The Dead Run (18 page)

 

CHAPTER 31

C
risp, frigid air was blowing directly in Galvan's face when he came to. The sensation took him back in time, to freedom. The air at Ojos Negros always felt like it had just been in somebody's mouth.

A cloud of cigarette smoke wafted past.

Pescador.

Speaking of freedom.

Even when shit was going down the drain, it still came full circle.

Galvan tried to knuckle his eyes clear, discovered he could not move his arms, and blinked away the fog instead. He found himself surrounded by caramel-colored leather, butter-soft and cool to the touch. The rumble of the road below was barely audible, the ride as smooth and flawless as the upholstery.

German motherfucking engineering. You had to love it.

His wrists were bound with rope—tightly, but not uncomfortably. Ankles, ditto. The box lay beside him on the gloriously appointed backseat, and on its other side sat Pescador. Legs crossed at the knee, a lit stoag cocked in one hand, and—wonder of wonders—a pastrami sandwich in the other.

Galvan's stomach did a backflip and started digesting itself.

Pescador glanced over. “Mira, he's awake. Sorry about the ropes, cabrón. No es personal, entiendes? You hungry?”

Galvan nodded. He hated the idea of taking anything from this man, but not as much as he hated the idea of starving to death.

Besides, he'd need his strength if he was going to rip Pescador's head off and play his body like a fucking banjo.

The Mexican handed over the other half of the sandwich, as casually as if the two of them were construction workers on break. Galvan took it in his trussed hands. Three bites, done. He didn't taste a thing.

As long as the dude was feeling chatty, Galvan figured he'd start.

“So what are you, some kind of fuckin' cop?”

Pescador opened his suit, flashed a badge and a grin. “I'm a Federale.”

The BMW was flanked by Harleys: front and back, left and right. Galvan's heart unclenched slightly as he spotted Veronica and Betty, holding tight to a couple of thick-middled, leather-skinned bikers. Every few moments, one of the guys would raise a gun—they'd stowed the automatics, switched to pistols and sawed-offs—and level a potshot at something straggling toward the road. The lack of affect with which they did it made Galvan think of ninth-grade U.S. history and the slaughter of the buffalos: the way the conductors had stopped the westbound trains right on their tracks so a bunch of white men like these white men could stick muskets out the windows and lay waste to a whole herd at a time, just for shits and giggles. Then the train would chug on by, and fifty tons of meat would lie there, putrefying.

USA, USA,
he chanted inwardly, and licked a daub of mustard off his wrist.

Pescador watched Galvan clock the shooters. “We're almost outta Cunt Town,” he said. “They got their limits. Like we all do, eh?” A bottle of water appeared in his hands. He cracked it open, passed it over.

Galvan took it awkwardly. Two gulps, finito. Wiped his lips against the back of his arm. Noticed it was lacerated in three places. Had no recollection of that happening.

“You killed my friend, Federale.”

Pescador's eyes swung up to meet his. Galvan couldn't read them—wasn't used to the level of subterfuge a man like Pescador employed anymore. Prisoners killed more and lied less.

Dead virgins, too.

There was a certain dignity in that.

“Orders,” Pescador said. “ ‘The Messenger must emerge alone,' as our employer says. Guess he didn't let you in on that part of the script.”

Galvan dropped his head and blinked long.

Easy, dumbass. You're in no position to push this
.

“You telling me you shot him to fulfill some goddamn prophecy?”

“I do what I'm told, güey. I'm a soldier, same as you.”

“I ain't no soldier. I'm a slave.”

Pescador gazed out the window. “Then you better start thinking about what you want, Mensajero, 'cause freedom's right around the corner. In the New World, you'll be a hero, you dig?”

“To who?” Galvan growled, straining at the ropes around his wrists as inconspicuously as possible.

“To the only motherfucker who matters.”

He buzzed the window, passed his cigarette butt to the breeze. “Me, I'm gonna run Mexico.” Pescador slammed his right fist into his left hand, jangling a trio of gold bracelets. “Get mi país back on track, güey. Clear out the pinche cartels. Enforce the
law,
for reals.”

