“This is going to hurt you a lot worse than me, I’m happy to say.”
Grant braced himself. “Is that your idea of a bedside manner?”
Cruz stared into Grant’s eyes. “It is my idea of saying you should not have come to Absolution.”
Grant stared back. Neither blinked for a long time. They both knew Grant had no choice but to come visit Absolution. Some things a man just had to do no matter how much he’d rather not. Cruz nodded his understanding, then got to work on the stitches.
“So he’s not smuggling illegals across the border, you reckon.”
“There is no need for army trucks to bring Mexicans into America. There are hundreds of easier ways to cross the border.”
Grant had drifted in and out of consciousness during the hours that Cruz treated his wounds. He was feverish and weak and had to fight bouts of shivering that threatened to spill his mug of tea. Hunter Athey had left to take the hearse back before anyone missed him. Grant’s mind was still working, though, and it was working overtime trying to figure out what Macready was bringing across the border. Top of the list was drugs. In America, most crime seemed to boil down to drugs. Cruz didn’t think a small town like Absolution would be the choice for a drug baron. Grant thought about the Dominguez cartel and reluctantly agreed. Macready didn’t seem like the drug-lord type.
“Guns, then?”
“Señor. You have traveled around America. Do you see a shortage of guns?”
A shiver rattled Grant’s teeth. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He’d come to the same conclusion in Boston when he’d been interviewing Freddy Sullivan before he’d been blown up at Jamaica Plain. That brought another possibility.
“What about women?”
“For the whorehouses?”
“I hear that Mexican women are very popular.”
He felt ashamed even thinking that, but it was true. The escort industry was full of dark and dusky beauties from south of the border. Pilar Cruz had been one of the most beautiful and courageous women he’d ever known.
Doc Cruz shook his head. “There are plenty of whorehouses in Mexico. Why import them? All you have to do is take a day trip.”
Grant was reaching, he knew. He remembered reading something like that in a Jack Reacher novel. A truckload of young women brought in from across the border. Canada, he thought. And that James Lee Burke book Rain Gods. Sheriff Hackberry Holland finding nine dead prostitutes buried behind a barn. Life might well imitate art, but fiction was often inspired by life. Grant knew that women were shipped in from overseas to satisfy niche markets.
“It’s just what they said about not wanting anyone slipping away.”
“They could mean slippage. You know? One of the soldiers getting greedy with whatever they were bringing across.”
Grant nodded his agreement and immediately wished he hadn’t. The headache had been raging for hours, but it was the dizziness that kept making him feel like vomiting. He closed his eyes and wiped sweat from his brow.
Cruz lowered his voice. “You should rest, my friend. You are too weak to trouble yourself over this.”
“It’s the this that’s been troubling me. What is it?”
Cruz rested a hand on Grant’s arm. “Whatever it is, you won’t find out in this condition.”
Grant couldn’t argue with that. He felt weak and sick and dizzy. Racking his brains over the problem was just making him feel worse. There wasn’t enough information to reach a conclusion, so there was no point pursuing the matter. He decided to change tack.
“Where did he get so many army trucks from?”
“From the army, I should think.”
“The army doesn’t rent its trucks out. They’re not Hertz.”
“They don’t engage in smuggling either.”
Grant drummed his fingers on the table, watching the steam rise from his cup.
“I wouldn’t put it past them if it was something they needed. America hasn’t exactly been shy about invading foreign countries when it suited them.”
Cruz squared his shoulders. “This accusation from the country that colonized half of the world before raping its natural resources.”
Grant held his hands up in surrender.
“You’re right. But either way, I don’t see the army sanctioning a smuggling operation across the Mexican border.”
He sat back in his chair and almost fell over. A wave of nausea swept over him, and the room began to spin. Cruz dashed over and helped steady the battered Yorkshireman. He tested Grant’s forehead with the back of his hand.
“You are burning up. Let me get you in bed.”
Grant waved him off and took a deep breath. He took a drink of tea, the cure for everything according to Yorkshire fishwives. The room stopped spinning. He gave Cruz an old-fashioned look.
“You’ve seen my tattoo, right?”
Cruz looked nonplussed. “Only when examining your back for injuries.”
Grant pointed to the base of his spine, just above his backside. “no entry. My ass is one-way traffic. No way you’re getting me into bed.”
Cruz finally understood the joke. His face broke into an embarrassed smile. Grant felt the pressure lift. Humor. Every cop’s secret weapon. It could diffuse violent situations and alleviate stress. It worked in the military too. Pre-mission nerves were often calmed by ribald talk and inappropriate comments. He thought of Wheeler and Bond arguing over who was the best 007. The memory saddened him, so he changed the image. Phil Silvers barking orders as Sergeant Bilko. Military comedy at its best.
He stopped with his cup halfway to his lips. Sergeant Bilko. The motor pool sergeant at Fort Baxter. A man who was always open to a good deal, whether it was legal or not. Bilko wouldn’t think twice about hiring army trucks out for private enterprise. Life imitates art. Every army base had its dodgy dealmaker. He put the cup down.
