by Alex Ander
“She’s fine, Martin. Get her inside and call the police. Tell them two men just tried to rob us.”
Mahoney carried Cassandra into the house.
Ashford retrieved his cell phone and tapped an image.
Seconds later, “You’ve reached Deputy Marshal Jessica Devlin. Please leave a—”
He squashed the ‘end’ icon, dropped hands onto his hips, and surveyed the street. Envisioning the mysterious black SUV that had tailed him this afternoon, Ashford reiterated his father-in-law’s question. “What is going on?”
*******
6:11 p.m.
two miles east of
san fernando, mexico
“I thought the Marshals Service doled out forty-caliber Glocks to its agents...22’s and 23’s.” Randall motioned toward her hip. “How is it you get to carry a Colt 45?”
Devlin glimpsed her firearm. “My boss and I have an understanding.” She pinched her shirt and fanned herself. “As long as I keep putting away the bad guys, she agrees to look the other way.”
“That’s a nice piece.” He pointed at a one-lane dirt path cut through the trees, “This way,” and veered right. “I see it has your name engraved on the slide.”
Devlin turned and fell in step with him. “How do you know that?”
“Please,” he shot back. “It isn’t that difficult to spot,” he paused, “especially when the muzzle’s only a few inches away from your nose.”
She recalled the incident he had referenced: Out of breath, breathing heavily, Patton turned around. “Do you think,” he sucked in more air, “we lost—” he stood straight, his eyes staring down the black hole of a 1911 muzzle.
“So are you in the habit of engraving all your guns?”
Devlin wiped her brow and swiped the hand across her pant leg. “The gun was a gift from my father.”
“Nice gift.”
“He has an identical one himself. Actually, there are three identical pistols. My mother died when I was young. Left alone to protect my sister and me, Dad bought three Colt 1911’s. He kept one for himself, which we all used on trips to the range, and stowed away the other two...one for each of his daughters. We were surprised with ours when we turned twenty-one.” Devlin sniggered.
Randall glanced her way. “Feel like letting me in on the joke?”
“I’m older than my sister, so I received my Colt first.” She half laughed again. “Dad never told either of us that he had one waiting for her when she hit the legal age to own a handgun.” Devlin shook her head. “She was so mad at me...and jealous.”
“I can imagine.”
“I don’t think she spoke to me for that whole year leading up to her twenty-first birthday.”
“And so began the sister rivalry.”
“Oh, that had already been going on. Thing is though...we never let it stand in the way of our friendship.” Devlin hesitated, remembering good times with her sister. “Anyway,” she brushed more sweat from her forehead and cheeks, “a year later, she got her gun, and all was well again in the Mahoney family.”
Devlin and Randall entered a clearing and strode toward a house. “So I assume,” he said, “your sister’s gun has her name engrav—”
A gunshot rang out, as dirt sprayed the side of Randall’s face.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 17
Handling the Matter
Devlin and Randall dropped to the hardpan earth, each sprawling in separate directions.
She drew her 45 ACP and pointed the weapon at a house setting atop a shallow incline.
He faced her. “Don’t shoot.”
“What do you mean don’t shoot? We’re being shot at.”
“Trust me, Devlin. If he wanted us dead, we’d be dead right now.”
“Somehow, I don’t find that comforting.”
“Let me handle this.” Randall did a push-up and bounded to both knees. Lifting his hands above his head, he slowly stood. “Are you,” he shouted, “that freaking blind, old man, that you can’t see what you’re aiming at anymore?”
Devlin looked up at him, one eyebrow elevated. “This is how you plan on handling the matter...insult the man with a rifle and the high ground?”
He turned an ear toward the house and showed her an index finger. “Just wait.”
“For our country’s sake, I hope this tactic isn’t part of the CIA handbook.”
He smirked at her before facing the structure and cupping hands around his mouth, making a circle. “I guess you must be deaf too, you old codger.”
A few seconds passed before a raspy voice came from the dwelling. “I can still see well enough to put one between your beady little eyes, Noah Randall.”
Randall laughed and inclined toward Devlin. “We’re good now.”
She took the hand he proposed.
He tugged, “Let’s go,” and helped her to her feet.
The two of them crossed an open expanse, she on his left.
While brushing debris from her clothing, she noticed two, rusted 1950-something Chevrolets behind the house. The structure was in worse condition than the shack she and Randall had escaped. The Chevy’s were surrounded by tall grass and prickly weeds. The vehicle’s windows were missing. She surveyed the area. The entire property was a field of tall grass and weeds with blotches of barren dirt.
A mid-sixties man emerged from the shadows of the front porch wearing an undone Hawaiian shirt, khaki-colored, knee-length shorts, and brown leather sandals. His tanned skin was weathered, including the strip down the center of his head, under the thin strands of a gray-haired comb over. He propped a Winchester 30-30 lever-action gun against the railing and buttoned his shirt.
Randall eyed the man’s not-yet-concealed paunch and lifted a finger. “You’ve gotten fat.”
The older man shot back two words that rhymed with ‘pluck two’ before giving Devlin a sharp look. “My apologies, ma’am. I’m not usually crass like that, but,” he jerked a thumb toward Randall, “he brings out the worst in me.”
