Shoot 'Em Up (25 page)

 

Up early, I went down to the pool.

A maid caught sight of me and said in pigeon English, “El Cid is out-of-doors.”

I found him on his phone. AJ disconnected, looked at me, and grinned. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“Nope.”

“C'mon.” He took my arm and walked me back into the house. “Then we'll go see C-Rey and the vet. You can feed him the chicken this time.”

“Great.” I hoped my frozen smile didn't fall off and shatter. It was one thing saving C-Rey in the metaphorical sense, but something different altogether to be that close to him.

AJ's crocodile seemed in as good spirits as any other prehistoric reptile. I tossed C-Rey the raw chicken, then retreated up the bank while AJ and the vet lingered at the lagoon's edge.

We were back at the house a little after nine, with plans to go out to lunch, shopping, and to the special place AJ had promised to take me.

The only buzzkill was that if we went somewhere along the coast, the humidity would make my hair insane. I scraped my hair into a tight ponytail and changed into my jeans, black knee-high boots, and black Mack Truck T-shirt.

Forgoing a wallet, I slipped a couple hundred bucks, Swiss Army knife, and iPhone into my lightweight cargo-pocketed jacket and locator disc into the coin pocket of my jeans. I crossed the room and carefully pushed open the door to Lee's room.

A shaft of light landed on his shins. The lid from the tray upside down on the foot of the bed. Gatorade bottles and empty dishes on the floor and nightstand.

Lee lay on his back. Chest rising and falling in deep and even breaths.

I shut the door, catching it just before it hit the jamb, and released the lever with nary a sound.

I practically skipped down the drive.

AJ was waiting with the Hanson brothers in front of a black MDX. “I slipped the leash, baby! Let's roll!”

Tampico is a seafood paradise. AJ took us all to the unpretentious El Porvenir for an obscenely leisurely lunch. Like Poseidon's children, we dined on spicy ceviche, oysters, shrimp, and the spectacular rich
Jaibas ala Frank
—crab wrapped up in paper-thin slices of cheese—and icy cane sugar Coca-Cola.

We talked movies, laughing and swearing, Chac and AJ translating every few minutes for Esteban and Jefe.

“I'm so getting you guys into a Blackhawks game,” I promised. “You get them to Chicago, El Cid, and I'll babysit.”

Babysit, which after AJ translated, sent them into gales of boyish giggles.

Chac pointed at me. “We are Hansons, and you are Coach . . . you are Reggie!”

Esteban and Jefe pounded the table. “Reg-gie! Reg-gie!”

“Change your mind yet, Maisie?” AJ waved his fork at the lot of them. “Remember, they haven't even had a beer yet.”

After lunch, AJ and I walked in the park, two brothers on the street behind us, while Jefe waited for us behind the wheel.

“Now I'm going to take you somewhere special,” AJ said.

“It'll be tough to beat El Porvenir,” I said.

“It's a bit of a drive, so if you want to call your bodyguard, you need to do it right now. Reception's pretty spotty.”

“Nah. I'll text him, though.” I got out my phone. “How far away is this special destination?”

“Two hours. Inland.”

The faint alarm “
Lee is going to kill me
” pinged in the back of my head. We wouldn't even arrive wherever it was until after four o'clock. But from AJ's face, I could tell it was something special. “We'll be back in time for dinner,” he said, raising two fingers. “Scout's honor.”

“Sure.” No Eagle Scout myself, I chickened out and texted Lee.

I reread the text before sending it and deleted the last line. I needed to keep Hangover Bear as poke-free as I could manage.

Jefe drove us out of Tampico, keeping the SUV cruising at a steady eighty-five mph. Esteban rode shotgun, with AJ and me in the middle and Chac in the far back.

The air was salty and dry, the terrain a bizarre mixture of scrubby desert plants and lush palms, as surreal as a David Lynch movie. After an hour and a quarter, we turned onto a dirt road and the remaining drive time stretched out like purgatory.

“C'mon, give me a hint, AJ.”

“Have you ever heard of Spanish Reales?”

“As in pirate pieces of eight?”

“Exactly. The coins were considered the world's money standard from the time that the Mexico mint began striking coins in the late 1530s until the 1850s.”

I waited for the punch line. “Okay.”

“As the Port of Tampico has expanded, we've undertaken massive underwater construction, and recovered more of these coins than anyone ever thought existed. The person we're going to see is a silversmith.”

“Oh?”

“C-Rey wants you to have a necklace made from them,” AJ said. “I want you to choose the pieces.”

