Down Among the Dead Men

24

They kicked him out of the clinic at about 9:00 P.M., telling him to make sure he got plenty of sleep, with a suggestion that he not be alone for the next twenty-four hours in case his symptoms worsened.

Vargas had been alone for much of his life, and didn’t expect that to change anytime soon. He’d always thought that victims of concussion were supposed to stay awake, but was assured by the doctor that this was a complete myth. Sleep, he was told, would help him mend.

Which was a relief. A nice, comfortable bed sounded awfully good to him right now.

His base of operations was a Western Suites Express about five miles north of the emergency clinic. He caught a cab, moving slowly as he climbed in, and for one brief, terrifying moment thought it was Sergio behind the wheel.

It wasn’t.

The driver, who remained mercifully quiet during the ride, dropped him off at the curb in front of the motel. The charge was six bucks-highway robbery-and as Vargas paid the fee, he worried that his advance was almost gone. He’d have to start dipping into his savings to fund this little outing and wondered if it was all worth it. The visit to the clinic alone was going to cost him a bundle, even with the emergency medical insurance he’d been paying every month. His deductible was high and would take a large, painful chunk out of his net worth.

In the movies, he would’ve walked away from this without spending a dime. He would also be driving a sleek Jaguar or a refurbished Mustang-something with a roomier trunk at least-and would have an annoying but affable sidekick, along with enough clues right now to know he’d just hit the jackpot with the story of the decade.

Oh, and a girl. There was always a beautiful girl in the movies and a nice semi-nude encounter on the motel room sheets, concussion be damned.

Maybe that’s where the American woman came in.

Whoever she might be.

Being the big spender he was, Vargas tipped the cabbie a buck, then headed around the corner past the lobby entrance until he was in the motel’s parking lot, where about a dozen cars were parked.

He stopped short when he saw it.

His Corolla.

He didn’t know how the hell they’d managed to get it across the border, but there it was, parked under a light in a slot close to the building, its busted trunk lid tied down with a bungee cord.

Vargas’s gut tightened. Quickly scanning the area, he searched for any sign of trouble in the darkest pockets of the building-Ainsworth or Junior or Sergio waiting for him to come home.

Except for a lone woman crossing to her car, the place seemed deserted. And there was no sign of Ainsworth’s F-150.

Which didn’t mean a damn thing.

Vargas’s car hadn’t gotten here on its own, and he didn’t imagine that anyone who was willing to set him up in the first place would be likely to back down easily.

They knew where he was staying. Worse yet, they might even be sitting in his room right now.

So, what, he wondered, was his next move?