“He’s gonna jump,” I say.
The van veers again, just as Ford makes his move. He rises on his haunches and rolls forward, more of a fall than a dive. I lose sight of him as he hits the road. Jeff mashes down the brake, hurtling past the spot where Ford landed. We shudder to a halt with the screeching of wheels. Ahead of us, the car stops, too. They’re about thirty yards away, cocked sideways on the periphery of our headlight cone, the open trunk screening their movement.
I open the door and slip onto the pavement just as the first shot is fired. There’s a loud pop, a muzzle flash from the side of the car, and a thunk near my left ear. A bloom of broken glass. Then silence. I hear voices, then footsteps scraping across the pocked asphalt.
By the time they start shooting again I’m already on the move, circling behind the van for cover, drawing back the charging handle and letting it slap a round into the chamber. Hunched at the rear bumper, I wheel around and bring the muzzle up. There are three of them crossing the gap between their car and the van, the scarred one in front with his chromed gun at the ready. Our headlights throw enough light on them to make a sight picture easy. I line up the post on the lead man, lowering my finger onto the trigger.
Jeff scuttles around beside me, breathing hard, the M4 in his hand.
“Was there another mag?” he whispers. “I felt around but I couldn’t find it.”
“I put it next to the gun,” I say, not taking my eyes off the target.
He mutters something under his breath, then rises. “I can see Ford. He’s—”
I pull the trigger. At the last moment I drop the muzzle and put the round in the scarred man’s leg. He drops his pistol and doubles over, clutching his thigh. The other two bolt back to the car, leaving him there. He staggers backward a few feet, then falls to the ground and emits a terrible wail.
Jeff puts his hand on my shoulder, making sure he has my attention. “Hold them off. I’m going after Ford.”
As he scuttles off into the night, I glance back after him. He’s heading toward the dim lights of a roadside settlement a quarter mile down the highway, just a concrete block wall with a sheet-metal gate and a couple of small shacks on the other side. An amber streetlight marks the entrance. Squinting, I realize it’s not the settlement he’s making for but an inky form limping toward it, trying to conceal itself in the shallow ditch running alongside the road. Ford.
A burst of gunfire erupts from the direction of the car. Dull, metal hailstone thuds rock the van, sending showers of glass onto the pavement. I put some distance between myself and the bulk of the van, still keeping the cover between us. I need a new firing position and my best option looks like the ditch, where I can hunker down and fire from around the front of the van while they’re looking for me to poke around the back.
The wounded man rolls on the ground, alternately clutching his leg and reaching for his dropped gun. He calls to his comrades for help.
“¡Cálmate! ” a voice shouts from behind the car, sounding annoyed at the distraction.
I can’t tell exactly where they’re standing, and they’ve stopped firing, so I aim in the direction of the sound.
A double tap: one, two.
Pause to let them look up. Then another two: tap, tap.
Before they can return fire, I’m on the move, running in a crouch, staying as low in the ditch as I can. By the time I draw level with the back of the van, they’re pouring fire on the front, so I just keep moving.
I don’t see Jeff anymore. Or Ford. The faster I move, the harder it is to see anything at all apart from the streetlight. Over my shoulder, the gunfire subsides long enough to hear the lead car doubling back. I can’t turn around. There’s no time.
They can race ahead on the highway, cutting me off, and if I lay down some fire to try and slow them down, my muzzle flash will give away my position. So far there’s no evidence they have anything but handguns, meaning that if I put enough distance between us, my carbine will have the advantage. Until then, I can’t count on keeping enough heads down with my unaimed fire to prevent one of them from drawing a bead on my position and dropping me.
My lungs swell with the effort of running, only I don’t feel winded. I don’t feel my age, either. The adrenaline is pumping through me, and while my mind may be clear, my body seems to exult in the challenge. No pain, no constraint even. I’m alive, so alive that I feel like laughing. Then they start shooting again and I have no time to feel anything. The engine roars and the tires squeal.
