Standoff: A Vin Cooper Novel (24 page)

“Shut up, Cooper,” Apostles snapped, his anger on show. He moved to one side and I immediately saw the problem. Cold fear grabbed my guts and a clammy sweat bloomed between my shoulder blades. The stupid blond curls and the red, bloated face – Kirk Matheson was standing there, an arm still in a sling, grinning.

“Hey, Cooper. Fuck you, asshole.”

A couple of men grabbed a hold of me while a third ripped the Sig out of its concealment holster in the small of my back. I was thinking maybe I should start hiding the thing someplace else.

“Oh, c’mon,” I said, focusing on Apostles, my brain racing. “You’re not gonna fall for this shit, are you?”

His face was a mask of distrust.

“Matheson would have been detained by the FBI. He was linked to the Horizon Airport massacre, a suspected cartel-related event. That means CIA would have been involved in his detention,” I continued, grabbing at straws. “Ask him how the hell he got away. How many people have you ever heard of escaping from CIA custody? Answer? None. That’s because it
never
happens. The CIA drugs, trusses, hoods and disappears
people they like
! When it’s alleged cartel cop killers?” I shook my head. “The Company gets serious about shit.”

Apostles glanced at Perez.

“Surely you can do better than that, Cooper,” said Matheson. He faced Apostles. “
El Santo
, like I told you, those cops he’s supposed to have killed back at Horizon Airport, the ones in all the news reports?
I
killed ’em. That was me. It was Cooper who tried to stop me.”

“That’s not how it went down and you know it,” I snapped at Matheson. “You think these folks are idiots?”

“Give Cooper to me,” said Perez in Spanish. “I will get the truth.”

“Hey, why me? Why don’t you flay the truth outta him? Seriously, ask yourselves how he got away. We all saw the news report. The whole thing looked staged – a big bad shooting match, SWAT called out, helicopters in the sky, the coordinated media coverage … You do realize that killing cops is far easier to fake than killing civilians, right? They can control it when cops are killed – the victims aren’t buried, they just go to a safe house. If you ask me, we saw a show played out to provide Matheson with the kind of story that’s gonna confirm he’s your kinda guy.”

“You just described your own story, Cooper,” said Matheson, the confidence waning, his eyes shifting between Perez and Apostles, gauging their reaction. “And I’ve been working for these guys two years now. They
know
me.”

At last, the shithead had given me something I could work with. “Then let’s look at the last two years. A lot of big shipments over that period, right? How many of them have been seized?” I addressed Apostles. “So he lets one go through here and another there to protect his cover. And then there’s a call made on a disposable cell phone and a big load gets intercepted. Sound familiar? Think about how much you’ve lost since Matheson joined the team. What’s the figure you told me? Two hundred million?’ I checked with Apostles for his response. He was half buying it. I eyeballed Matheson. “And you don’t think they’re wising up?”

I could feel the momentum shift, and so could Matheson. “If I were you,” I said to Apostles to put the icing on the cake, “I’d be asking myself why they had Matheson in the first place. Maybe they needed to bring him in for a spell, get debriefed on your activities here.”

“Just kill this
puto
,” Matheson blurted.

“Cooper saved my life,” Apostles reminded Perez.

“And you believe that?” Perez asked, the two of them switching to Spanish.

“I saw what he did. I would be dead now if not for him.”

Matheson flared. “Aw, c’mon! This is bullshit!”

“Perhaps you should take them both,” Apostles suggested to Perez.

“Actually, your pal Matheson here is right,” I said. “This
is
bullshit. I searched you out, believing I might find gainful employment for my skills. But so far, despite having proven my commitment and loyalty, all I’ve got are threats, intimidation, incarceration, a couple of lacerations and the occasional beating. I’ve had enough. Maybe your competitors will appreciate my abilities.”

I looked at the King Air. At first glance the plane appeared to have bled. A good four inches of the blade that pinned Carlos’ hand extended beyond the smooth skin of the fuselage and a yard-long slick of dried blood trailed from it.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Matheson exclaimed, exasperated.

