Devils and Dust (17 page)

“The next shipment,” Zavalo said, “won’t have any workers. It’s a trap. Mandujano is sending a couple of freelancers to try and find out where his shipments are going.”

“Understood,” the voice said. “We’ll deal with it. And the payment for the last batch should be in your account by this afternoon.”

“
Gracias
,” Zavalo said, using Spanish because he knew it irritated the man on the other end. The only answer was a click as the man broke the connection. Zavalo smiled. He might be doing business with these racist
pendejos
and their phony “General,” but he didn’t have to like them. He looked forward to the day when he didn’t have to do either. He was almost ready, the pieces almost in place for him to move against Mandujano. The sale of the “shipments” to the General had provided the seed money, as well as causing Mandujano to lose respect. No one would come to the aid of someone so weak he couldn’t protect his own business.

He stopped in front of the lion cage. He shook his head at what having such an animal on his property said about Auguste Mandujano. He had heard that another trafficker had a leopard, and he would not be outdone. He’d spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to prove he could have a more extravagant pet than a competitor. Zavalo regarded that as another sign of his weakness.

The beast looked up from gnawing on a length of bone to regard him with those impassive golden eyes. Zavalo stared back, unwavering, as he hit the speed dial for one of the Mandujano “soldiers” loyal to him. When the man answered, he said in Spanish. “The woman who just left here. When the two men with her leave…” He was going to say “kill her,” but a last moment thought occurred to him. “Take her,” he said. “Keep her at the safe house.” His man acknowledged the order and hung up. Zavalo slid the phone back into his pocket, still maintaining eye contact with the lion. “Who knows,” he said out loud, “the stupid bastards might get lucky and survive.” In that case, they might very well come back. Maybe even after him. The woman would give him a handle on them. But once they died, she’d be of no further use.

The lion broke eye contact first. He always did. He went back to chewing and licking on the bone held between his paws. Zavalo noticed a tuft of blond hair on the ground. He couldn’t tell if there was still scalp attached. That and the bone the lion was worrying were all that was left of Mandujano’s last playmate. “You weren’t as docile as we thought,
chica
,” he said, “but you shouldn’t have tried to run.”

T
HE MAN
who had met Keller at the gate drove them from the hotel. Mandujano sat in the passenger seat of the black SUV, with Keller and Oscar in the back. A small red pickup followed with a couple of other gunmen in the truck bed, guns at the ready. Keller wondered if this was the normal security or if Mandujano was worried. It was impossible to tell from the man’s face. Keller wondered if he ever showed any emotion at all.

They made the ride in silence, the only sound the blast of the car’s air conditioner. Keller noticed Oscar glancing at him from time to time, but he didn’t speak.

After fifteen minutes or so, they entered an area of large gray and dark blue industrial buildings, many surrounded by chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The air began to take on a tang of smoke and chemicals, even filtered as it was through the air-conditioning. They pulled to a stop in front of a gate guarded by a single man slouching in a shabby wooden booth. The man straightened up when he saw who the passenger was. He pressed a button and the gate rolled aside. Mandujano acknowledged the man with a slight wave as they rolled through.

A warehouse sloppily painted in barn-red paint loomed over the cracked concrete of a parking lot, empty except for a battered white moving van backed up to the concrete loading dock. A man with a gun slung on his back stood in the opening of one of the bays. He was dressed in the usual BDU pants, black T-shirt, and sunglasses. Another man joined him as the SUV pulled to a stop beside the truck. The second man was dressed in jeans and a loose-fitting
guayabera
shirt. He had a low forehead, a weak chin, and a wide mouth, giving his face the squashed look of a toad’s. He wore thick horn-rimmed glasses and a small gold cross around his neck.

“Almost have enough for a run,
jefe
,” the man said as they got out of the car. Mandujano took the lead, with Keller and Oscar following behind, and the driver bringing up the rear. The man glanced back into the warehouse behind him. “It’s been a little slow.” He rubbed his hands together nervously.

“Change in plans, Manuel,” Mandujano said. “We’re running the next truck empty.” He glanced at Keller and Oscar. “Mostly.”

“Empty?” Manuel’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“You’ve heard what’s been happening to the shipments,” Mandujano said. “These men are going to try and get to the bottom of it.”

Manuel wiped the back of his hand across his thick rubbery lips. “But…these people have paid to be on the next run.”

“They’ll wait,” Mandujano said. He gave Manuel a thin smile. “What else can they do?”

Manuel’s head bobbed in agreement. “Of course. Of course.” He pointed at the truck. “It’s gassed up and ready to go.”

Mandujano nodded and turned to Keller. “There’s a GPS in the truck,” he said. “It is pre-loaded with the way you should go. The place where we lost contact with my trucks is about six miles from the border. It’s an empty place. No towns, no traffic. That is where I think they were taken.”

“Wait a minute,” Keller said. “In case you didn’t notice, we’re unarmed. I expect the people we’re hoping to meet aren’t going to be.”

Mandujano hesitated. Then he turned to Manuel. “Take them inside. Give them what they want.”

Manuel goggled at him in disbelief for a moment, then bobbed his head again. “Of course. Gentlemen. Come this way.”

Keller put one hand on the edge of the dock and hopped up. He turned and extended a hand to pull Oscar up with him. The two of them looked down at Mandujano.

“I expect this will be the last time we see each other,” Mandujano said.

“I think we all want that,” Keller said.

“
Vaya con Dios
, Mr. Keller. Mr. Sanchez. I hope you find your sons.”

“
Gracias
,” Oscar said.

“This way,” Manuel said.