There’s no choice now but to drop. I hit the ground, swing the carbine around, and fire a string of rounds at the approaching car. It’s the lead car, the one the silver-haired man was in according to Jeff. The windshield shatters, the car dips to a halt, then reverses eagerly until it reaches the cover of the van. I get up and start running again, accompanied by the crack of handgun fire. They must not have spotted me, though, because none of the shots come close.
I can’t hug the road anymore; there’s not enough cover. So I sprint into the darkness, picking my way across a flat expanse, exposed, all aglow with moonlight. I cut through a hedge separating the empty lot from a kind of shantytown, where some brightly colored corrugated huts are concentrated. No one is there apart from a barking dog, which rushes toward me in the dark. For a moment I panic, holding the carbine in front of me like a baseball bat to ward off the dog. But a taut leash pulls him up short.
“Next time, amigo,” I whisper, and keep running.
When I reach the walled enclosure where Ford was heading, and Jeff after him, I sink down and catch my breath. Back on the highway, the two cars are rolling forward slowly, bumper-to-bumper, with their headlights doused. Apart from the drivers, the men are crouched on the far side of the cars, using the ditch for cover. If I had more ammo, if Jeff were with me, we could make short work of the soft-skinned vehicles. Under the circumstances, this tactic makes a kind of sense, though they’d be better off taking to the darkness—or leaving the field of combat entirely. But who wouldn’t?
Some trouble you face out of necessity and other trouble you seek out. To see the one through without backing down is a sign of character. To persevere in the other, though, is nothing but pride, the stubborn arrogance that leads men to double down on disaster in the hope that everything will right itself in the end. They could run, then fight another day. But on the other hand, so could I. To risk my life, outnumbered and outgunned, for a cause no better than to keep Ford alive long enough to answer my questions, to preserve an outside chance of reaching César . . . if that’s not the height of hubris, I don’t know what is. How did Gina Robb put it? “He waits and waits until everybody’s basically dead.” Somewhere in the night, she’s bringing new life into the world. And here I am.
If it were just me in this, maybe I’d vanish into the night. Probably not, but there’s always hope that in middle age, a man might still learn. There’s Jeff to think about, though. I can’t leave him in the lurch. With that thought to hold on to, I sling the carbine and find a handhold on the top of the wall, hoisting myself up.
This section of wall, well outside the reach of the anemic streetlamp, is bathed in relative darkness. There’s some crushed glass on the top of the cinder blocks in lieu of razor wire, but it’s scattered loose on the surface and easy to clear aside. The moment of risk is when I’m perched on the rim, silhouetted against the sky. No one shoots, and I manage to drop to the ground with a quiet thud.
There are four buildings inside the perimeter. Three little bungalows are situated around a dirt circle, two of them with bulbs burning over the front doors. No lights on inside, which means the occupants probably went to ground when the shooting started. The fourth building looks to be a kind of ribbed metal barn with a big louvered door up front large enough to accommodate a tractor. There’s a side door, too, which stands open and reveals nothing but darkness within.
I see no sign of Jeff. Maybe he didn’t make it this far. Maybe he caught up to Ford in the dark and they’
re still out there somewhere. With my flanking run I could have circled them without realizing. Or they could be inside one of the buildings. Somehow I can’t bring myself to break cover just to knock on the door.
“Jeff?” I hiss.
Nothing. I can always call him. I slip my phone out, feeling ridiculous the whole time. The line rings, but he doesn’t answer. Of course not. Before I put it away, there’s another call I should make. It’s time. We’re holed up without much ammunition in country that is unfamiliar, with an unknown number of cartel shooters converging on us. If there was ever a time to phone the cavalry . . .
I pick the number out of my recent calls, pressing down on the glass. Several rings, and then her voicemail picks up.
“For what it’s worth, just so somebody knows, I’m down in Mexico,” I say. “On the highway south of Matamoros. I left it too long to blow the horn. And maybe I’m a fool to trust you, but what choice do I have? Brandon Ford is here somewhere. And the ringleader, César. If nothing else, there’s a murder you could pin on him from 1986. There’s not going to be a paper trail, but . . .” My throat tightens up. “Anyway. We’re about to get into something ugly. I guess I should’ve said something sooner. It’s up to you now, Bea.”
