Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) (31 page)

“And that was supposed to go down tonight?”

“Well,” he says, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Things started going crazy after Nesbitt’s little psycho got into the picture. He killed one of Ford’s men, thinking he was Ford himself, only the guy didn’t know anything. If Ford had come to me, I would have walked him through the situation, but he got this lunatic idea of passing the dead man off as himself—and to do that, he needed major assistance. He went to Englewood. The thing you have to know about this Ford guy is, he thinks he’s a player. I can sympathize. I thought I was, too. But these guys are snakes; you can’t handle them without getting bit. Englewood turned him out just like Nesbitt did to me, and since then it’s been a roll
er coaster.”

“The deal was tonight,” I tell him, “and it all went wrong. Which means the
Jefe
knows you’re not on his side, and he’ll be coming for you.”

“Consider this, March. If the deal was tonight, then Ford would have had backup waiting to swoop in. Where are they? I don’t see any flashing lights.”

“Don’t let that fool you,” I say, hoping he won’t call my bluff.

He doesn’t. “What do you want from me, March? I can sense an offer coming.”

“I want César. And I want Englewood, too. Can you deliver them or not?”

“Are you asking, will I testify against them?” He shakes his head dismissively, but then a strange look comes over him. Realization dawning. “You’re offering me a lifeline, is that it?”

“I’m not offering you anything. But if you can help me bring those men down, then I’ll get you out of here somehow. Otherwise, I’ll just walk you into the nearest police station. You make the call.”

“Can I take a moment to think it over?”

“Go ahead.”

He pours himself another drink, the tinkle of ice against glass. My mind fills with the logistical impossibility of smuggling an injured man like Ford and a wanted felon like Keller back into the country. I don’t trust the local police, who’d have too many questions about my presence, and there’s no one I can call to part the waters on my behalf. Even Bea couldn’t do all that—and if she could, I doubt she would. Bringing all this into the light was never part of her plan.

I could always gun the engine past the Mexican side of the bridge and then turn myself in at the other end, like Cold War asylum seekers jumping the Berlin Wall.

What am I even doing here? Cutting a deal with Reg Keller? Risking anything for this man is insane. Maybe I’m the one who’s been sucked too far down, my moral compass spinning. How do you reckon which is the lesser of all available evils? Nothing makes sense but to flush them all down, and myself along with them.

Prosecutors cut deals like this all the time, I tell myself. But that’s the reason I could never stomach working as a prosecutor. I don’t want to cut the deals. It’s not in me.

Big Reg gets up out of the chair, the ice sloshing in his glass. He crosses the room, giving the revolver a wide berth. His pet bird starts flapping as he approaches. Downing the dregs of the mojito, he flips the cage door open. “Fly free, little man.”

“You’ve made your decision?”

He turns to face me. “Get me out of here, March, and I’ll do it.”

I hate myself for saying the words: “It’s a deal.”

Under my watchful eye, Keller takes two minutes to pack a bag and then leads the way out. Despite the open cage, the bird still twitches on its perch inside, afraid to come out. Reg pauses, shaking his head.

“Goes to show,” he says, walking through the door.

From the top of the stairwell I can see down the alley to my car parked on the street. It’s lit from behind by a pair of headlights, though the other vehicle is out of view. My passenger door hangs open, but there’s no sign of Ford.

I reach my hand out to keep Keller from descending. He stops just as two men step into the mouth of the alley. One of them raises a hand in greeting, and I recall him from the crowd of heavies outside the cantina.

“These guys with you?” Keller asks, turning on the step.

I’m already raising my pistol as the first man fires.

The only thing that saves us
is that our sudden appearance at the top of the stairs is as much a surprise to them as their entry into the alleyway is to us. They loose the first shot, but it’s fired in haste and zings past my left ear. My answer comes in a wild, unaimed volley, spraying and praying, the flash of the muzzle in the darkness temporarily blinding me.

Somehow I grab a handful of Keller’s shirt with my free hand, dragging him back up the stairs. The other end of the alley explodes, bullets tearing past us.