She smiled at the homeowner, “That’s all right,” and regarded the younger male. “Since meeting him, I’ve had a few of those words cross my mind too.”
Randall held hands out to his sides. “I haven’t even introduced you two, and you’re ganging up on me?”
The portly man waved off Randall and took Devlin’s hand. Addressing her, he half bowed, “Mr. William Steele,” his black-and-white, bushy mustache dancing as he spoke, “at your service.”
“Deputy Marshal Jessica Devlin.”
“Pleased to meet you, young lady.”
Randall crossed arms over his chest and grinned at Steele. “All that’s missing is your tutu and curtsy.”
Steele whipped his head toward his friend, “Fu—” before eyeing Devlin. “See what I mean? He’s the devil, I tell you...always tempting me to let loose with the foul words.”
She smiled.
Randall laughed.
“You look like you could use a cold drink, Jes—” Steele paused, “may I call you Jessica?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you, Jessica.”
Randall rolled his eyes. “You’re getting soft, you old geezer. Let’s have that drink already...before all this sappiness turns my stomach.”
Escorting Devlin to the house, Steele glanced at him. “Who says you’re getting anything to drink?”
Randall was last through the door. “I thought you were supposed to give out tetanus shots before welcoming guests into your,” he saw an insect slither into a dark corner, “home.”
Walking behind Devlin, Steele held a fist above his shoulder; one finger was straight out.
Randall smiled.
Steele bypassed her and raised a carpet remnant. The rising trapdoor underneath matched perfectly with the surrounding floorboards.
Randall dipped his head toward the opening. “That’s new.”
The elder man headed down a lighted staircase. “A lot has change
d since you were last here.” He pivoted his upper body and leveled a digit at Devlin’s feet. “Watch that first step, Jessica. It’s a little deeper than the rest.”
She followed him into a carpeted and paneled cavernous space with a white, tiled ceiling. The far corners had makeshift walls that created a couple of semi-private rooms. The near corner on the left was a kitchen area, and the corner to the right appeared to be an open bathroom with a shower stall. In the center of the dugout was the living room—sofa, easy chair, coffee table and large flat-screen television.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess.” Steele gathered a few papers, clothing, and shoes from the floor, and tucked them out of sight. “I don’t get many visitors.”
“Yeah,” Randall glanced around at the plush accommodations, “and those that do stop by...you just shoot.”
Steele laughed. “Make yourself at home, and I’ll get us some drinks.”
“I have to know.” Randall sat on the left side of the couch while Devlin took the right half. “What is this place? How’d you set this up?”
Steele returned and handed out water bottles before falling into the easy chair. “This whole area,” he tipped his beverage back, “used to be an old mining operation. It was abandoned decades ago. I stumbled upon it by accident...during an assignment. Afterwards, I did some investigating and found the structure to be secure. So I built myself a little hideaway.” He pointed a finger upward. “People see that crap-hole up top and just,” he sliced a flat hand horizontally through the air, “pass me by.”
“How did you see us coming?”
Steele smiled at his good friend. “Trail cams...the perimeter’s covered out to two hundred yards.” He chuckled and took another pull of his drink. “I must admit. I didn’t recognize you,” he pretended to scratch his face, “with the beard.” He gestured at Devlin. “But I figured anyone traveling with such a classy lady couldn’t be that bad of a guy.”
“Well I’m,” she gave the man on the couch a quick look and eyed the other male, “holding out a little longer before making that claim.”
Randall snorted.
His head bouncing off the back of the chair’s cushion, Steele laughed before he faced his friend and tipped his head toward Devlin. “I like her.”
“You’d like anyone who busts my balls.” He shot a look at Devlin. “Sorry.”
She shook her head, “I’ve heard worse,” and tipped back her refreshment.
Seconds later, Steele’s amusement subsided, and he set his beverage on a nearby table. “So I know this isn’t a social call.” He crossed his legs at the knee and arched eyebrows at his company.
Randall took a gulp of his water and held the bottle on his lap. “We need your help, Bill. We’re trying to get back across the border...into the States.”
“The last I knew, you were with the DEA.” Steele extended an upturned palm toward Devlin. “And you have a U.S. Deputy Marshal right there.” His attention drifted her way. “I’m sure you could make one call and have whatever you need. Am I right?”
She tipped her head to the side. “On any other day, yes, that would be true.”
“The problem is,” Randall put the drink beside his feet, leaned forward, rested elbows on knees, and interlaced his fingers, “she’s already used up her one phone call...and that sent three killers our way.”
Steele sat upright.
After regarding Devlin for a moment, Randall spent the next few minutes explaining how they had gotten to this juncture.
“So now you know,” Devlin crossed her legs, “the importance of getting over the border undetected by American officials. I need to find out if there’s a mole in the Marshals Service. And the people I’m hunting...can’t know I’m coming for them.”
“Wait a minute.” The elderly man aimed a remote control at the television and pressed the ‘mute’ button. The screen showed a news reporter’s talking head. The country’s native language came from the TV’s speakers, as the image changed to two, side-by-side pictures.