“Where’s the nearest army camp?”
Cruz scratched his head, then rubbed his chin. The overt show of concentration was comical. Humor arising from a serious situation. “There is a unit at Fort Davis, west of Alpine.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It is not very big, though.”
Grant began drumming his fingers again. He was on the right track. “Any garrison towns? Something big enough to have a motor pool?”
Cruz blew out his cheeks, then took a deep breath. His eyes lost clarity as he turned the focus inwards. Grant could almost see the wheels turning. After a few moments, Cruz blinked and stared at Grant.
“There is a garrison at Fort Stockton. Through the hills north of Absolution, at the junction of Route 67 and the 385.”
His eyes widened as he thought of something else. “And the 385 goes right past Macready’s factory outside town.”
Grant pushed his cup across the table so hard he spilled his tea.
“What factory?”
twenty-six
Grant carefully slid back from the ridge on his stomach, then sat up against a flat rock once he was hidden from the industrial complex on the other side of the hill. Cruz had been close when he’d said Macready’s factory was next to the 385. It was actually ten miles north of Absolution on Iron Mountain Road, a straight-as-an-arrow continuation of Avenue K. The desert road went past the factory, then joined the 385 on its way through the hills towards Fort Stockton. Passing traffic used the 385. The army convoy used Iron Mountain Road. That’s what had made Doc Cruz nervous driving Grant out there on the same road.
“This is madness. They will see you coming from miles away.”
This while Cruz had kept his battered Ford from bouncing off the uneven road and Grant had kept his head down on the back seat.
“I thought you weren’t hiding from Macready, just keeping a low profile.”
“Driving up to his factory is not keeping a low profile.”
“His factory’s on the other
side of the Iron Mountain. They won’t even see your dust unless they’re headed back towards town.”
“Exactly.”
“They’ve just crossed the border heading north. Whoever they’ve paid to use the trucks will be wanting them back. Once they’ve dropped the cargo and refuelled, it’ll be straight up the 385.”
Grant had been right. There had been no vehicles on the road out of town. He sat with his back against a tombstone rock in the dying light of the day and looked down at Cruz’s Ford parked in a cutting behind the hill. Cruz looked unhappy. Grant waved to show everything was all right apart from his aching ribs and the stinging knees. He ran through the factory layout in his head.
The industrial complex was situated in a horseshoe indentation in the side of the mountain. The flat piece of land was perfect for keeping the factory private while allowing secluded access from Absolution and good transport routes along the 385. The factory itself was fairly basic. An L-shaped block. Brick-built storage units along one arm and workshops with a chimney along the other. Two antiquated gas pumps bordered the narrow cutting that formed the entrance, the only way in or out. There was no gate and no security fencing. The factory was protected on three sides by the mountain and a guard hut next to the filling station.
There was ample space in the angle of the L between the storage units and the workshops. That’s where the trucks had been parked. Even from this distance Grant had been able to see the swirl of tracks where they’d been reversed for unloading before refuelling on the way out. The trucks were gone now. The pair of army jeeps was parked at the gas pumps. Grant wondered how Macready had swung the extended loan, the jeeps having been parked at Sixto’s for the last couple of days. He must be paying a king’s ransom to get that kind of cooperation.
Loose rocks rattled down the hillside.
Grant snapped his eyes forward.
Cruz was scrambling up the hill, worry etched across his face. Waiting alone at the car had obviously got to him. Despite the heat and glaring sun, the doctor wanted company more than rest. The climb brought sweat patches out under his arms and down his spine. He was out of breath by the time he sat next to Grant.
“This much exercise—it is not good for your condition.”
Grant smiled at the doctor’s discomfort. “Is that your medical opinion?”
“It is the opinion of a man who has just climbed a mountain. A man who still has two knees and no broken ribs.”
Grant couldn’t argue with that. His knees were sore but his ribs were the worst. They hurt like hell whenever he moved. Add to that his head felt muzzy and he was running a temperature. Sweat stung his eyes even without the effort of climbing the hill. Sometimes, if he looked down at his feet, the world tilted and spun out of control. Control was something he normally took for granted.
“I’ll be fine. I’m only going to take a look inside.”
Cruz shook his head.
“You are not fine. And to look inside, you will have to climb down this mountain. I guarantee you will feel worse at the bottom than you do at the top.”
Grant didn’t shake his head. It was already spinning. He took a deep breath and blinked sweat out of his eyes.
“I’ll take it easy.”
Cruz didn’t look convinced.
“Easy would be to do this after dark. Isn’t that what you military types do? Sneak around in the dark?”
The sun was low but still bright. It blazed across the western plains.
Cruz made another point.
“And don’t forget, once you have looked inside you will have to climb back up here. That is three climbs too many, my friend.”
At last Grant had an opening for his defense.
“I won’t be climbing back up here because you’re going to pick me up round the corner.”
“What? You’re just going to walk out? In plain sight?”
This time Grant did shake his head and regretted it.
