Standoff

Seven

“So this warrant for my arrest is genuine?” I asked Arlen after he’d given me the main points.

“Afraid so.”

“It’s one of those shoot-to-kill warrants, Cooper,” said Chalmers, grinning like a simpleton.

I took a seat on the edge of the bed.

Arlen glanced at Chalmers. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

“What about the Ranger?” the spook asked. “This is a national security issue and he’s not …”

“I ain’t going nowhere,” said Gomez. “The warrant was issued by DPS, which makes Cooper my responsibility. You want me to leave the room, he’ll have to be re-cuffed.”

“And I’ll shoot the first person who tries,” I promised. “How about it, Chalmers? Like to give it a go?”

“Let him stay,” Arlen said, exasperated. “If you can’t trust a Ranger, then we might as well just throw in the towel.”

Chalmers didn’t like it, but he had little choice. He turned to Gomez. “Nothing you hear in this room leaves this room.”

“You’re talking to a shadow, pal. I’m not here,” he said, sitting on a chair by the front door, resting an ankle on the top of his knee, hands behind his head like he was settling in for a good show.

“Okay, Cooper,” Chalmers said, facing me. “What do you know about FARC?”

Ordinarily I’d have smacked something like that into the stands; but, still not sure I wanted to play, I answered by folding my arms.

“I’ll take your silence as ignorance,” he said.

“Take it any way you like, Buzzby. And if your imagination’s not up to it I’ve got suggestions.”

Chalmers looked to Arlen as if I’d just said something that proved his point.

“Can we just get on with it?” Arlen said, exasperated.

The spook took an iPad out of his brief case, muttering to himself, tapped in a code and propped the device on the bench over the bar fridge. Photos taken with long lenses appeared on screen. They showed a series of armed men and women who were mostly under the age of twenty-five, dressed in jungle-pattern combat gear, berets on their heads and ammo bandoliers across their chests. They were mostly mestizo faces wearing serious-business-to-attend-to expressions.

“FARC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. The Marxist — Leninist militia claims to represent Colombia’s rural poor in its struggle against wealthy landowners and industrialists. In reality, though, it’s a guerilla organization made up of thugs and murderers, prepared to sell their services as assassins and mercenaries to Leftist governments in the region. Washington has designated it a terrorist organization.”

The display on Chalmers’ iPad moved through a voyeuristic parade of gruesome killings.

“A few years ago, FARC was all but wiped out, chased from Colombia by successive government crackdowns that began with the victory against drug lords Pablo Escobar, José Gonzalo Rodríguez Gacha, Carlos Lehder, and the demise of the Medellín Cartel. Today, while restricted to the Ecuadorian jungle bordering Colombia to the east, the mountainous jungles and forests on the Panamanian border in the north and the ismuth known as the Darién Gap, FARC has found a new reason for being. It’s now Colombia’s biggest reseller of cocaine and marijuana. And its primary customers are the Mexican drug cartels — the Beltran-Leyva, the Sinaloa Cartel, the Chihuahua Cartel, the Gulf Cartel, the Tijuana Cartel, the Juárez Cartel, Los Zetas, La Familia and so on. We —”

I interrupted: “And all this is somehow relevant to me because …?”

“There’s something big going on,” said Chalmers. “And that’s why the CIA has been called in.”

“Golly gee willikers,” I said. ‘The CIA?’

“Are you sure this jerk’s the right man for the job?” Chalmers pleaded.

“There’s no one righter,” Arlen replied.

“Righter for what?” I asked.

“You’re a cop killer, Cooper,” Chalmers sneered. “And where you’re going, credentials don’t come any better than that. Now, can I get on with this?”

Credentials? Where you’re going? I had a sudden feeling that being cuffed by Gomez and put into the care of the Texas Department of Public Safety might not be such a bad option after all.

