The Lawless Kind (6 page)

Kirstie wasn’t a coward; no mother fighting for her child is. But the warning had rung loud and clear, and she’d waited months before summoning up the courage to resume lawful proceedings to retrieve her son. However, as history had shown, none of her efforts had born fruit. She had practically given up hope until her grandmother had put her in contact with Walter Conrad. Her grandfather?

She’d wondered where he’d been all of her life, but more than that she now wondered where the hell he’d been for the past two days. It was over forty-eight hours since Walter had told her that for Benjamin’s sake she must trust him and those that she was about to meet. That was a big ask, when the man was so secretive about his motives. And, by virtue of association, so were Hunter and his friends. But then, to recover her son, she’d sign a deal with the devil.

The A/C unit was struggling to maintain the low temperature. It had begun to roar. She threw off the sheet and stood. She was fully dressed, wearing the same blouse, but had exchanged her skirt and heels for cargo pants and sneakers from her carry-on bag. She glanced up at the labouring unit, but only to time her step under it to avoid one of those icy drips getting under her collar. She waited for the drip, then quickly exited into the short hall alongside the en suite bathroom and approached the exit door. She placed an ear to the wood.

Voices were mingled in conversation, and she could make out more than the three she’d become used to hearing. She thought there were at least five or six men in the room next door. Because there were no sounds of anger or recrimination, the newcomers must have been expected.

Kirstie raised a palm to open the door before second thoughts caused her hand to drop. The murmur of muted conversation had stopped. Kirstie listened hard and caught the soft pad of approaching footsteps. She moved back, and stood with her hands fisted at her sides as someone rapped on the door.

‘Who is it?’

The handle turned and Kirstie opened her mouth to challenge the intrusion into her space, but the recrimination fell short. Hunter stared back at her and something about the intensity of his gaze stopped the words in her throat. Colours seemed to shift in the depths of his eyes, blue, green and brown, as he tilted his head to study her. She felt him analyse and catalogue everything about her within a split second.

‘We need to talk,’ he said, appraising her. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve dressed more appropriately.’

She had an equally analytical eye and took in Hunter’s appearance in a rapid sweep from head to toe. He wasn’t exactly remarkable to look at, being slightly less than six feet tall and probably in his late thirties or early forties. He had a basic barbershop hairstyle, light brown flecked with grey at the temples, shaved close at the sides and back, a little longer on top. Under a battered brown leather jacket and black shirt, black jeans and boots, she could tell that his body was hard, but unlike those of the muscular sportsmen she was familiar with. But when her gaze returned to his eyes, she sensed something unusual about him that set off a flutter in her belly. She recognised the gaze of a remorseless warrior, but wasn’t that exactly what she required? Hunter extended an open hand.

‘We’re leaving sooner than we thought,’ he said.

His wrist was thick, and on the tanned skin of his hand she could make out tiny white scars that hinted at others on his body. Such a hand had likely killed and was capable of inflicting further death.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘You already know that. Trust me, Kirstie, I’m here to help you.’

She didn’t move.

‘Let me rephrase my question: what are you?’

‘Someone prepared to help. Do you need to know more than that?’

‘And the old man?’

‘I think it’s better that he tell you himself.’

‘Walter Conrad,’ she said, pouting at the name. A childhood memory came to her. She’d been visiting with her grandmother and had snuck up to the bedroom and eavesdropped on a telephone call. She didn’t understand what the conversation was about, but she recalled how her grandmother had signed off. ‘I love you, Walter.’ Kirstie had forgotten that conversation, but now it came crashing down on her in a moment of epiphany.

‘Is he really . . . ?’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘Like I said, it’s best that he tells you everything.’ Hunter held out his hand again. This time the image of a killer’s hands had disappeared and she saw the strength as something else entirely. She allowed him to lead her from the bedroom.

