PRECIPICE

by Leland Davis

  The covered platform near the train tracks had just come into view when she saw her train pull up. She broke into a run that carried her into the open-air station. She careened into a ticket vending machine, barely throwing her hands up in time to stop herself before her head smashed into it. She pulled out a twenty that she’d swiped from her roommate’s wallet while Miss Perfect was in the shower, then lost precious seconds trying to feed the bill into the machine with her badly shaking hands. The ride to San Jose was two transit zones, which came to $9.50 for an all-day pass. She’d only have ten bucks left, but that would do. At least the train ticket would get her both there and back again. She turned from the machine just as the train was pulling away then kicked the stone wall of the platform in frustration. She’d missed it. And she’d wasted the money for the ticket.

  She sat down on a bench for a moment before bouncing back up and pacing agitatedly back and forth on the platform. The next train wasn’t for an hour. This was taking too long.

  She pulled out her iPhone and called Brett again, but he still wasn’t answering. Where the fuck was he? She hadn’t seen him since yesterday. She’d called one of his fraternity brothers to see if he was at the frat house, but neither he nor his car were anywhere to be found. She had to get to San Jose.

  After another minute of pacing, she decided to head back to Camino Real and try to find a ride. That street was also Highway 82, which went to San Jose. She picked up her pace as the decision was made, quickly covering the distance back to the busy street.

  Héctor almost panicked when the girl started running toward the train station. If she got off at the next stop, there was no way he could catch up to the train in time. He pulled into the parking lot and quickly found a spot, then slammed his palms on the steering wheel in frustration when he saw the train pull away before he even got the minivan’s door open. He picked up the radio and called urgently for Chucho to head south on Camino Real. He pulled his iPhone out with the other hand and went to the Caltrain website to find the locations of the next stops and the train schedule. He put the radio down, slid the minivan into drive, and rolled toward the exit of the parking lot with his iPhone still clutched in the one hand.

  He dropped the phone in surprise when he saw the girl charge out of the train station and head back the way they had just come on California Ave. She’d missed the train! Where was she trying to get to? No matter, he circled a paved area of bicycle racks and metal boxes at the end of the road and followed the girl at a discreet distance, picking up the radio to update Chucho with the news.

  When the girl reached Camino Real, she crossed the street and headed south. Héctor had to wait several long, tense minutes for the left turn signal to appear so he could follow her, and when he finally turned he was shocked at what he saw. She had stepped to the edge of the road and was holding her thumb out to catch a ride! Could it really be this easy? He turned off the two-way radio and surreptitiously slid it under his seat and pulled to the curb next to her, then pressed the button to roll down the passenger side window. She leaned both arms on the windowsill and put her head inside, and he could see that this was definitely the girl from the photo. She looked a little different, though—thinner, and she had dark circles under eyes that twitched nervously this way and that.

  “Where you going?” he asked with a thick accent. His English was not great, so he hoped he could pull this off.

  “San Jose.”

  “OK,” he nodded.

  She popped open the door and hopped onto the passenger seat, pulling the door closed as Héctor merged back into traffic. Héctor reached under the seat and pulled out the two-way radio. He turned it on, depressed the button and spoke to Chucho in Spanish.

  “I have her. Meet me at the place we agreed on.”

  He took a quick right onto Page Mill.

  “Hey, where are we going?” the girl asked.

  “Autopista. How do you say? ‘Highway.’”

  One and a half miles later, they passed the Foothills Expressway and left town, entering an area of scrubby hills. Héctor veered onto a smaller road and soon pulled over at a dirt pullout along a chain link fence.

  “Hey, what the fuck?” Sam shouted as she turned to face him, then she fell silent as she stared into the gaping barrel of the nickel-plated .45.

  By the time Chucho pulled up ten minutes later, Héctor had Sam’s hands secured behind her with the flexicuffs and had created a makeshift gag from a t-shirt in his carry-on. She had begun screaming her head off as soon as he’d put the cuffs on her. She’d rolled over and spat on him, and he’d backhanded her, blacking her right eye.

