South

by Lance Charnes

  McGinley slumped in the pew, one boot propped on the knee rest, Khaled’s slate on his thigh. If this was fake, it was real good, and someone had worked it for a long, long time. He recognized the forms and screenshots and all the little details. He hadn’t yet seen anything that looked off.

  He remembered the crackpots and freaks who came out from under their rocks after 10/19, all those wild conspiracy theories—the Trilateral Commission did it, the Mossad did it, the CIA did it, the Chinese did it, the Russians did it, space aliens did it. He didn’t remember a single one about a bunch of peckerheads from Montana doing it. But here it was.

  Damn.

  He didn’t look up when Ojeda settled next to him, a foot or so away, just shuffled through a few more files. He wouldn’t figure it out now; hell, he might never figure it out. If nothing else, Khaled made a damn good case that those Yemeni boys weren’t the perps. He wasn’t solid yet on the militia angle, but it fit. That meant nothing that happened since made a damn bit of sense.

  “It’s a lot to take in,” Ojeda said.

  “That it is, amigo.” McGinley sighed, switched off the slate and set it aside. “What did you and the little one talk about all that time?”

  “I told her about the saints here. Taught her some Spanish.”

  “She teach you any Arabic?”

  “Nope. She doesn’t know any. Nora hasn’t decided yet whether to go the old-school way with the kids or put them in English Qu’ran class.”

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing.” He’d never met a rag who didn’t speak some kind of rag language. Now he had. He slid lower on the seat. “I reckon there’s a lot of things I don’t know. That’s quite a woman, there.”

  “Yeah, she is.”

  McGinley heard something in his voice and stared at him. “You ain’t sweet on her, are you?”

  “No. I’m very married.” Ojeda sat up like he’d been bit. “And the Zetas have my wife.”

  No wonder the man looked all used up. McGinley recalled Ojeda’s wife at her hospital, her death-ray stare cooking him where he stood. She was a tough one. For Ojeda’s sake, he hoped she was tough enough. “I am truly sorry to hear that.”

  Luis nodded. “What did you find out about what I told you?”

  “Well, that’s why I didn’t get no sleep last night, that and driving way the hell out here. I woke up a bunch of people back East who likely never reckoned they’d get asked the things I was asking. Not a one of them would tell me ‘yes,’ but they wouldn’t say ‘no’ either, so that makes me think the answer’s yes, it’s true.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “What are you, a shrink? It makes me mad as hell. Just the thought that anyone would deal with those—” He remembered where he was and broke off. “I’m in a church, so I can’t tell you exactly what I think of Zetas, but I reckon you already know.”

  “Probably the same as me.”

  “And they lied.” McGinley sat up, leaned in toward Ojeda, shaking a finger. “They lied about 10/19. That was a sacred event and they played politics with it.” He shut his mouth before all the things he’d been thinking picked that time to jump out. The more he thought about it, the madder he got, but Ojeda didn’t need to know that.

  “So you believe Nora.” McGinley nodded. “Glad to hear it.”

  McGinley scoped Ojeda’s face, looking for tells. “What do you want?”

  “I want my wife back. Nora told me to trade her for Bel, no questions. I told her you might be able to help us turn this into a win.”

  “How so?”

  “I can hand you the new capo of Pacifico Norte.”

  His old buddy? Really? McGinley leaned in closer, looking for the con in the man’s eyes.

  “And that Casillas guy?” Ojeda continued. “I think he’s way more than just a fixer. I can give you him, too. And I wouldn’t be surprised if there are more senior Zetas at this meet tonight. You’ve got warrants out on all those guys, don’t you?”

  “We don’t. DEA does, I’m sure of that. You know, this can get awful messy. Zetas don’t go nowhere without a whole army.”

  “Then bring your own. Bring the DEA, Border Patrol, everybody except the FBI.”

  “The Mexes get sore when we come down here to straighten things out. A snatch-and-scoot’s one thing, we do them a lot, but a big hairball like this might rile someone.”

  “Who runs this city? The Mexican government? Not for a long time. It’s either the Nortes or the Zetas, maybe both right now. Who’s going to complain?”