As I pull him off the landing and onto the veranda where we’re shielded from view, Keller flinches and slaps his hand to his neck, as if he’s swatting a mosquito.

“Are you—?”

My voice chokes off as the first pulse of blood drains through his clenched fingers.

I stick my gun around the corner and fire down the stairs. The bricks near my wrist burst open, showering me with dust. I pull my hand back before they shoot it off, hustling Keller back into the apartment.

The lights are still on, so I waste precious seconds flipping the switches and kicking the lamp’s power cord free from the wall socket. Moonlight pours in through the glass louvers, making the blood down the side of Keller’s neck and down his shirt look black as oil. With both hands on the wound he lumbers down a short hallway into the lavatory.

Alone in the living room, I crouch at the corner of the window farthest from the door, which affords the best view of the top of the stairs. I push the louvers open, wide enough for the muzzle of my gun. From here I can see them before they spot me, and when they return fire, the apartment wall should afford some protection. My hand goes instinctively to my belt, searching for the spare magazine loaded with 9mm hollow points. I switch mags again, just as I did at the gate on the highway, so no matter how one-sided the fight is, at least I’ll be going into it with a fully loaded weapon.

Footsteps on the stairs. It’s hard to tell, but in my imagination it sounds like more than two men ascending. From my vantage point, the veranda runs parallel to the apartment wall, dead-ending at an L-shaped turn that leads to the landing at the top of the stairs. When they come up, they’ll be silhouetted against the building across the alley, having to cross my field of fire to reach the veranda. The numbers are on their side, but the ground is mine.

The first of them reaches the landing in a low crouch, gun extended. I let him come. He creeps over to the veranda, bending lower to inspect something on the ground. Probably Keller’s blood. A second one appears, and then a third. There are more footsteps on the stairs behind him. The Tritium inserts on my gunsights shine bright in the dark. I line them up over the first man, let out my breath, and fire.

I don’t know whether I’ve hit him, or anything else for that matter. Once the shooting starts, there’s nothing but the flash of the muzzle and a barrage of earsplitting concussions. All I can do is try and match my shots to the map of targets locked in my memory. How many rounds I let off, I don’t know—the shooting goes on forever, uninterrupted, like a stage of fire on the range.

And then the louvers shatter down on top of me, raining glass everywhere, and I have to crouch to the floor, hands over my head, to keep from being hit. Something burns against the side of my neck. I panic, thinking of Keller’s wound. When I cover the spot with my hand, though, I find one of my own spent cartridges. It must have kicked back from the ejection port and landed inside my collar.

I crawl along the base of the wall toward the next window, then the one nearest the door. From the corner I can see two men on the landing, emptying their clips into my original position. Another is coiled on the ground, clutching his guts. Very close to the window someone is whining pitifully above the roar of the guns.

Lining up my sights on the two shooters, I open fire. One of them drops like his strings have been cut, and the other stumbles backward and pitches over the side of the railing, falling to the alleyway below. When I crouch for cover, there’s no return fire, just the wet mewling of the man on the veranda and the echo of feet descending the stairs to regroup.

My pistol is smoking in my hand, the slide locked back. The 17-round magazine is already empty. I eject it to the floor and seat the other mag, dropping the slide to chamber a round. I don’t know how many times I fired in the first engagement. The mag could be mostly full or nearly empty and there’s no time to stop and check. Already I can hear them coming up again, this time with an unnerving deliberation, as if they’re pausing to get the next attack right.

“Hello in there?” a voice calls from around the corner. The English is clear, only lightly accented, with a friendly, paternal timbre. “We would like to have a word.”

“It’s him. The
Jefe
.”

I turn to find Keller at my side, hunched down with a seeping hand towel against his neck, secured in place by what looks like a rolled pillowcase with a jaunty knot on the side opposite the wound. In his fist, the shiny revolver, its hammer cocked back. The thought of him lurking there behind me, the snub nose in hand, sends a chill through me.

