Standoff: A Vin Cooper Novel (9 page)

“No, but it makes it easier,” I said.

My supervisor frowned. “Makes what easier?”

Chalmers had started packing away his gizmos, the grin on his face telling me that he was happy the scoreboard had him ahead on points.

Arlen forgot about my comment and put an envelope and a Spanish phrasebook on the bench, along with a cell phone and charger. “What’s your Spanish like?”

“Incomprehensible.” I picked up the booklet and flicked through it. There wasn’t a section on dealing with cartels, or phrases like, “Can you please help me dismember this?” I tossed it back on the bench. I could understand Spanish. Speaking it was a problem. “What’s in the envelope?”

“Your passport along with some cash, mostly in fifties and hundreds, and a couple of thousand in pesos. Keep your phone on so we can track you, and withdraw money from ATMs whenever possible so we can confirm that you and your phone haven’t been separated.”

“Why don’t I just call you?” I said, pocketing the phone and charger. 

“You’re a fugitive. Let’s keep up appearances.”

I checked the envelope. “What good will this do me?” I asked, plucking out the passport and giving it a waggle. “I’ll be on stop-and-detain lists everywhere.”

“The media will get the story as it breaks, but the person who takes care of these things will forget to notify immigration.”

“You mean you’ll leave it to the CIA,” I said with one eye on Chalmers, stuffing the envelope in my pants pocket. “What about ammo? You got cuffs?” I heard the rattle of various objects placed on the bench as I took the three steps to the front door, edged around Gomez, and opened it a couple inches. The EPPD Charger was still out the front, but it had moved – a new shift on duty, perhaps. What I had in mind was going to be tricky unless I could maximize the size of the blind spot.

“Who do I contact, and where?”

“An ex-FBI agent in Panama City, Panama, owns a bar called the Cool Room,” said Chalmers, producing a small mug shot of a man in his late fifties. “His name is Panda. Big guy, looks soft but isn’t. Panda has his own network of informants. He’ll be able to tell you where and when you’re mostly likely to find Apostles. He keeps homes in Medellín, Bogotá, Mexico City, Juárez, Buenos Aires and several other cities around the world. Lately, our information is that he’s mostly commuting between Medellín and Juárez setting up his empire.”

“Keep your cell phone charged up and switched on, just in case,” said Arlen.

It sounded to me like this operation was barely thought out, and that the only part squared away had been nailing me for crimes I had nothing to do with. “So, let me get this straight. As far as local law enforcement is concerned, I’m a wanted killer, a fugitive from the law with a price on my head.”

“No bounty as yet, but that’s only a matter of time.” Chalmers’ smirk turned into a private chuckle.

“If things get tight down there, Panda will get you out,” said Arlen. “He’s also to be your first point of contact. Within a couple weeks, your name will be officially cleared, though if you’re still in-country, that will remain secret.”

I repeated my comments about the trailer park at Horizon not being properly searched and cleared and that an investigation into why it wasn’t might yield results.

“The Sheriff’s Office is already onto it,” said Chalmers.

“Right. Commander Matheson and his brother, Kirk, will see to it.”

“The deputy you shot, Kirk Matheson, is the nephew, not the brother,” Chalmers replied.

Brother, nephew – family was family. “So, if we’re done … ?” I said.

“We’re done,” Arlen replied.

I picked up the two full mags for the Sig and a handful of 9mm rounds, which included a couple of blanks. “What are these for?” I asked, examining a casing with the business end pinched together.

“Left over from a training exercise,” Arlen said. “Don’t want ’em, leave ’em.”

I took them on the basis that you never know when something apparently completely useless might come in handy, and also picked up a pair of Smith & Wessons. “Any suggestions about how I might get across the border?” I glanced at Gomez.

“Don’t ask me,” he said. “I ain’t here, though watch out for kids with cell phones.”

“Because …”

“Because the cartels use ’em.
Halcones
, they call ’em.”

“Falcons,” I translated.

“Yeah. They give ’em the phones and a few bucks and tell ’em to call in if they see anything interesting. There are a lot of kids running around with phones over there. It gives the cartels one of the best-informed real-time intelligence systems going. Any gringos coming into Juárez at official crossings, at the moment, are considered interesting.”

Chalmers was grinning like the village idiot’s idiot brother, enjoying himself altogether far too much. But the smirk disappeared when I slipped the cuffs on one of his wrists, yanked it behind his back and cuffed the other wrist, much like Gomez had done to me.

