Saint Death - John Milton #3 (23 page)

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Why have you been writing about me?”

“What?”

“The girls.”

She thought of what Delores had told them.

He was nothing special, by which I mean there was nothing about him that you would find particularly memorable. Neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin. Normal looking. Normal clothes.

“It’s you?”

“I can’t take the whole credit. Me and a few friends.”

She tore the pillow off the bed, grasped the shank and rushed him. He pulled the gun quickly, expertly, and held it steady, right at her face. She stopped. She thought about it, calling his bluff, but her legs wouldn’t move.

He nodded to the shank.

She dropped it.

“Your hand.”

She had taken the glass too hastily and had cut her index finger.

“I’ll send someone in to wrap that for you,” he said.

“Don’t bother. I don’t need your favours.”

“We’ll see. I am going to speak with your friend, the Englishman, and then we have some business that needs to be seen to. Once I am finished, I will be back. We have lots to talk about.”

48.

ANNA STRAPPED herself into her seat as the captain of the Gulfstream announced that they were on their final descent into Fort Bliss. She had been working for most of the flight, ostensibly refining her report on John Milton but, in reality, observing everything she could about the six agents. There was very little conversation between them: some slept, others listened to music.

She pulled up the blind and looked out onto the New Mexico landscape five thousand feet below. It was desert for the most part, with nearly two thousand square miles of terrain within its boundaries and adjacent to the White Sands missile range. The populated area was set on a mesa, was six miles by six miles and housed several thousand soldiers and civilian personnel. It was practically a small city, and the biggest US Army base in the world. She watched as the plane arced away to port and then dropped into its glide path. Details in the desert became clearer, the mountains and the blue sliver of the Rio Bravo, and then the asphalt strip of the runway at Biggs Army Airfield. The pilot cut the speed, raised the nose and executed a perfect landing, taxiing across to the parking area.

Anna disembarked, following Pope down onto the runway. It was unbearably hot. The heat wrapped around her like a blanket and she quickly felt stunned by it. There was pressure in the air. A hundred miles away to the southwest she could see lightning flickering. Faint sheets and bolts of dry electricity discharging in a random display.

A soldier with colonel’s pips was waiting for them. “Welcome to the United States,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“I’m Stark.”

“Captain Pope.”

“Good flight?”

“Straightforward, colonel.”

“Glad to hear it. I’ll be your liaison here. Anything you need, you just holler. Can I do anything for you now?”

“Not really. We’d just like to get started.”

“No sense in delaying.”

“That’s right.”

“Thought you’d say that. We’ve got you a couple vehicles ready to go. We’ll get your gear unloaded and repacked and then you can be on your way.”

“The border?”

“That’s all arranged. The Mexicans know you’re coming. We’ll get you straight across.”

“That’s very helpful. Thank you, colonel.”

“My pleasure.” He took off his cap and squinted against the sun. “Don’t suppose you can tell me what you folks have come all this way to do?”

“Afraid not,” he said.

He laughed. “Didn’t think so. Completely understand.”

Two identical SUVs were standing at the edge of the taxiway. Pope led Anna to the nearest.

“You’ll be with me,” he said. “We’ll speak to the police. I’ll send the others to the restaurant, see if they can find anything out there.”

“Fine.”

Anna turned to watch as the army technicians started to unload the cargo from the Gulfstream. The weapons were ferried to a cart and then wheeled across to the SUVs.

They had a lot of firepower.

She wondered whether they would need to use it.

49.

MILTON CAME around. He was groggy and, as awareness returned, so did the pain. He assessed the damage. Red hot spears lanced up from his face. His head throbbed. His arm was difficult to move. A couple of ribs broken? He tried to open his eyes. His left was crusted with dried blood and his right was badly swollen; he could only just open the first and he could see nothing through the second. There were bones broken there: the orbital, perhaps, and something in the bridge of his nose. He felt a stubborn ache from his shoulders and realised that his hands were cuffed behind his back.

“You alright?”

He looked to his left. It was Beau.

“I’ll live.”

“You don’t look so good. They worked you over some. I saw when they marched me down the mountain. They pretty much had to pull Adolfo off you.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Really? Doubt that, partner.”

Milton winced; his lips were cracked and bloodied.