Chalmers squeezed his remote at the iPad and continued the show-and-tell. “The war on drugs launched by former Mexican President Felipe Calderón in ’06 has claimed more than seventy thousand lives to date. That number is greater than all US combat fatalities in the Vietnam War. Mass graves are continually being discovered, children are being used as hit men, beheadings and dismemberings are commonplace. Just across the Rio Grande, kidnappings, murders, maimings and revenge killings are being committed on a daily basis, and in pretty much all population centers big and small. Americans of Mexican descent are being targeted by the cartels and used to commit a range of violent crimes on both sides of the border. Within Mexico, whole police forces have either capitulated or been wiped out; entire units of the Mexican Army have deserted to the cartels …”

I yawned.

“Keeping you awake, Cooper?” Chalmers snapped.

Aside from the fact that none of this was news to me, I had been up since 4 am. And pretty much from the moment I opened my eyes I’d been assaulted, chased, shot at, framed, hunted or cuffed. “It’s been a long day and the real shitty part is — it’s barely half over,” I said.

“Then why don’t I just go and ask room service parked in the Charger outside if they’ll go get you a pillow?”

“Can we get to the meat?” Arlen suggested to Chalmers.

I wasn’t sure I appreciated that allusion.

The spook took his annoyance out on the remote and stabbed it at the iPad. One file closed, another opened.

“A few weeks ago, El Paso CBP and DEA agents intercepted a shipment of cocaine worth around thirty million dollars.”

The screen illustrated Chalmers’ narration with some shots of the raid itself, mostly agents slicing open bags of chicken shit to reveal the packages of cocaine within, tightly wrapped in clear plastic with warehouse batch numbers clearly visible.

More old news. I stifled another yawn.

“Forensic analysis confirmed that the cocaine was Colombian and Ecuadorian, and the chicken manure Mexican,” Chalmers continued. “Unconfirmed HUMINT on the ground in Panama has traced the shipment back to this man, Juan de Jesús del Los Apostles de Medellín, alias Juan Apostles, alias the Saint, alias the Saint of Medellín, alias Jesús de Medellín.”

The pictures fading in and out on screen showed various photos of a tall, lean, fit-looking guy who looked forty but was probably older, with a full head of swept-back, layered salt and pepper hair, tan skin and a playboy smile. A Latino Don Johnson. All he needed was a pastel-pink suit. If the accessories in the photos were any indication, Jesus of Medellín enjoyed the company of Ferraris, Polo ponies and twins — brunettes, mostly.

“Apostles came from a wealthy Medellín family,” Chalmers continued. “He was educated at Oxford University, England, where he earned honors in economics and business. On returning home he walked into the family fortune, which was made in construction. Within a year, that fortune had disappeared.”

“Did you say honors?” I asked.

“A lot of that fortune went to FARC. My friends at MI6 say that, while at Oxford, the Saint was involved in several underground Marxist — Leninist organizations.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said.

“Don’t believe what?” asked Chalmers, warily.

“Forget it.” I doubted that Chalmers had friends but I wanted to know where this was going and where I fitted into it more than I wanted to wind him up some more, so I asked: “How does a garage full of Ferraris fit with the whole Marxist — Leninist thing?”

“At last, a reasonable question,” Chalmers said, his voice dripping with condescension. “The Saint is a man of contradictions. He donates money to various orphanages in Mexico and Colombia on the one hand while he kills mothers and fathers and fills the orphanages on the other. In this regard, he’s following in Escobar’s footsteps. He’s also a practicing Catholic who’s been married three times and divorced three times. His first wife was Miss Venezuela. She came in second in the 1988 Miss Universe pageant.” He fumbled with the remote and found a picture of the woman — tall, bikinied, blond and centerfold material. “We don’t have photos of his other wives.”

“Does Miss Venezuela have a twin?” I asked.

“How is that even relevant, Cooper?”

“Move it along,” I suggested.

“Late in 2006,” the spook continued, “at the start of the crackdown on the Colombian cartels, Juan Apostles disappeared for a while before turning up in Mexico, working for the Gulf cartel, where he came into contact with this man.”

Various other photos appeared, none of them as nice to look at as the ones of Miss Venezuela. These showed a Mexican male with a shaved head, broad nose, thick neck and small black eyes that could have been plastic buttons stitched onto tan leather. Blue tears tattooed on his face ran from the outside corner of his left eye, the droplets growing bigger as they ran down his cheek so that the tears on his neck were the size of chicken eggs.