I should call Charlotte, just to say goodbye. I’m about to push the button when the cars on the highway roll past the open gate. They’re in the far lanes, across the median, pointing in the opposite direction of traffic, though there’s little traffic to speak of. I rush across the dirt circle toward the gate, taking cover right at the edge. The concrete blocks afford pretty good cover against small-arms fire, and this is as good a place as any for a showdown. I’m not sure how many rounds I’ve fired, how many are left in the magazine. I swap it for the fresh one so as to put off the need for a reload as long as possible.
Then it’s time. Game on.
The cars have stopped, and a couple of the men are advancing over the median, trying to use the thin palm trunks as cover. I pick the one most exposed and line up my sights. The carbine bucks and he slumps to the ground. The rest of them drop flat or start rushing back to the cars. Tap, tap. Another man falls. And then a hurricane of return fire pelts the wall, pinging on the metal gate and kicking up dirt a few feet away. I glance around the compound for a new shooting position. That’s when I hear the scream.
Even under the circumstances, with my heart thumping and the task of keeping alive activating the problem-solving centers of my mind, this is a scream so primal and horrifying that I am yanked out of my cool efficiency. I don’t just hear it; I feel it in my spine, the way a kid in a spook house, even though his brain knows the haunts are fake, surrenders himself over to terror. Despite the gun in my hand, despite my will to live, that scream puts fear in me.
My first reaction isn’t to investigate. It’s to run away and hide.
I fire a few rounds to keep their heads down out there, then force myself to sprint across the open dirt, clearing a gap as another storm of bullets zings against the gate. The sound came from inside the metal barn. I pause at the entrance, fumbling in my pocket for the tiny Fenix flashlight I always carry.
Inside, the smell of oil couldn’t be more overwhelming if I were crawling through an engine. There’s ragged breathing coming from the back of the barn, a rhythmic, feral pant. I advance along the right-hand wall, keeping the carbine at hip level, holding the flashlight high and to the left in case it draws anyone’s fire. There’s a yellow combine or tractor to my left, and behind it a pegboard draped with greasy tools. A shop light hangs from a hook in the corner, casting a sterile white halo over the space. I can’t see around the tractor, but the sound is coming from here.
“You’ve seen what I’ll do,” a coaxing voice whispers. “Why make it so hard on yourself? This can end right now, if you’ll just tell me where to find him. Give me a name. Give me an address. Is that so hard to do?”
I click off the light near the back of the tractor.
“March,” the voice says. “We’re back here.”
I step into the halo, my finger on the trigger.
The first thing I see is Jeff’s hand, slick with blood. He stands beside a heavy wooden workbench, feet apart, with his M4 resting, muzzle up, against the bench leg. In his glistening hand he holds something flat and shiny. A sheaf of black zip-ties peeks out from his jeans pocket. He smiles at me with a smile I hope to never see again.
Brandon Ford kneels at his feet, his back against the bench and his arms extended along the table edge. His wrists are secured to the thick wood legs with plastic ties, and he looks like he’s been beaten badly, probably from jumping out of a moving car onto the highway. His black curls are matted with sweat, his face and throat and bare arms displaying the drained pallor of marble. His feverish eyes dart toward me an instant, then wander back to the site of trauma.
At the end of his outstretched left arm, on the back of his hand, a flap of skin hangs uselessly to one side to reveal the teeming redness beneath.
“He’s close,” Jeff says. “He can’t take much more.” He gives Ford’s cheek a gentle pat, almost affectionate. “Give me a second and we can get out of here.”
“Are you insane? ”
Before he can answer, another volley of gunfire explodes against the gate outside. They must be advancing.
