Payback

114

Babin’s prediction about the border agents had proven correct, and Túcume felt himself relaxing as they continued north toward Houston. The girl had fallen asleep and lay slumped against his shoulder.

“We should change vehicles again,” said Babin. “Sooner or later they will look for this one.”

“We can’t unload all the boxes,” said Túcume.

“We only have to unload one.”

“Two hundred kilos—”

“Two hundred and fifteen.”

“Too much weight, and no one to help this time.”

“That we can change easily. What we will need is a suitable vehicle.” Babin stared out the window. “Take the next exit. I know what we can do.”

Babin surveyed the vehicles parked in front of the bar two stores down from a large all-night supermarket. There were pickup trucks, but they were too obvious a choice, as bad, he thought, as another tractor trailer. A large station wagon on the other hand — that would be perfect, as long as he could find one with a rear hatch large enough to accommodate the crate.

He had listened to the radio religiously on the way north. There was no news about Peru, let alone his warhead. Still, he thought it possible that the Americans would be looking for him. He had the advantage of knowing where he was going — the conceited Yankees would no doubt think he would strike at Washington, D.C., a symbolic gesture against the world’s tyrant. But he was not so simple; he had never believed in symbols.

Still, if they were on his trail, they would be looking for a large truck. It was best to find something completely different.

There were no station wagons near the bar. He was just about to tell Túcume to start up the truck and move on when a small SUV pulled up in front of the bar. Two men got out — young men, Babin thought, though he couldn’t get more than a glimpse.

“Let’s try with those two,” said Babin, pulling open the cab. “Wait for me at the old building we saw. If I am not there in an hour and a balf, come back. I will be in the supermarket.”

Getting down from the truck was a struggle, but the pain made him more determined. He crutched across the parking lot, avoiding the puddles left by a recent rain. He examined the rear of the car, noted the license plate number, and went inside.

The room was almost empty. The two men who had just come in from the lot were sitting at the bar.

“Bartender, there was a car outside with its lights on,” he said out loud. “A red vehicle.” He gave the license plate.

“Yo, I left my lights on?” said one of the men, starting to get up.

“I turned them off for you,” said Babin.

“Good thing I don’t lock it, huh?”

“Nice car,” said Babin. He found English awkward after having gone so long without using it very much, and his unease dampened his courage.

“Have a drink, y‘all,” said the man. “What are you havin’?”

Remembering his last experience with vodka, Babin ordered a beer.

“Messed up your leg, huh?” said the man’s friend. They were in their early twenties, relatively big.

Could they lift five hundred pounds between them?

Probably not. Babin had a ramp in the truck, though. They could angle it down into the back of their car and manhandle the crate inside.

The trick was to get them to want to do it.

“My back is the problem,” said Babin. “It’s a big problem. My partner and I were supposed to make a delivery to one of the construction sites up the road. A bathtub. Special order. But the trailer can’t make it past the mud and, with my back, I couldn’t help him unload it anyway.”

“Bummer,” said the man who owned the car.

“Maybe I could hire some help,” said Babin, taking the beer.

The man closest to him turned and winked at his friend. “Five hundred bucks cash, no questions asked,” he told Babin.

“Five hundred?”

The man leaned toward him. “What you’re delivering’s hot, right?”

“Hot?”

“You’re going to remember you need to deliver the whole load, right? Five hundred bucks. Each of us.”

“It’s just one.”

“Oh, OK,” said the man, smiling and returning to his beer.

The liquid stung Babin’s mouth. He took another sip, realizing this would be much easier than he thought.

“Careful, man, this car has to last me another year,” said the American as he and his friend began easing the crate into the back of the Subaru Forester.

Though they were using the ramp, the job was made more difficult by the fact that the car’s rear hatch opened upward. The front of the wooden crate cleared easily, but then it hung up about three-quarters of the way in. Túcume came and helped, pushing on the crate with one of the Americans while the other held up the hatch. Finally, the crate made it all the way in.

“Take the girl for something to eat,” Babin told Túcume. “Then come back for me.”

“She’s still sleeping.”

“There was a McDonald’s restaurant down the street. Have her wait for us there.”

Túcume nodded. Babin walked back to the two men, who were trying to close the rear door on the crate. It was about an inch too long.

“We’ll just get some rope and tie it down,” said one of the men.

Babin looked at it. Clearly, this would not do; he worried that there might be some highway regulation about driving with an open hatch and they would be stopped. The rear portion of the crate could be pried away. Then it might fit.

They’d have to get different license plates, preferably from out of state. From as far from Texas as they could find.

“So what’s really in there, dude? You moving dope?”

Babin swung around, filled with fear. He expected the man would be holding a gun in his hand, but he was not.

Too bad for him, for Babin had pulled the general’s .22 from his pocket.

Without answering the man’s question, Babin fired quickly. As the man crumbled, his friend began to run. He got only a few feet away before Babin put a slug in the back of his head.

Túcume dragged the second body to the Dumpster, holding his nose as he picked the dead man up and dropped him over the side. He felt like a grave robber.

“How low I have fallen,” he mumbled to himself, going back to the car.

Babin had pulled part of the crate off to get the weapon to fit inside.

“We’ll need to find a blanket to throw on top of the crate.” said the Russian. “But let’s get rid of the truck first.”

“Why not leave it here? The building’s old. It looks as if it’s abandoned.”

“It will blend in better in the salvage yard up by the highway,” said Babin. “No one will look for it.”

“It’s a mile away.”

“I’ll wait.”

“The girl.”

“We should leave her.”

“No.”

“Then hurry or she’ll run off on her own.”

Túcume gritted his teeth, then climbed into the cab.