Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) (5 page)

Tomorrow would be a better day.

At least Beth was determined to make it one.

She was about to head for the door or hatch or whatever the hell you called it when—

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

Startled, Beth turned and saw the silhouette of a man sitting in the shadows behind her on one of the deck chairs.

Had he been there all along?

Her face must have shown her surprise, because he said, “I’m sorry, did I frighten you?”

An accent. Slight but unmistakable.

Then he rose, moving into the moonlight—one of those big movie moments, where time seemed to momentarily stand still. He was in his mid-thirties. Hispanic. Dark hair pulled into a ponytail—not a style Beth particularly liked, but that didn’t much matter, because he was so damn gorgeous he had no trouble pulling it off.

Buffeted by his presence, she felt herself take a slight step backward.

“I
did
frighten you.”

“No,” she said. “I mean…a little, I guess.”

She tried a smile, but it was an awkward one at best. Thirty-one years old, a prosecuting attorney for one of the biggest cities in the world, and here she was, suddenly acting like a complete spaz.

Get a grip, girl.

“You thought you were alone out here. It was rude of me to sit in the dark and watch you. Even worse to interrupt.”

Beth shook her head. “It’s no big deal. I was headed back inside anyway.”

“Oh? Then let me apologize by buying you a drink.”

Beth hesitated. After four years with the DA’s office, she was naturally suspicious, but such an offer didn’t exactly fall into the realm of criminal behavior.

Still, at this point in her life, it was hard for her to believe that anyone would be even remotely interested in buying her a drink, let alone someone who looked like this. She couldn’t help wondering what his angle was.

“That’s kind of you,” she said, “but there’s nothing to apologize for.”

He nodded. “No apologies, then. Just the drink.” He held out a hand to shake. “My name is Rafael Santiago.”

Beth hesitated again, then took the hand.

12

Vargas

“
WHERE THE HELL
you been?”

“His car wouldn’t start,” the one called Sergio said. “Thing’s a piece of shit.”

Vargas was barely conscious. Head throbbing. Wrists bound with a rough piece of rope. He could feel himself being half-carried, half-dragged somewhere but was afraid to open his eyes. Opening his eyes might mean another fist to the face—or worse, a fresh new blow to the head—and he sure as hell didn’t want that.

But then, he didn’t want any of this, did he?

“You find out what he knows?” Sergio asked.

“Peckerwood comes on like he’s the beaner answer to Woodward and Bernstein, but I don’t think he really knows squat. I mentioned the American gal and he was completely clueless.”

“Who the hell are Woodward and Bernstein?”

They came to a stop.

“Forget it,” Ainsworth said. “Where’s Junior?”

“Right behind you, Pa.”

“Here, take these and open the trunk.”

Vargas heard the jangle of car keys as Junior did what he was told. There was the faint but unmistakable
thunk
of his trunk latch being released, the groan of its hinges, then he was hoisted upward and dropped inside as if he were nothing more than a bag full of rocks.

Pain shot through him as his tailbone came into contact with something solid—the spare tire, which was hidden in a well beneath the carpeted lining that served as the trunk floor. There had once been a thin particleboard divider covering the well, but somewhere in the last several months it had broken in two and he’d tossed it aside. He couldn’t remember when.

It took everything he had to keep from groaning. Then the hands grabbed him again, taking hold of his legs, and bent them so he’d fit all the way inside.

“We’d better wrap some tape around his mouth,” Sergio said. “And truss up his ankles, too. In case the asshole wakes up halfway there.”

“Where you headed?”

“Safe house in Juárez. He’s waiting for us.”

“He? You mean the man himself?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. I thought he only came out on special occasions.”

“I guess this is special.”

“Doesn’t sound like they’re planning a prayer meeting. What the hell does he want with this idiot, anyway?”

“Why do you care? You got problems of your own.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s pretty pissed at you and the retard.”

There was a shuffle of movement; then Sergio squealed.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Call him that again, you little shit, and I’ll gut you right here.”

“All right, all right! Jesus, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

There was a beat of silence, more shuffling. Vargas fought the temptation to open his eyes.

Then Ainsworth said, “I don’t know what he’s so upset about. Me and Junior did what we were told. Wasn’t even our mess to begin with, and he got what he wanted, didn’t he?”

“What he wanted was this whole thing erased. But you two blew it.”

“Like it’s our fault the only honest cop in Chihuahua decides to get curious before we can finish?”

“And you think calling out to the guy made it any better?”

“He saw our truck, asshole. Was staring right at the plate. Besides, we signed on as couriers, not garbage collectors.”

“Maybe, but even you’ve gotta admit it was pretty stupid leaving the American woman alive.”

“We ain’t killers, either. Shape she was in, it was only a matter of time, anyway. And it all worked out in the end. So you tell the man, he’s not happy with us, he can shove the whole goddamn arrangement. We’ll go back to raising chickens for a living.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want me to say?”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be,
mi amigo.
”

“You ask me, only a coward leaves a mess and tells somebody else to clean it up. And cowards don’t scare me.” A pause. “Besides, the way he’s been pissing his pants over our boy here tells me
he’s
the one who…”

Another pause, and Vargas knew instinctively that he was being stared at.

