The Lawless Kind (12 page)

Taking up his beer, Velasquez quaffed the contents in one long swig. I took some dollars from my pocket, waving for the waiter. He looked disappointed that we weren’t going to add a second round, or better still a full meal, but remained professionally polite; smiling and thanking me for the tip I loaded on top.

We headed out of the market square, passing stalls selling everything from fruit and vegetables to pirated copies of the latest Hollywood movies and pop hits. Here in this older quarter of the city the houses had a colonial style, with balustrades at the upper floors, arched doorways, and plaster façades. Each building was painted a different colour from the pastel palette, with the occasional vibrant canary yellow, magenta or rust red. A few were even a dull grey, never having seen the application of paint, the plaster webbed by cracks, and the odd bare patch under which the original brick showed through. But they were more interesting to me for their shabbiness.

Around us the street was teeming with activity, mainly locals making the most of the market, but there were plenty of white faces in the crowd too. Tourists were more common now in Mexico and often strayed further than the beachside resorts and pyramids. It helped me blend in, but it also gave equal opportunity to the likes of Marshall, or other mercenaries. As we walked I engaged in counter-surveillance techniques, but saw nothing that caused worry. Velasquez was also looking, but from his easy chatter I took it that he hadn’t spotted a tail either.

There were police officers on the sidewalks, toting sidearms. Some of them looked like fresh-faced kids, but others were tough veterans. I noticed that their uniforms weren’t the same as the one Marshall had dressed in for the ambush. He’d underestimated his enemy: always a bad thing. But I shouldn’t underestimate him either. He would have expected the charade to last as long as it took to blast the occupants of the car with his shotgun, and after that it wouldn’t have mattered if we’d seen through his deception.

‘Were Molina’s guards on high alert?’ I asked.

‘They were disciplined, if that’s what you mean, but no, I wouldn’t say they were on edge.’

‘So Marshall isn’t working for him, then. He’d have reported his failure to stop us out in the desert; Molina would have strengthened his defences.’

‘Looks that way to me,’ Velasquez said.

‘Which begs the question: Who the fuck
is
Marshall working for?’

‘Maybe we’re missing the obvious. What if the ambush was just what it first looked like: robbers? There’s nothing to say your old buddy isn’t working for the gang that attacked us.’

I thought about the stack of brand-new US dollars in the machine-gunner’s possession, and begged to differ. Plus, Marshall had led those punks, he wasn’t just another hired thug brought in to bolster their number.

We turned into another street, this one lined with restaurants, gift shops and street traders with their wares spread on blankets and tarpaulins on the ground. There were even more people than in the market. Kids darted through the throng of tourists. Some of them were pestering the rich Yankees for change, while others were more furtive about the way they earned their cash. I’d have walked with one hand on my wallet, but I was more concerned about the gun in my waistband. I noticed that Velasquez crossed his arms over his chest, holding tight to the gun hidden under his left armpit. There were fewer police in evidence here, unless they were undercover. I kept a discreet eye on the kids, because if anybody could spot a plain-clothed cop it would be them.

We reached the far end of the street without incident, moving into an open square, at the centre of which stood a fountain. There was a statue of a Mexican general astride a horse, but he wasn’t an historical figure I recognised. Tourists were posing in front of the statue while their friends snapped photographs. I disregarded them as I scoped the rest of the square. The crowds were less dense here, but there were dozens of people sitting at tables outside the cafés that lined the square’s perimeter. Later, I guessed, the punters here would sample stronger delights than the coffee and soft drinks they nursed now. Many were reading newspapers, or fiddling with cell phones and e-book readers, but many others were content to people-watch. It made things more difficult to spot surveillance. But not impossible. I caught the eye of a man who was paying more attention to me than I warranted. Practised as I was in counter-surveillance, I allowed my gaze to wander away, kept my face immobile, as if I hadn’t noticed the scrutiny. But I was the proverbial duck on a pond, outwardly calm but paddling furiously beneath the surface. The sudden rush of adrenalin wasn’t simply because I’d spotted a watcher, but because, as with Marshall, I recognised the man’s face.

