The Dead Run (19 page)

 

CHAPTER 33

I
t was ill-advised. Hell, it was downright idiotic. Galvan knew that. He just didn't care.

“Yeah, motherfucker, we've met.”

He slid across the backseat, knocking the box to the floor; grabbed Pescador by the lapels; and pinned him against the window. The stench rising from Galvan's own body assaulted him as he stared down the cop turned Federale, the rapist who would be king; the confines of the car and the heat of the confrontation had turned his rankness overpowering.

Too bad it was the only power Galvan had.

“You took my life away from me,” he intoned, low and fierce. “And before this is over, you're gonna answer for every goddamn hour.”

The car swerved onto the shoulder of the road as Gustavo twisted in his seat, trying to make sense of what was happening.

And Gustavo, it was obvious, was the sort of man who made sense of things with a gun.

Pescador didn't look particularly frightened, or even especially surprised. He scrutinized the face three inches from his own, knotted with adrenaline and anger, for a long moment. Finally, he shook his head.

“Sorry, Mensajero, you're gonna have to be more specific.” The corners of his mouth twitched in self-satisfaction.

Galvan clenched the fabric of Pescador's suit more tightly in his shackled fists.

“Eleven months ago,” he growled. “Juárez. Bearer's bonds. A girl.”

Pescador's face brightened in recognition and delight. “Holy shit—the fucking Boy Scout. I don't believe it.”

His chuckle turned quickly into a smoker's hack. Galvan let him go, disgusted with them both.

Best-case scenario, Jess
:
what the fuck do you hope to accomplish here? You're outnumbered fifteen to one, forty guns to zero, and the only reason you're still alive
—

He broke off, the train of thought barreling into something he hadn't quite articulated to himself yet.

Something that made all the heat rush out of him.

The only reason you're still alive is that they still need you.

To do something even these soulless desperado zealots can't. Or won't.

Galvan slumped back in his seat, his stare gone vacant.

Pescador was still strolling down memory lane. Tickled pink by the coincidence, as if Galvan were an old high school buddy he'd happened to run into.

“How 'bout it, cabrón?” he asked. “Was that little puta worth rotting in Ojos for, or what? She was one sweet piece of ass, I can tell you that.” He grinned even bigger. “You always appreciate it more when you gotta fight for it, know what I mean?”

Galvan didn't answer. His head was pounding, hard and insistently. He needed water. That bottle he'd guzzled was a drop in an empty bucket.

The thought threaded its way beneath the pounding:
I'm gonna kill you
.

I don't know how.

I don't know when.

But sooner or later, I'm gonna fuckin' kill you.

Not until the car came screeching to a halt did Galvan realize he'd said it out loud.

Gustavo threw open the door, dragged Galvan from the car, and threw him headlong into the dusty nothingness, like a bouncer ejecting a rowdy patron from a bar.

Pescador followed at his leisure, removing his suit jacket and tossing it across the seat. He unbuttoned his cuffs, folded his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. All the while, the hint of a smile never left his lips. Motherfucker looked like he was getting ready to carve up a Thanksgiving turkey.

“Why wait?” he asked, spreading his legs and clasping his hands behind his back. “You been waiting long enough already, right, cabrón? Thinking about me every single day, while you do your push-ups and eat your slop and get your shit pushed in by pinche cholos, verdad? Let's see whatchu got.”

Galvan pulled himself up to his knees, tried to spit and found out he couldn't summon the saliva. He glared up at Pescador, the Federale backlit, framed against the falling sun.

“Untie me, if you wanna find out.”

The True Natives had swung back around when they saw the brake lights, and now the bikers were dismounting and crowding around. The biggest of them—a ruddy-skinned mountain of a man whose leather cut read
FOUNDER & PRESIDENT
on a patch stitched over the heart—parted the throng, strode up to Pescador, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“We're on a schedule. And this ain't on it.”

Pescador looked past him. “There's plenty of time, Nobles. Have a cerveza or something, eh?”

“The name's Knowles. And like hell there is.” He jammed a finger at the horizon. “Sun's already going down, and we're a good hour from the Rock of Tezcatlipoca. So why don't the both of y'all put away your dicks, and let's get a move on, 'fore Seth throws us all to the dogs.”

Pescador didn't seem daunted—by Knowles's size or his backup. “This won't take long at all,” he said, almost to himself. Then, louder: “And nobody's throwing me to any pinche dogs.”

Knowles spun away, fuming and shaking his head at the ground. He trudged back toward his boys, hands hipped.

