The Lawless Kind (26 page)

No. It wouldn’t come to that, he decided.

He had been tasked with pandering to Molina’s wishes to gain the man’s trust and he’d do his utmost to give the man what he desired. If that meant handing him Marshall’s head, then so be it. His own head was something else.

Regis worked under the auspices of an Agency divisional director, Thomas Caspar, who was more than equal in rank to Walter Hayes Conrad, and who could, if Regis requested, override Conrad’s part in this mission. It was not unknown for different departments of the CIA to work counterproductively on similar problems. You only had to look at Osama Bin Laden, fêted on the one hand, and hunted on the other by separate parties within the same agency. It was obviously the same here, where Caspar saw Molina as a valuable asset, while Conrad – whose brief was to upset the movement of human traffic across borders – saw him as a stumbling block to be removed. Though Regis could not understand why Conrad had dispatched his pet mercenaries to steal Molina’s son. Where was the value in such an operation, except maybe to cause Molina some inconvenience while trying to get Benjamin back?

He could contact Caspar if necessary; have him order Conrad to hand over the child. But he doubted that Molina would be satisfied with such an arrangement. The burning hunger in the man’s face had nothing to do with getting his son back; it was all about punishing those who had the temerity to take something from him. Molina would pursue the thieves with equal determination if they had lifted a trinket from his bedside cabinet, or a single peso from his wallet. Molina was – after all – the man who planned to murder his own father, Felix Eugenio Molina, before the old dodderer lost all credibility with the other cartel bosses, and they moved in to take away what should rightfully be bequeathed to him. He could not do something as obvious as chopping off Felix’s head, which Regis suspected was Molina’s preferred method; instead he had been slowly poisoning him with doctored medication. Now he was intent on finishing off the old man with a massive overdose, and looked forward to dancing at his funeral.

‘There is always an alternative to this problem,’ said Regis.

‘There is no alternative. I want Joe Hunter dead. I want Kirstie-
fucking
-Long dead. I want
everyone
that aids them dead.’

‘Why not allow them all safe passage to the US, then take the boy when they least expect it? They will feel safer across the border, and less likely to put up a concerted defence.’

‘I relish the fight, Regis. Don’t you see that?’ Molina glanced at his bodyguards, who turned away. ‘I must show my competitors what will happen to them if they ever dare move against me, or what
belongs
to me. There is no fearing a “concerted defence”. I will batter every defence down, and I will take their heads, and it will be on this side of the goddamn border.’

Regis held up his palms in surrender. Good luck, he thought. He’d witnessed Joe Hunter and friends in action and suspected that Molina was relishing a fight he might just regret. Molina feared losing face, but actually he should fear losing his head.

Chapter 32

Back in Depression-era America, men in search of work frequently travelled the tracks, hopping on and off trains, sleeping in stock carts alongside the other hobos making the same journey. I’d watched old black and white movies depicting those travellers, thought how hard life was back then and somewhat admired the lengths to which desperate men would go to find paying work. Our presence on the back of the freight train wasn’t for such a noble cause, but Rink and I were equally desperate. The train was the only available mode of transport that could outrun the convoy of vehicles that dogged our trail all the way to Imuris.

In those old movies, the hobos took whatever opportunity they could to leave the moving train, because they could not allow themselves to be found aboard by station guards who’d first beat them, then throw them in jail on vagrancy charges. Usually they were depicted leaping from fast-moving trains into discreetly placed haystacks or rivers to cushion their fall. We didn’t expect or receive such luxury. When we jumped it was on to sun-baked soil as resilient as concrete. The impact in both my heels was redirected all the way up to the crown of my head, despite my effort to tuck and roll, and for a few minutes afterwards I worried that I’d lost a full inch in height. Moving was painful, but I concentrated on the faces I conjured in my mind’s eye and they helped push me forward. Kirstie and Benjamin were relying on me, and I’d be no help to them lying down and complaining about my myriad hurts. Rink seemed unaffected, but then he had that samurai resolve to fall back on. He could be cringing inside, yet his face was set in Zen-like tranquillity. Mine was twisted in a grimace, as I made my way through the alphabet consigning a curse to each letter, and only struggling when it came to ‘Z’.

