B0056C0C00 EBOK (15 page)

“Take it, no mucho, but maybe it helps.” Before I could refuse, he drove away. Why had he risked so much for a stranger? Did he have a daughter or sister who had been taken? Maybe he was one of those good men who do right, simply because it’s right. In the joint we called guys like him chumps, soft touches without the brains it took to see the angles.

Before going to look for the others, I went to a barbershop. A jolly Spanish-speaking gent gave me a shave and a haircut for slightly more than two bits. Twelve bucks more bought me a white straw cowboy hat and a pair of Ray-Ban knock offs. Adolpho’s poncho completed the transformation. I didn’t look like a Mexican, but I also didn’t look like an LA hood. If my description was on the wire, I hoped this would be enough to keep me from being nabbed.

A band was playing bouncy Spanish music in the center of the plaza. From benches, husbands and wives watched their kids running on the grass. Vendors lined up to sell leather goods, trinkets and food. Teenagers clustered under spreading tree branches to smoke and laugh. The whole scene had the feeling of Main Street USA in the fifties, as if the American small town dream hadn’t been lost, it just moved south.

I walked past a young man in a denim work coat, his CAT trucker’s hat pulled down over his eyes. It wasn’t until she called my name that I recognized it was Mikayla.

I sat on the bench a few feet from her and spoke without looking in her direction, “Did everyone make it?”

“Yes, the girls are in a motel, not far.” Her eyes scanned the plaza for any sign of trouble.

“Peter?” I asked.

“Left to make arrangements for transportation. Were you followed?”

“I doubt it. We really pissed off some Mexican crime boss, Santiago?”

“Good, the man is a pimp, deserves a slow death.” She rose and walked away. I let her get a hundred yard lead then set out after her. If either of us had a shadow, this was our best chance of discovering it. She took us on a circuitous walking tour of Tecate, only after she was good and sure we had no tail did she go to the Motel Rosa. It was an old fashioned motor court; low single story buildings ringing a parking lot. The girls were in room 13, the number might have bothered me if I thought my luck could get any worse. As it stood, any luck would be good luck.

The girls were dressed in matching blue running suits, their makeup had been scrubbed off and their hair was tied back. They looked more like a high school track team than the baby hookers we had rescued the night before. Mikayla told me it had been Peter’s idea, he had crossed the border and bought the outfits at a Target. I was starting to like this guy, or at least recognize he wasn’t totally useless. The girls were focused on the TV, watching me from the corners of their eyes. At their feet lay the remnants of a McDonald’s feast, another of Peter’s gifts I was sure.

Nika rested in one of the two double beds. Her foot had been bandaged. Her color had gone from gray to a more natural shade of pale. I was ashamed to look at her. She looked up at me, wanting to say something, but what could be said? The uncomfortable silence was broken by the sound of a key turning in the lock. Peter stepped in, he was in a blue tracksuit that matched the girls’, it had COACH stitched over his heart, a silver whistle hung around his neck.

“You are full of surprises,” I grinned, looking over his disguise.

“McGuire. Figured you for road kill when I saw that truck take out after you.”

“Almost was, would it have been better for the story if I had died?”

“Yes, more dramatic, a real tearjerker. ‘Brave American vigilante going down in flames to protect beautiful Russian girls.’ Brief bio on you, leaving out the jail time, of course. Yeah, it smells of Peabody.”

“I could go back and let him kill me if you want.”

“No, by now it would just be gratuitous. Besides, I’ve got a feeling you may have a few more story twists in you.”

“We’ll see. So Coach, what’s the plan?”

It was simple and clean, Peter had rented a GMC Yukon, as vanilla a ride as any on the road. He was going to drive across the border like any other American returning from a day trip to good old Mexico. Homeland Security and the President’s “Arm the Border” plan mandated passport checks, but the feds hadn’t funded any extra help, so here in the frontier, the border patrol only looked for illegals of the brown skin type or drug smugglers. Coach and his girls didn’t fit either profile.

Mikayla and I on the other hand, vibed trouble and all the costumes in the world wouldn’t change that.

Peter agreed to take the girls across, if they got caught, his position with the press could help keep them out of jail. Maybe even get them refugee status. If he made it, he would take them to Helen’s Silver Lake home and wait for us.

As they drove away, Nika looked out the back window. She reminded me of Anya; I had seen those same scared, resigned eyes looking at me out the back of a Mercedes before. What crime had these sisters ever done to bring the world down on them? The only one I could see was their desire for a better life, that and the crime of being born beautiful.

