The Lawless Kind (2 page)

‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,’ he said in accented English. ‘I’m unarmed.’

‘So were the girls you raped, you piece of crap,’ I snapped at him.

I’d recognised his face, even stretched with fear as it was. Another photograph Walter had shown me was of this man, posing beneath the ‘rape tree’ where he’d proudly hung the underwear of his latest thirteen-year-old victim. I wanted to shoot him in the face.

‘Put down the phone.’

He obeyed, thumbing off the button at arm’s length, then making a show of placing it on the oil drum.

‘There,’ he said. ‘I did as you said. Now you must arrest me.’

‘Must I? For you to be released by the corrupt Border Patrol officials that you’ve been bribing?’

‘You are a
Federale
, no? You must obey the law.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m Joe Hunter, and the law doesn’t come into what I
must do
to you.’

The bastard understood where this was heading, and I was glad when he reached behind him to pull out the revolver he’d stuck in his belt. As much as I wished to kill him, I hadn’t wanted to do it in cold blood. He snapped the revolver up even as he dropped into a crouch. A curse split his lips a fraction of a second before my bullet did. He fell backwards, and the jolt caused an unconscious pull on the trigger. His gun flashed, but the round was lost deep in the ceiling above him. Gunshot residue would be on his hand, which made things easier when it came to cleaning up this mess.

I walked further into the mineshaft and found where it dead-ended. There were no other coyotes alive. There were no innocents either, to my relief. It was important that nobody had witnessed what had occurred here. As far as anyone would know, the human traffickers had died under the guns of a rival gang. Our weapons weren’t on any law enforcement database, and we’d been careful while loading to wear gloves and ensure that every working part of our guns was thoroughly wiped down – even the mag I’d allowed to drop in the desert above. Our gloves, clothing and boots would be destroyed later, and evidence incriminating a rival gang dropped at the scene by Walter’s men waiting in the wings.

When returning to the exit I glanced once at the dead coyote. Fucking hyena, more like. This man was the worst kind of scum, but he was only one of many. The only consolation was that he at least would not prey on any other young girl.

‘Satisfied?’ Rink asked.

‘I’ve barely started.’

My big friend was leaning against the doorway, his shotgun by his side. He looked weary, but that was deceptive. Rink is part Japanese and has mastered the art of philosophical resignation, often wearing the emotion like a shroud.

‘You can’t kill all the monsters, brother,’ he said, an often-cited quote. He reckons that I’ve a St George complex, one that drives me to seek out and slay the dragons of the world. It wasn’t a bad analogy.

‘I can keep trying,’ I countered.

A clatter of loose rocks announced Harvey’s arrival, a rifle canted over his shoulder. Dust had greyed his jet skin, and the aviator shades forming dark sockets in his visage gave him a death’s-head look. His wide smile spoiled the image.

‘I took it that the fighting was over with when the bullets stopped flying,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘We’re clear.’

‘Yeah. Thanks for the heads-up, guys.’ From his shirt pocket he pulled out a small electronic device, on which he sent a signal to Walter’s nearby clean-up crew.

We moved out into the arroyo to wait for them.

They arrived on foot, three men I didn’t know, and didn’t care to. They shoved another man before them, a skinny Mexican with one eye white with cataracts. He was another coyote, but not from this gang. Terror shone in his face, and drool hung from his flaccid lips.

As I released the catch to drop my mag, Rink sighed and turned away. I wasn’t happy with what was coming, but I told myself that the coyote was responsible for murder, rape and God knew what else. I jacked the slide of my gun, checking there were no stray shells inside, before walking to meet the CIA agents and their prisoner.

‘I ain’t doing it,’ I told Walter’s men.

One of them, a severe man who reminded me of the Grim Reaper, offered a wolfish smile. ‘I’m happy to do it for you. Give the scumbag your gun.’

The coyote stared up into my face, a prayer behind his one good eye. Unluckily for him, I’m not the religious type.

‘Here.’ I shoved the SIG towards him. Maybe he thought he was going to get a chance after all. But when he turned to the agent, he knew otherwise.

‘Please,’ he cried out, ‘I won’t tell anyone . . .’

The CIA agent shot him in the head.

Before the coyote had finished twitching in the sand, the grim-faced man held out his hand and I passed him the mag. He crouched down and reinserted it in the SIG. Then he manipulated the slide and fed the coyote’s dead finger through the trigger guard. He paused once to smile up at me before tugging back on the finger and discharging a round in the dust. Gunshot residue was now on the dead man’s hand. For all intents and purposes, he was the slayer of at least five members of the rival gang.

‘This is bullshit,’ Rink whispered harshly.

He was right. But it was a necessary evil.

‘We’ll need all your weapons,’ Grim Reaper said.

‘Stick them in your ass,’ Rink replied, tossing the Mossberg down and stomping away. Harvey twisted his mouth wryly. Then he deposited his rifle and followed in our buddy’s wake.

‘Your friends seem to find this work distasteful,’ the agent said.

‘No, mate,’ I said. ‘They find
you
distasteful.’

Before he could form a reply, I pushed by him after Rink and Harvey. We had a debriefing to attend, and afterwards I was going to place a few choice words in Walter’s ear. But my anger dissipated as soon as Walter pulled me to one side and told me of his small personal problem.