  The two men manhandled the girl into the back of Chucho’s PT Cruiser. She began kicking wildly, so Héctor used Chucho’s flexicuffs to also bind her feet. The men exchanged car keys. Chucho would return the rental car to the airport and fly back to L.A. while Héctor made the long drive south with the girl. Héctor envied the easy flight; but the girl was too important to let out of his sight, and there was absolutely no way he could trust Chucho to leave her unharmed. The stocky little man was his best asset here in the States when it came to getting dirty jobs done, but he was also as unpredictable as a wild animal when it came to violence and women. Five minutes later Héctor was on I-280 racing south with Mexican pop music blasting from the speakers, the landscape blurring hazily around him as it rushed by outside the darkly-tinted windows.

  15

  Saturday, November 19th

  THEY CROSSED THE border at dawn south of Yuma, Arizona and made their way through the border town and southeast into the desert. Chucho was driving. He ducked onto a dirt road and continued about thirty kilometers, the PT Cruiser bouncing up and down as they barreled through the scrub. A figurine of the Virgin Mary that hung from the rear-view mirror danced as the car jostled along. They could hear the girl grunt every time they hit a particularly big bump, often accompanied by the thump of a rock hitting the low-slung undercarriage of the car. It was just after 7 in the morning when they pulled off the dirt track into the Sonoran Desert and followed the GPS on Héctor’s iPhone to a waiting plane.

  The small jet sat isolated on the flat, barren ground. There were no buildings around and no other cars—just tan dusty dirt spotted sparsely with sage bushes as far as the eye could see. There was one strip of ground where the sage had been cleared by hand into a crude runway that led away from the plane to the west into the prevailing wind. Two men were outside the plane smoking cigarettes in the cool morning air, sitting on a set of stairs that folded down from the cabin door.

  It had been a long night. Héctor had driven seven hours to LAX where he’d picked up Chucho, then they had both traveled another five hours to the border. He’d been forced to turn up the radio to drown out the sound of the girl periodically retching in the back, and the smell of regurgitated bile had threatened to gag him unless the windows were kept down. He was looking forward to some sleep on the eleven hundred mile flight. Chucho parked the car next to the stairs and they both got out. While Héctor greeted the pilots, Chucho opened the hatchback of the PT Cruiser. Héctor joined him, and together they lifted the writhing girl and manhandled her up the stairs and into the plane’s cabin. The pilots climbed aboard and handed a thick envelope to Héctor, who gave it to Chucho as the man left the plane. As the PT Cruiser disappeared into the desert in the direction it had come from, the engines of the plane roared to life. Héctor settled gratefully into a comfortable seat in the cabin and closed his eyes as the plane began to move.

  *

  Chip was blinded by spray as he zipped down a slide of water-covered bedrock and went airborne. He flew over the brink of a twelve-foot falls and landed in an alcove of rock and water before exiting by crashing through a final frothy recirculation. He turned to watch the raft with the other men follow him. The Cascadas Micos near Valles was a wide river that flowed over a series of waterfalls. The rock that created the falls was comprised of rough minerals that had been leached from the limestone
bedrock and re-deposited in dripping rock formations that poured steeply down a jungled chasm. Towering trees with fragrant bright red flowers loomed above, while giant cypresses spread wide canopies at the river’s edge. The water was a surreal aqua green. White limestone cliffs loomed high over one side of the river with a Mexican flag planted on a jutting promontory flapping gently in the breeze.

  The group made their way across the pool and pulled over at a short set of concrete steps that led up to a large cement patio overlooking the water. Tourists milled about, mostly Mexican, and some swam in the natural pool. The group pulled their boats up on shore and walked a short distance across the patio to a taco stand for a snack. They were all wearing shorts, and most wore no shirts under their lifejackets. The weather was lovely this time of year in the Mexican Huasteca—the mountainous region of jungles and rivers where they had spent the last few days. The time had been spent practicing their rafting skills and maintaining their cover as tourists. Chip had even been teaching some of the men to kayak. Although it felt like a vacation, there was a pervasive tautness that gripped the group. They all knew what was coming. They were having a great time, but the waiting was killing them. This was the hardest part.