Imuris was a small town in comparison with Hermosillo, or even Magdalena, and we were fortunate to arrive before Molina’s cavalcade of footsoldiers. There were enough of them to have encircled the place and denied us a way in. But time was an issue, they’d be arriving shortly, and best that we were on our way before they did.

We required a reliable vehicle, because the next leg of our journey was through the mountains, some at high elevation, where the least we would need was a working heater. Although hot during the day, it was barely above freezing at night, and I’d not thawed out from my precarious train journey. Most of my aches and pains would be alleviated if I wasn’t so chilled. It didn’t help that my clothing was ripped, full of tiny glass shards and spotted with dried blood that felt like cardboard against my flesh. All added to the continued misery.

Sometimes Rink can read my mind. Or perhaps I wasn’t complaining as silently as I thought.

‘First things first, we need to get hold of a coat for you. C’mon over here.’ He led the way towards a homestead on the outskirts of town. The house was in darkness, and whoever lived there had exercised caution and locked the place down tight. It was a low, single-storey dwelling with a flat roof from which old TV antennae protruded. Also on the roof were lines holding various items of laundry. The family probably thought that it would take a desperate thief to climb to the roof and steal their meagre clothing: they weren’t wrong.

Rink unslung the M-4, placing it on the ground next to the house wall. I boosted Rink with my cupped palms, and he went over the parapet and on to the rooftop with the agility of a cat. He was only up there a moment before a couple of shirts rained down, followed by a heavy woollen sweater. There was no coat, but beggars can’t be choosers. I stripped out of my sweatshirt and rolled it up, then thankfully pulled on one of the shirts. It was thick, a heavy denim. It was also too small for me, so I left the top three buttons undone, as well as those at the cuffs. The sweater was a tad looser and didn’t constrict as much. I felt much better, though I did feel guilt over the theft.

Rink came down from the roof in a fluid motion that hardly made any noise. ‘Nice to see you in some colours for a change,’ he whispered. My appropriated sweater was red and green, with small animal motifs that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Christmas. For one who usually dressed as though he’d raided Johnny Cash’s wardrobe, the bright colours were anathema, but the immediate warmth consoled me. Rink pulled on the spare shirt, allowing it to hang loose so he could still get at his weapon, but the extra layer offered some warmth. He then hitched the M-4 over his shoulder.

Rink began to move away, seeking the next item on our list, but I paused. Pulling out my wallet, I took out most of the bills and laid them on top of my discarded sweatshirt on the front doorstep. I sat a rock from the garden on top of the stack of dollars. I didn’t leave a note: the money would explain my guilt at stealing the clothing. Mexico wasn’t full of the lawless kind, the likes of Jorge Molina and his footsoldiers; it was full of decent, hard-working people who couldn’t afford to have their belongings stolen from them.

Rink shook his head in bemusement. ‘I’ve known you all these years, and still you surprise me.’

That was Joe Hunter through and through, a conundrum: a violent man who didn’t flinch at killing, yet one who found the act of petty theft abhorrent. The way I squared away my odd sense of morals was that the victims of my violence generally deserved it, those of my thievery didn’t. Simple.

Imuris was quiet. It was late – approaching midnight by my reckoning – and most people would be in their beds. There was no sign of nightlife, no bars, no clubs, no parties, but then we were still on the outskirts so that wasn’t unusual. There were cars and trucks. Dozens of them. Yet most were either too new or too old to steal. New models meant security was an issue; older vehicles might not be roadworthy for the trip over the mountains.