“That's . . . Wow.” I shook my head. “Thank you. You really don't have to do this—I was glad to help C-Rey.”
And stick it to that slime ball Raúl.

“You have no idea.” AJ paused and wove his fingers together. “We're friends, right?” he said.

“Absolutely.”

“So, if I was to give you some advice, you'd take it in the spirit it was intended, right?”

“Sure.” I nodded, waiting for the slow, overarching tail of his preamble flare to explode and wreck my life. “Fire away.”

“Your bodyguard. Sharpe.”

“Yes?”

AJ sucked his upper lip. “The footage of the two of you . . . at the barn . . . was brought to my attention.”

Feck me.
“Oh?”

“Whether Renko is out of town or not, you've gotta be more careful.”

“I get you haven't seen him for a long time, and dealing with people like Carlos isn't easy. And under pressure . . .” He blew out a breath. “Look, banging your bodyguard is a recipe for disaster.”

“You're right.” The implication worked its way through my brain. On the plus side, our rekkie had gone unnoticed. Minus side, Carlos now thought he had leverage. “Who else knows ?”

“My guard. The footage is gone. I purged the week's worth before the party.”

“Thanks, AJ.”

“I got your—”

“Seat belts!” shouted Esteban.

“
Estar atento!
” Chac yelled from the back.

I pitched forward hard against my seat belt, knocking my forehead against the back of the driver's seat.

Jefe hit the gas.

Through the rear window, a big blue Silverado was coming up fast. Esteban shouted at Jefe. The truck hit us again. Harder this time.

“Get off the road!” AJ pointed out the windshield. Oversized jacks littered the dirt road ahead. “
Salir de la carretera!
”

Jefe hit the brakes. Too late.

The SUV heaved and bucked, tires shredding, tread slapping against the wheel wells, jerking and grating as it ran down to the rims.

And stopped.

Behind us, the Silverado skidded to a tee across the road, halting before the spikes.

Two black Chevy Tahoes sped toward us from the front.

Ambushed.

“Jammed.” AJ threw his satellite phone down on the seat. “Fuck.”

My iPhone showed no bars.

I had Lee's emergency signal. I edged the dime-sized locator out of the tiny coin pocket in my jeans, snapped it, and tucked it into the side of my underpants.

AJ put a hand on my arm. “You okay?”

I nodded. “You guys all right?”

Jefe and Esteban popped their seat belts.

“Everybody stay put,” AJ ordered.

The cousins looked at each other and jumped out of the car, firing their AKs as they walked out to meet the Tahoes.

AJ smacked his fist against the window. “Goddammit!”

Chac moved behind us, reseating the magazine in his weapon.

“You're gonna stay in the fucking car, Chac.” AJ dragged a hand over his face and gave me a tight smile.

He put his hand on my neck and pushed me down in the seat well, then crouched down across from me. “Put your head down and cover your ears. Jefe and Esteban are going to die.”

The sharp bursts of their AKs rang out.

They were echoed by more, many more.

I burrowed into the rubber floor mat, flinching as bullets sprayed and thudded against the MDX.

Grim-faced, AJ and I held eye contact. Sweat broke out across his forehead. He started Zen breathing: quick, measured inhales through his nose; long, slow exhales from his mouth.

Chac prayed aloud, “
Dios te salve, María, plena eres de gracia . . .”

The shooting continued. Then came the slaps of bullets hitting flesh.

I jammed my fingers in my ears, but I could still hear the bullets, the shouts, Chac's Hail Marys and AJ's Zen breathing.

A single cartel news story was enough for the average American to know these men were as violent and barbaric as the average ISIS tribe.

What was coming up was going to be worse.

I pressed my side where the locator disc ought to be wailing to the skies by now.

The guns stopped firing. A moaning wail came from Jefe or Esteban. It wasn't the sound of someone who was going to recover.

My legs started to shake, cramping from hunkering down behind the seat. A bead of sweat trickled down AJ's temple. Grim and furious, I couldn't tell if he was angrier at the indignity of being ambushed, Jefe and Esteban's not following orders, or their subsequent deaths.

The moaning outside grew keener, more desperate.

Chac kept praying.

I heard the metal-on-metal of a car door closing. The muffled sounds of boots crunching sand and grit.

The single finality of a shot.

The boots came for us next. Only this time, several pairs. Fists drummed on the window. A man shouted for us to get out. AJ raised his hands above his head, showing empty palms.

The man at the window pointed at the door lock.