Galvan flashed on Pescador's broad back, arched over that girl in the bar, and a drop of sweat slid down his inner arm, despite the air-conditioning.

“Since that's what you do so well, huh?”

Pescador nodded, as if he appreciated the recognition, and slid a cigarette from a gold-rimmed case. Tamped it twice, then remembered his manners, flicked the case back open, and offered one to his companion.

Galvan shook his head.

“You know what the problem is with this world?” Pescador asked.

“Enlighten me.”

“There's no such thing as a man who can't be bought, Mensajero.” He leaned back in his seat. “You know what the solution is? A man who has everything.”

Galvan just stared.

“Sometimes a good man has to take drastic measures for la gente. For libertad. He might have to dance with the devil. He might even have to sacrifice his soul.”

Just as Galvan was thinking he couldn't bear to listen to any more, Pescador raised a finger. “Un momento. Hold on.”

Through the phalanx of True Natives rockers, Galvan glimpsed the border checkpoint. It was nothing fancy: three or four agents presiding over a structure the size and shape of a drive-through car wash.

They waved the Natives through,
ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.
Took zero notice of the banged-up girls or the arsenal of weapons. A mutually beneficial relationship, Galvan assumed. These pencil-pushers probably tripled their salaries just by looking the other way. Hell, this gaggle of Stars-and-Stripes-bedecked Harley-heads probably cared more about border security than the agents did. The minute the crossing got too easy, the bikers were out of work. It was all one big joke.

The BMW eased to a standstill and Pescador's driver, a buzz-cut bodyguard type in a suit that clung to his bulk, lowered the rear window. Pescador showed the guard his shield.

“Mexican federal agent. I'm delivering this man into U.S. custody.”

The white boy who bent forward to stare at it was acne-pocked and sweating. He made some kind of notation on his clipboard.

“You traveling with Knowles and his boys, sir?”

“Claro que sí. They're my security.” Pescador cheesed at the kid. “Can't be too careful on these roads. Lotta unsavory characters about.”

The white boy flipped a page and pointed his pen at Galvan. “I'll need his name and ID.”

“That's classified.”

The kid looked up sharply, the air between them suddenly charged.

There we go,
thought Galvan, mind kicking into gear.
Might be a card to play, here. Speak up, tell 'em you've been kidnapped, blow this thing wide open. End up in a nice cozy Texas penitentiary, three hots and a cot, not a single ancient warlock holding court in the bowels of the place. See your daughter every visitors' day.

“I'm afraid I can't just allow an undocumented alien into the country, sir. I'm gonna need the prisoner's name, the name of your contact at whatever agency you're liaising with, and a number I can—”

Pescador cut him off, but he was speaking to the driver, not the white boy.

“Dar a este maricón un chingo de dinero y vamos a ver si lo que le hace callar, Gustavo.”

Give this faggot a wad of money and let's see if that shuts him up
.

White Boy didn't appear to speak the language, but he knew the score. The look on his face was patient; Galvan saw that and knew he'd missed his chance. Or, more accurately, that there hadn't been a chance. This was nothing but a game, playing out the only way it could.

Don't force it, Galvan. Lay in the cut until the time is right
.
This isn't over by a long shot.

Gustavo grunted, poked a button on the dash. The glove box dropped open soundlessly, to reveal a manicured bundle of bills. Good ol' U.S. currency. Wetbacks with greenbacks. The driver counted out some bills, paper shooshing as it slid from one hand to the other, and handed them over. White Boy folded the payment in half, shoved it into his shirt pocket.

“Have a nice day, gentlemen.”

He turned on his heel and disappeared. Up buzzed the windows. They entered the United States of America in hermetically sealed, air-conditioned silence.

Pescador chuckled. “Five or ten years ago? You wouldn't believe what we used to go through to get through that pinche little crossing. The world's changing, cabrón. And when Seth—”

Galvan turned to stare at him, eyes burning with everything he had left. He took a quick self-inventory as the adrenaline coursed through him and his palms started to sweat.

What he had in stock was mostly hatred, cut with fear. The boundless reservoir of compassion that lay beneath it all—and had been Galvan's undoing, time after goddamn time—might still have been there, but Galvan couldn't feel it right now. Didn't want to, either.