  McGinley folded his arms on the back of the pew in front of him and thought a spell. It wasn’t a terrorist bust, but it wasn’t hog slop, either. Then again, even if he did bring in Khaled, it wouldn’t be a righteous terrorist bust. The doubts he’d had a couple days ago had turned more solid. The Bureau was up to its neck in all this, and he didn’t doubt they’d stampede one of their own if it suited them.

  “Let me guess—your plan is for Khaled to get away.”

  “Something like that.”

  He could, of course, just forget that part and arrest her anyway. He glanced her way, nose-to-nose with the girl a couple pews over. She must’ve sensed him, because she looked up and met his eyes. They were softer and maybe sadder than they’d been before.

  “She told you to throw her under the bus to save your wife?”

  “Yeah. Several times. She asked me to give her up and get her kids out of here.”

  This was so not what McGinley expected. “When and where is this here get-together?”

  “Tonight, don’t know the time. I have to call Ray to tell him I’ll bring Nora, then I’ll find out. Or I guess you can track the Bureau’s guys. Are you in?”

  This could be a crowning moment of awesome, or it could turn into an enormous pile of shit. “I gotta talk to some people.” Including himself. “Keep me informed, and I’ll tell you what’s cooking.”

  “Don’t take too long. When it happens, it’ll happen fast. Nora and I have to do something, even if it means turning her over to the FBI. You know what the Bureau will do to her. They’ll either kill her like the Yemenis, or disappear her like the militia idiots.” Ojeda nodded in her direction. “Take a look, McGinley.”

  McGinley already had. He stood. “Don’t you put this on me, Ojeda. I’ll be in touch.”

  70

  TUESDAY, 18 MAY

  The Museo Sol del Nino was the perfect place to hide—cool, cheap, full of kids, loud enough to make eavesdropping improbable. And fun.

  Nora needed fun.

  They’d abandoned the Crowne Plaza after Luis’ meeting at the mall. He’d explained that the Zetas’ La Dirección cyber unit might find them through his Cartel credit card. So they left with their backpacks, took a cash advance from the lobby ATM and checked into a fleabag motel in the old town. That morning they left their stuff with the front desk, met with McGinley and took off.

  With her aching rear, Luis’ injured shoulder, Hope’s twisted ankle and the heat, wandering hadn’t lasted long. The science museum was a godsend. They watched a 3D movie about whale sharks in the Gulf of California, started an earthquake in a miniature town, ate tacos and churros at the café. They took turns carrying Hope—even for such a little girl, she got very heavy very fast. The way Hope chattered at Luis, the way she looked at him, Nora could tell they were becoming fond of each other.

  That was good. He might end up being her only way out of this mess.

  Luis and Hope sat on a patch of gray industrial carpet surrounded by red and white pieces of machines, trying to build a robot that would walk a mechanical dog. On the other side of the carpet circle, a pair of Mexican moms and their three kids raced with them to come up with a working robot first. “Come on,” Luis said to Nora, “get in here and help.”

  She was in the middle of yet another mood downswing and wanted to stay in her own bubble. “Oh, no, that’s okay—”

  “Get in here. They’re kicking our butts.”

 
Which was how she learned that the best way to pop a mood bubble was to sit on the floor trying to get wheels on a mechanical dog-walker.

  Hope got her contraption going and hobbled after it as it led a yapping plastic dog across the floor. Nora and Luis sat side-by-side watching her encounter with one of the competition, a long-haired little girl a couple inches older than her wearing a pink dress. Nora felt everything inside her sink. After tonight, would she ever see her daughter again? Her son? Her husband? Anyone?

  “Stop looking at your watch,” Luis growled.

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Give it to me.” He held out his hand.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll drive yourself crazy, and me with you. Come on, give it here.” She slipped off her watch and placed it in his palm. He dropped it into a shirt pocket. “Just let time happen. You can’t stop it, so don’t worry about it.”

  “Is that some kind of ancient Mexican tribal wisdom?”

  “No, it’s ancient infantry wisdom. I’m worried as hell about Bel, but I can’t help her now and I won’t be able to if I shut down, which I will if I worry enough.”

