Cartel (38 page)

He caught his wife's eye in the rearview mirror. "She's a good cop and a friend. She and Mike Cassidy were...in love."

Victoria nodded.

Scott kept the accelerator on the floor.

Mr. Jones was bleeding like a stuck pig. Shot in the gut, a few inches to the right of center. Pretty much a bullseye for his liver. Or at least for a normal liver. Fortunately for him, he was pretty sure the booze had eroded his to about the size of a walnut. So it wasn't a very big target. And as for his stomach, the doctor had chopped off at least a third of it, and the radiation had probably shrunk it even further, so he doubted it presented much of a target either. Thus, there was a good chance that the bullet hadn't hit anything vital. But it sure hurt like hell.

He gritted his teeth against the pain and pushed the Suburban harder. There were four bridges across the river. That the DEA agent was headed for the river, Jones had no doubt. His first priority would be to save his family, and he could only do that north of the border. The question was, which bridge would he take? Greene would be in a hurry. Jones was fairly certain that at least one of his bullets had hit the muchacha.

If he was right, that added an extra degree of urgency to Greene's escape. He had to get his little friend to a hospital, but he would go to an American hospital. So the need for speed virtually eliminated the World Trade and El Capullo bridges. Which left just two. Fifty-fifty. Like tossing a coin.

But he could do better than that. Jones felt like he knew Agent Greene. Greene was old school. The Juarez-Lincoln International Bridge was newer and bigger, with more cross-ing lanes. But it also had more traffic and was prone to con-gestion. The Gateway to the Americas Bridge, what locals on the north side called the Convent Street Bridge or just the old bridge, was less traveled. That's where Greene would-

A car whipped out from a side street three blocks in front of him. That same piece-of-shit Oldsmobile, now run-ning hell-bent for leather toward the old bridge. It was Greene. The son of a bitch was right there! Jones smiled de-spite the pain. He had been right.

* * * *

There were headlights behind them. Bright Halogens that sliced through the darkness. Three blocks back and com-ing hard.

"Scott," Victoria said.

"I see him," Scott said as he threw the Oldsmobile into a screeching turn that would have popped the hubcaps off if the car had had hubcaps.

Five seconds later, the headlights were behind them again. Closer now. Close enough so that Scott could see what it was that was chasing them. A dark Chevrolet Subur-ban. Mister Fucking Jones.

* * * *

Jones was close now. Less than a block. He looked in the rearview. No one was behind him, but he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like shit. Like he'd lost about five shades. His face was the color of paste. He looked down. Blood had soaked through his pants and saturated the cloth seat. He felt lightheaded but otherwise not too bad. It hurt less. He wondered maybe if that might be a bad thing. Nobody dies twice, so it was hard to be sure if that was what was happening to him now. He figured you could never be sure until it happened. And then, of course, it was too late.

Still, for right now he had his wits about him. He wasn't in too much pain. He had a gun with close to a full mag. He had his target in sight. And he had a mission: kill that son of a bitch and everybody with him. Maybe not the brats. He had a certain moral code. But certainly kill Greene, the chica, and that snooty bitch from Dallas. He hated Dallas.

They all had to go.

Oh, shit. What about the video? He one-handed the steering wheel long enough to reach into his suit coat pocket. It wasn't there. He reached across and felt the other pocket. Not there either. Goddamnit. Despite what he'd told Agent Greene, he did secretly hold out hope that there were no copies, that the video on the flash drive was it, and that if he had it, it would never see the light of day. Now he didn't have it.

He thought back, trying to recall. Getting shot was pret-ty much a total blur. The bullet and the pain had spun him around, and he had run away, stumbled actually, somehow made it back to the church and grabbed one of the Subur-bans. He hadn't checked for any survivors from Gavin's team. He didn't care, not really. And he didn't see any point in pretending otherwise. But the flash drive. He remembered pulling it out of his pocket to boast a little, if he was honest with himself. To savor the moment. Oh, and he'd savored it all right, right up until the second that son of a bitch Greene put a bullet in him.

Jones stared at the taillights of the car in front of him and smashed down on the accelerator.

* * * *

"He's going to ram us," Victoria shouted from the back seat.