  Chip bit into a taco Asada, savoring the freshly-cooked beef in its soft corn-tortilla shell. You couldn’t beat the price and quality of the food down here. It was nothing like most Mexican food in the States. He wandered back over to the stairs leading down to the pool. The water was down to the fifth step. It had dropped by half a step since they’d been here, which was a considerable amount for this wide riverbed. He knew it was probably time. Part of him was filled with excitement at the prospect of the mysterious river and waterfall, but it was tempered with trepidation. This was no ordinary river trip. In fact, the river was the least of his worries. There would be men with guns waiting there who wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. The plan was not to avoid these men completely, but to deliberately kick the anthill and then hope they could escape the swarm. It was unlike anything he had done before. He tried to console himself with the knowledge that his partners were the best at this. He reflected on the cool competence and amazing skill they had shown while training at The Woods. Even that didn’t help much, so he turned his mind back to what he knew best and visualized himself for the millionth time plunging over the giant falls. Focus on things you can control.

  Harris walked up beside him, also finishing off a taco. Chip and Harris had become friends. The same calm control that Chip had on the river, Harris seemed to possess in all things. No matter how far out of his element or how frantic the situation, Harris was a pro. He was steady. He was always looking out for the group around him and projected a sense that no matter what came, everything would be all right. Although he wasn’t as gregarious as the jolly Roberts or the wild man Duval, he was definitely the one Chip most wanted to be with when the shit went down. In river gorges throughout two continents, he’d seen some people fold under pressure while others rose to the challenge. He’d learned to tell the difference. Harris would never fold. That fact gave Chip the confidence to face his fears of this mission. It was the same sort of confidence that Daniel had brought to a countless number of Chip’s past adventures.

  “Getting close?” Harris asked.

  “Yeah, I think it’s time,” Chip responded quietly, a sense of inevitability creeping into his tone.

  “So we’ll go tomorrow morning?” It was part question, part statement.

  “I think we should be good to go,” Chip answered with a little bit more conviction.

  The others had wandered over and heard. They all looked at each other. This was it. They headed back over to the taco stand for a second round. It was going to be a long couple of days. They would need the fuel.

  *

  Moore turned up the radio so he could hear Randy Owen sing. It was corny, but the music reminded him of home. He hated most of the newer country music and was glad the car had satellite radio so he could get a classic station. Still, he wished he was driving his F-250 in Alabama tuned in to WUUQ instead of navigating DC traffic in this ridiculous Cadillac. What had he been thinking when he let Liza talk him into buying this thing?

  He finished the hour-long drive, wheeled into short-term parking and turned on the alarm as he left the car. The last two days had been excruciating. Nothing had been resolved on the bill when they recessed for the holiday. His party had tried to force a vote but lacked the quorum to do so. He’d spoken to Craig in passing several times, but there’d been no indication that anything had happened down in Mexico. He was desperate for some way to learn more about the mysterious operation to take out the drug lord, but he had no idea how to get that information. He’d tried all of the contacts he had through Homeland Security and come up with nothing.

  The only bright point was that his little girl was coming home. His angel, seemingly the only bastion of goodness left in his life, was arriving tonight, and Sheldon looked forward to spending time with her and forgetting for a little while about the madness that had recently engulfed him. He didn’t even mind that he was missing the opening of deer season in Alabama this weekend. His trusty deer stand would have to wait until after he’d visited with his daughter.

  He strode through the airport and found a monitor listing Delta arrivals to see which gate her connecting flight from Salt Lake City was coming into. He found the flight number, found the gate number, and walked to the appropriate baggage claim area and had a look around. He was early. He took the stairs back up to the terminal and found a bar. He ordered himself a bourbon and sipped it while he waited. Ten minutes before her flight was set to arrive, he paid his tab and headed back down to baggage claim.

