Down Among the Dead Men

13

When he came to, he had to fight his way through a hazy field of cobwebs and cotton before he remembered where he was and what had happened to him. But the rope around his wrists and ankles and the layers of duct tape wrapped around his head and covering his mouth were fairly good reminders.

And the heat.

Jesus, it was hot.

The Corolla was moving, and he was now locked inside the trunk, his body screwed up into an impossible position, the road bumping beneath him, sending little jolts of pain through his tailbone and along his spine.

His head throbbed worse than ever, blood and sweat trickling along his temple, across his cheek, then down past the tape and into his mouth.

He recognized the taste.

When he was six years old, his father had fashioned a toy parachute for him using some string, a handkerchief, and a small lead weight. For hours he had delighted in tossing it into the air and watching it float to the ground like a miniature paratrooper about to land on some foreign beach.

One time, however, he threw it high and into the sun and immediately lost track of it. Spinning in a circle to see where it would come down, he couldn’t for the life of him find it.

Then something hit his head, pain shooting through him, and what seemed like a bucket of blood began to flow into his eyes and mouth.

Horrified, he ran into the house, screaming for help. And after his father had washed and treated what turned out to be a fairly insignificant wound, Vargas had asked how such a small piece of lead could have caused so much blood.

“The head is very sensitive, mijo. Even the tiniest of cuts will bring on the blood of a hundred more.” Then his father smiled. “Just be thankful that none of your brains leaked out along with it.”

Vargas wasn’t sure he could be so thankful this time. Ainsworth had thumped him pretty good-twice-and he had no doubt that he’d need stitches to repair the damage.

He lay there, fighting off the urge to panic, and tried to assess his predicament.

There was no sound of conversation in the car. A song played on the radio-an old corrido that had always been one of his grandmother’s favorites. But other than that and the hum of the tires, there was silence.

Which meant that either no one felt like talking or the driver was alone. And based on the conversation Vargas had overheard earlier, he figured the one called Sergio was behind the wheel.

Where Ainsworth and son might be was anyone’s guess, but Vargas didn’t think they were here. Ainsworth liked to talk too much. Enjoyed listening to himself. And Vargas couldn’t imagine he’d leave the F-150 behind.

So it was just Vargas and Sergio.

Better odds, but still not good.

Where you headed?

Safe house in Juarez. He’s waiting for us.

Vargas had no idea who they’d been talking about-that was a question for another time-but was pretty sure that if he didn’t do something, right now, he wouldn’t be getting out of this little rendezvous alive.

And since Juarez was less than an hour’s drive from Dead Man’s Dunes, chances were good that he and Sergio would soon be arriving at their destination.

Too soon.

So Vargas had only one goal in mind: to get out of this trunk.

As fast as humanly possible.