“His name is Arturo Perez. He is also known as the Tears of Chihuahua. He deserted from the Grupo Aeromóvil de Fuerzas Especiales — Mexican Army Special Forces — and was recruited by the Gulf Cartel in 1999 to join their private army, known as Los Zetas, shortly after returning from training at Fort Benning.”

“Our Fort Benning?” I asked.

“You know of any others?” Chalmers replied.

“What did we train him to do?”

“Locate and apprehend cartel members.”

“So he located them and having located them asked them for a job?”

“Seems so,” said Arlen.

“Fort Benning and Oxford should hook up. What came first? The nickname or the tattoo?”

“The tattoo is apparently a celebration of his favorite pastime.”

“Which is?”

“Pain. His thing is flaying people, mostly while they’re still alive. The people who know about this kind of practice say flaying exposes raw nerves resulting in the most excruciating pain there is. It was a popular punishment in the Middle Ages. People would die from heart failure during the process.”

Several photos played on the iPad showing a number of deceased, the skin on their thighs, arms or stomachs removed to reveal the raw muscle and fat beneath.

“Shit,” I murmured.

“This guy’s a prince,” said Arlen. “We think Tears of Chihuahua led the attack on Horizon Airport.”

A photo of Gail Sorwick appeared. Her eyes were closed and she seemed asleep, except that the bed beneath her was a cold hard stainless-steel autopsy table and the sheet covering her body was plastic. A succession of shots came and went with the sheet progressively pulled back. Eventually, photos showed the deceased’s body turned over. Close-ups revealed deep cuts in her skin in the small of her back, beneath her buttocks and down across her hips — long knife cuts in the shape of a square.

“Oh, man,” Gomez said under his breath.

“This is why we think it was Perez. Sure looks like his handiwork. The theory goes that he was about to flay her when he was either interrupted or simply ran out of time. Uncharacteristically for Perez, the cuts were made post mortem, hence the lack of blood.”

“And — lemme guess — the reason you’re not sure it was him is connected somehow to the comment about me having those unbeatable cop-killing credentials.”

Arlen nodded. “Vin, if this was in fact a Mexican raid on US soil by a cartel, it represents a dangerous new phase in their strategies. We need intel. We need to know who and we need to know why. Juan Apostles is a Colombian with direct ties to FARC. The DEA thinks Apostles and Perez are using those ties to forge a super cartel, seamlessly linking supply and distribution. Apostles and Perez have no respect for American law enforcement. If they succeed in their venture, raids like yesterday’s might well become commonplace, and that will rapidly escalate into a full-scale border war with Mexico. We need someone on the inside down there. Perez and Apostles are always looking for new recruits and you’d be a special prize. You’re an ex-combat controller so you know US airspace procedures, you’ve had all kinds of Special Forces training and —”

“And after the El Paso Times hits the streets tomorrow morning with your picture on the cover and the headline, ‘Cop killer wanted, dead or alive’, they’re the only people in the world who’ll want to know you. Gotta ensure your legend’s authentic, right?”

I liked Chalmers even less when he had the upper hand.

“You’re perfect for the job, Cooper,” he continued. “I’ve spent some time going through your records. You like to kill. You’ve developed a taste for it. How many people have you put down? Can you count them? Do you see their faces in your sleep?”

“That’s enough!” Arlen snapped.

“In all the ways that count,” Chalmers continued, “you’re really no better than this Perez character.”

As much as I feigned disinterest, Chalmers’ comments had reached in and twisted something in my gut. He was right. I had lost count and, now that he mentioned it, very few of the people I’d planted had faces I could recall, though their shadows haunted my dreams. Sure, every one of them might’ve deserved it, but I’d appointed myself judge, jury and executioner in most instances and that wasn’t how it was supposed to be. “Assuming I succeed in buddying up to these psychos,” I said to Arlen, doing my best not to seem affected by Chalmers’ comments, “What do you want?”