Galvan lifted his wrists. Pescador threw a nod at Gustavo, and the bodyguard strode over, hefted Galvan to his feet with one arm. He flicked a switchblade, squatted, sawed through the ankle ropes. Rose, and flicked at the ones tying Galvan's wrists. They fell to the ground like a pair of dead baby snakes.

Galvan bounced on his tiptoes, trying to jump-start his circulation. Pescador watched him, motionless, impassive. Only the bikers seemed enthusiastic at the prospect of bloodshed. They had, indeed, popped cans of beer. Were leaning back against the bikes, ready to enjoy the show. Knowles stood apart, still muttering.

“Whenever you're ready, gringo,” the Federale said, a note of indulgence in his voice.

Galvan cracked his neck, his knuckles. “Let's make it knives,” he said, issuing the challenge loud, trying to force Pescador into a face-saving situation. “Raise the fuckin' stakes. Only one of us leaves here alive.”

The bikers turned toward one another, raised their eyebrows. Knowles's face darkened, and he swiveled to stare down Pescador, a warning in his eyes.

The Federale hesitated a fraction of a second, and Galvan leapt into the void. “What's the matter, pendejo?” he called. “Too chickenshit?” He looked over at the Natives, hoping to rally their support, but Knowles's mounting ire had turned them noncommittal.

“No can do, Boy Scout,” Pescador replied at last with an apologetic smile. “I'm not allowed to kill you, or you'd be dead already. But I can fuck you up, so let's go.”

“Oh yeah?” Galvan asked, chin raised, hands fisted at his sides. “Why's that?”

“You still got work to do.” He bent his knees and beckoned with two fingers. “Enough chitchat. Let's go, hijo de puta. We ain't got all day.”

Galvan's eyes darted from Pescador to Knowles, Knowles to Gustavo, back to Pescador. There was a play here. He could sense it. The math, for once, added up to a chance. If only he could get his fucking brain to kick into gear and run the numbers.

Come on, man. Think.

Okay. Nobody here will kill me.

Only one of these guys, at most, is loyal to Pescador.

Dunno how many would jump in to keep him from getting beat to death, though. Maybe all of them.

Think, motherfucker, think.

You gotta be quick.

And deadly.

Catch him by surprise.

All at once, it clicked. Galvan loosed a war whoop and ran straight at the Federale.

Pescador responded by dropping into a ready stance; Galvan could tell from the posture that he'd been trained to fight, that his body knew how to redirect an attacker's force against him. Especially an attacker coming in hot, halfway out of control already.

Good. Galvan wanted to look like a madman.

Eyes wide and wild. Pump the arms fast and hard. And whatever you do, don't telegraph the play.

Midway between Galvan and Pescador stood Gustavo, his languorous shuffle to his boss's side aborted by Galvan's manic charge. At the last possible moment, Galvan veered off course, slid into the bodyguard like he was stealing second base, and knocked the big man ass over teakettle.

They tumbled together for a moment, a frenzied tangle of arms and legs, Galvan reaching for the shoulder holster concealed beneath the suit, the sub-nosed .38 with Britannica's body on it, and Gustavo throwing backward elbows, trying to catch Galvan in the solar plexus, put him down.

The bikers edged forward—not yet ready to intervene, but who knew how many milliseconds before they figured out the play, too, and decided to kill the drama before the drama killed them?

Gustavo wasn't built for the ground game. What Galvan gave up in size he made back in speed, agility, sheer will. He scrambled away from the bodyguard's clutch, rolled across his broad back, and chopped the heel of his hand at Gustavo's carotid artery pulse with all his strength—the point where neck met shoulder in a lump of sinew and tendon, and where the correct combination of power and precision could knock anybody, from King Kong on down, right the fuck out.

Galvan knew he'd found his mark the instant he connected, and so did everybody else. Gustavo slumped onto his side, great white shark turned beached whale. The noise around him crested, but Galvan's head was throbbing so hard that all he could hear was a loud muddle of sound.

He reached.

And came up empty.

Nothing in the holster.

Which could only mean that the gun had found its way back into Pescador's hand.

The Federale's voice cut through the air like a dart and found its bull's-eye.

“Pussy move, gringo. I expected more.” He waved a hand, dismissive, and pulled a pack of smokes from his pocket. “Somebody knock his ass back out.”

The True Natives broke ranks and started toward Galvan from the invisible arena's sidelines. Pescador cupped his hands around the lighter, put fire to his cancer stick.

“Gave you your shot, cabrón. Sweet dreams.”

They were five yards away from him.

Three.

That was when Galvan remembered the knife.

He slipped his hand into the bodyguard's pants pocket.

Bingo.

