South

by Lance Charnes

  “If we do this, I don’t know what’ll happen,” he murmured in her ear.

  The feel of his skin on hers had her heart going crazy and scrambled all her thoughts. He was still too fragile to make love, damnit, and she desperately wanted to. The way this was going, she didn’t know when she’d get another chance.

  “I feel like I’m never going to see you again,” she murmured after kissing him.

  “That’s not gonna happen.” He kissed her forehead. “Make sure Mom and Dad get on the plane tomorrow morning. I need them far away from any blowback. Will you do that?”

  Bel smiled a little. “Are you kidding? I’m so about putting Graciela in a different time zone, you have no idea.”

  He smiled, too, but only for a moment. “Dad’s pretty scared. He doesn’t want to be away from you. He thinks you’re some kind of magic healer.”

  “I am, didn’t you know?” The joke fell with a thud, even for her. Bel and that old bat Graciela managed to stay more-or-less civil with each other, even though Lucho’s mom had wanted some pretty little no-attitude mamacita to cook for him and start pushing out lots of grandkids. Alvaro had adopted her the second time he saw her. She’d miss him. “There’s nothing I can do for him now anyway, except maybe hold his hand.”

  “Sometimes that’s enough.”

  The more she thought about the two of them escaping, the more complicated the idea sounded. “The FBI isn’t going to just let you go, even if you get Nora over the border.”

  “I know. We may need to hang out down south for a while, until we see what happens when Nora gets her information out.”

  “That could take a long time.”

  “I know.” He traced her cheekbone with a fingertip. He looked so sad. “I’m sorry, cariña. I didn’t want this. But I can’t give up on Nora. I can’t let her get caught. And I can’t leave you up here in danger.”

  Bel rolled on her side and propped her head on her hand, looking down on him. She absently smoothed the tape holding the gauze pads over his shoulder wound. She would’ve been happy to stay like that for the next few hours, but a question had been gnawing at her ever since they’d started talking. “What happens if we can’t come back?”

  He didn’t answer for a long time. Then he slipped his hand into hers and intertwined their fingers. “We start over someplace else.”

  “But what happened to all that about the Cartel hunting us down? Did they change their minds?”

  “The way things are going? I don’t know if there’s going to be a Cartel a couple months from now. Tavo’s dead, or he’s going to be soon. Hard telling what’ll happen to Ray.”

  Bel set her chin down on their clasped hands. This might be over? She desperately wanted to believe it. All she could think about for the past two weeks was Lucho being a slave to the Cartel for the rest of his life, however short a time that might be. But maybe—one way or another—they’d get to grow old and fat together after all.

  An idea flew straight out of Bel’s mouth before she could think it through. “Let me come with you.”

  “I’d love to.” Luis pulled her against him, stroked her hair.

  She burrowed her face into the soft part of his throat and hung on tight. She wanted him to stop right there, but something in his voice told her to wait for the but.

  “But I can’t,” he continued. “It’s too dangerous. I don’t want you anywhere near Nora. I don’t know what’s going to happen with her, but whatever it is, I won’t expose you to it.”

  “But you’ll expose her to it.”

  “She’s just a traveler. You’re my life.”

  That felt as good as his skin pressed against hers. “So, I just go to Tijuana and wait for you in a hotel? That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Whatever bags you pack, put them in your car when you load up Mom’s and Dad’s so the FBI won’t figure out you’re skipping. Nathan’ll meet you at the airport and clean out any trackers before you leave. You got paid yesterday, right?”

  “Yeah. There’s not much left, but we’ll have something. What are we going to live on?”

  “We’ll work that out later.” He pulled her face to his and kissed her. “Right now, we have to worry about not getting caught.”

  No problem. All they had to do was get past the FBI. And the Zetas. And the desert. And that asshole Ray. And that violent wilderness south of the border, where so many people had died.

  Luis finished stuffing the two banker’s boxes with clothes, his field gear, and his rolled-up backpack. The vidframe on the dresser caught his eye. Each picture dissolved into the next. When that photo of Christa appeared, he tapped the screen to pause and traced her face with his fingertip. I’m sorry, mija. The next photo showed Nacho’s boot-camp graduation, his impossibly fit, brown, young-looking son in his olive service-dress uniform, standing between depressingly old-looking versions of Luis and Bel. Forgive me, mijo. He slipped the frame into a box.