“If it was Perez who led the raid, we’ll need evidence that’ll stand up in court. Only then will governments in Mexico and Colombia cooperate with us in capturing him and Apostles and extraditing them to US soil.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“DNA. We have blood and semen and other DNA material recovered from the scene. We need a match.”

“You want me to pick up a urine sample?”

“Or hair or clothing …”

“Or a mouthful of cum,” Chalmers interrupted, smirking.

I had six rounds in the Sig. And I could get by just as easily on five.

“Not helpful, Chalmers,” said Arlen.

“No, but it makes it easier,” I said.

My supervisor frowned. “Makes what easier?”

Chalmers had started packing away his gizmos, the grin on his face telling me that he was happy the scoreboard had him ahead on points.

Arlen forgot about my comment and put an envelope and a Spanish phrasebook on the bench, along with a cell phone and charger. “What’s your Spanish like?”

“Incomprehensible.” I picked up the booklet and flicked through it. There wasn’t a section on dealing with cartels, or phrases like, “Can you please help me dismember this?” I tossed it back on the bench. I could understand Spanish. Speaking it was a problem. “What’s in the envelope?”

“Your passport along with some cash, mostly in fifties and hundreds, and a couple of thousand in pesos. Keep your phone on so we can track you, and withdraw money from ATMs whenever possible so we can confirm that you and your phone haven’t been separated.”

“Why don’t I just call you?” I said, pocketing the phone and charger.

“You’re a fugitive. Let’s keep up appearances.”

I checked the envelope. “What good will this do me?” I asked, plucking out the passport and giving it a waggle. “I’ll be on stop-and-detain lists everywhere.”

“The media will get the story as it breaks, but the person who takes care of these things will forget to notify immigration.”

“You mean you’ll leave it to the CIA,” I said with one eye on Chalmers, stuffing the envelope in my pants pocket. “What about ammo? You got cuffs?” I heard the rattle of various objects placed on the bench as I took the three steps to the front door, edged around Gomez, and opened it a couple inches. The EPPD Charger was still out the front, but it had moved — a new shift on duty, perhaps. What I had in mind was going to be tricky unless I could maximize the size of the blind spot.

“Who do I contact, and where?”

“An ex-FBI agent in Panama City, Panama, owns a bar called the Cool Room,” said Chalmers, producing a small mug shot of a man in his late fifties. “His name is Panda. Big guy, looks soft but isn’t. Panda has his own network of informants. He’ll be able to tell you where and when you’re mostly likely to find Apostles. He keeps homes in Medellín, Bogotá, Mexico City, Juárez, Buenos Aires and several other cities around the world. Lately, our information is that he’s mostly commuting between Medellín and Juárez setting up his empire.”

“Keep your cell phone charged up and switched on, just in case,” said Arlen.

It sounded to me like this operation was barely thought out, and that the only part squared away had been nailing me for crimes I had nothing to do with. “So, let me get this straight. As far as local law enforcement is concerned, I’m a wanted killer, a fugitive from the law with a price on my head.”

“No bounty as yet, but that’s only a matter of time.” Chalmers’ smirk turned into a private chuckle.

“If things get tight down there, Panda will get you out,” said Arlen. “He’s also to be your first point of contact. Within a couple weeks, your name will be officially cleared, though if you’re still in-country, that will remain secret.”

I repeated my comments about the trailer park at Horizon not being properly searched and cleared and that an investigation into why it wasn’t might yield results.

“The Sheriff’s Office is already onto it,” said Chalmers.

“Right. Commander Matheson and his brother, Kirk, will see to it.”

“The deputy you shot, Kirk Matheson, is the nephew, not the brother,” Chalmers replied.

Brother, nephew — family was family. “So, if we’re done …?” I said.

“We’re done,” Arlen replied.

I picked up the two full mags for the Sig and a handful of 9mm rounds, which included a couple of blanks. “What are these for?” I asked, examining a casing with the business end pinched together.

“Left over from a training exercise,” Arlen said. “Don’t want ’em, leave ’em.”

I took them on the basis that you never know when something apparently completely useless might come in handy, and also picked up a pair of Smith & Wessons. “Any suggestions about how I might get across the border?” I glanced at Gomez.