“Hey tonight, asshole, I delivered! Yeah, I dropped a load of what was probably baking soda, believing it was coke, to a waiting boat in Lake Travis. Then I flew to Brownwood and picked up a thousand pounds of newsprint, under the impression that it was fifty million bucks. What would’ve happened if there’d been an emergency landing, or I’d been recognized on the ground? That’s right – in making that run I accepted enormous personal risks and I did it with the expectation that I’d receive two and a half percent. On the cash alone, that would have been one million, one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.” I looked at Apostles. “So how much do I get for a dozen boxes of
El Diario?
But wait, there’s more.” I laid on the indignation. “On the way home, your people tried to throw me
out of the plane
and when I land, there’s this shit.” I glared at everyone. “I mean,
c’mon
!”

Everyone’s attention shifted to Carlos being carried out of the King Air unconscious. The blade of the bowie knife speared through the fuselage was no longer poking out.

Apostles suddenly turned and punched one of his men in the face, pulled his pistol again and waved it around while he swore, mostly at Perez. That I’d just been on a worthless dummy run must have been news to
El Santo
. His men ducked and flinched while he ranted and fired off rounds. Apostles then shot the weapon a couple of times into the ground before tossing the pistol into the dirt. I chewed some skin off the inside of my mouth to stop myself grinning. Perez had hoped to reveal my true allegiance, but all he’d succeeded in doing was prove my commitment. And meanwhile his partner had genuinely wanted the coke delivered and the money picked up, but neither had happened.

“Lock them both up,” Apostles snapped as he marched off. “I’ll deal with it in the morning.”

*

Our cells were adjoining.

“They’re gonna find your car, asshole,” said Matheson, his voice coming through the breezeblock wall. “I’m gonna tell ’em where to look. You took me out because I knew the truth about you. You lied about what happened. I know you did.”

Matheson had a point. All I could do to mitigate the potential damage was try to make him less certain about what he thought he knew.

“Hey, listen …” I said.

“No,
you
listen. I’m gonna get you whacked, motherfucker.”

“Look, I just figured it out.”

Silence.

“Figured what out?” he asked eventually.

“You ever had an argument with someone, a real heated argument? You go at it, no holds barred, and then suddenly you realize you’re both on the same side of the argument, arguing for the same thing? You ever experienced that?”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“Look Matheson, either we’re both genuinely working for the Chihuahua cartel, or neither of us is. And I know I’m working for Apostles, trying to make some serious cash for once in my life, so that has to mean you are too. We’re on the same team here, buddy … Think about it.”

Silence.

More silence.

“Kirk … ?”

“I’m thinkin’,” he replied.

“When you were chasing me in that Range Rover – you thought I was working undercover and I thought you were. We tried to take each other out. It’s all been a misunderstanding, starting with that little shootout between us at Horizon.”

“Thanks to you I woke up in a prison cell back in El Paso. Explain that misunderstanding, asshole.”

Yeah, that was gonna be tricky. “Hey, I don’t know how that happened, but look … Apostles and Perez killed all those people on US soil and the authorities know it even if they can’t prove it. So there have to be folks down here working undercover. That wouldn’t surprise me. It’s reasonable, right? Maybe these undercover agents saw what happened between you and me, and an opportunity opened up when I put you in the trunk and they took it.”

“And on the plane?”

“What plane?”

“On the plane, motherfucker. You sat beside me. I was wounded and you kept bumping my arm. I didn’t realize it was you until I saw your picture.”

Hmm … the only way through this one was denial. “Me and you on a plane? And I was bumping into you? Really? I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’d remember.”

“It was you.”

“You were wounded.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Were you medicated?”

“I didn’t imagine it.”

“But you were drugged up on painkillers.”

“I said I didn’t imagine it.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Kirk.”

“So you admit it.”

“No.”

There was a sudden
clang
against the cell’s steel door. Then came the sound of metal on metal as the cover of the peephole swung open. A flashlight beam swept over me as a guard yelled,
¡Callese!
 Mexican for shut the fuck up. And a second or two later in the cell next door, Matheson got the same demand.