In one smooth motion, Galvan grabbed the switchblade and stood, backing away from the charging Natives like a quarterback taking a snap and retreating deep into the pocket.

He flicked the spring-release button, felt the four-inch blade shoot forth.

Cocked back his arm, and sent the knife flying through the air, hilt over steel, a silver blur.

 

CHAPTER 34

T
he reckless abandon with which Fuentes piloted the armored van made Nichols pine for Cantwell's lead-footed ways behind the wheel. At least she kept her eyes on the road; the cop ran his mouth and checked his watch and twisted at the waist to bark orders at his squad, all while doing a buck and change and blowing past any vehicle unlucky enough to litter his path.

“You don't understand,” Ruth shouted, straining to be heard above the engine's roar, the driver's indifference. She leaned forward on her bench seat, into the space between Nichols's chair and Fuentes's. For a split second, the sheriff thought she was going to grab the wheel, and his heart bullfrogged into his throat.

“They killed her mother,” Cantwell went on, trying to draw the driver's eyes and, presumably, his sympathy. But Fuentes kept staring at the road, resolute, unflinching. “Murdered her, in cold blood. Now they want Sherry. I don't know why, but they want her bad. Please, Señor Fuentes. I'm begging you. We've got to find her.”

Fuentes fisted the wheel and shook his head. “No can do, señora. We wouldn't know where to look anyway. Your girl was lucky; she got away. We're trying to save the next girl, and the girl after that.”

He raised up off his seat and slid a cell phone from his back pocket. Pressed a few buttons, driving with his knees as he worked the keyboard, and then passed it to Nichols.

The sheriff shaded the screen with his palm, tried to make out the image.

“The fuck is this?”

“Coroner's photo of a homicide my buddy Rigoberto caught last year in Juárez. The more I thought about that half-buried girl we found this morning the less sense it made, cabrón. So I gave Berto a call. He's been working murders since I was a pinche hijo. He recognized the MO right away. Told me about a gringo biker gang called the True Natives—”

“We know all about them,” Cantwell interjected. “They work for Aaron Seth—the sick bastard who's chasing Sherry. We saw them leave his compound earlier today.”

Fuentes paused to take that in.

“They probably kidnapped our victim,” the Mexican said after a moment. He switched wheel-hands and added, “And killed her when she didn't turn out to be worth as much money as they were hoping.”

He flicked his eyes at Cantwell, as if reluctant to say more in front of a lady. A chivalrous son of a bitch, Fuentes.

“Spit it out,” Nichols told him.

A pained look crossed the Mexican's face, as if it turned his stomach to discuss it. “There's a special market for . . . girls who are pure. Vírgenes.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Cantwell said. “Like Sherry. That's what I'm saying, Fuentes. We've got to—”

Nichols patted down the air with his hand, trying to call her off. Ruth complied, swallowing the rest of her sentence. Nichols threw her a
thank you, trust me, we gotta play this out
look and hoped it came across. That was a complicated one, as looks went.

He rubbed a palm against a bristly cheek, took a moment to ponder Fuentes's intel. “Why would they half-bury her like that? It doesn't make any sense.”

Fuentes sighed, and swerved to pass a pickup. “According to my compañero, it's kind of a sick joke. You've heard the legend of the Virgin Army?”

Nichols fell silent. Cantwell gave a clipped nod.

“The bikers bury them upside down, up to the waist, then . . . have their way, while . . .”

Nichols threw him a sharp glance. He'd known Fuentes a long time, and he'd never heard the cop mince words.

“While what?”

“While the girls suffocate to death,” Cantwell finished for him.

Fuentes nodded grimly. “I'm afraid so. If they're not dead of their wounds already. That's why we've got to catch these fucks.”

Nichols used the flip-down mirror to steal a look at Cantwell. The doctor was ashen-faced—whether because she was contemplating the horror Fuentes had just laid out or because she'd lost her bid to pursue Sherry, he couldn't be sure.

He helped himself to one of Fuentes's toothpicks and found, to his surprise, that it was mint flavored. Maybe he could coax some calories out of the thing; Nichols couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.

“How?” he demanded.

“Cómo?”

Nichols removed the toothpick, fingers scissored around it like a cigarette. God, he missed smoking.

“Catch these fucks
how,
” he elaborated, rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes with a filthy knuckle.

Fuentes grinned; they were finally having the conversation he wanted to.

“Got a tip from one of my guys at border patrol. The Natives are rolling deep. On their way north, with a couple of young girls in tow. We're gonna head them off.”

Nichols popped the toothpick back into his mouth. “Roaming a little bit wide of your jurisdiction, aren't you, Señor Fuentes?”