“Don’t ask me,” he said. “I ain’t here, though watch out for kids with cell phones.”

“Because …”

“Because the cartels use ’em. Halcones, they call ’em.”

“Falcons,” I translated.

“Yeah. They give ’em the phones and a few bucks and tell ’em to call in if they see anything interesting. There are a lot of kids running around with phones over there. It gives the cartels one of the best-informed real-time intelligence systems going. Any gringos coming into Juárez at official crossings, at the moment, are considered interesting.”

Chalmers was grinning like the village idiot’s idiot brother, enjoying himself altogether far too much. But the smirk disappeared when I slipped the cuffs on one of his wrists, yanked it behind his back and cuffed the other wrist, much like Gomez had done to me.

“What the …? What are you doing?” he yelped. I jammed him against the common wall with the adjoining room and he shot a plea for help at the Ranger. “Gomez!”

Gomez remained in his chair, raised his hands and reminded him, “Ain’t here …”

Arlen, too, stood back.

I patted the spook down, flipped his wallet and keys onto the bed.

“Cooper!”

“Quit complaining. Gotta ensure my legend’s authentic, right?” I went back for the gun my fingers detected in an ankle holster. Out came a Taurus stainless-steel .357 revolver, hammerless. “Cute,” I said, holding it up. “These things come with a purse, don’t they?”

“Fuck you.”

I spun him so that he was facing me, grabbed handfuls of his shirt, pulled him toward me and then shoved him backward. As the pace picked up I put my elbows into his chest and pushed him hard into the wall and kept shoving when he hit it. With our combined weight, the sheet rock gave way like it wasn’t there and we burst through into the room next door, landing beside a bed in a cloud of dust, shredded wallpaper and wiring.

I jumped to my feet and dragged Chalmers to his, the guy too shaken up to resist. Eyes closed, he gasped for air and then coughed and tried to snort the dust out of his face.

Marching him to the door, I noticed a scrawny middle-aged guy in his underwear and shorts sitting up on the bed with a computer beside him. A rhythmic grunting sound was coming from its speakers. His mouth was open.

“Thin walls,” I said. “It’s like your neighbors are in the room with you.”

His eyes popped open wider, if that was possible, and he snapped the laptop closed.

I pulled the spook across the room and leaned him beside the door.

“Cooper …” he said a little groggily.

“Just don’t blow this, Chalmers,” I told him, and flicked a chunk of sheet rock off his shoulder.

He lifted his head. “Fuck you.”

“Maybe, if you had nicer legs,” I said and opened the door an inch to check on the position of the surveillance vehicle. It hadn’t moved. I slipped the chain, opened the door, pulled the Sig from the concealment holster behind my back and jammed the muzzle hard into his ribs so that he flinched. That made the weapon essentially useless, but he couldn’t have known it.

“Don’t make me use this, Brody. I’m a wanted fugitive.”

I pushed him in front of me as we approached the Dodge Charger from a high angle in its four o’clock area — the driver’s blind spot. Bending down, there were those two silhouettes in the front. The one in the passenger seat was drinking from a large cup. I ran the last ten feet, pushing Chalmers in front of me. He hit the panel over the rear wheel, jolting the car. Snatching the rear passenger door handle, I pulled up and prayed it wasn’t locked. Prayer answered in my favor: the door sprang ajar. I ripped it back and virtually threw Chalmers inside. The two officers jumped in their seats. The guy with the cup flung it upwards and doused himself and his partner with hot coffee, which added to their fright as they swore and twisted this way and that like a couple of cats caught in a shower.

“HEY!” I shouted. “I’ve got a gun and I’m gonna use it. Follow my instructions and no one gets hurt.” They turned around, fear and anger on their faces. I pressed the Sig hard into the side of Chalmers’ neck so that they’d believe I meant business. The officer behind the wheel was an older guy with corporal’s stripes; his partner, the one with the coffee, was young, a rookie most likely. This was a dangerous game. The longer we sat here, the greater the chance the pendulum could swing back in their favor. We needed to move fast before another cruiser wandered along. But first, some necessary housekeeping. “Show me your firearms!” I shouted at them. “Now!” There was movement in the front seat. “Easy … easy …” I told them.

