The Devil's Bounty (23 page)

Fifty-nine

A LONE CLOUD
swept silently across the moon, plunging the land into darkness for the briefest of moments. Charlie Mendez watched it pass as the helicopter faded into the distance. The man following him was gone, swallowed by the vast landscape. He had kept moving, putting one foot in front of the other, until his pursuer had been lost in the shadows, and with him Charlie’s fear.

He had made it and now straight ahead he could see a row of low buildings. He dug into his front pocket and pulled out a roll of dollars. It was more than enough to buy him sanctuary, a place to hide out until he could be picked up. No one would ask too many questions. No one around here did. People like him, crazy
gringos
in trouble, simply materialized, and then they were gone.

Tired after the long trek, and on the down slope of an adrenalin rush, he started forward. Less than two hundred yards away there was a tiny one-room shack, one wall made from cinder blocks, the others cobbled together from pieces of wood with a
corrugated-iron roof. A child’s bicycle lay on its side. Next to it were two large cooking pots, left out for the rats and mice to clear. Charlie picked up the bicycle and stood it up. It was too small for him even to attempt to ride it. He let it fall back to the ground.

He kept moving. There were more shacks and, beyond them, he could see lone pairs of headlights signalling a road. Sooner or later he had to find someone who could give him a ride, and if the money didn’t cut it he had a back-up plan, something he had rifled from the Escalade.

Sixty

A THOUSAND YARDS.
That was all that stood between Lock and the retreating figure of Mendez as the
colonia
folded around them. Mendez was pushing open a three-bar gate, which guarded the entrance to the row of shacks. Beyond was a road.

The beam of the helicopter patterned the ridge above them, the edge of the cone of light seeping over to touch the shack. As Lock ran, his foot caught on something. He stumbled and fell. The back wheel of a child’s bike spun where his trailing leg had caught it. He got back to his feet and set off again, breaking into a full-on sprint.

A car was heading down the road. Mendez had stopped in the middle and was waving his arms, trying to flag it down. Lock still had four hundred yards to go as the car slowed and halted.

As he reached the gate, he saw Mendez lean towards the driver’s window, speaking to the driver, and waving something at him or her. The next word he heard was ‘
Gracias
’, and then Mendez was skirting around the car. Drawing his weapon, Lock screamed at
the driver to stop as the helicopter roared above him and he was engulfed in a blinding light.

The car – clearly the driver had thought better of their offer – sped away, leaving Mendez stranded in the middle of the road. The helicopter dropped lower, Lock still in the circle of light, as people emerged from the nearby shacks, roused by the commotion, curiosity getting the snap on fear.

Lock ran towards Mendez, aware that he could be taken down at any minute by a hail of gunfire from the helicopter. For a second, Mendez seemed paralysed by Lock’s sudden appearance or, perhaps, by how close he’d been to getting away. He stared after the departing car. When he looked back, Lock was a hundred yards from him, and the circle of light was covering both men as the helicopter rose into the air on an updraught of desert wind.

Lock gun-faced him. ‘Don’t move!’

But Mendez wasn’t about to start doing as he was told. He pivoted round and made a break for a patch of ground next to the road, beyond which was another set of shacks, the fringe of a bigger, more densely packed
colonia
.

The blacktop behind Mendez splintered as a couple of rounds dug into the tarmac. They had come from the helicopter because Lock had yet to fire. It banked to one side, the pilot moving into position so that whoever was firing had a better angle from which to take out Mendez.

Mendez zigzagged across the ground as the helicopter moved alongside him, the pilot struggling to keep it steady, the searchlight punching its cone of light into the
colonia
. Lock saw the barrel of a semi-automatic pop out from the side door as another gust of desert wind caught the helicopter, lifting it fractionally and taking out the gunman’s angle.

He took the shot anyway, the mark of an amateur, and a three-round burst fractured the air, threatening everyone but Mendez. The downside of the manoeuvre was that the searchlight lost Mendez as he sprinted towards the
colonia
.