‘Velasquez.’ I said his name softly to elicit a natural response, and he turned his head to me with less than mild curiosity. To the observer we would look like two friends in conversation. ‘We’ve a shadow. White guy, early forties, wearing denims and a grey shirt, at nine o’clock.’

Velasquez was experienced enough to avoid looking for the man.

‘Cop?’ he asked, as we continued nonchalantly across the square. ‘Or one of Molina’s men?’

‘Neither,’ I said. ‘He’s another guy from my army days.’

‘He recognise you?’

‘Without a doubt.’ In the split second that our gazes had stuck, I noted the involuntary widening of the man’s eyelids. He was as surprised to see me as I was him.

‘You think he’s working for that Marshall dude?’

‘Without a doubt.’

Ian McAdam was another para with whom I’d served, but I had never seen eye to eye with him. Last time I’d met the surly northerner we’d parted on unfriendly terms, primarily due to the fact that the imprints of his two front teeth were embedded in my forehead after I nutted him.

If you find a gold coin on your path, it’s human nature to scan the ground for more. The same with bent pennies, and I began checking for other faces from my past. My memory wasn’t jogged, but I saw another watcher furtively steal into the doorway of a gift shop as we approached. This man I didn’t know, but I knew what he was. Even as he concealed himself behind a curtain of hanging shawls on display, I saw him touch the hidden microphone and whisper an urgent message. I took it that McAdam was filling him in on who and what I was.

I purposely kept my face turned away, not to hide my features, but to see the man’s reflection in the window of a shop opposite. As we moved past he craned out to get a better look, perhaps checking for signs of weapons.

‘What do you want to do about this?’ Velasquez whispered.

‘We can’t forget why we’re here. This is about saving a little boy. But while we’re under surveillance by other potential enemies that makes our task more difficult.’

‘That’s what I’m thinking. You think it’s time we lose these jokers?’

‘No. I think it’s time we find out what the fuck they’re doing here.’

‘You want to front them?’

‘You good with that?’

‘I’m good.’

‘Be careful. McAdam’s an ex para, so he’ll be no slouch. I don’t know anything about the other one but we have to assume he’s got skills as well.’

‘Could be others,’ Velasquez pointed out. He didn’t appear perturbed by the odds, but Velasquez had been a narcotics cop in the meanest districts of Miami and Tampa, so facing down a few tough guys was nothing to fret about.

‘There’ll definitely be others.’ We couldn’t make the mistake of going in overconfident. ‘But we only need one of them . . .’

I outlined my plan as we walked from the square and into a narrower street, watching all available reflective surfaces – a shop window here, the chrome fender on a car there – to make sure our tails were still in place. Then at a crossroads, Velasquez went left and I went right. I was happy a few seconds later to note that only one of the men had followed me, happier still when I paused to peer in a gift-shop window and caught sight of my pursuer stumbling to a halt and then attempting to conceal himself in a doorway. McAdam never had been the shy and retiring type. He was a loudmouth, the kind who walks swinging his shoulders and with a get-the-fuck-out-of-my-face attitude. They weren’t traits conducive to good undercover work. He was struggling to keep a low profile, and why he never guessed that I’d made him surprised me. I wondered how he’d managed to stay alive all these years.

Chapter 16

Walking with determination, as if I had a destination in mind, ensured that McAdam tripped over himself in his haste to follow. Because he hadn’t yet crept up and tried to sink a blade in my liver, his instructions must have been to watch me, find out where I was going, and report back to whomever was in charge. That would be Marshall, because McAdam had always been sycophantic around him. Supposing that Marshall was hiring himself out as a merc these days, it was fair to conclude that he’d bring along a few of his old cronies for the ride.

