Down Among the Dead Men

84

Vargas could barely contain himself. “Come on, Ortiz, we’re wasting time. We have to get moving.”

He was standing in Ortiz’s toolshed, looking down the steps into the hidey-hole. Ortiz was moving around down there and taking forever.

“If we’re going to kill a man, pocho, we’ll need the right tools to do it. And not that popgun you bought from me.”

“All right, fine, just hurry it up.”

A moment later Ortiz climbed up the steps carrying an armload of weapons, then dumped them onto a workbench.

“A couple of these should do the trick.”

Vargas looked down at them, a variety of handguns, the makes and models of which he couldn’t even name.

“Pick your poison. But I got dibs on the SIG.”

It was a classic case of overkill. They already had the Tomcat and the gun Mr. Blister had left on the hotel room floor, and Vargas just wanted to get on the road.

He grabbed a handgun and stuffed it in his belt. “All right, you happy now? Let’s go.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Ortiz said. “Don’t you think we’d better talk about where we’re going, first?”

“I told you, Ciudad de Almas.”

Ortiz picked up the SIG. “That’s an all-night drive and then some, amigo. How do you know that’s where he’s taking her?”

“I don’t. But it’s all I’ve got.”

“This is where you say the dead nuns came from, right? From the church there?”

“Right,” Vargas said. “Iglesia del Sagrado Corazon. But we can talk about all this on the road. We’re wasting time.”

“That’s another problem, amigo.”

“What?”

He nodded toward the taxi, which was parked in the drive. The side mirror was history, but the car itself was still in pretty good shape.

“That spare tire we put on is one of those temporary things. It won’t last all the way to Ciudad de Almas.”

They’d thrown the spare on as quickly as possible, wanting to get away from the hotel before the police showed up. No way they’d be able to pass off the gunshots as pre-festival fireworks, and involving the Mexican cops in this thing was a recipe for disaster.

When Vargas had tried to retrieve his Corolla from the parking lot, he’d discovered the tires had been slashed. Courtesy of Mr. Blister, no doubt.

“Christ,” Vargas said. “What about one of your friends? Don’t they have cars?”

“My friends find out we’re fucking around with La Santa Muerte, they’ll shoot us just to be merciful. So I wouldn’t count on them.”

“Then what the hell are we supposed to do?”

Ortiz thought about it a moment, then an idea struck and his eyes lit up.

“We’re about to go where no man has dared to tread, amigo.”

“What do you mean?”

Ortiz gestured. “Come over here; let me show you something.”

They crossed the yard to a small garage at the end of the driveway. Glancing around, Ortiz grabbed hold of the handle and yanked on it, rolling the door open.

Inside was a sight to behold: a pristine black 1970 Plymouth Barracuda with a monster Hemi-head engine.

“Jesus Christ, Ortiz, how long have you been hiding this thing?”

“I haven’t been, pocho. This is Yolanda’s ride.”