He looked over at Beau. His shirt was ripped to the navel, revealing a tiger’s tooth that he wore on a chain around his neck. He was sitting down, leaning back against the wall. His arms were shackled with FlexiCuffs behind his back.

“You got any bright ideas?” Beau asked.

“Not right at this moment. Has anyone been in to see us?”

“Not yet.”

“Where are we?”

“Back in the city. South side. Looked like a pretty swanky neighbourhood, at least by standards around here. My guess is we’re in one of El Patrón’s houses.”

“And this room?”

“First floor. End of a corridor. I didn’t get the chance to see all that much.”

“Anything else?”

“Only that I’m not sure why they didn’t just cap us out in the desert.”

“He strikes me as the kind who’d want to make a point.”

“I reckon that’s right. The way I’m thinking, that roughing up they gave you out there ain’t going to be a pimple on a fat man’s ass compared to what they’re going to do to us next. It ain’t going to be pretty for us.”

“Or them.”

Beau laughed bitterly. “Jesus, man. has anyone ever told you you’re full of it? Look around, will you? We’re cuffed, in a locked room, waiting for a psychopathic motherfucker to come and do whatever the fuck he wants to us. This ain’t the time for bravado.”

“It’s not bravado, Beau. They should have killed me when they had the chance. They won’t get another.”

Beau was quiet for a minute. Milton assessed himself again: save his face and some bruising down his arms and trunk, there were no major breaks or internal injuries. He flexed his muscles against the cuffs. The sharp edges bit into the skin on his wrists.

“You think the girl’s still alive?” Beau asked him.

“I don’t know.”

“If she is, she probably don’t want to be.”

THEY DIDN’T have to wait long. The door was unlocked and Adolfo and another man stepped inside. He was older and bore a passing resemblance to Adolfo. His skin was unnaturally smooth; Milton guessed there had been a lot of plastic surgery involved.

“Hey, Adolfo,” Beau said.

“
Hola,
Beau.”

“I’m guessing this is your old man?”

“I am Felipe,” the man said calmly. “You are Señor Baxter, and you are Señor Smith?”

“That’s right. I don’t suppose you want to get these cuffs off me?”

The man smiled broadly. “I don’t think so.”

“I was saying to Adolfo earlier, things don’t have to be unfriendly between us.”

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it? You came here to murder my son.”

“Come on, man. Who said I was gonna murder him? I was paid to deliver him.”

Another indulgent smile. “We both know that would have been the same thing.”

Milton tensed against the FlexiCuffs again. The two men were close enough to him––if he could free his hands, he knew he could take them both––but the plastic was too strong. He tried again. There was no give at all. Dammit.

Felipe noticed him. “Señor Smith. Unlike Señor Baxter, I know very little about you.”

“Not much to know.”

“I doubt that. You are mysterious––hiding something, I think. You will tell me what it is.”

“You think?”

“They always do.”

“They’re not like me.”

“You talk a good game.”

“Where’s the girl?”

“She’s here.”

Milton sat forwards and then got onto his knees. “I’m going to give you one chance. Give her to me, give us a car and let us leave.”

“And if I don’t?” Felipe asked.

“Then it won’t go well for you.”

Adolfo stepped over and backhanded him across the face. Fragments of broken bone in his nose ground against each other and his nerve-endings.

Milton looked up at Adolfo and smiled. “Or you.”

Adolfo drew back his foot and kicked him in the ribs. Pain flared and Milton gasped out.

Felipe put a restraining hand on his son’s shoulders. “Enough. You will both stay here for now. We have business to attend to. We’ll send for you when we are ready.”

They stepped outside. The door was locked behind them.

“Come on, man,” Beau said. “What was that about? You got a deathwish?”

“Something like that.”

50.

“LET ME do the talking,” Pope told her. “Alright?”

“Alright.”

“If there’s anything I need to know, I’ll ask you.”

“Fine.”

Anna, Captain Pope, Lance-Corporal Hammond and Lance-Corporal Callan had been the first across the border. The SUV was plenty big enough for the four of them and the extensive amount of weapons and other equipment that had been unloaded from the hold of the Gulfstream. The second SUV had followed behind. They had dispensation to cross the border, passing swiftly through a filter lane reserved for the army, border patrol and government agents. Anna had never been to Mexico before and the sudden, abrupt change from the affluence of El Paso to the poverty of its twin was shocking. The buildings south of the border were dilapidated and scarred and the people bore the fatigued look of the perpetually defeated. It was all a stark contrast to the optimistic, banal chatter of the hosts on Sunny 99.9FM, still within range as they drove south.