  She’d caught the haunted look in his eyes from time to time, especially when he’d seen someone who resembled his wife. “I know the feeling.”

  “Look, McGinley’ll come through. That 10/19 stuff got him all wound up, and he’s pissed about the Bureau and the Zetas hooking up.”

  That was nice, but… “It’s not up to him, is it.”

  “True. But as unpopular as you guys are? The chance to make a big bust and leave the FBI with shit all over its face has gotta appeal to somebody.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She’d convinced herself of it about a dozen times since the meeting, and she’d completely written it off another dozen times. She watched her daughter giggle with the other girl. Then she noticed Luis watching Hope, saw the pain and longing in his eyes. “How old was your daughter?”

  “Seventeen.” His voice came at her from a great distance. “Her name was Christiana. Christa.”

  “Was it an accident? Was she sick?”

  “Oh, it was no accident.” His words crackled with anger. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry. She got pregnant. That part was an accident. Bel was buying The Pill for her on the gray market. She must’ve got a bad batch.”

  “Gray market? Why?”

  “Insurance won’t pay for birth control or prenatal or delivery. Anyway—” he threw up his hands “—the last thing we wanted was Christa the teenage mom, so we were gonna adopt out the baby.”

  “And Bel could do the prenatal care.”

  “Yeah. Except it went wrong. Christa was hurting and bleeding. Bel finally hauled her into the hospital after hours and traded a resident a case of good tequila for running an ultrasound. It was a tube baby. ‘Ectopic’ I think they call it.”

  Nora, being obsessive, had researched every possible complication of pregnancy when she was carrying Peter. She once again appreciated how lucky she’d been with both her boringly-normal pregnancies and her father’s doctor friends. “That’s treatable.”

  Luis nodded once, an ironic smile on his lips. “Yeah, in the rest of the world. They give the mom some drugs and she aborts, end of problem. That’s illegal back home, though. Even to save the mother. Bel couldn’t get the drugs because they’re controlled.”

  “But…she knows doctors, right? She couldn’t get help?”

  He snorted. “Yeah. Her doctor buddies. Nobody wanted to lose his license or get shot by some nut for doing an abortion. Lots of help.”

  She waited for him to finish the story. He didn’t. “What happened?”

  “We waited for Christa to miscarry. Guess that’s what usually happens. Except she didn’t. Or, she did finally, but it broke something and she started bleeding like crazy and the doctors…couldn’t…” He closed his eyes, swallowed.

  Nora brushed his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

  He nodded again, opened his eyes. “Yeah. Thanks.” He gestured toward Hope. “When I look at her, it’s like looking at Christa again. Same hair, same eyes. And…”

  They sat quietly side-by-side, watching Hope play with the girl in pink. Luis’ story made Nora even more frightened of losing her daughter. How do you survive that kind of pain? How do you go on? After a long while, she asked, “What are we going to do with her?”

  Luis sighed. “I figured we’d take her back to the cathedral, leave her with the priest. She’s been there with us, so it’s familiar, and they have nuns to take care of her. We can leave instructions who to call if we don’t…you know.”

  She nodded. “That sounds good.” She didn’t know whether she’d be able to let go when the time came. Nora glanced at her bare wrist and saw the afterimage of her watch. Four hours left. “When we’re done here, can we go someplace where I can see the sky?”

  He looked at her for a few moments, eyebrows bunched, lips pursed. “Sure,” he finally said. “It’s going to be hot.”

  “I don’t care. I want to see the sky. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to see it again.”

  Luis nodded, understanding. Then he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close so she could lay her head on his shoulder. She didn’t resist. This might be the last time anyone would ever hold her.

  71

  TUESDAY, 18 MAY

  Luis thumbed his phone’s “end call” button and let out a long exhale. “That was McGinley,” he told Nora.

  She paced past him, arms crossed tight, jaw hard and square. “And?”

  “Still waiting for the go-ahead, and the location.”

  “So is he coming or not?”

  “Hard to tell. He’s got three tac teams in Calexico though, one ICE and two DEA, and a Border Patrol gunship drone on tap. If they turn it on, they can be here in a couple minutes.”

