Everybody Pays (29 page)

“Spell it out.”

“If we go, we’re not leaving them a lot to look at. We’ll all be wanted anyway. This place doesn’t look like much,” Cross said, glancing around. “You could finish out your time here, walk out clean. Or you could throw in with us. . . .”

“And maybe die anyway.”

“Sure.”

“You still don’t care, do you, Cross?”

“About what?”

“Whether you live or you die.”

“No.”

Tiger looked over each shoulder, slowly and deliberately. Breathed deeply. She took Cross’s right hand, turned it over in hers, smiling when she saw the bull’s-eye tattoo was gone. Then she leaned close and whispered: “I think I’d like to leave. No matter which way it has to be.”

“I’ll let you know,” Cross replied, getting to his feet.

“I’m listening,” Cross said to the short, stocky man seated across from him. The man’s face was a Central American mixture. Indian of some kind? Mayan? Impossible to tell. Impossible to read, too. Cross decided on Mayan in his mind, matching a face he could see with a name he knew was meaningless, filing it for the future.

“What is it my people receive for what you want?” the man asked, his English clear and unaccented, only the phrasing revealing it was not his native language.

“We’re . . . deciding,” Cross replied. “Maybe—and I’m not promising this—maybe they get some help with what they’re doing.”

“What help could you—?”

“La Casa de Dolor. How many of your people are there now?”

“Ah. It is
la americana
you want.”

Cross said nothing.

“Your reputation is known to us,” the Mayan said. “You are mercenaries. Without politics. If you were paid to rescue this woman, you believe it would benefit our cause? And that we should assist you in some way because of this?”

“No?”

“No.
La americana
has focused national attention on our struggle. She is a symbol of all that is hated in the regime. Her ‘trial’ . . . a collection of military swine wearing black hoods to hide their cowardly faces. She did nothing for us while she was free in our country. Just another rich
gringa.
A tourist. But the regime made an error. They assumed she was part of an international movement. A scout for what was to come. So they used what they always use: pain and fear. And
we
are called the terrorists,” he said softly.

“The guards,” Cross probed gently, “they can’t all be so loyal? Or so well paid that . . . ?”

“None is truly loyal to the regime,” the Mayan said. “You should understand this. Our country, it is not like most others. Our people, they can be blond or black; we are all the children of our former conquerors, in some way. Except, perhaps, for my tribe . . . what remains of it. But we are not like those lunatics in Rwanda or Yugoslavia, killing for such reasons. Tribe means nothing to us. And we are not like your country either—we have no class structure based on race. On our streets, you might see an Indian, an African, and a European. And we are all one. All
quitasolanos.
The regime has no tribal loyalties to keep it in power—it rules by fear.”

“That just makes it—”

“Of course,” the Indian continued, as if Cross has not spoken, “there are bribes possible for . . . privileges. Some decent food, a smuggled-in letter from a loved one. But escape? No. The penalty would be death. Anyone who assisted us in such a fashion would be forced to join us. Forever. There could be no return. And the sheep never believe the wolf can be defeated.”

“And . . . ?”

“And we would never trust a
puta.
A man who sells himself for money is no man.”

“Sure,” Cross said, neutral-voiced, ignoring the clear insult, “but there are real men inside that joint, right?
Your
men. And you want them out, yes?”

“Of course we would want them out. But that place is a fortress, in a remote area. We would have to commit too many of our forces.”

“And . . . ?”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“Because there has to be more. You are . . . united, right? All as one. For honor, as you say. So, if it took a hundred men to rescue one, you would do it except for something else. I just want to know what that is.”

“Ah. Very well,
hombre,
I will tell you. As you said, the guards, they are for sale . . . in little pieces. And one thing we have learned from them is this: Should there be any attempt to storm the prison, their orders are to execute every single inmate. Each guard has a sector. Before he is even to return fire, he must kill all the inmates assigned to him.”

“All right. Then the woman would not survive the escape attempt either. But what would it be worth if the entire place disappeared?”

“Your meaning is not clear to me.”

“La Casa de Dolor is a symbol, not just a prison.”

“Sí.”

“And the death of a symbol is a powerful thing.”

“That is true. But how would the people know of this . . . death? Most have never seen the prison. For them, it exists only in rumor, the frightened words of terrified children, passed along in whispers. Occasionally, someone is released. And we know the purpose of that. It is not mercy. It is to spread the word of fear among us.”

“So what you might trade for is . . . that, right?”

“I do not follow—”

“The word. Fear is a weapon, just like a gun. It can be pointed, just like a gun. It can be fired, just like a gun. What would the radio transmitter be worth to you?”

“You mean the—?”

“Yes. Not for long . . . maybe fifteen minutes or so. But . . . enough, if you have a message for the whole country, yes?”

The Mayan hesitated, but even his impassive face could not disguise the possibilities that raged behind his eyes. “Yes,” he finally said. “But how could you guarantee—?”