Scott glanced up at the rearview mirror. She was right. The Suburban was going to hit them. Scott stood on the gas pedal, but it was already on the floor. The speedometer was pegged at seventy. The old girl just wouldn't go any faster. He caught Victoria's eyes in the mirror. "You okay to shoot?" he said.

"What?"

Scott reached behind his back and pulled the Beretta he'd taken from G.I. Joe. He stretched his arm over the seat to hand it to Victoria. She didn't take it.

"What am I supposed to do with that?"

"I taught you how to shoot. Remember?"

"At paper targets."

He was having trouble keeping the Oldsmobile's squishy steering straight even at this speed. "Take it," he said.

She took the gun.

Scott grabbed the wheel again with both hands and shouted, "Hang on." Then, two-footing the pedals, he jammed on the brakes and powered through a stop sign in a more or less semi-controlled slide, banged the wheel hard left, came off the brake and stomped the gas. All around them, car tires squealed and horns blared.

Now they were headed north on Avenida Melchor Ocampo. The avenue was two lanes, one way, with a narrow sidewalk on the right and cars parked against the left curb. From here it was a straight shot to the Convent Street Bridge. Looking up at the mirror, Scott saw the Suburban take the turn behind them smoother and faster than the Oldsmobile had. And the Suburban kept gaining on them.

"What do you want me to do?" Victoria said.

"Get him off of us."

"How?"

"Shoot his windshield, driver's side. On your right."

"What about our windshield?"

"Shoot through it," Scott said. "Keep shooting until you run out of bullets."

"There are people on the street," she said. "And other cars."

In the rearview mirror, Scott saw the Suburban less than fifty feet behind them and powering down on top of them. "Aim carefully."

Victoria pressed the Beretta against the back windshield with one hand and shielded her face with the other. Not really aiming at all. She pulled the trigger. Inside the closed passenger compartment, the sound of the 9mm round going off was like a sonic boom. The back windshield exploded and showered the trunk with glass. All three kids screamed and covered their ears. Samantha started crying.

"Keep shooting," Scott shouted over the sudden return of the ringing in his ears.

* * * *

Jones was closing on them. The Suburban's speedometer was showing ninety. Two car lengths to go and coming on fast. Smash the old clunker from behind and drive it into a parked car or a building. Even into another moving car would do, as long as the crash was violent. Then jump out and finish them off with shots to the head. Except the kids. Just leave those little bastards crying in their own shit. Somebody would come along and see to them.

Something inside the Oldsmobile flashed and its back windshield exploded. Glass slid down the trunk and into the street. Then a quick string of flashes lit up the inside of the Oldsmobile, and Jones heard the flat pops of a pistol firing. He closed his eyes and ducked his head just as the bullets ripped through his windshield. Shards of glass cut his face, and blood ran into his eyes. The Suburban swerved and glanced off a parked car. Jones overcorrected and almost drove into a building on the other side of the street. He jerked the steering wheel and braked hard and managed to get the big SUV back under control. He wiped his coat sleeve across his eyes, then raised his pistol and started shooting.

A bullet whizzed past Scott's right ear and punched a hole through the windshield. From the back seat, Victoria screamed, "He's shooting at us."

In the passenger seat, his son was on his knees on the floorboard, his upper body and arms splayed across the two girls.

Scott tried to ignore everything else so he could concen-trate on driving. There were two cars in front of him, side by side, blocking both lanes. He straddled the lanes, kept the accelerator pinned to the floor, and laid on the horn. Neither car moved over. Scott swerved right and bounced over the curb, flying down the sidewalk like it was a passing lane.

"What are you doing?" Victoria shouted.

Ignoring her, Scott passed the cars that had been block-ing him and dropped back into the right-hand lane. A loud crash behind him drew his eyes to the rearview. The Subur-ban had slammed into the back of one of the cars. Then the big SUV shoved the smaller vehicle off the road. Like a bulldozer on crack.

Scott looked to the front. And slammed on the brakes.

The Oldsmobile slid on four locked-up bald tires and spewed a contrail of burned rubber and smoke. The street ended at a stop sign and a T-intersection, beyond which was a small park, the size of a city block.