“I don’t need much more time, but if you don’t get out there . . .” He says the words slowly, like he’s instructing a child. The tip of his knife catches his attention and he turns it in the light. Just an everyday lockback knife with a clip on the side and a grooved nub on the back of the blade to make one-handed opening easier. It’s no different than the kind many people carry clipped inside their pockets, only the edge is honed razor sharp.
“You’re the one? You killed the man we found in the park? Why? ”
“We don’t have time for this,” he says. “They’re coming.”
I raise the carbine. “Why? ”
“At the time, I thought it was him.” He flicks the tip of the blade in Ford’s direction. “And they went through quite a bit of trouble to make it seem that way, too, don’t you think? After the fact. The thing with the DNA. That was for my benefit, wasn’t it?” The question is addressed to Ford and punctuated by a slice across the cheek. Ford winces and I take a step forward. “Never mind. Now we’re back where we started and it’s time for answers. He knows who Inferno is, and he knows where to find him. And if he doesn’t tell us, well”—Jeff’s smile widens—“he knows what to expect.”
Voices outside, then more gunfire, this time closer. They’re inside the gate and it won’t take long to figure out where we are.
“And Macneil, that was you, too?”
He appears to be straining to remember. “You mean the guy in Argentina? That was a favor for Mr. Nesbitt’s new friend. The one who was supposed to help him bring Englewood down. Supposedly he’d stashed a lot of money somewhere, but he must have spent it all. Otherwise, by the end, I think he would’ve told me.”
“There’s something wrong with you.”
“There’s something wrong with the world. At least I’m honest enough to see it for what it really is. You, on the other hand, are a disappointment.”
“Nesbitt thought so, too.”
“I don’t know what he expected from you. I mean, look at you.”
“You have to understand, Jeff. Nesbitt unleashed something he couldn’t control. He thought I could finish it.”
“I’m the one who will finish it.”
“Your way isn’t what he had in mind. He was hoping to make amends.”
“Look,” he says, desperation in his voice, “there’s a back door here. We can slip outside and disappear into the night. But not until Brandon here tells me where to find his friend. So what do you say, Brandon? Do I have to ask the question again?”
He extends the knife toward Ford’s maimed hand, the blade gleaming.
“Jeff—”
The barn’s metal hull amplifies the gunshot. Th
en there’s the ding of my spent casing bouncing against the wall. Jeff bends at the waist, letting the knife fall, twisting as he tips toward the ground. My round struck his hip, probably shattering it. I had no choice but to shoot, but I couldn’t bring myself to aim for center mass.
“You shot me,” he wails.
I pick up the knife and cut Ford’s torn hand free. Then I loose the other one. Hands are pulling at the barn’s roll-up door, looking for a way in. As I cross to the shop light and rip the plug from the outlet, a shot rings out from the open side door. They’re in the barn. I take Ford by the scruff and start pushing toward the back exit.
“March,” Jeff moans.
I pause over him. “I trusted you.” This has no effect on him in his state, and there’s no time for speeches anyway. “Listen, your rifle is where you left it. They’re coming for you. What you do about it is your choice.”
Then I’m pulling the door open, pushing Ford through, and closing it behind us.
Outside, he starts to mumble his gratitude, which I don’t want, then says he’s able to walk if I’ll steady him a little. We stumble toward the concrete perimeter wall, with Ford’s good arm slung over my shoulder and his injured hand clutched to his chest. He sucks in breath through his teeth with every step. As I mount the wall and reach back to help him over, the barn turns into a live firing range. The explosion of gunfire, the projectiles punching through steel—it’s like a roll of quarters tossed into a clothing dryer, clattering free as the dryer spins.
“Don’t leave me! March! You can’t leave me alone with them! ”
The sound draws more fire.
I don’t stop to think about the men advancing through the dark on either side of the tractor. I don’t stop to think about the dwindling number of bullets in the M4’s magazine.
I drop to the far side of the wall, reaching up to cushion Ford’s landing.
Then we head off into the darkness, pushing forward, ignoring injury and fatigue, ignoring the all-too-real possibility of a bullet in the back.
“What are you even doing here?” Ford mutters, barely loud enough to hear.
Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) Page 29