all the awful things I’ve done in the few minutes we’ve known each other. And I’m sorry for any problems I’m causing you. But, I don’t think this is about you. It’s about your boss. So, the sooner you get me over to his place, the sooner you get me out of your hair.”
She reeled back from me. “My hair? What does that mean? Get out of my hair?”
“It’s an expression,” I said. “Take me to your boss’s place and you’ll never see me again.”
Chapter 21
CAROLINA DROVE A TINY blue Chinese sedan. She said it was a “Cherry Orinoco.” I didn’t know if she was right or wrong. All I knew was the car was the size of a thimble, and I barely fit inside.
We drove east, along Highway 9, skipping on the southern foothills of Venezuela’s Coastal Range—the stretch of deep green mountains which ran along Venezuela’s north coast. About forty minutes after leaving Caracas, we pulled into the town of Guerenas.
Under speckles of street lights, Guerenas looked pretty similar to Caracas, if all the apartment high rises in Caracas were plucked out and tossed aside and replaced with short, white buildings capped with clay tile roofs. And if the fires were put out. Plenty of murals of Bolivar and Chavez and Venezuelan flags to be seen, even as we cruised along the highway, looking down at Guerenas.
After moving into the thickest part of Guerenas, Carolina pulled off the highway, and turned northward. Toward the mountains. Her little car shuddered and groaned up the roads, but eventually, we stopped where the properties began to thin out. Where houses were fewer and further between.
She put the car in park outside a tall, white, iron fence that needed a fresh coat of paint.
Between the fence’s slats, I saw what I assumed was a pair of windows, lit from the inside. Maybe on the second story of the house. Hard to tell at night and from this distance. I watched them for a minute. Saw the light behind the window flicker and change color.
Probably a TV. Which meant Carolina’s boss was home.
“What’s your boss’s name again?” I asked as I took out my Glock, ejected the magazine, then cleared the chamber.
“Julio Diaz,” she answered slowly. I could feel her eyes on my hands. Watching me insert the ejected round back into the magazine.
“Do you know his phone number?”
“I don’t have my phone,” she answered.
I slipped the magazine back into the Glock, cocked it, and held it in my left hand. I fished in my pocket with my right hand, then pulled out my phone.
“Use mine.”
She took it and dialed. The inside of her car was quiet enough I heard the jungle insects singing from the mountains outside. This might be the kind of place I’d love to visit with Libby, were the circumstances different. Might have been a nice place to start a ranch.
“He’s not answering.” She looked at the phone’s screen and dialed again. It rang while my Recon Marine instincts kicked in. I scouted. Didn’t seem to be any security around. No gatehouse. No marked cars parked on the street to turn away prying eyes and unwelcome guests.
I stooped forward and peeked out of the windshield. I checked over the top of the stucco wall outside the property. How easily could I climb up and over?”
“Shit.” Carolina tossed the phone on the dash.
“Careful with that,” I said. “Might break something.”
“The prick isn’t answering!” She pounded on the steering wheel with the heel of her palm. “Now I’m stuck with—” As soon as she put her eyes on me, she stopped. Then smiled.
“You don’t have to pull any punches for me,” I said. “I’m used to getting cussed out, kicked, shot at. It’s all part of the job, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Yes, well, I am not so used to having a gun pointed at me.” She chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes on the big white gate.
“I’m not pointing it at you. Not presently.”
But what was the p
oint of arguing? Every second that ticked away while I sat here on the outside of Julio Diaz’s house trying to convince Carolina that, despite the gun and the breaking and entering, I wasn’t so bad, Greer was that much closer to my family.
So I opened the door. The damn car fit so damned tightly around me, I practically spilled out. But, I landed on my feet. Then, I climbed on the hood of Carolina’s car.
The cheap Chinese steel or polymer or whatever-the-hell passed for a car hood in Beijing complained under the soles of my combat boots.
“What the hell are you doing, you Yankee moron?” Carolina sure got out of her car a hell of a lot faster than me. “I have to resell this car to get my savings back!”
“You put your savings in a car?” I laughed. “That ain’t a great place to put your money. Thing loses half its value when you drive it off the lot.”
“Not here,” she hissed. “There are waiting lists! Cars are hard to find. Two years from now, someone might pay four-thousand Bolivars more than I paid for this car.”
“I thought you said a stack of Bolivars could barely pay for a loaf of old bread. What good are four-thousand Bolivars gonna do for you when you sell this car?”
“Don’t talk back to me.” Carolina waved her finger at me like a switchblade. For a moment, I almost wondered which of us had a pistol.
From the hood of the car, I could see most of the property. There was a garden packed full of flowers so bright they could be neon, and a narrow stream meandering down from the mountainside to my right, the moonlight shivering on the surface of the water. Retaining walls made of chalky stones built up to the white walls of an acre or so back from the road. A damned big house.
I took a step backward on the hood of Carolina’s car. She winced and turned away. Then, I ran forward and leaped for the top of the wall. I got my arms over, scrapped my boots on the front of the wall, kicking until I was able to pull myself up and get a leg over.
I sat on top of the wall and looked down at the other side. Looked clear to me.
“I need you to come with me,” I said down to Carolina.
She just looked up at me from beside her car. Arms crossed, eyes shooting fireballs. But she didn’t argue.
Jackal: Barrett Mason Book 3 Page 11