  People soon streamed by him and gathered around the carousel, happy travelers arriving for the beginning of the holiday rush. Twenty minutes later there was still no sign of Sam. Several lonely unclaimed bags cycled endlessly on the carousel. Only a few travelers remained, still hoping their own wayward bags would somehow magically appear. He used his new Samsung phone to dial Sam’s cell for the fourth time and got no answer. He was on the verge of panic.

  Before he could put the phone back in his pocket, a text popped up from a foreign number he didn’t recognize—country code 52. Moore hated texting but had been forced to learn how by his staff. He flipped the phone back open and called up the message, seeing that it was a multimedia attachment. When he opened it, his heart nearly stopped. It was a picture of Samantha’s face. She looked terrible. Her straight blonde hair was a tangled mess. She had large circles beneath eyes that were red from crying, and one of her eyes was blackened into a shiner. A wave of adrenaline shot through him and he felt faint. He felt cold and then hot, a clammy sweat breaking out on his bald scalp. He stood shaking, wanting with all of his being to help his little girl but powerless to act and frozen in his angst.

  Another text popped up from the same number. Sheldon reluctantly scrolled to it and opened it, fearing the worst. His fears were confirmed. This time the attachment was a short video clip. The poor-quality cell phone recording began focused on his daughter’s face. She was sobbing. The video shakily panned to a man whose face Moore recognized. He had dark cropped hair and serious dark eyes, and a thick moustache sloped down over his lip. It was the man who had haunted his dreams in recent days. The man he’d made a bargain with. The man he had betrayed. He was holding a large automatic pistol, and he pressed the barrel against Samantha’s shaking head.

  “I thought we had a deal.” Cardenas’ voice was the gravelly, feral rumble of a master predator, and it chilled Moore to his core. There was no emotion, no inflection, only a measured tone of controlled menace.

  “Until the vote, your daughter stays with me. When the law passes, then you may have her back.” The short video clip ended abruptly.

  Moore slowly flipped the phone closed. His mind was spinning. Part of him wanted to watch it again, but he couldn’t. He stood for a moment not knowing whether to call the FBI, run for the
door, or sit down and cry. He took a few deep breaths and tried to slow his heart rate and get his head together. Think this out. He could still vote for the bill, but Cardenas might be killed before then.

  That was when the worst bolt of fear shot through him. His daughter was there. A team was going to assassinate Cardenas, and his little girl would be right in the line of fire. It could be happening right now. What if she was killed in the attack? What if Cardenas survived and killed her in retaliation? No matter what the outcome, he was terrified that Samantha would not survive, could not possibly survive something like that.

  His fear transformed to grim determination. He knew what he had to do. A shock of clarity washed over him, a wave of cool resolve. He knew how to save her. He dialed the number from which he had received the text, but he got no answer. The voicemail was a digital voice in Spanish that he couldn’t understand. Next, he found Juan Ortiz’ number in his contacts and hit send.

  “Yeah,” came the disinterested answer.

  “They’ve got Samantha.”

  “I know.”

  “You tell ‘em to make sure she’s safe.”

  “As long as you vote for the bill, she will be safe.”

  Moore steeled himself for what came next. It was the only way he could see to save his daughter, and he no longer cared about the cost. He plunged on, the words tumbling over each other as he urgently spit them out. “There’s a team on the way to kill Cardenas.”

  “What?!” Ortiz was shocked by the news. How could Moore have possibly managed that? It was outside the realm of comprehension, far beyond any abilities or resources he had ever seen from this man. Could it be a bluff?

  “It’s four men, I think they must be Navy SEALs from Team 6. I don’t know much about it, but they’re supposed to kill Cardenas any day now. Now, you tell him I told you that, and that I’m tryin’ to save his life. So I want him to spare my daughter. You tell him! I don’t care about the money. I’ll vote for the bill, whatever he wants. I just want my little girl back.”