From across the street, Mikayla and I watched the Yukon move with a line of cars toward the border. Hawkers moved between the cars offering one last chance to buy crap trinkets. Three cars in front of them, a mobile home was motioned by the man in a khaki uniform to pull into the search lane. Two more border guards moved around the huge camper, looking under it with mirrors. Two clean cut grandparents stepped down, the man was saying something that didn’t look like pleasantries. Apparently, he was not real happy at being chosen for the search.

Two cars were waved through and then it was Peter’s turn. He rolled down the window at the gate. Leaning out, he said something. He was smiling like an idiot. The officer looked in the back at the girls, then at Peter. I held my breath. The officer waved Peter though. The Yukon’s brake lights went out and they drove into America.

“Now comes the hard part,” I said, looking at Mikayla.

“Not so hard, you have papers?”

“The federales are looking for us.”

“And you decided not to tell me until now?”

“Thought if Peter knew, he might not go.” I told her about the tip boy and the Ensenada police. We agreed walking across legally was out of the question. If the Mexicans didn’t grab us, the US customs would. We were wanted for a string of murders, and even though they all deserved to die, I didn’t really want to try and explain that to a Mexican judge.

CHAPTER 16

I
N THE PLAZA WE BOUGHT DINNER
from a pushcart, tamales, fresh steamed corn sprinkled with chili powder, and a couple Fanta’s. “You’ve got clean papers, no one knows what you look like,” I told Mikayla. “I think it’s best if you cross over and I’ll meet you in LA.”

“What makes you think I’m going to LA?” She was picking corn from her teeth with her pinky nail.

“It’s going to be hot for you down here, I figured you might want to head north.”

“It’s hot wherever I go.”

“Yeah, you do seem to leave a bloody trail.”

“I am going to LA. Those things we killed in Ensenada, their boss is in LA. I’m tired of hacking at the snake’s tail.”

“I’ll give you Gregor’s address, he’ll give you what we know.”

“You will take me to him yourself.” She finished her orange soda in two long gulps.

“I don’t know how I’m getting across.”

“I know, but it should be fun watching you try.”

“You know I’m a man, right?”

“Yes, and the first I haven’t wanted to kill in a long time, so don’t press your luck. Now finish eating, we have a long night ahead of us.” If she knew what I had done to Nika, she would have slit my throat and left my body to rot.

The blat of unbaffled mufflers sounded as we crossed the plaza. Four dust covered teenage gringos rounded the corner on dirt bikes. I picked up the pace, following their sound after they turned down a side street. A block from the plaza we found them, parked in front of The Drunken Coyote. It was a tourist bar that, judging from the parking lot, catered to the off-road crowd.

Keeping to the shadows, we moved through the parking lot. “If you see anyone coming, whistle,” I told Mikayla, as I slipped into a topless jeep.

“What are you looking for?”

“A map.” She nodded, needing no more explanation. It took three more tries before I found what I was looking for, in the pouch behind the driver’s seat of a Baja bug was a topographic map with dirt trails highlighted in yellow. I stole the map, a small flashlight and a compass that had been glued to the dash.

It was just past nine, with any luck the boys on the dirt bikes would be drinking until two or three. By then we could be deeply lost in the Tecate Mountains. The fork locks broke with one mighty twist of the handlebars. We wheeled the bikes out the back of the parking lot and down a quiet street; a Mexican man watched us roll past his front porch, he said nothing.

Borrowing a blade from my favorite assassin, I stripped two wires and in less than ten seconds, the engines were rattling to life. When I asked Mikayla if she knew how to ride, she sneered at me, apparently motorcycles were the main mode of transport in the Ukraine.

At a Pemex station we filled the tanks, Mikayla bought a pack of smokes and after studying the map, we chose what looked like the best route. Thirty-six hard miles and we would be in San Diego.

“Bandits patrol the wasteland,” Mikayla said flatly. “And Mexican soldiers, DEA choppers, the Border Patrol.”

“Anyone else?”

“American vigilantes, angry ranchers.”

“That it?”

“Yes, I think that’s it.”

“Piece of chocolate cake.” I shot her a grin and pulled out onto the road. The bike felt good between my legs, I hadn’t ridden since selling my Norton, I forgot how free and safe I felt on two wheels. Five miles west of town, we found the first dirt road. We bounced our way up a steep path, dodging the small pines and rock outcroppings.