They had been busy. The second van had peeled off for the restaurant but their first stop was to the headquarters of the municipal police for details on Lieutenant Jesus Plato. After being made to wait for an hour they had finally been directed to a block station in the west of the city. It was a small, boxy building, cut off from the rest of the neighbourhood by a tall wire mesh fence. There was a second line of concertina wire, the windows had bars and they had to wait for the door to be unlocked.

“Pleasant neighbourhood,” Pope said.

He led the way inside.

The receptionist regarded them with wary eyes.

“
Teniente
Plato, please.”

“Take a seat.”

Anna sat down. Pope did not. She watched him from behind a magazine as they waited. He stood, arms folded, impassive. There was no expression on his face. He made no effort to engage with her. The woman behind the desk tried to get on with her work but she didn’t find it easy; there was a restive presence about Pope that was impossible to ignore.

The officer who came out to see them was old. Anna would have guessed mid-fifties. His hair and moustache were greying and he was a little overweight.

“I’m
Teniente
Plato. Who are you?”

“Pope. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“I’m just going to smoke a cigarette. We can talk outside.”

They went back out into the humid morning.

“We’re here on behalf of the British government,” Pope began.

“That right?”

Pope took out a passport.

Plato glanced at it. “Captain?”

“That’s right.”

“Army?”

He nodded.

“That’s a coincidence.”

“How’s that?”

“Had an Englishman in here three days ago.”

“The man you arrested?”

“Didn’t arrest him.”

“But you fingerprinted him?”

“Standard procedure.”

“Name of John Smith?”

“That’s right. How’d you know all that?”

“We need to see him.”

“I need some reciprocation here, okay, Señor?”

“What did Mr. Smith tell you––about himself?”

“Next to nothing.”

“That’s not surprising.

“But there’s more to him than he’s letting on––right?”

“We’re here to help him. We work together.”

“Doing what?”

Pope made a show of reluctance. “Let’s call it intelligence and leave it at that.”

“You know he said he was a cook? What’s he done?”

“
Lieutenant
, please––we need to speak to him. Please.”

“You’re going to have to move fast. He’s in a whole heap of trouble.” Plato dragged down on his cigarette. “Someone he’s been helping out has got herself mixed up with the cartels. A journalist, writes about them, not a good idea. They abducted her yesterday night. This morning, your friend went out to the desert to try and negotiate with them to get her back. Didn’t go so well––the cartels, they’re not big on negotiating. Him and another man who went with him were taken away.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was watching,” he said. The answer seemed to embarrass him.

“Where?”

“Place out of town.”

“Got any idea where they’d take him?”

“Better than that––I know. I followed. Place not too far from here.”

“You’ll take us?”

Plato shook his head. “That’s not a place for a policeman like me.” Again, Anna saw shame wash across his face. “I’m done with getting myself into scrapes like that. But no-one’s stopping you. You want, I’ll give you directions.”

51.

DUSK FELL as they travelled across the city. Anna sat at the back of the SUV and said nothing. No-one spoke. There was a sense of anticipation among the three agents. Determination. Callan had disassembled his handgun and was cleaning the mechanism with a bottle of oil and a small wire brush, as ritualistic as a junkie with his works. Hammond was listening to music again, her eyes closed and her head occasionally dipping in time with the beat. Pope was driving, his eyes cold and resolute, fixed on the road ahead. Their equipment was laid out on the floor in the back of the van: MP-5 SD3 suppressed machine-guns equipped with holographic sights and infrared lasers; a large M249 Squad Automatic Weapon; H&K machinepistols; a Mossberg 500 shotgun; three 9mm M9 Beretta pistols; M67 grenades and a Milkor Mk14 Launcher; M84 flashbangs; night-vision goggles. The agents were each wearing jeans, t-shirts and desert boots with khaki load carrying systems strapped on over the top. Each gilet was equipped with pouches for ammunition, hooks and eyelets for grenades and flashbangs, and each was reinforced with Kevlar plates.