  He turned to take mental snapshots of the room. When would he be here again? When would he sleep in this bed—he ran his palm over the geometric-print top sheet—with Bel again? Ever? Lead weights piled onto his heart. This house wasn’t much, but it was his and he and Bel had done a lot of living and loving here.

  The next part went by way too fast. Luis carried the two boxes out to his truck, then returned to the living room to say his goodbyes. Alvaro perched on a dining-room chair, clutching his ragged bathrobe around him. Graciela stood in the kitchen entry dressed for work, arms folded, holding a spatula like a club. Bel paced circles near the front door. Nobody smiled.

  Luis kissed his mother’s cheek. “Lourdes is looking forward to seeing you guys.”

  “No, she isn’t,” Graciela snapped back in Spanish. Luis instantly felt like he was eight years old again. “You’re abandoning us, don’t lie to us too.”

  He took in what he hoped was a calming breath. “Not now, Mama. Please don’t.”

  His mother jabbed her chin toward Bel. “Did she talk you into this?”

  “No. I talked her into it. You want to stay? Fine. Say ‘hi’ to the FBI for me.”

  Graciela glared at him. “You’re just like your father.”

  Luis pulled her into an awkward hug, the spatula grinding into his ribs. She was like a bird’s nest in his arms, but one made of steel wire instead of straw. “That can’t be too bad,” he whispered in her ear. “How long have you been with him?”

  Alvaro took both of Luis’ hands in his own and murmured, “Don’t forget us.” Tears wobbled in his eyes.

  Luis nodded, unable to work up any words other than “I love you.” He embraced his father for what he hoped wouldn’t be the last time.

  Then it was Bel’s turn. The others found someplace else to look as she and Luis stood by the front door, staring into each other’s eyes. Holding hands turned into a hug, which became a tight clinch, which led to the best kiss they could give each other.

  He pulled back to say I love you. Before he got a sound out, she placed her index finger across his lips and shook her head, breaking loose a tear.

  43

  From over 11,000 stores in the U.S. in 2016, Starbucks now has 670, concentrated in a small number of very wealthy areas… The best one-line explanation for Starbucks’ disappearance from the U.S. market comes from Morgan Choudhoury, an analyst for HSBC Global Asset Management: “You can’t sell $10 coffee to people making $3 an hour.”

  — “Starbucks’ U.S. Business Worth Beans,” BusinessInsider.com

  SATURDAY, 15 MAY

  The snitch screeched out of the drive-through lane behind the boarded-up Starbucks onto Broadway and disappeared past the dead Chula Vista Center mall. As McGinley moseyed back to his car, he decided this ol’ boy was worth keeping. He was a goddamn kronker and smelled worse than a wet goat, but it was well worth paying to hear the things he had to say about the Zetas infesting San Diego County.

  McGinley’s dataspecs flashed an incoming call. Unknown number; Ojeda already? “McGinley her
e.”

  “Special Agent Jack McGinley?” A careful voice, no accent. “With JTF-30?”

  “Only one I know of. Who’re you?”

  “Special Agent Friday Tranh, with the HSI Phoenix field office. Are you the one who’s interested in Cordero Alcala?”

  McGinley leaned back against his Santana’s fender and paid a lot more attention to Friday Tranh. “Why, yes I am. Do you have intel on him?”

  “We may have his vehicle. A green Cadillac Olympia with extra armor, right? Would you like to see it?”

  Agent Tranh just became McGinley’s favorite person. “I surely would. Where is it?”

  “In Mexico. About two hundred yards from where I’m standing.”

  The Border Patrol outpost sat in the middle of fuck-all noplace, a square of double-wides and a gravel helipad surrounded by desert, spitting distance from the fence. San Luis Rio Colorado, the nearest town, was over thirty miles west as the crow flies, if there were any crows stupid enough to be out in this wasteland.