“I believe,” César says, “there is a misunderstanding. We have not come here for you, whoever you are. It’s Meester Keller we want. Send him out and we will go, you have my word.”

In my ear, Keller whispers: “Don’t engage with him.”

“What did you do with Brandon Ford?” I call out.

“
What did I just say?
”

“We had a matter to discuss with Meester Ford, I am afraid. But you? You are no one. If you like, you can put down your weapon and go.”

The voice hasn’t changed at all. Hearing him speak, I’m back in that Leesville parking lot, my fists cocked ready to beat him down. One thing in my favor: Magnum was teaching torture techniques to the cabana boys, not combat tactics. The apartment isn’t exactly a fortified position, but with the advantage of the wall and the confined open ground the cartel shooters have to cover just to reach us, we can hold out as long as we have ammo. If they keep rushing us like they did before, we have a chance.

In the distance, I hear the faint ring of sirens. They could be miles away or just blocks, it’s hard to tell. I turn to Keller, who hears them, too, but doesn’t look encouraged. He shakes his head. “The police around here, they’re in his pocket.”

“I have a proposition,” I call out. “Why don’t we discuss this man-to-man, out in the open? I’m not afraid. Are you?”

It’s a silly idea, but I’m grasping at straws. If I can shame him in front of his men, call his machismo into question, then maybe . . . But no. Keller’s shaking his head again, disappointed in my maneuver. And in spite of the dire situation, I find his censure irritating.

“If you have anything better to suggest . . .”

The sirens are sounding louder. They echo down the nearby streets. I want to believe Keller’s wrong about the local police, that all I have to do is buy time. My gun hangs heavy in my hand, and when I glance down, I find that I’m trembling.

“Well, what do you say?” I yell.

“This is a very interesting proposition. Allow me to think it over.”

He speaks with exaggerated courtliness, inserting long pauses between the words, his conversational tone wholly unsuited to the circumstances. The man is confident, I’ll give him that. The approaching sirens don’t seem to worry him at all.

But perhaps I’m not the only one buying time.

I motion Keller to be quiet and sit tight. Then I creep backward on hands and knees, between the couch and chair, passing the cocktail pitcher. Back at the far window where I started, I pause at the perimeter of broken glass, listening intently.

“Now,
señor
, I have a proposition for you.”

Just outside the window I hear the faint crush of glass underfoot, the sole of a boot pressing down and twisting slightly. While César was talking to me, they must have sent someone to climb up over the veranda railing. Not bad. I listen to his progress and as his head breaks the plane of the sill, I raise the Browning and light him up.

The man pitches back into the shadows, a vaporous cloudburst erupting from his brow. Keller screams and starts firing his revolver two-handed through the window, each loud, throaty bang accompanied by a long tongue of flame. They’re rushing us again, spilling onto the veranda, and the six rounds in his chamber won’t hold them for long. I scramble along the wall, firing through each window as I pass, then shouldering the door open to empty the last of my clip point-blank into the writhing mass.

Flashing blues and reds cast their glow down the alleyway and the sirens are right on top of us, right inside my head, threatening to burst out. I am slung sideways against the doorframe, my pistol shot dry, looking back at Keller as the hammer of his revolver snaps down on one spent chamber after another. He can’t tell the gun is empty, because he’s still yelling at the top of his lungs, his eyes clenched shut.

On the veranda, men are crawling on top of each other, stumbling back down the stairs in retreat. A pair of blank eyes stares up at me from right at the threshold. I reach out and twist a cocked .45 from his hand. I’m running cold again, my trembling gone. I emerge into the night, stepping over the bodies of the dead and wounded, ignoring the carnage. The landing is slick under my feet. At the top of the stairs, two bloodstained men hold a third between them—silver-haired, in a sodden guayabera. I reach down, taking César by the collar, pressing the borrowed gun into the ear of the carrier on his right.

“Leave him,” I growl.

They spring back, dropping the
Jefe
against my leg. The one under my muzzle just runs, while the other lets a stray round fly. I snap the .45 toward him and fire. He goes tumbling down the stairs.