“You really don't remember me, do you, Pescador?”

The Federale cocked his head to one side, like a small dog who'd just heard a curious noise.

“Have we met?”

 

CHAPTER 32

U
p on your knees, I said! Both of you!”

Nichols did as he was told. Slowly. If these were to be his final moments, he might as well take his time.

Cantwell, sitting by his side and taking her cues from him, moved just as arthritically. Nichols realized that if he didn't panic, neither would she, and redoubled his efforts at stoicism; if nothing else, he'd make her last minutes on earth a little more pleasant.

So much less than I'd hoped to give you, doc.

He glanced over, confirmed the theory: Cantwell looked more annoyed than terrified. Nichols had gotten them out of the last jam, and now the doctor's faith in him appeared to be boundless.

Nichols hoped he'd have a chance to enjoy that.

Figure something out, old man.

When he'd gotten his appendages situated, Nichols twisted at the waist, looked McGee dead in the eye. With any luck, that would make it harder for the kid to pull the trigger.

Sure enough, McGee swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Nichols seized on the opportunity, real or imagined, and opened his big fat mouth.

“Think on what you're doing, Officer.”

“Shut up.”

He stole a glance at Cantwell, found her chest heaving as she struggled through a nice quiet panic attack. Apparently, his come-to-your-senses strategy was not the plan she'd hoped Nichols had up his sleeve.

“Look at her,” he implored McGee, jerking his head in Cantwell's direction. “She's a goddamn family therapist. Got three little kids at home. Come on, you don't want that on your conscience, do you?”

McGee spread his legs, dropped into a marksman's posture. “Tell you what, Sheriff. Since it bothers you so much, I'll do you first, so you don't have to watch.”

The dry crack of a twig made them all jump. McGee spun toward the hill, gun raised to confront whatever lurked.

It wasn't much of an opening, but Nichols would take what he could get. He leapt to his feet, hauling Cantwell up with him.

Just as McGee turned back.

All Nichols had done was halve the distance between himself and those bullets. The cop waved them back down to their knees, and Nichols had no choice but to acquiesce.

On the one hand, at least they were facing the danger now.

On the other, it had doubled.

Officer Lautner ambled down the hillock, the left side of his face blotched with subdermal crimson where Nichols had hit him with the gun. Each stick snapping beneath his boots sounded like the backbone of some tiny animal.

“Howdy there, partner,” McGee hailed him, standing up straight. This was a godsend for the kid, Nichols reflected. No longer was killing the two of them in cold blood something he'd have to bear alone. Having Lautner there pulled it out of the long dark night of the soul and into the light.

Just doing our job.

Now he and the good doctor were well-and-truly fucked.

For the second time today, McGee handed his partner a service revolver. Lautner stared down at the piece a moment, as if trying to remember where he'd seen it before, then wiped the film of blood onto his khakis.

“Where's the girl?” he asked quietly.

“Ran off.”

Lautner squared his shoulders to McGee and flared his jaw.

“Our orders are to secure the girl.” He pointed his gun at Nichols's head, without bothering to look in his direction. “These shitwads don't matter, Ronnie. Just the girl.”

McGee shook his head, beads of sweat bursting forth at the hairline. “Orders changed, man. Somebody else is on the girl. I got a call.”

Lautner stepped closer. “You don't get calls, McGee.”

“
You
got a call! I answered your phone.”

Inadvertently, McGee glanced over at Nichols and Cantwell, as if hoping they'd cosign.

“He's lying,” the sheriff blurted instead.

Sow discord among brethren.
It wasn't Sun Tzu, but it sounded like something the old bastard woulda said.

“Shut up!” McGee roared—it was turning into the kid's catchphrase—and kicked Nichols in the chest with his heavy-duty goddamn cop boot. The sheriff went down hard, slammed into Cantwell and sent her toppling, too.

McGee jabbed a finger at his partner. “We put them down, and we make the bodies disappear. You need to hear it direct, make a call. You can explain how you missed the order on account of getting knocked out while lettin' your prisoners escape.”

And he cocked his gun.

Lautner studied his partner a moment, like a poker player sussing out a bluff, then did the same.

