The Lawless Kind (39 page)

‘If you can find a way round, get in,’ he said.

I checked beyond the blood-smeared hood, and could see where Molina’s pulverised corpse lay among the rubble in front of the exit doors. Jorge Molina would never trouble his ex-wife or son again, that was certain.

Throwing Sheetrock and beams aside, I ploughed a way round the back of the SUV. Harvey and McTeer followed my progress. On their way through the warehouse and annexe buildings, they’d scavenged clothing from the dead. I remembered that I was barefoot and bare-chested, but it was no major concern – I often went that way while at home in Florida. Making it to the passenger door, I tugged it open and slipped inside.

‘Couldn’t get the damn roller shutter to open,’ Marshall said by way of explanation, ‘so I had to look for another way out. These walls aren’t as flimsy as they look though.’

‘Not as flimsy as that fucker,’ I said, indicating the half-buried corpse.

In the back the guys were laughing, but truth be told it was more like hysteria. I looked round to check on them, saw that Velasquez was out, but breathing naturally now. Harvey reached over and gripped my shoulder.

‘Did you see Rink?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. He’s as ugly as ever.’

‘He’s OK though?’

‘More than OK, he has Kirstie and Benjamin.’

‘Thank God,’ Harvey said, and sank back in his seat.

McTeer was lost for words, just sat giving me that half-insane grin. I gave him a gentle nudge with my fist. ‘You OK, buddy?’

‘Could do with a cold beer,’ he said, and laughed as if it was the funniest quip ever.

‘Come on,’ I said to Marshall. ‘Let’s get out of here, shall we?’

He took it slowly, the SUV in four-wheel drive, and ploughed a route through the collapsing corridor. None of us bothered to move Molina out of the way. He was churned beneath the heavy tyres, but there was enough junk on him that his body fluids didn’t cause any loss of traction. Marshall crashed the doors open and we were outside the building at last.

If any of Molina’s footsoldiers remained alive, they’d had the sense to make off. Some police were bought and paid for, but not all. The Federales would be arriving in force before long and we couldn’t be found at the scene. Marshall drove round the office building towards the front of the structure, watching keenly for his men. As far as I recalled Paulson and Mitchell had survived the battle and were out here somewhere. So, I hoped, were Rink, Kirstie and Benjamin. Arriving at the front, I heard a horn beep.

‘There!’ I pointed towards where Rink had commandeered an abandoned vehicle. Kirstie and her boy were in the back.

Another vehicle approached, and though I didn’t know Mitchell or Paulson from Adam, Marshall sighed in relief. He looked at me. ‘Are you up to driving? Those lads are still my responsibility . . . I should go with them.’

I clapped him on the shoulder.

‘I owe you one, pal,’ I said.

‘You owe me more than one. I saved all your arses.’

‘You did, and I’m grateful.’

Marshall stopped the SUV and climbed out. I slid across into the driving position, as the other car pulled up and Marshall waved to the two men inside. He bent down, looked in at my three friends. ‘I knew Joe way back when he was still young and reckless. Now he’s just reckless. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?’

After receiving affirmations, he returned his gaze to me. His fake orb was still, his real one jiggling. He extended a hand. ‘It was good serving with you again, Hunter.’

‘You too, Marshall.’ I accepted his hand.

‘Don’t know how they’re going to clear up this mess,’ he said. ‘But that’s not for us to worry about, I’m sure between them our sponsors will come up with enough bullshit to confuse the issue. But they won’t get started for a while yet. I don’t suggest you try to leave by the border crossing here. It’ll be shut down tighter than Howell Regis’s arse.’

‘Maybe I can find one of those coyote gangs willing to smuggle us across the border,’ I joked.

‘No need. The fences are high here, but it’s all for show. The North American Alliance is gaining impetus; the border’s not so heavily patrolled now that the Yanks, Canadians and Mexicans are all becoming buddies. Go west a few miles and you’ll find the fence is non-existent. That’s the way I brought my guys in-country.’

‘You going out that way?’

‘No. We should head east. If there is any pursuit, I’m hoping they go after you guys.’ He winked. Then he slapped the roof of the SUV. ‘Go on. I’d best get going too.’

‘Regis,’ I said.

‘What about him?’

‘You don’t have to worry about him causing any more trouble. He’s back in there under all that rubble.’

‘Best place for him, in the dirt,’ Marshall said. ‘Buried alongside his pal Molina.’

‘Hopefully when the cops arrive, they’ll think Molina and Regis were shooting at each other. It’ll let us off the hook, unless someone spills the beans.’

‘Who’s going to admit that they were part of that mess?’

He shrugged at his own question.

Then he got in the car with his friends and they drove away. He didn’t look back. Or if he did I didn’t notice. I was too busy smiling at Kirstie as she peered at me from inside Rink’s commandeered vehicle.

Chapter 50

‘Come in, Joe. I’m glad you’re here. For a few days there I thought I’d seen the last of you.’

The doorway of her first-floor apartment framed Kirstie Long. The soft light spilling from within added an amber halo to her hair where it hung loose around her shoulders. Her face was partly in shadow, but her eyes and lips glistened, reflecting the streetlamps outside. Her apartment was in a nice neighbourhood of Washington DC, and must have cost a huge amount of money. The house, Kirstie had told me, had been his parting gift when Jorge Molina returned to Mexico. He owed her more than a decent home for the trouble he’d caused her and Benjamin, yet, compared to the poor hovels of those that Molina had used and abused in Mexico, Kirstie had done all right out of the deal. However, I’d noted the realtor’s sign before mounting the wooden stairs to her front door. She was selling up.

‘Thinking of moving house?’ I asked, hitching a thumb towards the FOR SALE sign.