The room they entered was still clean and neat, but it now smelled of coffee, and the fan struggled against the heat of so many bodies. Back in her bedroom she hadn’t dialled up the A/C because she was hot, but to move around the stale and cloying air. Here the men who’d made the room their temporary home hadn’t thought to do so, but had sweated through their plans while downing strong coffee and deli sandwiches. Kirstie registered the smells, but did not dwell on them; she was too busy examining the men gathered round her.

‘Where’s Walter?’

‘He won’t be joining us,’ Hunter said. ‘In the meantime I thought it best that you get to know our friends here, seeing as you’re going to be spending some time together.’

The newcomers were a middle-aged Latino with gel in his slicked-back hair, wearing a loose shirt over chinos and sneakers, and a slightly older, grey-haired guy in a sports jacket and slacks, who had ex-cop stamped all over him.

‘Raul Velasquez and Jim McTeer, they’ll be looking after you while the rest of us fetch Benjamin.’

Kirstie was still holding Hunter’s hand. Gently she extricated herself. ‘What do you mean, “looking after me”? I’m going with you.’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll be coming to Mexico with us. Once we have Benjamin out of Jorge’s hands we’ll need you to take care of him. But you can’t be in on the actual snatch. You’ll be at a safe staging area with these guys. If all goes to plan, and we get the boy back, then it’s important that he’s with his mother. Otherwise there’s no way we can bring him across the border without raising suspicion.’

‘You’re assuming that Benjamin will be at Jorge’s house. If so, I obviously can’t be involved, but that might not be the case. If he was elsewhere, say a public place, then it makes sense for me to be there. It would be easier for me to get to him than you guys.’

‘Kirstie,’ Hunter’s eyes were cold chips of ice. ‘If Jorge’s men are as capable as you say, then you won’t get within a hundred yards of Benjamin. He’ll be heavily protected, I’m guessing, with operatives watching out for him at all times. They might not even bother warning you this time, but just shoot you dead at the first opportunity.’

‘What’s to stop them doing the same to any of you?’

‘We’ll be shooting back,’ Hunter said.

Chapter 7

As we barrelled towards the Mexican border, Kirstie travelled with me and Rink in the rental car I’d collected from the airport, while Harvey, Velasquez and McTeer followed close behind in the van. Now that we were on our way, Kirstie had fallen silent, and in the rear-view mirror I occasionally caught her chewing her lips or tapping her tongue on her teeth as she frowned out of the window.

In hindsight, perhaps I should have chosen my words with more care. Kirstie was fearful enough of her child’s welfare without my suggesting there’d be a firefight over him. But I was never one for offering false hope, and it was best that she understood the implications of trying to snatch a child from under the watchful eyes of footsoldiers primed against the unusual. They were waging constant war with neighbouring cartels, all of them jostling for the largest slice of pie, and it stood to reason they’d be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. Recently one gang had slaughtered thirty-plus members of a rival outfit, gunning them down during a daring raid on their headquarters, the story making the international news due to its brutality and efficiency, so I didn’t doubt that we were facing dangerous and capable enemies who were likely to launch a counter-attack.

After I’d said my piece, Kirstie had looked shocked, and had agreed to remain at the staging post we’d set up on our arrival in Jorge Molina’s hometown of Hermosillo. That made me feel a little better about the arrangement. If I’d had my way, Kirstie wouldn’t be coming into Mexico at all, but Harvey, and then Rink, had argued that we needed her to look after Benjamin. None of us could care for a small child – not while possibly fighting all the way back to the US. At least Kirstie was no shrinking violet, no damsel in distress requiring saving by one of us. She was tough, I could tell, and determined, and also trained in the use of small arms. Apparently her grandmother had instructed both Annie and Kirstie in firearms, a skill that Kirstie had kept up since being manhandled off the street by Jorge’s henchmen. The grandmother had perhaps foreseen a day when it would be necessary for her family to take up weapons, but she could never have guessed it would be under these circumstances.

