She never felt the bullet.
She thought maybe she’d been kicked or shoved by either the sheriff or Fox Uno.
There was no pain, though, only pressure. A tightening, as if she, too, had been grabbed by the same invisible hand that been holding Danny down only a dozen yards away, although she’d never truly know that.
But when she tried to take a breath, the air wouldn’t come, and she looked down just long enough to see the bloody hole torn through her shirt and her heart.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Chris saw Amé go down.
He had no idea how bad it was; the bullet didn’t come from the sicario near the van, but off to their right, where Chris could now barely make out two more men moving in the falling dusk. Probably, he guessed, the shooters who’d fired first at Fox Uno. One was huge, heavily muscled, and the other was whip-thin, with dark hair slicked back on his head. They were both in police tactical gear and they were duckwalking, staying low, carefully measuring their shots as they worked hard to stay out of sight of the other sicario.
Chris couldn’t guess who these men were, or where they’d come from. It was as if they’d magically appeared out of the desert, walking all the way from Mexico.
But they had badges . . . They had to be cops or agents, like Garrison.
He raised a hand and started to call out to them, but as they continued to aim down their barrels, he understood they hadn’t come to save him.
In that moment, he and Amé were no different from any other narcos to them.
No better than Fox Uno or the sicarios.
Amé said something as she fell over him, struggling for breath, and he caught a glimpse of the infamous silver gun Fox Uno had given her, shoved in the back of her jeans, hidden beneath her shirt.
It flashed in the dying sun, impossibly bright.
He pulled himself up and put an arm around her to hold her close to him.
He whispered in her ear that he had her . . . that it was okay, that she was safe. She started to shake violently.
He grabbed her silver gun and turned it on the cops bearing down on them.
SEVENTY-NINE
Danny was alive first because of Eddy Rabbit, and now because of Marco Lucero.
He never would have seen the shooter he’d flushed out of the inside of the van by firing through the doors and side panels if Marco hadn’t lit him up with the headlights and pinned him down with his wild shots. Marco’s improbable attack had also kept the son of a bitch’s head low long enough for Danny to drop his empty M110 and get to the AR-15 he’d stowed in the ocotillo.
It didn’t matter that it appeared the other deputy had missed with every damn shot.
Danny put two tightly grouped rounds into the man’s chest before he had a chance to recover, knocking him backward off his feet into the still-open van door. That gave Danny time enough to turn around once more toward where he’d last seen Johnnie Macho and push him back with a few three-round bursts.
Danny then moved fast, swinging around the ass end of the van and putting one more bullet into the shooter already dying there, while clearing the now empty interior by Marco’s headlights. Using the big vehicle as cover, he quick-peeked around its side and saw one sicario down, but another still up, still firing on the sheriff and Amé. But this one, having seen Marco’s lights, realized he was flanked, and was now switching back and forth, shooting both front and behind, while trying to crawl back up into the van through the open side door.
Danny fired another three-round burst at him, and was about to turn and get into the van himself—planning to shoot him from the inside as he tried to take cover there—when the man disintegrated.
That was the best, maybe the only, way to describe it.
It wasn’t like the explosion that had killed the kid in the red shirt, but it was damn close.
A powerful fusillade tore the man apart, caving the side of the van in, blowing the passenger door clear off its hinges.
It flew fifteen feet away, tearing a trench in the gravel.
The entire van bounced up and down, tires exploding, windows shattering.
It was like the great hand that had been squeezing Danny earlier had now grabbed the van and crushed it.
Then Danny truly was back in Afghanistan as a roar washed over him, and the sky lit up with the low, angry pass of a helicopter.
EIGHTY
Johnnie had started retreating even before the helicopter appeared, dropping out of the dusk and strafing the house.
It looked huge, with its giant rotors carving the sky and men hanging out of the open bay doors, shooting at the ground below.
Shooting at him.
By then, though, he’d already been shot, and was dying . . .
* * *
—
JUST AS HE WAS ABOUT TO PUT DOWN DANNY FORD, another vehicle’s lights had come on—some old truck rumbling down the gravel drive, driven by yet another man with a gun—and since he’d nearly caught one of Ford’s bullets with his teeth, and had no idea how many more people were running around, or who the hell was shooting at who anymore, he’d decided he’d had enough.
Fuck those indios across the river, fuck it all.
He’d turned tail in time to see Sheriff Cherry shoot Ringo. The sheriff was still down on the ground with the female deputy and the old man, firing some big-ass silver gun, some kind of gangster/narco gun, that even Ringo would have seen the humor in—hell, he would have laughed the loudest—if he’d still had the top of his head.
Following Johnnie’s lead, Roman—who’d been right next to Ringo when his head had exploded all over his snakeskin boots—had retreated, too, and they met in the same clump of yucca where they’d first stopped with Eddy Rabbit to eyeball the house, both breathing hard.
Maybe they got lucky and the old man had died in that blast? Johnnie didn’t know anymore or care. No one had warned him it was going to be like this. Not even close.
“Goddamn,” Johnnie said. “It’s a fucking mess. I think it’s just the two of us now. We gotta get the fuck out of here.”