Holding the front wheel straight on the bumping trail brought fresh pain to my shoulder. I could feel the dried poultice cracking under the movement. Stopping to check the map, I let my arm hang down, hoping to relax the bruised muscles.

We missed the cutoff on the first pass and had to back track half a mile. It was a thin walking trail, swinging down into a small dry valley and then up into the mountains again. We killed the bikes, looking down. This was the frontier, once past the mountains, on the other side we would be on US soil, not that it meant much No one painted a dotted line on the ground, in the wilderness the border was much mushier than in the city where they used ten-foot chain link and razor wire as demarcation. Out here, Mexico and the US bled into one another for a couple of miles in either direction, not legally, but in reality. The rule of the gun reigned. Attorneys, courts and politicians began their rule once past the jagged mountains.

In the west, we spotted a chopper flying low, spotlighting the ground below it. If they were going to nail us, it would be in the valley. Taking off my shirt, I wrapped it around the headlight. Out of her rucksack, Mikayla took a tee shirt and followed my lead. We waited, watching the chopper, scanning the dark mountains for any movement. Without the sun, the air temperature plummeted. I wrapped Adolpho’s poncho around myself and rubbed the muscles around the dog bite.

Mikayla lit a butt, cupping it in her hand to hide the cherry. Hunched down she looked at peace, eyes alert but not nervous. She was comfortable waiting. I used to be like that, now whenever I stopped moving, my head filled with voices. Voices of the dead or walking wounded. Whisky had always shut the damn voices up. Now court was in session 24/7 and only forward movement would hush their harsh judgment.

The chopper rose and floated off towards the dim city lights in the west.

“Let’s ride,” I said.

“No, wait.” She lit a second coffin nail. After a bit, we saw it - down in the valley, a small group of shadows distinguished themselves from a grove of cypress. They moved across the floor of the valley. We waited another minute until we were sure that our fellow travelers hadn’t brought the Border Patrol swooping down out of the hills.

Kicking over the small engines, they sounded like machine gun fire against the night’s silence. The trail switched back and forth across the steep incline. A half hour later, we finally reached flat ground. The trail rambled through the chaparral, dodging scrub oaks, cypress and boulders. Our covered headlights lit enough of the path to keep us from collision if we kept the speed down.

Without warning, Mikayla powered up beside me, twisting her handlebar to the left, she forced me off the path. Brush tore at my legs as I bounced down a shallow gully. She was close beside me when I pulled the bike to a stop. I was about to yell at her when she leaned in and shut my motor off. Jumping off her bike, she caught me mid shoulders. I tumbled back, landing on the hard dry earth. Her hand was over my mouth and she was on top of me. I had enough time to wonder if a razor was coming next before I heard the roar of an engine.

Headlights bounced on the branches above us. Through the brush I could see a pickup speeding down the path. A light bar on the roof illuminated a wide circle around them. Over the cab, between the lights, two men stood. I could clearly see the outline of a rifle held by one of them.

Reaching in my pocket, I took hold of the pistol. My muscles tensed, readying to leap up. Mikayla’s breath was warm and shallow on my face, I could feel her heart beating against my chest. Her pale blue eyes glowed with intensity. How had I ever mistaken her for a boy? The scar running from ear to lip stood in defiance of her fine features. Strong cheek bones, an elegant nose and thin but perfectly shaped lips. Women, even with the possibility of death rolling toward me, I still marveled at the draw they had on my attention.

The pickup passed close enough for me to read the tread on monster mud tires. The man with the rifle had a bandanna over his nose and mouth, a defense against the dust storm they were stirring up. Glare reflected from the light bar on his goggles, making him appear inhuman.

“Bandits,” Mikayla said when they had passed, “people crossing bring every cent they have, to start their new lives. These vultures pick them clean.” Noticing her hand was still covering my mouth, she removed it. She seemed uncomfortable with our closeness. Climbing quickly off my chest, she turned her back to me. Staying low, she watched the receding taillights.

The report of a rifle echoed against the mountain walls. Mikayla was up, kicking over her bike before the last reverberation died away. Ripping the cover off the headlight she was bounding up onto the trail while I stumbled to get my bike started.