Lock went after him, temporarily holstering his weapon, and charging over ground littered with broken glass. Mendez slipped through a gap between two houses as the downdraught from the aircraft blew up a thick cloud of dust.

In the narrow alley, as the helicopter climbed, Lock looked around. There was no sign of Mendez. He walked slowly now, trying to block out the noise of the thrashing rotor blades and pick out his target, but it was an impossible task.

The alley, if it qualified for alley status, was about three feet wide and ran for about eighteen. It seemed devoid of life. Lock slowed before he stepped out into the street – and from nowhere a fist slammed into the side of his face just below the right eye, throwing him off balance.

Lock stumbled, taking two steps back, then found his balance and moved on to his toes, like a boxer. He shook his head, centred himself and looked to his left. Charlie Mendez was right there, but he had frozen again. Lock rushed him, driving his shoulder hard up into Mendez’s chest, catching him slap-bang in the solar plexus. He followed with two quick but full-force elbows to the man’s face. By the time the second landed, Mendez had his hands up but Lock hadn’t finished. Stepping in close, he butted his opponent full in the face, hearing the satisfying dull crunch of the cartilage in his nose cracking with the force of the blow. Mendez let out a whimper as Lock stepped back, fished in a pocket for some plastic ties and went to work securing his wrists. When they were cinched tight enough to be painful, Lock gave him the fastest of pat-downs.

With the helicopter directing reinforcements straight towards them, Lock propelled his prisoner forwards, down the street, as a sea of small brown faces peered from the houses, only to be dragged away from the windows by mothers and grandmothers.

He felt no sense of accomplishment. If at all, it would come later. He had Mendez but the chances of being able to keep him long enough to get him back across the border were slim. And if the action of the gunman who had fired from the helicopter was anything to go by, Mendez’s protectors had experienced a change of heart. If they both stayed alive long enough, Lock might even discover why.

In the meantime, he pushed the whining Mendez down the narrow street, praying for a miracle with every step he took.

Sixty-one

THE AMERICAN CONSULATE
was housed on the third floor of a downtown office building. Once they had stepped inside no one outside could do anything to either Ty or Julia. Consulates and embassies counted as American soil so, to all intents and purposes, they would be on home turf. But there was a snag.

The consulate didn’t open for another hour and, right now, reaching it in one piece was looking about as likely as fashioning a rocket out of baking trays and flying to the moon. Hunched over the steering-wheel, Ty watched as the traffic snaked along the road towards a police checkpoint. Twenty vehicles ahead, a squad of local cops were interrogating a smartly dressed man, who was leaning out of his car, no doubt protesting at the lengthy delay.

Julia shuffled forward from the back seat. ‘Can’t we just ask those cops there to give us an escort?’

‘We could,’ Ty growled. ‘The only problem is they might just escort us somewhere else instead. Like right back to the people who were looking after Charlie Mendez.’

‘The police?’

Ty thought back to when he’d been that naïve about the world. Nope, his memory didn’t go back that far. Not that he blamed Julia: we were all products of our experience and her experience, growing up as a white, middle-class American in a loving family, had left her lacking the necessary insight into just how messed up large parts of the planet actually were. In her world, cops were on your side. Down here some of them were, and some of them were with the bad guys. The problem was that they both wore the same uniform, so there was no knowing for sure which type an individual was.

A few feet ahead there was a side street. Ty waited until he was sure the cops running the checkpoint were busy, then spun the wheel and turned down it. Cars parked on either side meant that he had to squeeze past yet another Policia Federal Dodge Charger, driving in the opposite direction. The driver was in a hurry and didn’t check them out.

‘What are you doing? Why are you turning off?’ Julia asked, her voice panicked and rising in pitch and volume as he tried to stay aware of everything around them and get round the checkpoint.

‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to get us there safely,’ Ty barked. The road was widening but any extra room was taken up by food stalls and street vendors. Even at this early hour, crowds of people milled around. Something about the area was beginning to look familiar to him, but his mind might have been playing tricks.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw that Julia’s face was pressed against the window. ‘Sit back. Someone might see you.’