“This side of the factory there’s a dry creek. Runs right past the entrance, all the way to where you’re going to pick me up. Nobody’s gonna see me.”
That’s what he kept telling himself, but Cruz was right. Grant should really wait until dark. Trouble was, he didn’t think he could last until dark. The fever was taking hold and he felt weak and shivery. If there was any trouble, he doubted he’d have enough strength to defend himself. Back in his army days this mission would be aborted. As it was, Grant was relying on the low sun glaring down the hillside to blind anyone looking this way. After that it would have to be stealth and secrecy.
It was a forlorn hope. He should have listened to his doctor, because things were about to get a whole lot worse.
He was halfway down the hill when the first bout of sickness threatened to empty his already empty stomach. He crouched behind a rock and let the cramps double him over. His eyes were watering. Sweat poured down his face. The cramps eased, but his head was spinning. It was a few minutes before he was able to look around the rock.
The trucks might have gone, but the factory was working full tilt. The noise came up the hill in waves. A dull roar sounded from inside the workshop, and a constant banging and clattering came from everywhere. Smoke puffed around the tall black chimneystack. Voices shouted above the noise. Nobody was trying to be secretive. Everyone felt safe this far out of town.
One of the jeeps started up and crossed the yard to the gas pumps. Grant’s eyes followed the movement. A man came out of the guard hut and jerked a thumb towards the fuel gun holstered in the side of the pump. The driver stopped the jeep and began to argue with the guard. Didn’t look like he wanted to serve himself, and the guard didn’t consider himself to be a gas pump jockey. There was a lot of chest beating and violent movement but no actual violence. Another example of pissing contests coming in all shapes and sizes.
Grant scanned the open space below him. The other jeep was unmanned. There was nobody else around. The only eyes on the ground were too busy arguing about who should work the pump. Holding one arm across his stomach, Grant scurried the rest of the way down the hillside. Easy movements. Careful not to start a rockslide. He reached the gully at the bottom, then dropped to a crouch. His head was spinning. A sudden cramp doubled him over, but he wasn’t sick. Sparks of light jumped around behind his eyes. He took half a dozen shallow breaths to clear his head.
The factory noise was louder down here. That was good. It meant he didn’t have to worry about anyone hearing him scramble up the riverbank. He poked his head over the top for a count of five, then ducked below the parapet again.
He was at the end of the long side of the inverted L—the storage wing. Several roller shutter doors faced the courtyard. Only one was open. He couldn’t see inside from this angle, but sparks flickered in the dark. An electric motor whined, and more banging noises drifted out of the door. A forklift truck? A motorized trolley?
Approaching from the angle of the L was too dangerous. The guard wouldn’t be distracted for long, and the thing about factories was that workers might come out of the door at any time. Grant moved to his left so he could see down the outside of the L—the external walls that were protected by the mountain. The side where they felt safe. Like he’d noticed from the ridge, there was no guard position along the outside, but there were three fire escapes. And they were all open to let air into the work area.
Grant moved left and forwards out of the creek bed. He threw one last glance towards the guard hut, where the discussion had reached a stalemate in the dying shafts of sunlight, then approached the nearest fire escape. It was at the top of a rusting metal staircase about ten feet up the sidewall. The other fire exits were at ground level. Grant preferred to view the inside from an elevated position. He paused at the bottom of the stairs and rested one hand on the bottom step. There was no vibration. No footsteps echoing from the top of the solid metal structure.
Walkin
g softly on the balls of his feet, Grant took the stairs one at a time. This wasn’t about speed, it was about stealth. Rushing ahead would be a mistake. The way his head kept spinning, this was probably a mistake anyway.
He went up three steps and paused.
No movement up ahead.
He went up three more.
Still no movement or voices at the top.
Another three steps.
The chaotic noise of a workforce in full swing grew louder. Metal banged on concrete. The electric motor whined, stopped, reversed, then whined again. The dull roar was constant. Grant could smell hot metal and flux, like a soldering iron multiplied by a hundred. A furnace.
The next three steps took him to just below the landing. The noises made sense now. It reminded Grant of the steelworks in Sheffield back home, back when there had been a steel industry in Yorkshire. Knives and forks around the world had been made from Sheffield steel. He doubted Macready was making cutlery.
Grant edged forward at a crouch. He reached the landing and peered through the door. At first all he could see was the elevated walkway around the inside of the factory and the foreman’s office at one end. In the distance, to his left, sparks jumped and spat when the furnace door was opened.
That wasn’t what caught his eye. Molten metal was just molten metal. There was no way of knowing what kind of metal it was until it cooled and oxidized. The factory floor was the place to look.
He crept to the edge of the walkway, keeping low, and looked over the side. Then a voice shouted a warning to his right.
twenty-seven
Grant jerked his head towards the sound, and the world spun into oblivion. He pushed back from the edge of the walkway and braced himself against the wall. His hands came up, ready to fend off the attack, and his knees screamed as he prepared to push upwards. He turned towards the shouted warning. To his right, the voice shouted again—from the glass and wood office at the end of the walkway.
“I said, watch your back!”
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