Lying on the hard floor, hands under my head, I stared at the black ceiling and tried to sleep. Half an hour later I hadn’t succeeded. Sleep was palming me off and not because the floor smelled of old urine and I could feel the fleas jumping onto my bare forearms. In laying things out for Apostles and Perez, I had the overwhelming feeling that I’d hit on a significant truth, only the conscious me couldn’t figure out what the hell it was. So instead I closed my eyes and tried to put myself in that pool bar …

Shit! I sat upright, dragging myself back from the brink of sleep and Daniela, or maybe it was Lina, sitting at the bar in a skimpy shoestring bikini. She had turned to me and said,
“It’s believed Matheson got hold of a gun, which he used to shoot the driver of the police vehicle …”

What?

The subconscious me was again proving to the part of me that walks and talks, and all too often shoots itself in the foot, that it was running this show. The Daniela in my dream had reminded me about a half-remembered television report.

Matheson
got a gun
… ? How and where he got it hadn’t been answered.

“Hey, Matheson,” I said.

Silence.

“Matheson …”

“What?”

“You shot the two cops in the transfer vehicle.”

“What about it?”

“Where’d the gun come from?”

“What difference does it make to you?” he whispered.

“It wasn’t one of Apostles’ people because no one knew where you were. Who gave you the gun?”

“Don’t know. They were walking me to the van and then I feel this peashooter pressed into my hand.”

“
¡Callese!”
the guard shouted, banging against my door.

Why hadn’t I seen it right away? Firearms don’t just wink into existence. Someone wanted Matheson to bust out. Why? Because he’d find his way back to Apostles and Perez and the first thing he’d do would be to blow my cover. Now who would want that?

*

The day dawned like they all do out here in the desert at this time of year, dry and hot with the promise that you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Breakfast was non-existent. No last meal for the condemned. I wondered how long before they came for me. The thought had barely formed when guards opened the cell door and ran me outside with a pistol pressed firmly into my earhole. The only pleasing aspect of this was that Matheson was receiving similar treatment.

We were dragged to a sort of parade ground where something black and red was arched over low posts. Coming closer to it, the blackness lifted off in a humming cloud to reveal the flayed corpses of a man and a woman infested with fat wriggling maggots. And then came the smell. My stomach heaved. This had to be the guy I’d seen Perez working on, though I couldn’t recognize him with his face removed. It was the corpse of the woman, though, that filled me with a seething horror. It was Bambi, the skin on her face left so that she could be recognized. By me?

“No, no, no …” Matheson groaned over and over.

“In the Chihuahua Cartel, this is what we do to undercover agents,” said Perez proudly.

“Either both of you are undercover agents or neither of you are,” said Apostles who had arrived unseen behind us. “That is our conclusion.”

“
El Santo
– we worked that out too, right Cooper?” Matheson agreed, relieved as he slobbered, eager to please and seeing a way to slip the noose.

“As we can’t be sure one way or the other, we believe we should kill you both as a security measure,” Perez growled in Spanish.

“So tell us the truth and perhaps we will let you live,” Apostles said. “Do you work with us or with someone else? Are you working undercover?”

“Tell them, Cooper,” Matheson blathered. “We both work for you, don’t we?”

I nodded, unable to take my eyes of Bambi. Her makeup was smudged by her tears.

“Cooper, you have skills that can make us money,” said Apostles.

“But now he has shown us how to do it, do we need him?” Perez asked.

In different circumstances, I might have said I told you so. I took my shirt off and placed it over Bambi’s face. Had Apostles and Perez thought all this through? Was this demonstration in their minds all along? Did they know she was CIA? “What?” I asked.

“You are in shock,” said Apostles. “I understand.”

“Somewhere in Texas, there’s the body of a dead Mexican covered in tattoos squashed into the ground,” I said, picking up the thread of what Perez had pointed out. “It won’t take a genius to figure he’s cartel and that he fell out of the sky. Two and two will be added together and you’ll have to change tactics. You sure your people are up to that?”

“
Llévelos!”
Perez snapped, answering my question. Take them!

I looked up over my shoulder as a shadow passed across me. It was Apostles, only there was a broad sombrero on his head and bandoliers of ammunition crossed over his chest.

“I am sorry, Cooper,” he said with a shrug. “I liked you.”

As Matheson was dragged away I heard him pleading for mercy. No, wait, that was me.

*