“What the … ? What are you doing?” he yelped. I jammed him against the common wall with the adjoining room and he shot a plea for help at the Ranger. “Gomez!”

Gomez remained in his chair, raised his hands and reminded him, “Ain’t here …”

Arlen, too, stood back.

I patted the spook down, flipped his wallet and keys onto the bed.

“Cooper!”

“Quit complaining. Gotta ensure my legend’s authentic, right?” I went back for the gun my fingers detected in an ankle holster. Out came a Taurus stainless-steel .357 revolver, hammerless. “Cute,” I said, holding it up. “These things come with a purse, don’t they?”

“Fuck you.”

I spun him so that he was facing me, grabbed handfuls of his shirt, pulled him toward me and then shoved him backward. As the pace picked up I put my elbows into his chest and pushed him hard into the wall and kept shoving when he hit it. With our combined weight, the sheet rock gave way like it wasn’t there and we burst through into the room next door, landing beside a bed in a cloud of dust, shredded wallpaper and wiring.

I jumped to my feet and dragged Chalmers to his, the guy too shaken up to resist. Eyes closed, he gasped for air and then coughed and tried to snort the dust out of his face.

Marching him to the door, I noticed a scrawny middle-aged guy in his underwear and shorts sitting up on the bed with a computer beside him. A rhythmic grunting sound was coming from its speakers. His mouth was open.

“Thin walls,” I said. “It’s like your neighbors are in the room with you.”

His eyes popped open wider, if that was possible, and he snapped the laptop closed.

I pulled the spook across the room and leaned him beside the door.

“Cooper …” he said a little groggily.

“Just don’t blow this, Chalmers,” I told him, and flicked a chunk of sheet rock off his shoulder.

He lifted his head. “Fuck you.”

“Maybe, if you had nicer legs,” I said and opened the door an inch to check on the position of the surveillance vehicle. It hadn’t moved. I slipped the chain, opened the door, pulled the Sig from the concealment holster behind my back and jammed the muzzle hard into his ribs so that he flinched. That made the weapon essentially useless, but he couldn’t have known it.

“Don’t make me use this, Brody. I’m a wanted fugitive.”

I pushed him in front of me as we approached the Dodge Charger from a high angle in its four o’clock area – the driver’s blind spot. Bending down, there were those two silhouettes in the front. The one in the passenger seat was drinking from a large cup. I ran the last ten feet, pushing Chalmers in front of me. He hit the panel over the rear wheel, jolting the car. Snatching the rear passenger door handle, I pulled up and prayed it wasn’t locked. Prayer answered in my favor: the door sprang ajar. I ripped it back and virtually threw Chalmers inside. The two officers jumped in their seats. The guy with the cup flung it upwards and doused himself and his partner with hot coffee, which added to their fright as they swore and twisted this way and that like a couple of cats caught in a shower.

“HEY!” I shouted. “I’ve got a gun and I’m gonna use it. Follow my instructions and no one gets hurt.” They turned around, fear and anger on their faces. I pressed the Sig hard into the side of Chalmers’ neck so that they’d believe I meant business. The officer behind the wheel was an older guy with corporal’s stripes; his partner, the one with the coffee, was young, a rookie most likely. This was a dangerous game. The longer we sat here, the greater the chance the pendulum could swing back in their favor. We needed to move fast before another cruiser wandered along. But first, some necessary housekeeping. “Show me your firearms!” I shouted at them. “Now!” There was movement in the front seat. “Easy … easy …” I told them.

“
You
take it easy, mister, okay?” the corporal insisted. Both officers slowly raised their Glocks where I could see them through the steel mesh divider. Their hands were shaking.

“Throw ’em into the floorboards.”

Hesitation.

“Do it! You know I’m the guy you’re looking for and you know what I’m capable of.” Bringing my inner gangster out for some exercise, I said to the young officer, “Don’t do nothin’ stupid, junior. What about your backup, the one you keep in an ankle holster?”

More hesitation.

“Keep it moving, people. I don’ got all day. Nice and slow. Let’s use our left hands.” They bent down. “Slowly, slowly,” I told them. The corporal’s hand came up with a .40 Smith & Wesson. The rookie had a Springfield Armory XD-S .45ACP Micro-Pistol. “Present from dad?” I asked him.