Slowly, AJ reached one hand down and popped the locks.

The car doors flew open, back hatch, too.

More shouting. I started to uncoil. Someone grabbed the back of my jacket and dragged me out of the car and onto my butt in the dirt. I kept my head down.

Two men had Chac at the tail of the MDX. Knocking him around, yelling.

Under the car, I could see the boots of three more men and AJ's feet. He stood motionless, silent, waiting for it to unfold.

Sitting in the dirt, I weighed my chances. Scrub savannah with green spiky succulents. No real cover for miles. Or a four-foot dive beneath the car, where I could scramble underneath from side to side. Not good.

“Señorita?”

I looked up over my shoulder into a smiling harvest moon of a face. A precise trowel-shaped beard only emphasized the fullness of his sallow cheeks. His eyes were a contradiction of sad and merry, as though he regretted our plight, but there was still adventure to be had. He held out his hand and pulled me to my feet.

Without preamble, Moon-Face shove-walked me around the tail of the MDX. Dozens of tire spikes pronged out of what was left of the SUV's tires.

AJ and Chac were surrounded by a pack of armed men.

A rail-thin scarecrow of a man wearing a black straw cowboy hat and reflective sunglasses nodded at Moon-Face, then raised his hand.

A nine- or ten-year-old boy scrambled out of the Silverado that had forced us into the tire spikes. He wore an empty canvas bags across his chest like bandoliers. He jogged past us to Jefe and Esteban, collected their guns, and started going through their pockets.

I turned away. The boy returned, dropped a filled canvas bag in front of Scarecrow, then climbed into the MDX to scavenge.

Scarecrow pointed at Chac. “Not him.”

A man with the rifle stepped from the crew with a nonchalant nod. “
¡Ándale!
” He pointed his weapon at Chac and gestured for him to walk into the savannah.

The rifleman had marched Chac a good hundred and fifty yards into the enemy landscape. Scarecrow whistled and they stopped.

Rifleman must have given a command, because Chac awkwardly hopped on one foot, pulling off one cowboy boot then the other. The man said something and Chac dropped to his knees, facing the lonely, endless vista, and clasped his hands behind his head.

Even though I couldn't see him, I knew Chac's lips were moving, hailing help from Saint Mary.

I waited for the shot.

None came.

The man with the gun picked up Chac's boots in one hand and walked back toward the SUVs.

Cicadas buzzed in my ears. The burst of adrenaline disappeared, replaced with sickening exhaustion and mind-numbing fear.

The kid got out of the MDX, duffel bulging at the seams with Chac and AJ's guns, extra magazines, cell phones, and whatever else he could find. He locked the car and came back to the Scarecrow.

The Scarecrow jerked his head at the Silverado. The boy grabbed the bags and jogged back to the truck.

“Let's go,” Moon-Face said.

The pack of armed men spread out. Some drifted slowly back toward the Silverado. The others took a wide berth ahead of us toward the two Tahoes.

Scarecrow pulled a Glock and pointed it at AJ. “
Vamos, cabrone
.”

AJ glanced at me and walked. Scarecrow followed close, smart enough to stay out of AJ's circle of influence.

Seasoned.

Moon-Face gripped my bicep, and we fell in behind AJ and Scarecrow.

They walked us past Esteban and Jefe nice and slow, making sure we got a good, close look on the way to the Tahoes.

Esteban had been the one to take the bullet to the head. Jefe lay facedown, a dull skin forming on the blood puddle beneath his shoulders.

Two men already waited inside the Tahoe. The driver and another teenager in the far back.

Scarecrow held AJ off to the side, while Moon-Face patted me down and with the clinical disinterest of a doctor. He ran his hands over and underneath my jacket, taking the money, knife, and iPhone. He felt down my arms, and around my breasts, checking the underwire of my bra. Hips, legs, and even the shafts of my boots were checked before banishing me to the far back of the Tahoe with the teen who reeked of cologne and body odor.

Moon-Face slid into the front passenger seat, while Scarecrow, after completing AJ's pat-down, pushed the two of them into the middle seats of the SUV.

From his tight T-shirt and jeans, I could tell the teen wasn't carrying. His tennis shoes with low athletic socks further diminished the chance he had a blade.

I turned in my seat and he flinched.

Out the rear window, the Silverado circled around and drove off in the direction from which it had come. The Tahoes U-turned to their original routes, too. I watched from the rearview as we left Chac on his knees in the scrub, with no shoes, no water, and the merciless afternoon sun overhead.