Both fluent in Spanish, Devlin and Randall—in their minds—translated the words underneath their own ‘mug shots’ of sorts: WANTED IN CONNECTION TO THE MURDER OF THREE UNITED STATES MARSHALS.
“Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-pup.” Steele shut off the television, scrutinized his ‘wanted’ visitors for a few moments, and stared at the ceiling.
The next thirty seconds of silence gnawed at Randall. While he trusted his older friend, he also knew the power of the media and its ability to make anyone question the truth. “You realize we didn’t kill those marshals, right?”
His concentration broken, Steele observed Randall. “What?” He frowned a beat later. “Are you crazy? We’ve known each other for how long now?”
“Almost ten years.”
“That’s right.” He got up from the easy chair. “You may be a lot of things, Noah—many of which I can’t repeat in the presence of a lady...”
Randall cracked a grin.
“...but a murderer of U.S. Marshals isn’t one of them...or a murderer at all for that matter.” Steele squinted at the blank television screen before eyeing his friend. “How long ago were you ambushed?”
Devlin was first to reply. “About four hours ago.”
Steele turned his attention toward her. “That’s too fast of a turnaround time...from incident to news bulletin. Things don’t move that quickly around here.” He rubbed his chin. “It’s almost as if—”
“Someone’s been,” she glimpsed Randall, “driving the narrative,” and the two exchanged a knowing look.
He acknowledged her. “Someone with a lot of pull at that.”
“And,” Steele scooped a cell phone from a nearby table, “power in other countries as well. I’ll need a little time to figure out how I’m going to get you two around the Mexican authorities...and across the border.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “With this much attention on you, I won’t be able to use my normal channels.” A moment of silence passed while a floor fan oscillated, sending a cool breeze at the threesome. “Anyway, until I can come up with something,” he wagged his finger at nothing in particular, “eat, drink, take a nap, shower...do the whole,” studying the mobile, he waved a dismissive hand, “my-castle-is-your-castle thing.”
“Mr. Steele?” Devlin stood.
“Bill...please.”
She smiled. “Thank you. Bill, do you have a phone I could use?”
Randall rose from the couch, a scowl overtaking his features. “Who are you calling?”
She pumped a hand his way, “Relax,” and fixed her gaze on her host.
“Back bedroom,” Steele motioned over his shoulder while punching in a number on his cell, “the one on the left...it has a phone with a satellite uplink.”
“Thank you.” She gave Randall a reassuring look and left the men. Entering the bedroom area, she heard Steele over her shoulder.
“Hola, Paco...Senor Steele.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 18
With My Life, Jessica
7:29 p.m.
alexandria, virginia
Having declined the first two calls from the unknown number, Ashford frowned at his phone and lifted a finger at a man in uniform, “Excuse me,” at the police officer dispatched to investigate the attempted robbery. Ashford stepped away. “Hello?”
“Curt, it’s Jessica.”
“Jessica. Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you. Your phone keeps going straight to voicemail. Is everything all right?”
“Not exactly.”
He shot a look over his shoulder and put more distance between him and the officer. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve run into a problem in Mexico, but I’m working on it. I just wanted you to know I’m safe. And that you won’t be able to reach me for,” silence, “well...to be honest, I’m not sure on the timeframe.”
“Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you.”
“It’s not tha
t simple, Curt. But don’t worry about me. I’m fine. How’s Cassie?”
Ashford lowered his voice. “Cassie...” he shut his eyes and massaged his forehead. Do I tell her...and worry her? It sounds like she already has her hands full. But it’s her daughter. She needs to know. He bobbled his head. I’d want to know.
“Curt? Are you still there?”
“I’m here.” He winced. You need to tell her, man. “Look, Jess...everything’s okay now, but...”
*******
san fernando, mexico
Devlin heard the hitch in her husband’s voice. “Has something happened to Cassie?”
“No. She’s fine.”
In the ensuing two seconds of silence, Devlin’s heart rate increased, as a lump formed in her throat. His words said one thing, but his tone told her something else. “Talk to me, Curt.”
“We were attacked in the driveway—Cassie and me—outside the house.”
Devlin’s hand shot to her mouth.
“I fought them off and called 911. The police are here, investigating.”
Hanging her head, she held her forehead. “Tell me the truth, Curt. How’s—” Devlin swallowed, trying to dislodge the mass inside her neck, “how’s my baby?”
“She’s a little scared...”
Devlin slammed shut her eyes. Moisture squeezed out from under her eyelids.
“...but trust me, Jess, she wasn’t hurt. She’s okay. Your dad hasn’t left her side.”
Devlin rubbed her eyes, drying the wetness. “Have the police found them yet...the ones who did this?”
“It just happened...thirty minutes ago, but the police have issued BOLO’s,” —be on the lookout— “for two men matching the description of the robbers.”
Devlin filled her lungs and blew out the air in one burst. “Let me speak to Cassie.”
“She’s upstairs. Your dad’s trying to get her to go to sleep.”
“Okay—okay,” Devlin pumped a hand, “let her rest.”
“There’s something else, Jess.”
The lump in her throat grew. There’s more?
