Dead or Alive

80

THEY HOOKED HIM,” Chavez said, punching off the satellite phone. “Two o’clock, an Internet café on Rua Bráulio Cordeiro.”

“Great, where the hell’s that?” Dominic replied, swerving their car as a taxi swept them, the driver honking and yelling. “Not that it matters. We ain’t gonna get there in one piece anyway.”

Chavez was tracing his finger along a city map. “Keep heading east. I’ll steer you.”

“I assume we’re not grabbing him there?”

“Nope. First we gotta make sure he’s alone. We told him to break contact, but who knows? Plus, we’re gonna need some privacy to get done what we gotta get done.”

“Which is?”

“Whatever it takes.”

Dominic smiled grimly.

They found the café and circled the block twice to get the lay of the land, then found a parking spot on the street fifty yards to the north on the other side of an intersection. They got out and walked south. Between a pharmacy and a tire repair shop they found a short alleyway that led to a makeshift junk-yard full of rusted washing machines, car axles, and stacks of old sewer pipes. Chavez led the way to the back of the yard and behind a trash heap. Through a wide-slatted fence they could see the Internet café across the street.

“Shit,” Chavez said.

“What?”

“Just noticed that walkway to the right of the café.”

“Back entrance, maybe,” Dominic said. He checked his watch. Still twenty minutes to go. “I’ll circle around, see if I can get a look.”

Ten minutes later, Chavez’s phone beeped. He pushed the talk button. “Go ahead.”

“There’s a back door, but there’s a Dumpster pushed up against it,” Dom said.

“Bad for fire code, good for us. Okay, come on back.”

Chavez had no sooner taken his finger off the button than a green Chevrolet Marajó slowed down outside the Internet café. Though the angle was oblique, Chavez could see a lone man sitting behind the wheel. The Marajó continued on, then braked and began backing into a space.

“Dom, where are you?”

“Almost back to the intersection.”

“Slow up. We might have our guy.”

“Roger.”

Up the street, the Marajó’s driver got out and started toward the café.

Chavez pushed the button. “It’s our guy.” He gave Dominic a description of Hadi’s car, then said, “Get back to the Hyundai. Shouldn’t take him long.”

Chavez got a double button click in response: Roger. He dialed The Campus. Sam Granger answered. Chavez said, “He’s in.”

“The message is uploaded. We’re sending him to a pool hall at the corner of Travessas Roma and Alegria at the south end of the Rocinha.”

“Time?”

“Seven.”

Chavez hung up. Ten minutes passed, and then Hadi walked out of the café. He looked up and down the street, then walked to his car and got in.

“Moving,” Chavez said. He sprinted back through the yard, down the alley, and emerged on the street. To his left, Hadi’s Marajó pulled up to the intersection and stopped.

Dominic said, “I see him.”

Hadi turned left.

“Coming to you,” Dominic radioed.

“Negative. Stay there.” Chavez sprinted up the street and reached the Hyundai in thirty seconds. “Okay, go. Left at the intersection, then turn left and pull up to the stop sign.”

Dominic did as instructed. As they reached the stop sign, Hadi passed in front of them, heading north. Dominic let two cars pass, then pulled out.

Fifteen minutes later: “Someone’s on us,” Dominic said. “Or Hadi.”

Chavez glanced in the side mirror. “Blue Lancia?”

“And two more behind that. Green Fiat compact, red Ford Corcel.”

“What the fuck? You sure?”

“Saw the Fiat and the Ford circle the block twice while I was going around behind the café. Can’t be the cops.”

“Yeah, why?”

“Cops would be better at it. They’re in a goddamned convoy.”

Chavez checked their map. “Let’s get a face.”

Dominic slowed beside a parking spot and put on his blinker. Behind them, the Lancia honked its horn. Chavez stuck his hand out the window and waved him past. As the Lancia swerved and sped by, Chavez glanced over.

“Looked like the same ethnic persuasion as Hadi. His partners in crime, you think?”

“Could be. Maybe Hadi didn’t make a clean break.”

Dominic let the third car, the Corcel, pass, then waited five beats, then pulled out and fell in behind it.

Musa’s third day of travel went as smoothly as his first two, and by late afternoon he reached his final overnight stop: Winnemucca, Nevada; population 7,030; 350 miles northwest of Las Vegas.