“You take it easy, mister, okay?” the corporal insisted. Both officers slowly raised their Glocks where I could see them through the steel mesh divider. Their hands were shaking.

“Throw ’em into the floorboards.”

Hesitation.

“Do it! You know I’m the guy you’re looking for and you know what I’m capable of.” Bringing my inner gangster out for some exercise, I said to the young officer, “Don’t do nothin’ stupid, junior. What about your backup, the one you keep in an ankle holster?”

More hesitation.

“Keep it moving, people. I don’ got all day. Nice and slow. Let’s use our left hands.” They bent down. “Slowly, slowly,” I told them. The corporal’s hand came up with a .40 Smith & Wesson. The rookie had a Springfield Armory XD-S .45ACP Micro-Pistol. “Present from dad?” I asked him.

“How’d you know?” he replied.

“The slide’s inscribed, ‘Love from Dad.’”

“Oh, yeah …”

“Into the floorboards,” I instructed them.

“Any flick knives, knuckle-dusters, nunchakus? Now’s the time to get rid of ’em before I pat you down. I find anything on you, I’m not gonna like it. I might use it on you.”

Both men emptied their pockets and tossed a variety of buck knives, brass knuckles and blackjacks into the diminishing space around their feet.

“Where’s the shotgun?” I asked.

“In the trunk,” said the rookie. “There’s an AR-15 back there too.”

These guys were packing enough heat to take on a platoon. “Keep your hands where I can see ’em — on the glove box. And you, corporal, put your hands on the wheel and keep ’em there. I don’t see your hands, I ventilate Joe Citizen back here. We clear?”

“Take it easy, okay?” he said.

“So you keep saying. Just do what I tell you.”

“You all right, sir?” the corporal wanted to know, eyeing Chalmers in the rear-view mirror. This guy was a good cop: even scared half out of his mind, he was still concerned for the hostage’s welfare, and maybe also a bit curious about why he was covered in all that white dust.

“Yeah,” I said. “Casper the Friendly Ghost here is having a super day. Now keep your eyes out of the mirror or you’ll see something you won’t like.”

As far as these officers were aware, I was fresh from shooting four SO deputies and four witnesses. I was a cold-blooded killer. And now I was in the back seat of their company car with a hostage, a loaded gun and a full mag of attitude.

I hadn’t closed the rear passenger door behind me. Once it was shut, there was no way to open it from the inside, not without a little modification. I changed my grip on the Sig and smacked the heel of the handle backhanded into the windowpane. The third hit shattered the glass, which became a saggy matt of crystals held in place by tinted film. Slamming the matt with my elbow a couple times finally pushed it out of the framework and onto the sidewalk. That was easier than I thought it would be. Now I could open the door by reaching out and pulling the latch, or, if I had to, slip out through the window NASCAR-style.

Refocusing on the two in front, I couldn’t see Junior’s hands on the dash. I had only marginal control over the situation and it could turn nasty on me at any stage. “Hands where I can see ’em,” I snapped as I pulled the door closed. “Drive. Get to I-10, eastbound. Don’t flash your lights, stay off the radio. Stick to the speed limit — no faster, no slower.”

Nothing happened.

“Now!” I barked. “And don’t forget I’ve got a gun pressed into the ribcage of a hapless, innocent bystander back here.”

The officer behind the wheel turned the ignition on, signaled and accelerated into traffic. The ramp to Patriot Freeway was close. He took it, nice and gentle.

“What do you want?” the corporal asked me.

“I want you to stop with the questions. You and the new recruit will be fine, and so will Mr Average here as long as you do what I tell you.” Chalmers’ tie was askew. I straightened it for him.

The ramp for I-10 came up pretty fast. The officer took it and the cruiser swung to the southeast.

“Where are we going?” Junior asked.

“For a ride. Keep your hands on the dash.”

The cruiser accelerated to fifty-five miles per hour and El Paso quickly gave way to desert. I glanced at Chalmers. He was glaring at me, knowing he had to play along with my dangerous little charade, quietly steaming, the upper hand he was enjoying so much no longer his.