  “If.” Nora had gone gloomy the moment the elderly nun plucked Hope from her arms at the cathedral. Beneath her Disneyland cap, her face was as dark as he’d ever seen it, noticeable even in the streetlight wash and the Cineopolis sign’s glare. She paced fast and compulsively back and forth on an unvarying twenty-foot line.

  The parking lot behind them rapidly filled with cars trying to make the first evening showtimes in the big blue box of a multiplex. Not all the sunset was gone yet, and what was left colored the Public Safety Secretariat building’s concrete face. Luis bet not even the Zetas would do anything evil to them across the street from the state cop headquarters.

  He probed the hard lump at the top of his butt through his jeans. He’d hidden Nora’s Glock—the smaller of the two pistols they had available—in a cocoon of toilet paper that disguised its shape. It looked like he had a somewhat larger butt than usual. He hoped the people coming to get them wouldn’t be thorough with their searches.

  A white Range Rover approached, slowed, then lurched to a halt behind three diagonal-parked cars. A horn blared behind the SUV, then stopped when a man holding a stubby, suppressed Krinkov—AKS-74U—rolled out the passenger’s door. He made an angry gesture with his left hand—go around, cabrón—while he gripped his assault rifle with his right. That’s right. Rush it, get sloppy.

  The gunman waved Nora forward. Luis followed on her heels, but the sicario held up his hand to halt Luis between two parked cars. The man gestured for Nora to hold her arms out at shoulder height, then quickly searched her waistband, calves and ankles. He peeked down the back of her shirt to see if she had anything taped to her back, patted her front pants pockets, then reached around and squeezed her breasts through her blousy purple shirt.

  “Hey! Stop that!” she squawked. She tried to break away, but the sicario cuffed the back of her head with the heel of his hand.

  “Just stand still,” Luis said. “He’s not getting fresh. He wants to see if you have anything hidden in your bra.”

  Apparently satisfied Nora wasn’t a threat, the gunman pushed her face-first into the Range Rover’s side and expertly handcuffed he
r. He yanked open the back door, shoved Nora inside, then motioned to Luis to step forward.

  Luis tried to dial down all his reactions, breathe slower, calm his heart as the man’s fingers slid around the inside of his waistband, patted his front pockets and clapped his ankles. He hoped the light was bad enough to not pick out the pistol’s outline in his pants seat. The gunman pulled Luis’ phone from his shirt pocket, jacked out the battery and stashed it in his pants. Done with his thankfully less-than-complete search, he pushed Luis into the back of the SUV. Moments later, they were underway.

  First hurdle crossed. Luis had passed his search and was unrestrained. Neither the driver nor the gunman riding shotgun could see much in the dark back seat behind them. Now Luis had to pay attention to where they were going as well as try to fish the pistol out of his pants, all without drawing attention to himself.

  He maneuvered his hand inside the back of his trousers, touched the paper-wrapped bundle of gun. He hadn’t counted on the paper rustling so much. The guys up front might not be able to hear it over the road and engine noise and the A/C’s whoosh, but did he want to find out the wrong way? “Hey, compa,” he said to the driver in Spanish. “How about some tunes?”

  The driver shot him a glance, then shrugged. He fiddled with the console in the center of the dash, turned up banda rap, among Luis’ least-favorite kinds of music. Still, it was noise.

  Luis wiggled the pistol free and set it down butt-up behind him. He waited for a repeat of the obnoxious trumpet fanfare to cover the main wad of tissue ripping away from the weapon. Several traffic signals whizzed by as he stripped away the rest of the toilet paper. Finally, he was done. He slid the weapon’s nose into his waistband as the trombones blatted out their final notes.

  Now he could watch, and plan, and simmer. These cabrones had Bel. A flashback from last night: Bel bloodied and scared in the hands of those killers. She’d stabbed one of them, but what had they done to her for revenge? Was she still alive? Did she wish she wasn’t?

  No, she had to be alive. Bel couldn’t die. She was the one person who’d managed to make him into a better man. He needed her the way he needed air.