Age of Blood

14

Yank held on to the handlebars for dear life. He hadn’t ridden a motorcycle in several years, but the Suzuki dirt bike was necessary if he was going to keep up with the mark.

They’d approached him in the Nefertiti Hotel as planned with Ramon flanking one side and Yank the other. He’d have preferred a smash-and-grab, but Holmes wanted this low-key, so he had to act semicivilized. Juan Carlos was a Zetas cartel facilitator, in place to ensure that mafia members transiting through Cabo San Lucas, or those operating in it, had everything they needed. He wasn’t so much a criminal as he was a procuring agent. Whether it was booze, drugs, sex, or extravagant food, Juan Carlos could make it all happen with ease.

He wasn’t much to look at. He was about five foot five and balding, and his paunchy stomach and thin legs promised that his days of sports were long gone. So when he leaped up and took off like an Olympic sprinter after he saw Ramon, Yank couldn’t have been more surprised. Yank had taken off after him, but had found it impossible to keep up, soon tiring and slowing. But Juan Carlos kept on running. When Yank knocked down a motorcyclist, his first move was to grab the bike and use it to follow the man. And when he sped up, so did Juan Carlos.

Where did he get his speed? Yank wondered.

He cranked the throttle, leaned forward, and held on as the studded tires ate the ground beneath him. Sand and rock spit out the back end, firing indiscriminately into the crowds gathered at the outdoor tourist markets. Every so often, he’d spy the man still running up ahead of him. His arms were pumping, his legs were churning, and all the while he was moving forward as fast as he could.

They were nearing the water. Soon, the quay would be before them. When he saw that Juan Carlos wasn’t about to stop, he couldn’t help slowing the motorcycle. What was Carlos going to do? Go flying off the end like a stuntman?

As he slowed, he saw Ramon zip past, his legs propelling him as fast as the other man’s.

Suddenly Juan Carlos pulled up at the edge of the quay.

Ramon hit him square in the back, a move that took them both flying into the water.

Yank glanced behind him at the trail of upset Mexican peddlers and knew he shouldn’t be where he was. A pair of policemen were pushing their way through the crowd. One thing was sure, he couldn’t go back. He did what anyone would do in his position. He spun the throttle, shot forward, and flew off the end of the quay. As the bike began to fall first, he let go, letting it smash into the water. He flew another dozen feet, then hit the water as well, but he’d had time to arrange his limbs so that when he hit, it was sideways.

He sank and turned to his right beneath the water. He’d spied a sailboat at the end of the quay. It took all of his breath before he felt the stern rudder. Then, when he was certain he was amidships, with the bulk of the boat between him and the quay, he let himself come up for air. He wanted desperately to shoot to the surface and gasp in great gulps of oxygen, but he fought it. Instead, he rose slowly, letting air through his teeth to alleviate the burn in his chest.

He saw that he’d been right. The boat, which turned out to be a 2008 Beneteau 37, did hide him from view.

“What’s your name?”

He looked up and saw, leaning over the boat’s side, a head of blond hair backlit by the sun to create an almost blinding halo. He could just make out her face in contrast and tell that she was fond of piercings.

“Yank. What’s yours?” He held out his hand.

She shook it. “Mindy. What were you doing chasing that man?”

“He has something we need.” He changed the subject. “You sound like you’re American.”

“San Diego.”

“Oh yeah? Where?”

“Do you know San Diego?”

He grinned, enjoying the moment talking to an undoubtedly beautiful San Diego blonde on the tip of the Sea of Cortez after the end of a motorcycle chase to catch a superhuman Zeta facilitator. He knew San Diego like every SEAL knew San Diego. He could tell her about so many places. But telling her he knew San Diego he might as well say to her, I’m a U.S. Navy SEAL.

“No. Never been. Is it a nice place?”

She frowned. “It’s boring there.”

“Not so boring here.”

“Oh. It’s boring here, too. It’s just that sometimes I see things like you flying through the air.”

“Oh, really? So this happens often?”

She made a face. “Or something like it.” She turned back as someone called her name from on deck. “Listen, I have to go.”

“Okay.”

She disappeared for a moment, then popped her head back. “We’re going for some fuel. If you can hold on, we’ll bring you into the marina.”

“That sounds good, Mindy,” he said.

She tossed a set of boat fenders over the side, one with a trailing line. He submerged except for his face and grabbed the line. Soon, they were putting into the marina on the Beneteau’s diesel engine. Once they reached the docks, Yank let go of the line then dove, only coming back to the surface when he saw the lighted slats above him. When he did, he wished he hadn’t. Where the water in the lagoon was clear, down here was a collection of dirt and soot and trash, filmed over from lack of a current.

It took him half an hour to make it to the end of the marina. It took him another half hour still to make it back into town. Thankfully the Baja sun dried him quickly. Another twenty minutes found him rapping on the gates of the hotel they’d occupied, where he hoped to link back with Ramon.

Laws came to the gate, chewing on a piece of fruit.

“Wondered what happened to you. Ramon and the other guy were back here an hour ago. We’re about to get started.”

Back here? Started? What was going on?

Laws let him in, then locked the gate behind them. He patted Yank on the back. “Have fun out there?”

“Er… yeah.”

“Good. Excellent. Here, have some mango,” he said, handing over a half-eaten piece of fruit.

Yank took it, but didn’t want to take a bite. Instead, he held it awkwardly as they entered the pool area. And what he saw there drew him up short.