  McGinley didn’t pay it much mind. He was glued to the fence, his binoculars were glued to his face, and he had Alcala’s SUV square in his sights.

  It hunkered in the middle of eight other vehicles, most of them blown to hell. A semi burned to its chassis, another one jackknifed, a third one with its trailer’s side looking like a kid’s connect-the-dots picture, a couple shot-to-shit deuce-and-a-halfs, a black SUV on its roof, and two raggedy-looking RVs, all scattered on either side of the Mex Federal Highway 2.

  “There were another eleven tractor-trailers in the convoy,” Tranh said, next to McGinley. He was one of those sharp-faced little Vietnamese who look like they’re made out of glass until you tangle with them and they bust you in half. “Also another seven military trucks, with MRAPs on either end. After the airstrike, the survivors loaded on the other vehicles and continued westbound.”

  “When was all this again?”

  “Oh-five-forty-three.” Tranh’s mirrored dataspecs stared at McGinley. “You’re also interested in the RVs, aren’t you?”

  McGinley recalled what he’d told Tranh on the phone, that this was part of a human-trafficking investigation, which it was in a very specific kind of way. “That’s right. When do we head out?”

  The sound of a huge hummingbird zipped overhead. A haze-gray drone gunship zoomed over the fence and started to orbit the wrecks. It reminded him of a baby version of the old Apaches.

  “Our air support is here, so we go now,” Tranh said. He marched toward the line of four tan Border Patrol BRV-Os waiting to go through the big, open gate in the fence. “Stay in contact. This is the main supply route between Juarez and Mexicali. The Zetas and MU run a lot of traffic through here to resupply their forces near San Luis. Another convoy is due in an hour, so we have forty-five minutes on site.”

  “Roger that.” McGinley was of no mind to get caught alone on the wrong side of the fence. He set his phone to count off the minutes.

  The kill zone smelled like diesel and burned rubber and barbeque gone bad. McGinley choked a bit, blinked his eyes clear, then stepped off toward the green Olympia sitting catawampus on the shoulder about thirty yards away. He settled the borrowed tactical goggles on his face, switched on the data feed. Little green dots spread out over a wireframe map.

  The SUV’s left front wheel bent under the nose, and as he got closer, McGinley saw the windshield was shot out and the hood had a big hole at the front. Cannon fire, most likely. He also noted the fancy titanium rims and the dollar-bill-green paint that looked near a mile deep.

  He circled to the passenger’s side, yanked open the front door. Jee-sus. The survivors may have skedaddled, but the dead stuck around, and they’d been baking for most of the day. He turned away from what was left of the driver, pushed a pair of foam earplugs up his nose, snapped on some latex gloves and got to work.

  And found nothing. Well, not exactly nothing: Alcala (if he’d really been here) left behind a big cooler full of water and beer and soda (McGinley helped himself to a Coke), he ate Mex food out of a Styrofoam clamshell, and someone left gas receipts under the custom-leather front passenger’s seat. The Olympia’s GPS and black box might be useful, but Tranh’s boys were busy scooping up all those. He stood for a spell staring at the back seat. You got away this time, boy. Not next time.

  The closest RV—a clapped-out Itasca a dozen yards away, paint half gone from sand and sun—had managed to high-center itself on what was left of a cinder-block wall around a little ruined shack. Antifreeze and oil made a mess under its nose. One of Tranh’s boys was already under the hood, pulling the black box.

  McGinley ducked through the side door, leading with his pistol. Inside smelled like booze and perfume and sweat. There was beer in the little fridge and ten twelve-pack cartons of rubbers under the sink. Girl shampoo and soap in the tiny toilet and shower. A couple 200mg kronk tablets on the stained carpet next to the tore-up bed in the bedroom. The Zetas could run three or four whores out of each RV—one in here, one out on the sofabed, another in the drop-down bunk over the driver’s seat—line up the johns outside, move them in and out like a factory.

  For a moment, McGinley saw Carla Jean on this bed, eyes dead, some Mex grinding away at her. Then he scrambled outside to leave his lunch next to the oil patch.