Roman was checking his rifle, making sure he still had a few rounds left, when he said, “Oh, you’re wrong about that, amigo. It’s just the one of us.”
Then he casually shot Johnnie twice.
“What the fuck?” Johnnie screamed. The first bullet hit him in the left thigh, and the second slammed his torso and dropped him backward. He didn’t think that one had gotten through his vest, but it hurt like he’d been hit by a car . . . make that a fucking train . . . and there was no way he was running far on his wounded leg.
Tumbling backward, he dropped his MP5, but before he could do anything about it, Roman was standing over him, kicking the fallen gun away. He aimed his own weapon down at the crown of Johnnie’s head.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re gonna kill me over a goddamn whore? Over goddamn Rae?”
Roman cracked that big neck of his, rolling it around. He took the badge on the chain around his neck and slipped it beneath his T-shirt. His eyes shone. “Fuck no, not over her. This is for Zam, your wife. I’ve been fucking her for months now, amigo. She needed a real man. You should have treated her better. I’m gonna marry her and raise up them two boys of yours like my own. Your family, the unit, everything, is gonna all be mine by this time tomorrow. Before long, Chuy is going to ask me to start calling him Dad, after they find you out here and everyone knows what you did.”
Johnnie spit, wiped his mouth. He needed a matchstick to chew, something to ground him. Something to set this motherfucker and the whole world on fire. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and never would have bet on Roman making this sort of move. He never would have bet on himself going out this way.
He was goddamn Johnnie Macho.
He stared Roman down. “What we did, motherfucker. We were friends. We’ve known each oth
er our whole lives.”
“Exactamente, our whole lives, and you’ve been a prick from day one. I’m done cleaning up your shit and wiping your ass, Johnnie. Adios, amigo.”
Roman raised the rifle for the kill shot and Johnnie got ready to die.
* * *
—
AND THAT’S WHEN THE HELICOPTER APPEARED, dropping out of the dusk and strafing the house . . .
It looked huge, with its giant rotors carving the sky and men hanging out of the open bay doors, shooting at the ground below.
Shooting at him.
But as it passed overhead, Johnnie realized Roman was gone.
EIGHTY-ONE
Joe Garrison hadn’t run in a long time, but the second the chopper touched earth, bouncing up and down on its struts with its rotors still turning, he followed the FAST guys out the bay door.
He lurched into the heavy wind churned up by the blades, a mess of blowing rocks and dirt and trailing smoke. He bent low, feeling the tightness of his soft vest around his gut. He had his old Winchester shotgun at low-ready, and his badge was clipped up high on the front of his vest.
The last time he’d worn it that way he’d been a young, gung-ho agent in St. Louis. Before Junior Worrell had shot him, and he’d killed Junior.
Garrison and FAST split into two teams, half of them sprinting to clear the wreckage of the van, the rest rushing to where Chris Cherry and the others were spread out on the ground. Danny Ford was running with them, calling out to America Reynosa, who’d clearly been shot, and for one moment Garrison was right next to him, before the deputy pulled too far ahead.
When Garrison got there, Ford and a FAST EMT—an agent originally from Arkansas named Mike Connolly—were already working on her. Cherry was sitting upright, all in one piece, aiming a huge silver gun at an old Mexican who looked maybe like he’d tried to crawl away in the chaos, but hadn’t gotten very far. One of the other FAST agents was flipping him facedown, searching him, putting him in cuffs.
When the sheriff saw him, Garrison started shaking his head.
“Jesus, Sheriff Cherry, this is a hell of a mess you got yourself into.” Garrison bent down to gently take the silver gun out of Cherry’s hand and help him to his feet.
“I’m probably not the sheriff for much longer.” Cherry stood, slow and unsteady. His face was streaked with smoke and dirt and blood. He looked like he was just waking up, and maybe in some ways, he was.
“Well, since I green-lit this operation without the express approval of SAC Don Chesney, I’m not likely to be an agent much longer, either. We’re both going to be searching for new jobs.” Garrison stared down at the gun; it was silver and etched with skulls and other images he barely recognized, except for one: Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte. He had no idea why Cherry would have such a gun, and he handed it off to one of the FAST agents.
“Amé?” Cherry asked, sudden and loud, turning to where his deputy was still laid out on the ground.
“My guys have her, Chris. Let them do their job. Once she’s good to move, we’ll get her on the chopper. It’s going to be okay.” Garrison wasn’t sure about that, but it was the only thing to say.
“Your guys . . .” Chris echoed, still seemingly lost. “The badges. Jesus, I shot at them, Joe. I had to . . . They were coming for Amé, for me . . .”
“No, it’s okay, Chris,” Garrison said gently. “You didn’t shoot anyone with me. I promise.” He put a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “What about Melissa? The baby?”
Cherry shook his head, still trying to see how Deputy Reynosa was doing. Still trying to figure out what the hell had happened to all of them. “I sent them away. I need to call her, let her know . . .”
“I’ve got another group of agents driving to Murfee. I’ll have them get her, wherever she is, bring her to you. Wherever you want her to go, just tell me.” Garrison pointed at the Mexican in cuffs. “I take it that’s the infamous Fox Uno?”