The image of a map flashed in Scott's mind. He'd stud-ied maps of Laredo and Nuevo Laredo when he'd first ar-rived and had memorized the major thoroughfares. The streets on the Mexican side were particularly important be-cause DEA's unofficial policy was that if an agent got in trouble on the wrong side of the river he should run for the border as fast as possible. And Avenida Melchor Ocampo was a straight run to the Convent Street Bridge. Except that it cut through the Plaza Miguel Hidalgo, and while on the map it looked like the avenue actually ran through the park, it didn't. A wide pedestrian walkway cut through the park, but vehicle traffic had to circle around.

There wasn't enough road left for the Oldsmobile to stop, so Scott let off the brake and stomped the gas. The pe-destrian walkway was as wide as the street, and there was nothing blocking it except a curb. The Oldsmobile's front wheels smacked the curb hard but they didn't blow. The front end bounced high. Scott was sure both tires came off the ground. Then the back wheels hit and snapped the front end down. And they were racing down the walkway.

A handful of strollers scattered. There was a shout and a beer bottle bounced off the front passenger window. Scott kept his foot down on the gas.

Behind him, as the Suburban blew through the T, an old pickup truck crossing its path clipped the back fender and spun the SUV into a lamppost.

The Olds jumped off the curb on the other side of the plaza, and they were back on Avenida Melchor Ocampo, still headed north toward the bridge.

* * * *

A piece-of-shit pickup truck hit the back fender and knocked Jones into a goddamned streetlight. The impact drove his head into the doorpost and nailed a chunk of glass from the shot-out windshield into his forehead. But that pain was nothing compared to the shock his wounded guts took from the near-instantaneous deceleration. He screamed. Then he got hold of himself. A warning light on the instrument panel was flashing. But the Suburban's engine was still running, and the collision hadn't deployed any of the airbags. The vehicle was still drivable. At least he was pretty sure it was.

Jones threw the gearshift into reverse and stepped on the gas. The engine revved but the SUV didn't move. He stepped harder on the gas pedal. The back tires started spin-ning, but he wasn't moving. He was stuck on top of a broken piece of lamppost.

He shifted into drive and stepped on it. The Suburban edged forward, then stopped. He shifted back and forth. Rocking the vehicle forward and backward. Finally, he broke clear of the lamppost and raced through the park. Halfway across he was pretty sure he heard a gunshot. Prob-ably aimed at him. Fucking Mexicans. Who brings a gun to a goddamned park?

The lights from the Gateway to the Americas Bridge lit up the night sky just six blocks away. The Oldsmobile was screaming and shuddering. Scott suspected some of the en-gine mounts had been knocked loose. Six blocks, that's all. Then another thousand feet across the Rio Grande River and they were in the United States.

"He's still behind us," Victoria said.

A glance in the rearview verified it. There was just one headlight left after the crash, but it was unmistakably a Hal-ogen, and it was coming up on them fast, banging through traffic almost like the vehicle was out of control. He's des-perate, Scott thought.

Now just five blocks left before the bridge.

Then just four blocks.

But the Suburban was on them, banging into their back bumper. Scott kept the pedal down. Three blocks. Jones bumped them again. There was traffic ahead. Everybody was slowing down as the street turned left onto Avenida 15 de Junio. Beyond that, everyone would have to line up to make the right turn into the covered lanes that threaded through the security booths. But Scott couldn't wait, couldn't take a chance on getting stuck on the Mexican side of the bridge.

He reached the end of the street, the Suburban still hanging onto his bumper. The left onto Avenida 15 de Junio was a full ninety-degrees. Scott turned forty-five degrees, drove the Oldsmobile over another curb, and cut across an open concrete apron, past the security booths, and onto the main span of the bridge. Security was never tight on the Mexican side. The real security was on the other side. The Suburban clung to him.

The bridge was four lanes, two in either direction, with a concrete divider between the inside lanes. On either side of the bridge was a pedestrian walkway. Traffic was light. In his rearview mirror, Scott saw Mexican cops spilling onto the bridge behind the Suburban, some of them waving guns. But nobody was shooting.