It was already too late. The SUV, even with the tinted glass, was drawing gawkers on either side. This was hardly a tourist area.
Two small boys, brothers by the look of them, raced over to Ty’s window, jumping up to tap on the glass, smiling excitedly and motioning for him to lower the window. He kept it closed. Give them a few pesos and it would only draw more kids and more attention. An old man wearing a straw hat and drawing hard on an unfiltered cigarette eyed them warily from the corner.

Ty nudged the RAV 4 forward, but the car ahead of him had stopped to allow an old lady to cross the road. Dressed in black, perhaps fresh from morning mass, she took her time as Ty’s long fingers drummed on the steering-wheel and he searched for an escape route. Barring mowing down the old lady or squelching the kids, who were still running alongside and tapping at the glass, there was nothing to do but wait.

As the old lady cleared the road, Ty pressed down on the horn. The vehicle in front stayed put. He pulled out, trying to get an angle to see if he could get round it. It looked too tight a squeeze. It inched forward again and he dropped back in behind it, eyes flicking from rear-view to side mirrors as he watched for any sudden movement from the crowd.

In the back seat, Julia was growing agitated. Ty had seen it before in Iraq: some people made it through the most traumatic situations by surfing on a tide of grit and adrenalin, only for the wheels to come off as they neared safety. The mind simply wasn’t built to contain what Julia must have endured at the hands of Mendez.

‘Why don’t we just get out and walk?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Hey, be cool for me, ’kay? The traffic will clear in a minute.’

She was rocking back and forth. He saw her arm move. ‘I can’t breathe in here. I need to get some air.’

As she reached for the handle to open the door, his hand
shot out and the central-locking clicked into place with a
thunk
.

‘What are you doing?’ she screamed. ‘You’re not taking me to my parents, are you? Who are you?’

Inching forward, Ty hit the brakes then the button to unlock the doors. ‘You want to get out? Be my guest. But you’re on your own. Now, I know you’ve been through hell. I get that. But if they catch us, you might be safe, you might not, but I am definitely going to be dead. So, if you don’t trust me, go. You’re not the only one who’s scared here. You hear me?’

He eyed her in the mirror. His words seemed to be having an effect. Her chin slumped to her chest and she lapsed into silence

Ahead the traffic was moving, not in fits and starts but at a steady clip. They were getting past the last of the street vendors. Ty glanced at the GPS. They had less than a mile to go before they reached the consulate building. Less than a mile to safety.

He settled back into his seat, and checked the sat-nav screen in front of him, plotting a route through the side-streets that would take him close to the consulate. His plan was to leave the vehicle somewhere close by, make the phone call, and then, before word could leak from anyone at the consulate to the local authorities, walk her in. If he was stopped, he would inform whoever was doing the stopping that the consulate officials already knew they were there. He doubted any regular cop, no matter how corrupt or plugged into the cartel, would have the balls to block their safe passage at that point.

His eyes flicked back to Julia just as she glanced to her right. Her pupils snapped from pinpricks to full dilation faster than he had ever seen. She opened her mouth and began to scream.

Sixty-two

THE HOLLOWED-OUT EYE
sockets of Santa Muerte stared back at Julia through tangles of damp white hair. A part of her rational mind knew it was just a shrine, just a skeleton dressed as a woman, but that part was a lost, lonely voice drowned by a cacophony of others screaming at her, telling her that she had to get the hell out of there – now.

She opened the door and stepped out into the road. The people clustered around the shrine turned to look. A heroin-thin man shuffled towards her, eyes as vacant as those of the saint he had come to worship. A fat girl with a baby wedged against her hip whispered something to an older woman. All the while, Santa Muerte shot that demonic smile in Julia’s direction.

She jumped as she felt a hand in the small of her back. Someone giggled at her reaction, the laughter rippling through the crowd. She spun round to see Ty.

‘We have to get out of here, Julia. You understand me?’

Her eyes flicked to the row of gifts laid at the skeleton’s feet.
Cigarettes and bottles of beer and tequila jostled with baby bootees and tourist-tat jewellery.