Nichols held on tight to Cantwell and rifled through his mind for something to say.

Cantwell held him back, her body tremoring with fear.

“Please,” she said, so low that Nichols doubted the cops had even heard. Though maybe it was someone else she was addressing.

He closed his eyes and tried to make his peace, but all Nichols saw was black.

He gritted his teeth and hoped it would be immediate and painless. A quick trip to oblivion.

Nope.

A sudden, hellacious smashing sound filled the air. Metal on metal: scraping, rending, crushing. A fucking apocalypse of noise.

Nichols's eyes popped open, and he dove just in time to avoid the police cruiser hurling toward him, wheels over hood, a spinning cyclone of killing force. He tackled Cantwell, wrapped her in his arms, and tucked his head and rolled toward what he hoped was safety.

Behind the cruiser, playing enraged bull to the car's gored toreador, was a glossy black jump-out van on monster tires, with tinted windows and an all-business front spoiler made for dishing out abuse. It plowed on, relentless, driving the car into the hillside, scattering McGee and Lautner.

When Nichols finally dared look up, squinting through a miasma of dust, he couldn't believe his eyes. Jumping from the sliding side doors were men clutching assault rifles, bulletproof vests strapped over their black jumpsuits.

They fanned out wordlessly, the only sound the rhythm of jackboots against pavement. Surrounded Lautner and McGee within seconds, and raised their weapons.

A dozen infrared scopes played on the cops' midsections, each one a kill shot.

The boys dropped their guns without even having to be told.

Nichols rose slowly, helped Cantwell to her feet, and waited.

Your enemy's enemy wasn't necessarily your friend. Not by a damn sight. And Nichols sure as shit didn't have any buddies who rolled like this.

The only door still closed was the driver's. It clanged open, and out hopped a stocky, middle-aged man in aviator glasses, sporting a short-sleeved dress shirt.

A toothpick waggled between his lips. He flicked it to the ground and grinned.

“Sorry I'm late, pendejo.”

A wave of relief surged through Nichols.

Fuentes.

Fucking Fuentes.

Praise the goddamn lord.

It was all he could manage not to run over and shower the man with kisses.

Instead, he hocked a wad of spit into the weeds, raised a hand in greeting. It was the one attached to Cantwell's—an unintentional bit of puppetry that won a laugh from the Mexican cop.

“Almost forgot I'd called you, pendejo,” Nichols said. He turned to the doctor. “Ruth Cantwell, meet Miguel Fuentes—otherwise known as the only cop I know I can still trust.”

He walked over, and the two men clasped hands. “You came pretty fucking heavy,” Nichols said, taking a closer look at the van. It was wide-bodied and muscular, a fucking rhinoceros on wheels.

Fuentes nodded, a new toothpick already dancing between the twin pillows of his lips. “Sin duda, cabrón. Department finally sprang for some up-to-date shit. And the way I figure, we're gonna need it. Órale, Vasquez!” He snapped his fingers, and one of the men jogged over.

“Sí, jefe.”

“Quitar las esposas de mis amigos.”

“Por supuesto, jefe.” Vasquez unclipped a lock-pick set from his utility belt. A few deft gestures later, the manacle that had bound Nichols to Cantwell fell to the ground.

“Thanks,” the sheriff told Fuentes, rubbing some life back into his wrist. “Now, look, we've got a couple of teenagers in a Jeep. Boy and a girl. They've got about a fifteen-minute head start on us—at least, I hope they do—and they're in serious danger. The sooner we get after them the better.”

Fuentes shifted his mouth lumber from left to right, and his head moved with it. “I didn't come heavy like this just to chase down runaways.” He paused for a moment, to watch his men slap cuffs on Lautner and McGee. “We got a fresh lead on that dead girl in the desert, from this morning—and it's the one I've been waiting for, Nichols. I already lost an hour rescuing your ass, but this one is for the both of us. You and me together, hermano. We gonna close the books on this maldito hijo de puta.”

Nichols eyed him warily. “What the fuck are you talking about, Fuentes?”

The Mexican jerked a thumb at the van. “I'll explain on the way. Saddle up, amigo. It's time to ride.”