“What?” Sergio asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Might be my imagination, but I think this son of a bitch is awake.”

And before Vargas could assess what had given him away, he felt something thud against the side of his head, followed by an intense, hot white pain.

Then darkness.

13

W
HEN HE CAME
to, he had to fight his way through a hazy field of cobwebs and cotton before he remembered where he was and what had happened to him. But the rope around his wrists and ankles and the layers of duct tape wrapped around his head and covering his mouth were fairly good reminders.

And the heat.

Jesus, it was hot.

The Corolla was moving, and he was now locked inside the trunk, his body screwed up into an impossible position, the road bumping beneath him, sending little jolts of pain through his tailbone and along his spine.

His head throbbed worse than ever, blood and sweat trickling along his temple, across his cheek, then down past the tape and into his mouth.

He recognized the taste.

When he was six years old, his father had fashioned a toy parachute for him using some string, a handkerchief, and a small lead weight. For hours he had delighted in tossing it into the air and watching it float to the ground like a miniature paratrooper about to land on some foreign beach.

One time, however, he threw it high and into the sun and immediately lost track of it. Spinning in a circle to see where it would come down, he couldn’t for the life of him find it.

Then something hit his head, pain shooting through him, and what seemed like a bucket of blood began to flow into his eyes and mouth.

Horrified, he ran into the house, screaming for help. And after his father had washed and treated what turned out to be a fairly insignificant wound, Vargas had asked how such a small piece of lead could have caused so much blood.

“The head is very sensitive,
mijo.
Even the tiniest of cuts will bring on the blood of a hundred more.” Then his father smiled. “Just be thankful that none of your brains leaked out along with it.”

Vargas wasn’t sure he could be so thankful this time. Ainsworth had thumped him pretty good—twice—and he had no doubt that he’d need stitches to repair the damage.

He lay there, fighting off the urge to panic, and tried to assess his predicament.

There was no sound of conversation in the car. A song played on the radio—an old
corrido
that had always been one of his grandmother’s favorites. But other than that and the hum of the tires, there was silence.

Which meant that either no one felt like talking or the driver was alone. And based on the conversation Vargas had overheard earlier, he figured the one called Sergio was behind the wheel.

Where Ainsworth and son might be was anyone’s guess, but Vargas didn’t think they were here. Ainsworth liked to talk too much. Enjoyed listening to himself. And Vargas couldn’t imagine he’d leave the F-150 behind.

So it was just Vargas and Sergio.

Better odds, but still not good.

Where you headed?

Safe house in Juárez. He’s waiting for us.

Vargas had no idea who they’d been talking about—that was a question for another time—but was pretty sure that if he didn’t do something, right now, he wouldn’t be getting out of this little rendezvous alive.

And since Juárez was less than an hour’s drive from Dead Man’s Dunes, chances were good that he and Sergio would soon be arriving at their destination.

Too soon.

So Vargas had only one goal in mind: to get out of this trunk.

As fast as humanly possible.

14

Beth

I
T TOOK THEM
three tries to find a bar they liked.

The first was close to the bow of the ship—the Seafarer’s Lounge, a large, glow-in-the-dark cave that was packed to the gills with drunken karaoke lovers.

Beth told him she’d rather eat ground glass than go inside.

Taking the elevator to Deck Eleven, they were halfway to the next one, a place called the Vibe, when the sound of raucous laughter and a pounding bass beat assaulted them.

Without a word, Rafael took her by the elbow and steered her away—winning points in the process—then led her through a long hallway to a set of wrought-iron steps that wound downward to a small, enclosed piano bar.

This was more like it.

The place was sparsely populated, a slightly elevated stage featuring a solo pianist playing a slow jazz tune, Bill Evans or Herbie Hancock or— Beth wasn’t sure who. Peter had been the jazz buff in the family.

Rafael’s hand touched the small of her back, gently guiding her toward the bar itself, a wide semi-circle that dominated the place.

She had to admit she liked the feel of that hand.

“Shall we sit here?” he asked.

“Wherever you want.”

The bartender, a tall Norwegian whose name tag read edvard, nodded to them as they slid onto stools.

Beth was carrying nothing but a small clutch purse that held her cell phone, a packet of gum, lipstick, a couple of Band-Aids, and her seafarer’s card. The cards were given to passengers as they checked in at port, and not only unlocked their stateroom doors but also were linked to their identification.

And, more important, to their credit cards. The seafarer’s cards were used as cash aboard ship for paperbacks and trinkets and toiletry kits and drinks. Mostly drinks. Beth imagined that quite a few guests would be in for a shock when the final bill was tallied.

As she laid her purse on the bar, Rafael brought out his own seafarer’s card and handed it to Edvard.

“Tequila Tonic,” he said, then turned to Beth and waited.

She smiled. “Long Island Iced Tea.”

It was a strong drink—what her boss had once called, dollar for dollar, the best value in booze—but she knew her limits, and didn’t imagine she’d be flashing her boobs anytime soon.