Chapter 2

‘What’s Rink so pissed about? I thought he was going to spit on my boots before he left.’

‘You really have to ask, Walt?’

‘You guys have just killed a dozen men, what’s the big deal about one more?’

‘The others had a fighting chance. That last man was executed, Walt. None of us bought into that.’

‘We had to make things look like a gang war, son. We had to point the finger at a rival outfit. Any other time you would have capped that guy yourself . . .’

‘Not like that.’

‘He didn’t die in vain,’ Walter said, holding my gaze. ‘His death keeps you boys out of the frame, keeps you out of prison.’

‘And you,’ I reminded him.

‘That’s why I’m not complaining.’ Walter sighed, and lowered his frame into a creaking chair. We were in the rear of a large van, converted to a mobile command unit. His was the only chair, placed before a bank of computer screens and other electronic equipment. I stood looking down at him.

‘Back in the day none of you would’ve complained.’

‘Back then we were different men.’

‘No, son, you were always headstrong and wilful, and didn’t always see the bigger picture.’

‘That’s because we were never shown it.’

It took me a moment to realise that Walter was laughing. He shook his head. ‘Despite what the politicians say we’re losing the battle against organised crime. Take these coyotes: we arrest one, another ten spring up in their place. Back when they were just some guys sneaking a few immigrants across the desert, it didn’t make much difference. But since the cartels took over, where many of these immigrants are either enrolled as drug mules, or sold into the sex trade or held for ransom, things have changed. We can’t stop them, Joe. All we can hope to do is slow them down.’

‘What about this talk about a North American Alliance? When Mexico, the States and Canada become a common market like the EU, and they all open their borders, controlling something like this will be nigh-on impossible.’

‘It’s almost impossible now,’ he admitted. ‘But we do what we have to do. Slow the gangs down.’

‘So this wasn’t about avenging the lives of all those women in the truck?’

He shrugged.

‘That’s what it meant to us.’

‘Good. You hold that thought. I have no such emotional crutch.’

‘Why can’t I find any pity for you, Walt?’

‘I’m not looking for pity, just a modicum of understanding. I was tasked with igniting a turf war between the two major coyote gangs working this area. The plan is to cause discord and confusion: while they’re fighting each other they’re too busy to transport the next shipment of narcotics and illegals into America.’

‘If they’re too busy fighting each other, then maybe they’ll forget about another truck full of innocent people they’ve left to die of thirst.’

‘Let’s hope that isn’t the case.’

‘Like you care, Walt?’

‘I care. But there’s something I care more about . . .’

He fell into silence. This was a man who had ordered the deaths of hundreds – perhaps thousands – during his time with Arrowsake, and in the years since as a sub-division director of Black Ops with the Agency. He wasn’t prone to showing regret, but it was etched on his face now. I waited for him to explain.

Walter was looking old. He’d always been a robust man, whose choice of dress reminded me of one of those TV evangelists. He favoured powder-blue or cream suits, complete with waistcoat and pointy-toed boots. A ruff of grey hair over his ears was thinning even as the baldness of his pate spread. His pallor indicated a man who spent long days under artificial lighting, behind an unmarked door in the bowels of CIA HQ at Langley. But of late some of the muscle beneath his skin had become flaccid, his jowls and eyebrows drooped, and the grey of his hair was yellowing in places. He gave up smoking his beloved cigars some time ago, but I was starting to think he’d left things a little late.

‘You OK, Walt?’

He ran a hand over his face as he surfaced from his reverie.

‘I’m OK, Joe. My concern is for someone else.’

Relief surged through me. For a second I’d feared he’d been about to admit to being terminally ill. I didn’t always see eye to eye with Walter, and had on occasion seriously considered cutting all ties with him, but I still loved the old bastard. He’d been more of a father to me than Bob Telfer, who’d married my mother after my real dad died.

‘I’m a secretive man, Joe,’ he said.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘There are things about me even you don’t know.’

‘If this is about you wearing women’s underwear, I’m not sure I want to hear.’

His smile was strained.

‘I’ve never been married, but I’m no monk. Did you ever suspect that I was a father?’

‘I’ve wondered.’

‘I have a daughter, Joe. She will be forty-six years old at her next birthday.’

‘Wow.’ I was at a loss for anything more erudite.

‘Sadly she knows nothing about me.’ He waved down my frown. ‘I agreed with her mother that my identity should remain a secret, to ensure our daughter’s protection. I’ve watched her from afar, assisted financially in her upbringing where and when I could. I’d have loved to have been closer, but I couldn’t come clean about her. My enemies would have used her against me.’

I nodded solemnly. When I was married to Diane I had similar fears for her, and for the children we once hoped for. As it was we divorced and Diane was no longer threatened by my occupation. I could see why Walter, still immersed in the shady world of counter-terrorism, would guard such a secret so astutely.

‘Her name is Annie,’ he continued.

‘Something has happened to her?’ I ventured.

‘No, not to Annie, but to her daughter: my granddaughter, Kirstie.’

Tears welled in his eyes, and again I drew the wrong conclusion. ‘Her identity has been discovered by an enemy?’

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

‘Someone has snatched the child.’