I followed Rink as he assessed and rejected each vehicle. Then he found a Subaru station wagon parked in the lea of a home that doubled as a general store. The Subaru was wedged between rows of crates and baskets; some of them holding husks of sun-dried fruit and wadded paper. He moved for the car, pulling out his KA-BAR knife in anticipation. I shadowed him, but paused to lift aside a couple of teetering crates that might fall and alert the neighbourhood when we moved the car. Placing the crates out of harm’s way, I turned to watch Rink check the door and find it locked. It didn’t slow him. He wedged the tip of his KA-BAR between the door window and frame and worked it in so that most of the blade was inside. Then he levered down and the window dropped an inch or so. Rink gripped the blade of his knife between his teeth as he inserted both hands in the gap, rose up on his toes and bore down with all his weight. The window was shoved off the winding mechanism and dropped into the well inside the door. Rink pulled up the manual lock, opened the door, and passed the machine-gun over into the back seat. In the next instant he was inside and had released the brake, while I went to the back and began to push, taking the car silently from under the lean-to and on to the road. I continued to push until we were a hundred or so yards clear, then went round to the passenger side and climbed in. Rink was busy under the dash, having already broken open the ignition barrel, and was paring and rejoining wires. The engine barked to life. We were moving.

Trusting to his natural sense of direction, Rink headed out of town, steering well clear of the railway station, and got us on to a road that headed deeper into the mountains. We’d left the rain behind some miles to the south-west and here the sky was cloudless and the stars brilliant in the gaps between the high mountain peaks. Ours was the only vehicle on the road. It was peaceful for the first time in many hours, and I silently warned myself to remain alert. If I allowed the tranquillity to lull me, the next thing I’d know was waking up, sleep-muddled and at low ebb. Though the temptation was great, I couldn’t allow even a nap. Not while danger still threatened at any second.

‘I wouldn’t mind a strong coffee right about now,’ I said.

Rink made smacking noises with his lips. He was as thirsty as I was. Neither of us had drunk or eaten anything since before we left to grab Benjamin. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I’d gone many hours longer than this before, but it didn’t help. I began to root through the glove box, hoping to find some water, but there was nothing of the sort. On the back seat was an old blanket that smelled of dogs, the M-4 machine-gun, and that was all. But there were boxes in the cargo compartment in the back. I clambered over and fished through the contents, hoping for succulent fruit, but again was disappointed. It seemed that the packages held only cleaning supplies, and I wasn’t ready to drink bleach just yet.

Returning to my place up front, I didn’t have to tell Rink the bad news. He didn’t comment. What was the use of complaining?

He kept the car moving. A few hours and we’d be at Agua Prieta, then across the border to Douglas where we could drink our fill.

At least that was my hope.

Chapter 33

Harvey Lucas called a halt, for which Kirstie was grateful. Benjamin had woken up, mewled at his mother, said he needed pee-pees, and then hugged her tightly, sobbing. His weeping was from confusion and fear, a need for consolation and comfort. Kirstie was elated that the boy had chosen to come to her for both.

While McTeer and Velasquez stretched their legs, talking quietly, Harvey stood sentry as Kirstie coaxed Benjamin to urinate at the side of the mountain road. Since the friendly tip-off from the federal policeman, they’d been using tracks and lesser roads that meandered through the hills and Kirstie had no idea where they were now in relation to the border crossing. She decided to ask Harvey, once her boy’s needs were seen to. The little lad was having trouble – through embarrassment at being surrounded by unfamiliar people – and Kirstie encouraged him. She glanced once at Harvey’s tall frame, but the man had his back to them out of decency, standing stock-still as he surveyed the valley below for lights.

Finally Benjamin managed to get a stream going, and it lasted an inordinately long time. He kept his head averted, his shoulders slumped as Kirstie crouched behind him, holding him by the waist. When he was done he snapped up the waistband of his pyjamas, and Kirstie offered to straighten his clothes but he wriggled out of her grasp, running off the road towards a cluster of rocks. Kirstie stood dumbfounded for a second, before she gave chase. She must have cried out, because suddenly Harvey was racing past her, his long limbs eating up the ground between her and the fleeing boy.