‘Too many bad memories here, Joe,’ she said as she stood aside and beckoned me in. ‘For me and for Benjamin.’

‘A fresh start might help. How is the boy?’

‘Taking time to adjust, but that’s to be expected, I guess.’

‘He’s young enough to forget what he went through, it’s you that will have nightmares for months to come.’

‘I’ve put it behind me. What have I to fear now that Jorge can’t harm us any more?’

Truth was, trouble could come at her from any number of directions, but it wouldn’t serve any purpose to tell her so. I offered a consolatory nod. I moved from the vestibule into the living space while Kirstie closed the door.

Her sitting room was spacious, stylishly furnished, with overflowing bookshelves that lined the walls. Recalling that Kirstie worked as a PR manager for a number of best-selling authors, sports stars and celebrities, I assumed many of the books were gifts from her clients. ‘How many books are here? Thousands? I don’t envy you having to pack all these when you move.’

‘I thought that you might be around to lend a hand . . .’

Her words held more meaning than their face value. I hid my smile as I sat down on the settee. Kirstie sat opposite, in a recliner. She was wearing a cream-coloured sweater over blue jeans that adhered to her slim thighs. She was barefoot. A paperback thriller lay open on the floor, where she’d placed it on hearing the doorbell. She was relaxed and at ease, believing that the threat to her and her son had ended when Marshall’s SUV smashed Molina to death.

‘Do those kind of books still excite you after everything you experienced?’ I asked.

‘I read them to escape the real world,’ she explained, ‘and to force out the memories of what happened in Mexico. They work for me.’ She toed the open book. ‘Those fictional characters suffer much more than I did. Though I haven’t read about anyone who endured your pain. I’m surprised you’re up and walking around.’

‘You should see me when no one’s looking. I’m like an old man of ninety.’

It was almost a month since we’d escaped the warehouse at Agua Prieta. When driving the SUV across country and into the USA I’d existed on adrenalin and the need to find medical assistance for Velasquez. His injuries were more concerning than mine, and I’d barely given my wounds a second thought until we got him to a hospital at Sierra Vista. To be honest, other than the bullet wounds to my forearm and leg that I’d practically forgotten about, most of the cuts were minor and didn’t need stitching. The gunshot wounds I cleaned and dressed myself later, because – if I’d announced I’d been shot – the surgeons were duty bound to report all shooting incidents to the police. They didn’t believe our story that we’d been in a traffic collision, but the doctors there were discreet enough to give us a break. After Velasquez was cleaned up and medicated, he discharged himself, and we continued to a rendezvous with Walter Conrad at a private airstrip near Fort Huachuca.

My goodbye with Kirstie had been brief, before her grandfather whisked her and Benjamin away in his private jet. He made room for Velasquez and McTeer, but Rink and Harvey stayed behind with me. It was important that I didn’t tag along, because Kirstie and Walter had a lot of talking to do, and many lost years for Walter to explain. The rest of us had taken rooms at a tiny motel on the fringe of the Coronado National Forest, where we crashed out and, having eaten and drunk my fill, I’d slept for a full eighteen hours. When I woke up, and made myself presentable, we headed to the airport at Tucson and took the first plane out to Florida. I slept all the way back, and on waking felt like I’d been strapped to one of the wings the entire flight home. I felt even worse over the next couple of days, before the agony began to subside. I could move OK now, but anything vigorous had to be considered first, and attempted gingerly.

‘Where’s Benjamin?’ I asked.

‘Bed.’ She indicated a baby monitor on a table next to her chair. ‘He’s sleeping soundly.’

Jorge Molina had doped the boy with medication to help him sleep, I recalled. ‘How’re those teeth of his? Still troubling him?’

‘He already has all his teeth, he is almost five, remember.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I think the reason he had a sore mouth was because he’d been slapped, and the medication was to stop him crying. Jorge didn’t want a weakling for a son. You’ve heard what Jorge wanted him to do to me . . . I dread to imagine what else he had tried to force Benjamin into.’

To think I’d entertained thoughts that Jorge might be a good father, and didn’t blame him for chasing us so diligently to get his boy back: how wrong could I be? ‘He was sick in the head, Kirstie.’

‘Did you hear that he’d been poisoning his own father?’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. He was on a power trip, and the only way he could secure his position with the cartels was to kill off his old man and step into his shoes.’

‘What has happened in Hermosillo?’

‘I haven’t heard much. Only that one of the other cartels has moved in, seeing as Old Man Molina is on his last legs. But that was always on the cards. Without his CIA connections Jorge was a bit player; the other cartels would have eaten him alive. As far as the fighting’s concerned, the general consensus is that two cartel factions were competing for control, and our presence there has never come to light. Same thing at Agua Prieta. As luck would have it, the Federales were already engaged in fighting with some of Molina’s crew at Moctezuma. It’s believed that the battle spilled over to Agua Prieta, where Molina’s men had a falling out. It actually helped our case that Regis and some of Marshall’s men were found in the warehouse, because it gave validity to the story. They’ve been identified as mercenaries, and to all intents and purposes they didn’t get on too well with their employers. People are swearing that the two sides broke into a gun battle when they couldn’t agree on their share of profits. Anyone who knows the truth is happy to play along.’

‘What about the Border Control officials that were involved?’ Kirstie asked.

‘Some of them have disappeared, others have been arrested and face charges of corruption. Who knows how that will pan out.’

‘One of them was there in the room when Jorge tried to force Benjamin to stab me: what if she tells?’

Yes, I remembered her: the woman who Rink tossed out of the room. I also recalled how quickly she ran away. I was willing to bet that she’d kept on running. There was nothing to gain by staying in the area until the police arrived. Even if she hadn’t, was she likely to admit that she had held down a foreign national while a maniac coaxed a child to cut her throat?