Inside, the warehouse was dimly lit. Keller had to stop and let his eyes adjust. As they did, he saw that the front of the warehouse had been partitioned off from the back half by a plywood wall that went up about ten feet, halfway to the high ceiling. There was one door in the wall, marked with a store-bought plastic sign: PELIGRO. NO ENTRE. There was a group of people in the empty space between the wall and the loading dock. Some stood as they came in, others stayed seated on the floor, backs against the wall. The group seemed to be mostly composed of young men, although there were a couple of women who stood together. There was also what looked like a family, with a woman holding a baby in her arms next to a stocky young man in a Def Leppard T-shirt. All of them looked suspiciously at Keller and Oscar as Manuel led them to the door. Manuel didn’t seem to take any notice of them.

The door led to a corridor, with walls made of the same cheap plywood and doors along its length. As they walked down the corridor, Keller glanced into some of the open ones. A couple of the rooms appeared to be offices, but one contained a pair of bunk beds. A larger room near the end of the corridor was piled high with bundles of some white powder wrapped in clear plastic. It looked like more than people were being smuggled out of this place.

Manuel stopped at the end of the corridor and fumbled in his pocket for a moment, looking at them with an apologetic smile. He came out with a key and opened the door. Keller whistled as he stepped inside.

“
Madre de Dios
,” Oscar said softly.

The place was an arsenal. A conference table with a few leather chairs was placed in the center. A rifle was set on top of a blanket spread on the table, broken down into its components. The walls were lined with long guns resting on pegs set into the wall. Shelves set chest-high contained a selection of handguns. A heavy machine gun sat atop a high tripod at the far end of the room.

“Looks like you guys are expecting trouble,” Keller said.

Manuel shrugged, still with that unctuous smile on his face. “It pays to be prepared, no?”

“Yep.” Keller walked to the wall and considered. He spotted a familiar looking weapon and took it down. It was an M4 carbine, a smaller and lighter version of the M16 he’d trained on in the Army. The fat tube of an M203 grenade launcher hung beneath the barrel. He slung the weapon on his back and picked a Glock Model 22 pistol from the shelf. A shelf closer to the floor yielded up a leather shoulder holster. Keller put it on and slid the gun into it. He looked at Oscar, who was gazing around the room with a look of confusion on his face. “I’d suggest the shotgun,” Keller said, pointing at a 12-gauge Mossberg on the wall. “You’ve used those before.” Oscar just nodded and took the gun down. Keller pulled down a .38 caliber revolver. “Take this one, too,” he said and handed it over.

Oscar took it, so that he was holding a weapon in each hand. He looked at them as if he couldn’t believe what he was holding. Keller felt a deep sense of dread as it came to him how unprepared the former schoolteacher was. He wondered if he was leading his friend to his death. “
Then there’ll be nothing keeping you from her
,” a voice whispered in his head. He shook it violently. No. He wasn’t going to think like that. He was going to bring them both through this and get them home. “
Like you did for your men in Kuwait
?” the voice said.

“Jack?” Oscar said. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Keller said. “I’m fine.” He looked at Manuel. “Ammo?”

“Of course. Of course,” Manuel said. It seemed to be his favorite phrase. “In the other room. Follow me.”

They loaded up on as much ammo as they could carry. Keller saw a familiar-looking olive drab box in the corner. “We’ll take those grenades as well.”

Manuel looked unhappy, but he nodded anyway. “Of course.”

A
NGELA WAS
on her way, moving slowly over the potholed road on the outskirts of town. The father north she got, and the farther away from the town center, the poorer the houses got and the more rusty and battered the vehicles, which is why she noticed the black car right away. It was a Mercedes that looked as out of place here as a diamond tiara on a beggar. It was gaining rapidly. She thought of turning off to try to see if the car was following her but she knew she’d immediately be lost in the side streets. She sped up. The black Mercedes kept pace, then accelerated, and pulled out to pass. She saw another car, an identical black Mercedes—right behind.

“Shit,” she said. She stomped the accelerator to the floor. The engine of the old Jeep whined with the strain as the vehicle shot ahead. She hit a pothole hard enough to make her teeth snap together painfully. The first Mercedes outpaced her easily and got in front. The second one pulled up, right on her tail. The one ahead braked sharply, causing her to have to do the same. The wheels of the Jeep locked up and the tires squealed as she slid to a stop, her front bumper inches away from the back bumper of the blocking car. The second car pulled up directly behind her, so close she couldn’t back up without hitting it.

She looked around frantically. No one was on the street; the people who’d previously been outside in the dirt front yards and alleyways had disappeared at the obvious signs of trouble.

A man got out of the car in front. She recognized the man from the bar last night, the one who’d been talking to the girl Esmeralda. He was dressed in black again. There was a gun in his right hand, held down by his hip.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Angela said grimly. She slammed the gearshift into reverse and stomped the accelerator again. The tires barked sharply as the Jeep lunged backward, smashing into the grille of the vehicle behind her. She heard the sounds of rending metal and breaking glass. Her head snapped back against the seat. The man in black was raising his gun. She whipped the wheel to the left and prepared to floor the gas pedal as he fired—into the front left tire. She swore as he fired again, into the radiator. Only then did he raise the gun to point through the windshield at her as steam began pouring out from beneath the hood. He gestured to her with his free hand to get out of the car. Angela bent down and put her forehead on the wheel, trying to get her breathing and heart rate under control. When she looked up again, the man in black was at the driver’s side door, tapping on the window with the butt of the gun. “Okay, damn it,” she muttered as she opened the door.