Having no prior idea of the layout of the city, I was looking for somewhere out of sight of the throng of civilians before fronting McAdam. He might not be willing to answer my questions, and the sort of encouragement I had in mind didn’t need witnesses. I was in a narrow street now, away from the tourist area, and the cafés here didn’t sell designer coffee. Locals sat inside small openings that reminded me of lock-up garages – complete with roller shutter doors – around small wooden tables on which stood bottles of unbranded tequila and whisky. As I walked past they watched me indifferently with hooded eyes. There were few people out in the street, and I bet myself that McAdam was having a difficult time now that he couldn’t lose himself in the crowds. I made things easier for him by facing forward and walking without a care.

A doorway on my left presented the opportunity I was looking for. As if this was the place I’d been intent on reaching I entered it, then slowed as I walked down a narrow alleyway, giving McAdam an opportunity to view me from the alley mouth. Underfoot the cobbles were greasy and stained with spillage from trashcans. Fresh air didn’t enter this place that often, and the atmosphere was stuffy and foul. I rounded a bend, but placed my shoulders to the wall, listening. There was a faint mumble, as if McAdam was reporting his location to his buddies over a comms link like the other man had worn. His step was furtive as he followed me down the alley: not so self-confident now.

I hurried down the next section, passing blank walls of once-white adobe, stained yellow with neglect. More trashcans and a larger plastic Dumpster overflowed with refuse. At the far end was a doorway, the wood cracked and flaking with dry rot. Reaching it seconds later, I pulled the door open. It resisted me, made a loud creak, then stuck where the warped wood caught on the cobblestones. That served my purpose. I left the door open, but retraced my steps and ducked in behind the Dumpster. I felt for my gun, loosening the grip of my waistband, but not yet pulling it out. Then I waited, breathing slow and easy.

There was a moment when I thought McAdam had chickened out, unhappy to pursue me further into the warren of alleys. But then I understood that he was simply being prudent. He had to have heard the creaking of the gate, assumed that I had gone through it, but was sensible enough to check before bolting round the corner. There was the pad of feet on cobbles. McAdam was breathing heavily, panting as he spoke into his comms mike. I couldn’t make sense of the words, but I got the drift from the string of expletives that followed. He began to pick up pace.

The last thing I wanted was for him to make it through the gate; a quick glance outside had shown that it led directly on to a street, where we could be spotted. Voices filtered into my hiding place, directly through the wall against which I crouched. It sounded like another of those drinking dens judging by the ribald voices raised in argument. I didn’t want a group of drunks spilling into the street to watch what was about to happen. I timed each approaching step, preparing for action.

Immediately McAdam loomed in front of me I came out of my crouch, coming up silently in his wake as he hurried for the gate. If my objective was to kill him, I could have done so, without fuss, probably without him even realising I was there, but that wasn’t my purpose. I flat-armed him with both palms against his left shoulder. Thrown off balance, he had only one place to go: into the juncture between the open door and the wall to which it was hinged. He hit hard, rebounding amid a shower of flaky adobe knocked loose from the wall. I threaded my hand inside his exposed left elbow, hooking his forearm in the bend of my arm, and used the locking of his shoulder to propel him round and out of the gap between door and wall. Stunned by the collision with the wall, he offered no resistance as I bore down on his locked arm and threw him at the cobbles. He went face down, arms and legs splayed, like a starfish out of water. With one eye on him, and happy that he hadn’t been toting a weapon, I quickly thrust shut the door to block any inquisitive passers-by.

By the time I moved back to him, McAdam had got his arms under himself and was pushing to his knees. Shoving a heel against his backside, I pushed him deeper into the alley, only then slipping out my SIG. He was relatively unhurt, but his ego had been dealt a heavy blow. He snarled and cursed as he swung over to reposition his feet. I snatched the earpiece and mike set, gave him another nudge of my boot, this time in the chest, and he went down on his backside, blinking up at the gun I held. Give him his due: he didn’t try to bluff his way out of the situation.