The traffic thinned out on the Interstate, the sun a large flaming orange clipping the horizon.

“Where are we going?” the corporal wanted to know again after twenty minutes of highway cruising.

“Quit asking. You’ll be home in time for dinner, providing you do what I tell you.”

Another twenty minutes and the terrain was looking familiar. A gas station flashed by, a familiar battered Patriot parked in the lot. The turnoff was close. “Slow down,” I said. “And keep those hands where I can see ’em.”

“How you doin’ back there, sir?” the corporal asked.

“I’m okay,” said Chalmers. “But this gun he’s got in my side is really starting to hurt. I’m gonna have a bruise there for sure.”

“Shut up,” I said, staying in desperado character. I had to admit, Chalmers was playing the part like a pro. “Now slow down some more,” I said. The cruiser slowed to about thirty. “There’s a trail coming up on your right. This one. Yeah, here. Pull into it.” The Dodge washed off some more speed and turned into the trail as darkness gathered. The corporal turned on the lights. “Don’t stop. Keep going straight ahead.”

The rookie and the corporal were exchanging glances. They’d cooked something up for sure. Hell, I’d given them enough time to serve a three-course meal. I needed to re-establish control.

KER-BLAM!

I fired the Sig out through the window. The Dodge swerved in the dirt, clipped a bank.

“Shit! Hey! Whadaya doin’, for Chrissakes!” yelled the corporal.

“We’re nearly at the place where you’re gonna drop me off. I just want there to be no doubt in your minds that the weapon I’ve got trained on my hostage back here is the real deal. I see your hands move off the wheel, or your partner’s leave the dash, and the next shot will be tickling some ribs. Maybe yours.”

“Okay! Okay! We’re just driving!” the corporal yelled. “We weren’t gonna try and jump you or nothin’.”

Not anymore they weren’t. Hands were back where I wanted them, where I could see them.

“We’re getting close. Veer off to the left.”

The Dodge bumped over the rough dirt road, taking the fork, the corporal wrestling with the wheel, the rookie bracing himself against the dash. Ahead, suddenly, was the barrier fence. But the hole cut out of the mesh … Where was it?

“Why are we here?” the corporal wanted to know, looking left and right. “What are you looking for?”

“Put your headlights on the fence,” I told him.

He brought the vehicle around. The high beam picked out a section of mesh that was black instead of the usual all-over rust red.

Shit, yesterday’s breach had been efficiently welded back in place.

“Someone seal up your escape hole, loser?” ventured the corporal. “Why don’t you just hand over the gun and give yourself up now, and I promise you I won’t stomp all over your head when you’re in my holding cell.”

“Very kind of you,” I said. “But some idiot judge is gonna give me a stainless-steel ride to hell for sure. Why don’t I just kill you all now, leave your bodies here for the coyotes, take the car and run? Dead men ain’t gonna testify, yo.” Channeling gangster chic, I was almost enjoying myself.

“Th … there’s a gap in the fence,” said the rookie, swallowing loudly.

“Shut the fuck up, Roy,” the corporal told him.

“You were saying, Roy. Something about a gap in the fence?” I said, nice and pleasant.

Silence.

“Roy?” I cocked the Sig’s hammer — there’s no mistaking that sound.

“Ten miles down the road, further east,” Roy blurted. “The fence just comes to an end. No guards, nothing. You just walk around the end of it and you’re in Mexico.”

“Roy!” the corporal snapped.

“Do tell. How big’s the gap?” I found it hard to believe. What was the point of having a fence at all if there were gaps in it?

“’Bout fourteen miles long?”

“What?”

“Yeah. Friend o’ my pappy has a ranch on the border there. Sits on his porch with a cold beer and waits. He got the southern property line bordering Mexico rigged with seismic and motion sensors so he can detect the couriers coming across at night with backpacks full of cocaine and whatever else.”

“What’s he waiting for?”

“A clean shot. Um, I forgot to mention he sits there with an old M1 Garand equipped with a night scope.”

“I said shut the fuck up!”