The cop reached over and clapped him on the arm. “What do you think I need you for, Señor Nichols? Your scintillating company? This is a joint investigation, pendejo. I got some paperwork somewhere that you already signed.”

“Did I.”

Fuentes smiled. “Como no. I got a little impatient. Figured you wouldn't mind.”

Nichols turned to look at him. “Ten hours ago, you couldn't have cared less about another rotting body in the desert. Now you're forging paperwork and quarterbacking SWAT teams? What am I missing here?”

Fuentes scowled. “They're fucking animals. That's not enough?”

Nichols waited.

Fuentes drove.

“How long've we known each other, Miguel?” the sheriff asked, impatient. “Come on, don't bullshit a bullshitter.”

Fuentes's brow called off the war with his nose. “Okay, fine. There's more. According to my information, they're moving with a federal agent by the name of Luis de la Mar.”

“I take it you don't like the fella.”

“He was my first commanding officer, back in the day. Raised me from a pup. Then ran my ass outta town, when I wouldn't cooperate with his . . .”

Fuentes let it go, and Nichols decided not to press. The picture was clear enough anyway. Whatever else Fuentes was—crass, sloppy, lazy to the point of catatonia—he was honest. And loyal.

Pit those two qualities against each other, and the concoction was combustible.

Even if it took twenty years to explode.

“Remember what I said this morning?” Fuentes blurted into the heavy air. “About the Federales, in bed with the narcos and the politicians?”

Nichols looked out the window and nodded. “All one big orgy, and you're the eunuch in the corner.”

“That's right. But not anymore. Because today it's de la Mar's turn to get fucked.”

“And what about these guys?” Nichols asked, jerking his thumb at Fuentes's squadron.

“Fresh out of the academy. Too green to owe anybody shit. I'm taking my stand, Nichols. This guy is the worst of the worst, and he won't stick his cuello out like this again, now that he's federal. You with me or what, pana?”

“What exactly is the plan?” Nichols asked, instead of answering. “Unless I'm missing something, you don't have enough proof to arrest them for the murder. What are you thinking, charge the kidnapping and hope somebody rolls on de la Mar?”

Fuentes shook his head. “You can't get a man like him convicted. Not in my country. He's too well connected.”

“So what do you—”

“You kill him.”

Nichols went ramrod straight. “A federal agent? Have you lost your mind?”

Fuentes flared his nostrils, as if the fire in his eyes were about to shoot out through his nose.

“I'm sick of it,” he said. “I'm sick of it all. I'm not a cop anymore, Nichols, I'm a tool. Of the narcos. The politicians. Corrupt fucks like Luis. This is the only way anything's ever going to change, me entiendes?”

“Yeah? Tell me this: you start murdering people, what makes you any better than he is?”

“Because I'm doing it for justice, not for power.”

Nichols fell silent.

As reasons went, he'd heard worse.

“You do this, you're as good as dead,” he told his friend.

Fuentes shook his head. “Not if it happens on American soil, with an American cop investigating a murder. That's too messy, even for the cartel. They'll write him off. Cómo se dice? The cost of doing business.”

Nichols eyed him warily. “This whole situation—it's a perfect storm for you, isn't it?”

Fuentes shrugged a bullshit shrug. “It's lucky, yeah.”

“This has nothing to do with that dead girl. It's revenge, plain and simple. Admit it.”

“Justice for me is justice for her, amigo.” The Mexican glanced over, opened his eyes extra wide. “But the connection between the bikers and Luis just came together today, man.” He raised his hand, courtroom swear-in style. “Lo juro por Dios.”

Nichols didn't respond. Fuentes's hand drifted back to the wheel and fisted it, the matter apparently settled to his satisfaction.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” he said. “We ought to cross paths with the fuckers any minute now. This is the only road they can take.”

“Where they headed, anyway?”

“The Stone of Something-or-Other. One of those long-ass Azteca names.”

Cantwell leaned so far forward she practically fell into Nichols's lap.

“Not the Rock of Tezcatlipoca.”

“Yeah.” Fuentes turned to look at her. “You know it?”

Cantwell cupped her hands over her nose and mouth. When she took them away, her cheeks were drained of color.

“It's an ancient sacrificial site. And according to Aaron Seth, it's where the Great Reckoning is going to happen. Where the New World will be born.”

She fell back against her seat and exhaled a shuddery breath.

Nichols turned to look at her. He could see the wheels turning. Whatever Cantwell was putting together in her mind, it wasn't pretty.

She pitched forward again, a new determination etched onto her face.

“Doesn't this fucking thing go any faster?”