I checked in the rear-view again. Kirstie had hidden her auburn hair under the cap I’d given her at the airport hotel, and had her chin tilted down so that the peak concealed part of her face. Her gaze was hidden in shadow, but it was as if she sensed my scrutiny and looked up. I caught a flash of pale grey, before one eyelid flickered in a wink. My response was to wink back, and Kirstie nodded at my weak attempt at offering support.

‘You OK back there?’

‘As well as anybody could be under these circumstances.’

‘You should eat something,’ I said. We had dined on coffee and sandwiches but Kirstie had had no appetite while going through our final plans. ‘Grab something from the cooler back there.’

‘I’m not sure my stomach would take food just now.’

‘Nervous?’

‘No, anxious.’

Beside me in the passenger seat, Rink stirred from a light slumber. Despite snoring gently, he’d been aware of our brief conversation. ‘It pays to eat and drink when you can: you never know when you’ll next have the opportunity.’

‘Do you want something?’ Kirstie flipped open the lid of the cooler box we’d prepared.

‘Yeah, toss me some mineral water and one of those taco wraps, will ya?’

‘What about you, Joe?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ll get something once we swap drivers.’

‘Yeah. Best you don’t distract him.’ Rink accepted a bottle of water and his food, while glancing around at the scenery. It was featureless desert on one side, with only a few stray spindly bushes dotting the hilly horizon, while on the other there was a narrow strip of tilled land that was surprisingly green. ‘Good to see you’ve managed to drive this far without killing us all,’ Rink said. ‘I’ll take over soon, before the traffic grows any heavier.’

Rink often pokes fun at my motoring abilities, even though I’m skilled in tactical and defensive driving. He doesn’t trust me to remain on the right side of the road. Usually I counter by telling him the left side
is
the right side back where I come from, but Kirstie wasn’t familiar with our usual banter. I let his jibe go.

‘Just finish your food and go back to sleep,’ I told him. ‘You too, Kirstie. Try to have a nap because we can’t be sure when you’ll get any decent sleep.’

‘I couldn’t sleep if I tried. I’ve too many things going through my mind.’

A sign at the side of the highway indicated that we were nearing the tiny town of Rio Rico, but the approach to the town was sheathed in heat haze rising from the asphalt, so I couldn’t make out any signs of life. We were only a few miles off the border town of Nogales where we’d chosen to cross into Mexico. Assuming that Jorge Molina’s influence stretched that far north, it was possibly the first place that his watchers would be stationed. It could also prove the first point where we crossed paths with those I was certain were keeping tabs on Kirstie. Just because we hadn’t spotted a tail at Tucson didn’t mean there was none there. There was every likelihood that they’d called ahead and arranged a welcoming committee for us the minute we crossed from North Grand Avenue – the southernmost tip of I-19 – to Adolfo Lopez Mateos Highway on the Mexican side.

‘Even if you can’t, pretend that you’re sleeping,’ I said. ‘We don’t want anyone getting a good look at your face as we cross the border.’

‘Won’t we have to be checked by the border patrol?’

‘Don’t worry. It’s easy getting out of the country. Not quite as simple getting back in. I’ll do the talking; you just keep your head down, OK? And it’s probably best you stay like that until we’re on the Mex Fifteen south of town and can be sure we’re not being followed.’

We passed an old mission church with an arched façade and walled garden standing lonely on parched earth. There were a number of cars parked on the lot outside, but no tourists or pilgrims in evidence. The church was reminiscent of the Alamo, but then my opinion was coloured by the old John Wayne movie because I’d never seen the original building. Pushing through Rio Rico I found houses and a few retail premises on widely spread lots, so perhaps my earlier description of it as a town was a tad grandiose. Then we were past the houses at the southern outskirt and surrounded once again by desert. Next stop Nogales. I checked for our friends in the panel van and made it out as a dull smudge in the heat haze behind. As we approached the border crossing, Harvey would fall back and place more distance between the two vehicles so that we were not pegged as travelling companions. If we picked up a tail, then it would be good to have back-up behind them.