“Guarantee? We can’t do that. But we can make it COD.”

“I do not understand.”

“I think you do. Your English is too perfect to have been learned from books. But never mind. You get your fifteen minutes in the broadcaster’s booth and
then,
when your troops hear it on their own radios,
then
you join the assault.”

“You are paid for such things?”

“Sure.”

“What I do, I do for love of my country. You . . .”

“I don’t have a country.”

“Yes. That is what I have been told. I will return here and give you the answer.”

“I heard about it,” the sandy-haired man wearing kick-boxing gear said to Cross. He had a towel around his neck, watching various fighters work out. The sparring ring was empty except for those attending a man lying flat on his back.

“Meaning . . . ?”

“That the
federales
are thinking about pulling your license.”

“We don’t—”

“You don’t . . . what? Pay off the cops? I wouldn’t know about that. I know you never paid me. But I also remember you offered to, so, the way I see it, you must have done it before. Or even been
used
to it. That crew of yours, it’s no secret you’re not good citizens. And if anyone on the job here could have dropped you, they would, I guess.”

“You and me—”

“—aren’t friends,” McNamara cut Cross off. “There’s some things you’ve done, I’m glad you did them. And, depending on how some people looked at it, I guess it could be said that I’ve been of some . . . I don’t know . . . help to you over the years. I like Princess. Hell, everyone he hasn’t hospitalized likes Princess. He’s just a big, friendly kid. I respect Rhino. Wasn’t for you, I don’t think he’d be anywhere
near
crime, not with his brains. Or he could hire out as a bouncer, cover a whole arena all by himself. I know Ace is a contract hitter. That’s no secret. And it’s not my problem, unless one of the hits happens in my sector, especially since he only seems to whack guys that don’t belong on the street anyway. Buddha, he’s a miserable little bastard, but even he could earn a good living with what he knows how to do. You’re the only one, Cross. Only you. You’re a criminal in your heart. I don’t know what glue holds you guys together; but, whatever it is, the feds can break it, if that’s what they want. That Red 71 joint of yours, the Double X bar, other stuff you got, they could find a way to close it up, make you go to ground. And they could find you wherever you reassemble. Except for you, it’s easy enough to pick any one of the others out at a hundred yards.”

“You know this guy?”

“The spook? Never met him. Probably doesn’t even know his own name. But our department made it clear.
Real
clear. We fuck with this guy, the Senate fucks with our appropriations; it’s
that
big. So, if they go after you, don’t be coming around here with some lawyer whining about your civil rights. In Chicago, you don’t have any.”

“Nice.”

“Ah, gee. Next thing, you’ll be telling me you’re a taxpayer.”

“I didn’t come here for sympathy,” Cross said.

“What
did
you come for, then?”

“Threat assessment.”

“You tell me,” Cross said to the assembled crew. “This isn’t a tactical decision, so it’s up to everyone.”

“We’re still a . . .” Rhino couldn’t finish the sentence, letting his words drift off into the gloom.

“Here’s the way I see it, okay?” Cross said. “We have to do this job or we have to split up. Whoever this spook is, he’s got enough horsepower to make it impossible for us to operate in Chicago.”

“You sure, bro?” Ace asked.

“Got it right from Mac’s mouth,” Cross confirmed. “Looks like they could stop us from operating, period.”

“You mean—?” Buddha spoke up.

“Nah. Why kill us? We wouldn’t go easy, and it wouldn’t be quiet. They’d just bust our operation wherever we set up. We couldn’t work together.”

“Maybe it’s time,” Rhino said quietly.

“I ain’t going nowhere. Sweet home Chicago,” Ace said.

“You wouldn’t have to,” Cross said. “It’s the crew that has to go. Understand?”

“Look, boss. You saying, if everyone left, they’d
still
shut down the Double X? Because, you know, I mean, I’m on the papers and—”

“Buddha, I don’t know. I can’t swear to it. My best guess is, you run it like a strip joint, the way we did, you’re going to have to bring in muscle to keep the wolves away. But if you want to try, go for it. If that’s the way it happens, we’ll all still get our cut, wherever we are, right?”

Silence from Buddha.

“Right?” Ace asked.

“How fair is that?” Buddha wanted to know. “I mean, without the rest of us here, I’ll be doing the work. I mean, all the work, isn’t that true?”

“Sure,” Cross said. “What we can do instead, we can just sell it, split the cash, and you use your piece to go into whatever you want to go into.”

“Hey, I wasn’t saying
that
. I was just—”

“—angling for a bigger slice, like always,” Ace said sourly.

“I thought we were about money,” Buddha replied. “What else you want to talk about?”

“I’m not doing it!” Princess shouted suddenly.

Every eye swiveled in his direction. For varying reasons, instability made every man nervous, and Princess was its volcanic personification.