Devils and Dust (29 page)

“Once or twice, yeah,” he said. He examined the weapon and grimaced. “When was the last time this thing was cleaned?”

“No idea,” Keller said. “But it shoots just fine.”

“Do I even want to know where this came from? Or the grenades?”

“You probably do,” Keller said, “and the Feds’ll be real interested, too. But first things first. We need a vehicle. You got one?”

“Yeah,” Castle said. “I know just the one.”

“B
EFORE WE
leave,” Huston said, “there’s one more thing we’d like you to do.”

“Mr. Huston…”Angela said wearily.

He held up a hand. “It won’t take long. I promise. Please, this way.” He led her down the hallway. As he walked, she heard him whistling softly. It was a familiar tune, but so jaunty as to seem completely incongruous in this place. It was a cartoon theme she remembered from her childhood.

Whenever he gets in a fix,

He reaches into his bag of tricks…

He noticed her staring and stopped. He chuckled. “Sorry,” he said, “old habit.” He stopped near the end of the hallway.

There was another room there, furnished with only a desk, two chairs, and a phone. The man sitting behind the desk stood up as she entered. He was tall and slender, with salt and pepper hair in a short military cut. He had the most arresting eyes she’d ever seen. They were bright blue, and there was a look of calm confidence in them.
This is the man in charge
, she realized. The air of command was unmistakable.

“Mrs. Sanchez,” the man said, extending a hand. His voice was deep and as reassuring as his eyes, giving her the impression that everything would be all right if only she would listen to him. It put her on her guard immediately. She hesitated a moment before taking his hand. He smiled and shook it. “I regret all the cloak and dagger, ma’am. You’ve stumbled into a rather complicated situation.”

“Complicated,” she said, pulling her hand back. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

He cocked his head quizzically, still smiling. “Pardon?”

She looked back at Huston, who was closing the door. “Complicated,” she said, “usually means something’s about to be pushed under the rug. You know, to make things simpler for someone.”

“Ah,” the man said. He gestured to a chair. She sat down slowly, her eyes still suspicious. “I can assure you,” he said, “that we’re here to deal with the matter of Mr. Mandujano. And his associates. That’s not getting pushed under anything. It’s just that our methods are a little unorthodox.”

“Who is this ‘we’?” she said, “and I didn’t get your name.”

“I know you didn’t,” he said, “and you won’t. Who we are is, I’m afraid, also complicated.”

She sighed and stood up. “Look, whoever you are, I’m not in the damn mood for this. I just want to go home.”

He nodded. “And you will, ma’am. We’re not keeping you here against your will. A friend of mine will be asking to debrief you when you get back. She’s with the FBI. You can trust her.” He held up a hand to stop her reply. “I know that recommendation doesn’t carry a lot of weight, since you don’t trust me. You’ll have to make your own assessment when you meet Agent Saxon. I’m confident it will be the right one. But in the meantime, I would like to ask you a favor.”

She remained standing. “What?” She knew she sounded ungracious, considering how polite he was being, but she was too tired to give a damn.

He took a cell phone out of the desk. “I’d like you to call Mr. Mandujano,” he said, “and tell him what happened.”

Angela stared at him. “You’re serious.”

Huston spoke up, sounding amused. “He’s rarely anything else, ma’am.”

She turned and glared at him, then back at the man behind the desk. “You want me to warn him about Zavalo.”

The man nodded.

“You’re taking sides?”

“In a way. What you told Mr. Huston was correct. If the war goes on as planned, it could get bloody. Innocent people will be killed.”

“Collateral damage, I believe you military types call it.”

His eyes narrowed. It was the first anger she had seen in him, and the force behind those eyes took her aback.

“I never use those words,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Those are coward’s words.”

She held up her hands. “Okay, okay.”

He relaxed a little and smiled at her again. “Sorry,” he said. “But we’ve assessed the situation. If there’s going to be a war, a short, one-sided one will be better.”

“But that will leave Mandujano in place.”

He nodded. “For the moment.”

“Still smuggling people,” she said, “and drugs.”

“And arms,” Huston said, “and the occasional terrorist across the southern U.S. border. Which is how he came to our attention.”

“And this is somehow okay with you people?” she demanded, her voice rising.

The man behind the desk was unperturbed. “Not at all. As I said, we’ll deal with Mr. Mandujano in our own way. Perhaps if he feels himself in our debt that can be turned to our advantage.”

“What,” she said, “he’s just going to say, ‘oh, thank you for saving me, in return I’ll give up my life of crime’?”

The man shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

She shook her head. “If I make that call,” she said, “I’m signing Zavalo’s death warrant.”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be as if I pulled the trigger myself.”

“Yes. In fact, he is at Mandujano’s house, right now. Alone. He’s that confident in the tightness of his security.”

She thought about it for a moment. Zavalo and his people had kidnapped her, held her prisoner, were probably going to kill her when they had no further use for her. Still, it was a hard thing to think about doing. “And what if I don’t make the call?”

“You get on the helicopter and go home,” the man said. “I told you, your participation in this is entirely voluntary.”

“Why don’t you make the call?”

“He doesn’t know me. He’s met you. Knows your voice.”

She thought some more. She thought of the girl in the other room, hovering near death because of Zavalo’s machinations. If the man behind the desk was right, there’d be more people caught in the crossfire if the war he planned went down.
If he can be trusted
. But looking into those arresting blue eyes, she somehow did just that.