Then I start dragging César back, grunting with the effort, my whole body radiating, enflamed. I drag him across the landing, leaving contrails in the blood. I drag him across one of the wounded, who crawls away with a frightening gasp. I drag him across the threshold and into the apartment, kicking the door shut, releasing his shirt.

He sprawls facedown before Keller, who stares at me wide-eyed.

“
You’re insane
,” he says. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“You’re under arrest,” I say to the silver-haired man. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”

“March, what are you doing?”

“This man is under arrest,” I say. “For murder.”

He edges toward me empty-handed. “What are you trying to say? Are you hurt?”

I sink back against the wall, lowering myself onto the floor like a man relaxing into a hot bath, feeling so wet, so utterly poured out as I break the surface.

“This man,” I say, then stop. “This man is guilty of murder. He beat a girl to death at Fort Polk, Louisiana, in the summer of 1986.”

An amplified voice thunders through the alley in syncopated Spanish that I don’t understand. It sounds official, though, and very soothing. Everything feels very soothing. Keller scoots toward me, reaching out, taking the front of my shirt in his hands and ripping it open, letting the two sides drop. His mouth gapes open at what he sees.

“Are you religious?” I ask. “My wife is. Charlotte. Do you think there’s anything out there? Besides the stars, I mean. Or is there nothing but nothing?”

His hands feel warm on my skin. He’s pushing down on me, pushing me back against the wall.

“I don’t think there’s nothing,” I say.

Up close, I can see the waffle texture of the dish towel tied to his neck, damp with his own blood. Big Reg is covered in blood, all over his hands right up to the elbows, and his breath is foul and he’s panting right over my face.

My head lulls and I notice there’s an unfamiliar gun in my hand. I open my fist and let it tip onto the floor. Above me, Reg is saying something and his voice is as loud in my head as the sirens were before, only none of the words make any sense, like he’s forgotten to leave spaces in between. They run together into a melodic jumble. Is Big Reg singing? That can’t be right.

The door opens and there are men in balaclavas with automatic weapons, men shining flashlights everywhere and coming in through the broken windows. Reg pulls back, raising his hands over his head, and the farther away he goes, the fuzzier he gets.

“Reg,” I say.

To my left, there’s a white bird. It shuffles uncertainly across the floor, wings canted outward in an avian shrug. A ridge of yellow feathers stands along the crest of its head. This bird is watching me from the corner of its eye, and then the wings spread wide and the bird flaps its way through the open door and up into the sky. Everyone watches, the people around me smudging as they gaze upward.

The bird, though, I can see clearly, every feather perfectly articulated. As I watch it ascend, I have this funny idea that I’m watching my own soul. Which would mean I have one, or at least I did. And I don’t want it back. Don’t come back. Keep on going until you reach whatever’s up there.

A boy crouches over me, his body dwarfed inside a Kevlar cocoon, a spike of matted hair jutting from his forehead. He puts a cool hand against the side of my face, frowning mightily. When he gets up, he starts to yell, but in a woman’s voice. “
We need a doctor here . . . doctor, how do you say doctor in Spanish? Now!
” I know this voice. I try to get up.

“Stay there, March. You’re going to be all right. Don’t try to talk. There’s gonna be plenty of talking to do, don’t worry about that. But not now, not yet. You just hang on, you hear? You just hang on.”

“I know you,” I say.

“Don’t try to talk.”

“It’s Jess, isn’t it?” I say. “They told me you were dead.” My lungs inflate with joy. I try to raise a hand and pull her toward me. “They all told me, but I knew. I knew it wasn’t true. Why did they tell me you were dead?”

The boy’s hand is on my forehead now, and there are people above me, doing things to me. I watch them with far-off benevolence. There’s something over my nose and mouth. I feel myself levitating. The ceiling of Keller’s apartment sinks away to reveal a heaven full of stars, a million constellations, all of them swirling in a clockwork dance. And circling in among them, wings outspread, is a white cockatoo, and in my ears the cooing of doves.