Half way across the valley, the truck stood, a glowing beacon. Mikayla sped towards them. Cranking back the throttle, I felt the front tire fighting to come up off the ground. Pushing up from the pegs, I leaned forward, keeping my weight over the front fork. Swerving around the spikes of saguaros, I skidded my foot on the ground for balance. Banging my boot off the rocks I was glad my Docs had steel toes. The path rose enough to see that in the light surrounding the truck, a group of tattered Mexicans were on their knees, four armed men stood over them. I had time to register a woman clutching what looked like a child to her chest before I dipped down and they disappeared from view.

I was a hundred feet behind Mikayla when she reached the truck. The men turned, shock caught on their faces as her headlight struck them. They were swinging guns up when she blurred through them with one of her arms stretched out from her body. Something glinted in her hand, then she was past them. The man in the bandanna fell to his knees, clutching his neck, fighting to staunch the blood cascading down his chest. The other three spun and opened fire at her. Muzzle flashes lit the scene, flickering like some demonic strobe light.

Twisting the throttle fully open, I aimed at the back of the biggest of the men. Pulling the front wheel into the air, I watched in slow motion, his body came closer, shells popped from his M16.

The people on the ground huddled down seeking safety in the dirt.

The crunch of bone sounded when my tire collided with his flesh. He fell forward. The handlebars ripped from my hands. The bike flipped away from me. I hit the ground rolling. Bullets pocked the earth around me as I tumbled.

Mikayla’s headlights flashed back on the remaining men. Drawing their fire, she raced toward them. They arced their barrels at her.

I slid to a stop. Digging in my pocket, I found the pistol.

Bullets sparked off Mikayla’s bike. She tumbled back, hitting the ground.

Holding the small pistol in both hands to steady my aim, I pulled the trigger. It sounded like a firecracker, with almost no recoil. Two slugs ripped into one man’s face. I turned on the other and dumped three shots into his chest before the automatic’s breach locked open.

I could hear a bike’s engine and its tire spinning uselessly in the air, a man’s moan, a woman’s prayers muttered in Spanish.

Running to the fallen bandits, I kicked a rifle away from the only one still breathing. He was hugging himself, letting out short guttural gasps. A woman holding a baby wrapped in a serape watched me without moving. I ran out into the chaparral, toward where Mikayla had fallen.

She was laying in a sandy patch of ground on her back. As I neared, I saw the shallow movement of her chest. Kneeling over her, she looked up at me. She was breathing slowly through her nostrils. Pulling open her jacket, I looked for signs of blood, but found none.

“Are they dead?” she whispered.

“All but one and I doubt he’ll last long.”

“Good.”

I sat in the sand and watched her as her breaths grew in depth. It wasn’t long before she could sit up. I was glad to see she hadn’t broken her back or any other bones. It would hurt like hell in the morning but she would live, if I didn’t come to my senses and kill her first. “Next time,” I said quietly, “you mind asking me before committing my ass to a suicide run?”

“They needed us.” Her voice was coming back.

“I have people back in LA, my people, who count on me making it back alive.”

“They’re all my people.” Her blue eyes flashed ice.

“You a saint? Or a lunatic? Some kind of Mother Teresa with a razor?”

“No, I am whatever I am, this is what I do. If you can’t handle it, we split up now.”

“And miss the fun of seeing what you do next? Fuck, no.”

The last of the bandits had choked on his own blood while I was with Mikayla. The travelers were still huddled on the ground; they watched us with frightened eyes. How could they know if we had come to help or rob or kill them? In this unforgiving wasteland, good Samaritans were few and far between.

Mikayla picked over the corpses while I searched the truck. I found a bottle of tequila, a rat-eared porn magazine and not much more. Mikayla had better luck, their pockets had produced a small wad of pesos and their hands had given up two gold rings and a watch.

After depositing her booty into her rucksack, Mikayla spoke to the travelers. Rising, they solemnly shook her hand and moved to the truck. Piling in, they started out across the valley, heading toward America. None had even looked at me, I think they were afraid I might go crazy and kill them. They had mistaken my size for danger and Mikayla’s gender for kindness. Or maybe they had seen the truth in us.

Cleaning my prints off the pistol, I tossed it out into the dark landscape. The bandits hadn’t offered up any arms smaller than a rifle, and I didn’t think the highway patrol would look too kindly on my strapping one of them on my back. I hated the idea of traveling without firepower, but I had no choice. Mikayla was placing her tarot cards on the bodies when I discovered that bullets had punctured her bike’s gas tank and shattered the carburetor. “Maybe we should have taken the truck,” I said.