“Okay,” she said. “Make the call. But answer me one question first.”

“If I can,” he said.

“Who or what is Iron Horse?”

He shot a look at Huston, who shrugged. “Mr. Weaver told the major. The major mentioned it to me, but in her presence. I don’t think anyone else heard him.”

The man sighed and looked back at Angela. “Iron Horse is something that doesn’t exist,” he said. “Not officially.”

“Wait, wait, don’t tell me,” she said. “It’s complicated.”

He smiled tightly. “Extremely.” He picked up the phone. “Any more questions?”

“No,” she said. “Let’s do this. And then get me out of here.”

A
UGUSTE
M
ANDUJANO
stood in the cool dimness of his living room, phone to his ear, listening to a familiar voice on the other end of the line. He spoke little, responding only with an occasional “yes” or “go on” when the narrative seemed to flag. As he listened, he looked out the glass doors where Zavalo lay on his stomach by the pool. A stunning blonde wearing only a bikini bottom was rubbing lotion on his back. When the American woman on the other end of the line wound down, he said merely, “
Gracias
,” and cut the line. He stood looking out toward the pool. He had taken a gamble on letting the woman and her friends go. But he’d found what he hoped to find, if from an unexpected source. Now he knew the person who’d been working against him. He had no doubt now who it was that was behind the disappearance of his shipments. He’d had his suspicions about some of Zavalo’s recent absences and the new men he was gathering around him. He’d been giving his oldest friend more and more autonomy in the running of his end of the businesses, even allowing him to branch out into some new ventures of his own, with the idea that when Mandujano retired in a few years, Zavalo would step in as head of the whole operation. Perhaps Zavalo saw that as weakness. Perhaps he just didn’t want to wait.

Mandujano had always prided himself on his quickness to reach a decision and his resolve to see those decisions through immediately. This time was no exception. He strode over to the bar that dominated one corner of the room and reached beneath, coming out with a cut-down pump shotgun. He jacked a round into the chamber and walked out onto the pool terrace.

The girl saw him coming first. She blinked in confusion, her wits still addled by the pills Zavalo kept her wasted on. When the realization of what was happening finally found its way through the fog, she stood and stumbled backward. She fell over the lounge chair behind her and went sprawling. Zavalo’s head jerked up at the commotion. He looked at the girl, saw the terror in her eyes, and looked back to see death approaching. As he rose, Mandujano pulled the trigger of the shotgun. The pellets of double-ought buckshot shredded Zavalo’s chest. He fell backward, narrowly missing the now-screaming girl. Mandujano pumped a second round into the chamber and walked over to stand astride the body of the man he’d known since childhood. Zavalo was still breathing, but the air bubbled out wetly through the holes in his lungs. Mandujano aimed the gun and fired again. Blood, bone, and brains splattered out around the destroyed skull. Some of the debris landed in the pool, staining the water with streaks of red. He looked up at the girl.

She’d stopped screaming. Her eyes were wide and unseeing, he knew her mind had fled deep inside, far away from the horror that had just played out in front of her. Mandujano didn’t hesitate. She might be no part of Zavalo’s plot, but at the very least, she was a witness. He raised the gun and fired again.

From behind him, he heard the sound of running footsteps. He turned, pumping another round into the gun, and raised it. Two of his guards had come pounding up, most likely drawn by the sound of gunfire. He watched them carefully, alert to any sign they were part of the betrayal. They stopped and stared, their eyes narrowed, but they made no move to raise their weapons to him. He relaxed, let the shotgun drop to his side. “Find someone to clean this up,” he said. He looked at the blood in the water. “And tell the man to drain the pool.”

A
NGELA WALKED
onto the rooftop helicopter pad, with Huston following close behind. A U.S. Army Blackhawk helicopter was sitting there with the doors open. Two men were loading Esmeralda onto the chopper on a stretcher. She turned to Huston. “Thank you for helping get us out of here.”

He smiled. “It was the least we could do. By the way, we got an answer back regarding the truck that was found in the desert.”

She could feel her heart thudding inside her chest. “And?”

“None of the bodies answered the description you gave us of your husband and Mr. Keller.”

She closed her eyes, suddenly weak with relief. “Thank God,” she murmured. She opened her eyes again. “Do you have any idea where they went?”

“We have some idea, yes. And we’re following up.”

“Following up on what?”

“The men who were killed have connections to a white supremacist organization known as the Church of Elohim. Given what we’ve found, we believe that, as you suspected, they may be kidnapping people. Selling them into slavery.”

The helicopter’s engine coughed to life and began spooling up. Angela had to raise her voice to be heard over it. “Mr. Huston, if Jack Keller found the same connection you did, he’ll be going after this church.”

“He shouldn’t do that,” he shouted over the roar of the rotor blades. “These people are well armed. They’re dangerous. You’ve got to try and persuade him to stop.”

She laughed. “You’ve clearly never met Jack Keller. He won’t stop, Mr. Huston. You’ll either need to get there first or…” She’d reached the helicopter door. A young soldier in a flight suit extended a hand to help her up.

“Or what?” Huston called to her.

She turned back to him. “Or you’ll need to send in people to pick up the pieces and recover bodies.”

He nodded. “Understood. I think I might like this Keller.
Vaya con Dios
, Mrs. Sanchez.”