  He leaned back against the RV’s slab side for a few moments, letting his mind clear. He’d been ignoring the radio chatter coming over the goggles, but he finally realized Tranh was calling his name. “Yeah, McGinley here.”

  “The convoy is moving faster than we expected. We have to leave in fifteen minutes.”

  Shit. McGinley took a breath, spat to clean out his mouth. He reset his timer. “Roger that.”

  Back inside the Itasca, McGinley tore through every drawer and storage hole. He found a bushel of flimsy lingerie, some crappy-cheap clothes made in Texas or Angola, more long, black hairs in more places than he could count, but not a picture or scrap of ID. The high point was leaving, getting away from the smells and the pictures in his head.

  He jogged to the Winnebago two dozen yards away. He couldn’t tell what was wrong with it and didn’t really care; he had eight minutes left, and so far he’d found shit.

  The air inside was rank in a way that snaked through the plugs in his nose. Then he saw why: a Mex girl on the sofa, all black and bloated, her head at a weird angle, an arm bent in a place arms don’t bend. When the RV went offroad, the girls must’ve been thrown around like the fuzzy dice on the rear-view, and this one broke her neck. Damn shame.

  He ignored the flies and the stink and rifled the drawers and cabinets like a machine. Some pot, more booze, more undies, more rubbers, junk food, spray-can air freshener, zip ties, a half-used first-aid kit, a flashlight, a pink see-through lighter he pocketed.

  A plastic hair brush. With blond hairs in it.

  McGinley sagged on the edge of the bed, stared at the brush. A tangle of medium-blond hair, at most six inches long. Shorter than Carla Jean’s, but that was a long time ago and who knew what she looked like now, anyway? Her color, though.

  “Agent McGinley?” Tranh’s voice in his ear. “Our time is up.”

  “Copy.” He tore apart the rest of the bedroom, emptied the drawers on the bedsheet, went through every scrap of clothing, every comb and lipstick tube, searching for something that was Carla Jean’s. It was just him being a damn fool—she wouldn’t have anything left over from when she was taken—but he had to check. He had to.

  Nothing. Just the brush, and the hair.

  He dropped the brush into an evidence bag and shoved it into a back pocket. He snagged a mostly-full tequila bottle off the floor, rushed past the dead Mex girl and burst outside. The heat and sun and dust were a far sight better than what was in there. Two BRV-Os rolled down the highway toward him; two others dragged roster-tails of dust back to the fence.

  McGinley jogged down the asphalt until he reached Alcala’s SUV. He stood for a moment considering the shiny wheels and fanc
y paint. You pimping sumbitch, I will find you. If this here’s Carla Jean’s hair, I’ll find her too and let her kill you. Slow.

  A BRV-O clattered to a stop behind him. He didn’t turn until he heard a door open.

  Tranh’s dataspecs frowned at him. “We have to go, Agent McGinley.”

  “Are y’all done with this?” McGinley aimed a thumb at the Olympia.

  “We have the GPS and data recorder, yes.”

  “Good.” McGinley shoved open the hood, poured the tequila over the wrecked engine block, then fired it up with the pink lighter. Between the booze and the leaking gas and oil, it caught right quick. McGinley climbed into the BRV-O next to Tranh and watched the smoke as they pulled away. When they were halfway to the fence, the Olympia’s gas tank cooked off. That fireball felt better to McGinley than anything he’d done for a long time.

  “Why did you do that?” Tranh asked.

  “Practicing. For when I meet up with the fucker who owns it.”

  44

  SATURDAY, 15 MAY

  Luis waved goodbye as Nathan pushed through the office’s entry into the night. Tyler stood next to Luis, considering the cardboard flat on the counter. Eight bugs and three miniature cameras—all safely dead—lay piled on the cardboard. The keylogger software and the trap door infesting the office computer had vaporized when Nathan’s bag of digital tricks got after them. Two audio bugs and a tracker puck from Luis’ truck crowned the pile.

  “FBI’s gonna be pissed,” Tyler said.

  “They’ll get over it.” Or not. The Bureau would treat him the same either way. “They’ll replace all that shit tonight after we leave, so watch what you say tomorrow.”