“How’d you know?” he replied.

“The slide’s inscribed, ‘Love from Dad.’”

“Oh, yeah …”

“Into the floorboards,” I instructed them.

“Any flick knives, knuckle-dusters, nunchakus? Now’s the time to get rid of ’em before I pat you down. I find anything on you, I’m not gonna like it. I might use it on you.”

Both men emptied their pockets and tossed a variety of buck knives, brass knuckles and blackjacks into the diminishing space around their feet.

“Where’s the shotgun?” I asked.

“In the trunk,” said the rookie. “There’s an AR-15 back there too.”

These guys were packing enough heat to take on a platoon. “Keep your hands where I can see ’em – on the glove box. And you, corporal, put your hands on the wheel and keep ’em there. I don’t see your hands, I ventilate Joe Citizen back here. We clear?”

“Take it easy, okay?” he said.

“So you keep saying. Just do what I tell you.”

“You all right, sir?” the corporal wanted to know, eyeing Chalmers in the rear-view mirror. This guy was a good cop: even scared half out of his mind, he was still concerned for the hostage’s welfare, and maybe also a bit curious about why he was covered in all that white dust.

“Yeah,” I said. “Casper the Friendly Ghost here is having a super day. Now keep your eyes out of the mirror or you’ll see something you won’t like.”

As far as these officers were aware, I was fresh from shooting four SO deputies and four witnesses. I was a cold-blooded killer. And now I was in the back seat of
their
company car with a hostage, a loaded gun and a full mag of attitude.

I hadn’t closed the rear passenger door behind me. Once it was shut, there was no way to open it from the inside, not without a little modification. I changed my grip on the Sig and smacked the heel of the handle backhanded into the windowpane. The third hit shattered the glass, which became a saggy matt of crystals held in place by tinted film. Slamming the matt with my elbow a couple times finally pushed it out of the framework and onto the sidewalk. That was easier than I thought it would be. Now I could open the door by reaching out and pulling the latch, or, if I had to, slip out through the window NASCAR-style.

Refocusing on the two in front, I couldn’t see Junior’s hands on the dash. I had only marginal control over the situation and it could turn nasty on me at any stage. “Hands where I can see ’em,” I snapped as I pulled the door closed. “Drive. Get to I-10, eastbound. Don’t flash your lights, stay off the radio. Stick to the speed limit – no faster, no slower.”

Nothing happened.

“
Now!
” I barked. “And don’t forget I’ve got a gun pressed into the ribcage of a hapless, innocent bystander back here.”

The officer behind the wheel turned the ignition on, signaled and accelerated into traffic. The ramp to Patriot Freeway was close. He took it, nice and gentle.

“What do you want?” the corporal asked me.

“I want you to stop with the questions. You and the new recruit will be fine, and so will Mr Average here as long as you do what I tell you.” Chalmers’ tie was askew. I straightened it for him.

The ramp for I-10 came up pretty fast. The officer took it and the cruiser swung to the southeast.

“Where are we going?” Junior asked.

“For a ride. Keep your hands on the dash.”

The cruiser accelerated to fifty-five miles per hour and El Paso quickly gave way to desert. I glanced at Chalmers. He was glaring at me, knowing he had to play along with my dangerous little charade, quietly steaming, the upper hand he was enjoying so much no longer his.

The traffic thinned out on the Interstate, the sun a large flaming orange clipping the horizon.

“Where are we going?” the corporal wanted to know again after twenty minutes of highway cruising.

“Quit asking. You’ll be home in time for dinner, providing you do what I tell you.”

Another twenty minutes and the terrain was looking familiar. A gas station flashed by, a familiar battered Patriot parked in the lot. The turnoff was close. “Slow down,” I said. “And keep those hands where I can see ’em.”

“How you doin’ back there, sir?” the corporal asked.

“I’m okay,” said Chalmers. “But this gun he’s got in my side is really starting to hurt. I’m gonna have a bruise there for sure.”

“Shut up,” I said, staying in desperado character. I had to admit, Chalmers was playing the part like a pro. “Now slow down some more,” I said. The cruiser slowed to about thirty. “There’s a trail coming up on your right. This one. Yeah, here. Pull into it.” The Dodge washed off some more speed and turned into the trail as darkness gathered. The corporal turned on the lights. “Don’t stop. Keep going straight ahead.”