Cherry rubbed his face. “Allegedly. Yes, that’s him.”
“Goddamn.” Garrison whistled. “It’s hard to believe . . .” He let it drop, as the old man looked back at him. There was nothing interesting about his face at all, nothing that hinted at the man he was or the things he’d done. Garrison could have walked past him a hundred times and never looked twice. “Sorry it took so long. I was afraid we’d get here too late. I got the message, but I didn’t recognize the number, didn’t listen to it right away. Then I wasn’t even sure I believed it.”
“What are you talking about?” Chris asked.
Garrison continued: “We got turned around trying to find you. It was worse in the chopper. From up above, this whole place really does look the same. But without it, we never would have made it in time. We followed the smoke and, finally, the muzzle flashes.”
From the air all the shots had looked like brightening stars, one after another after another. Red and white and yellow streaks, blazing away. An entire constellation spread out on the ground that Garrison had used to navigate to the house.
“I didn’t call you,” Cherry said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Joe, but it wasn’t me.”
Garrison searched the middle distance, where the sun had gone completely down. They were wrapped now in darkness, only the lights of the chopper illuminating the scene around them. “I know.”
“Was it Mel?” Cherry asked.
Garrison put a hand on his shoulder again. “No.”
EIGHTY-TWO
America wasn’t sure if she was dying.
She still couldn’t breathe, and pain was galloping through her, trampling her. She couldn’t hold her gun, because her hands wouldn’t clench it; they fluttered away on their own.
She wanted to stand, but she couldn’t find her legs, and then other hands were on her anyway, holding her down.
She couldn’t see Sheriff Cherry or Fox Uno.
She couldn’t see Danny.
Only the ocean of night above her, deep and dark and cold, and stars rising like a tide there.
She’d been to Miami, once, and had spent nights alone on the beach watching the sea.
A man she didn’t recognize was also far above her, yet saying something close in her ear. She tried to fight him, push him away, but she was too weak and getting weaker by the second. He cut away her shirt with bright silver scissors, revealing the Saint Michael pendant Ben had given her—and the armored vest beneath that. He tapped it with a knuckle and smiled, and said something else she didn’t catch. He was talking in English, but she kept wanting to translate it back into Spanish, and she got lost with every word.
At last, there was Danny.
EIGHTY-THREE
He held her and brushed her hair away from her face and kissed her eyelids.
Holding her stopped his own shaking.
Holding her, he told her she was safe.
She tried to say something back, but he kept her quiet with another kiss. She’d been wearing her vest, the way the sheriff had always taught them, but there was still blood. So much blood. It was possible the round had worked its way past it or underneath it.
As the agent tossed her shirt away, checking her vitals and prepping her to move, something fell to the ground. It had been tucked inside her vest, and Danny grabbed for it, holding it up close.
It was a nearly empty pack of cigarettes. The only thing inside was a tightly folded piece of paper, a single page from a confidential report about Fox Uno. Danny had no idea where she’d gotten it, but there was a cell number handwritten across the top of it. He didn’t know the number, either, but could hazard a guess who it belonged to.
He let the page slip through his fingers, let the helicopter’s spinning rotors take it far, far away.
Amé squeezed his hand and whispered, “Lo siento mucho . . . lo siento mucho . . .” I’m so sorry.
And that he understood.
&n
bsp; “It’s all over,” he said.
They were ready to transport her, but Danny didn’t want to let her go.
Holding her, he didn’t know how.
EIGHTY-FOUR
CHAYO & NEVA
They followed the rising smoke, and then, as it got darker, they followed the flashing lights.
Neva next saw the helicóptero turning in a circle before it dropped low below her sight.
Something was going on out there. And although Neva knew Chayo would want to keep moving, to go around it, she also knew he was hurt and needed help.
El sol was settling behind them, so they still had its rays at their backs. But ahead of them, where they’d both seen the helicóptero, it was night. There was still a faint glow over there, a white, smoky smudge against the black to guide them, and Neva aimed them toward it, and Chayo didn’t try to stop her or pull her back. She held on to him, dragging him with her, as they stumbled over the scrub. Maybe they’d be caught and sent back to México, but she wouldn’t let him bleed to death in Los Estados Unidos. Not for her, not after all he’d done to save her, to save them both.
She was so focused on where they were going, she didn’t realize they had walked right up on another hombre until he spoke to her.
* * *
—
HE WAS HURT, TOO. At least as bad Chayo and maybe worse.
He was in strange, dark clothes that reminded Neva of the men who had attacked the buses in Ojinaga, and she thought at first—with the fear rising in her, threatening to wash over her completely—that he had followed them all the way to this place from that night.
He was leaning against a fancy coche americano, as dark as the night in front of them. The ground and bushes all around it were torn up, and she could just make out more tire marks in the dust. There had been another coche here, but that one was gone. When she and Chayo had walked up, the hombre had been trying to get his keys into the lock, but now that they were there, he smiled and slapped a bloody hand against the door he’d been trying to open.
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