by Chris Fabry
“I need to speak with you,” he yelled. “Open up.”
The man ignored him and J. D. felt the bile rise. He didn’t need to look at his watch.
He banged again. “I need to talk to you! Open the door.”
The man waved and went back to his screens. J. D. took a step back. The exterior looked like one seamless piece of glass.
The cell buzzed—Win.
“Have you found her?”
“No.”
“Get out of there, J. D. Let the authorities take over.”
“I don’t think they’re stopping it, Win. I saw limos.”
“I see the rally on the television. Chandler is shaking hands behind the scenes and is walking toward the podium.”
“Sir?” someone said behind him. The security guard had come to the door. He was older and stoop-shouldered. “You need to move along.”
“I’ll call you back, Win,” J. D. said. He walked up to the guard. “I think there’s a sniper in one of the offices up there. Somebody who wants to kill Chandler.”
“Building’s been shut down since last night. Nobody in, nobody out. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Besides, nobody could make a shot from this distance.”
“You don’t know the gun he has.”
“Secret Service did the sweep. They were back early this morning. Every one of these buildings up and down the row. And I been here since six.”
J. D. ran a hand over his neck and it came back wet. “You’re sure nobody’s come in?”
Before the man answered, he saw her passing on the street at a dead run, hair flying, legs churning as if she’d trained as a sprinter. She had a look on her face he hadn’t seen before. Determination? Abject fear?
He took off after her but she had a good half-block lead. He called to her several times before she turned slightly.
“Wait!” he yelled.
She shook her head and waved at him.
He saw the gun in her hand. “Maria, no!”
She headed for the sidewalk and hugged the buildings. When J. D. looked up, he saw an office building about the same size as the previous one, but this tower stood on a cross street. He turned to look at the venue and couldn’t see it through the wind and haze, but there had to be an office with a straight shot.
He ran like his life depended on it. Like both of their lives did.
34
MUERTE HAD WORKED IT OUT with the Zetas to raid the Sanchez compound immediately following the assassination of Chandler. Muerte would take over the Sanchez operation and dispense with the farm and vineyard.
He had watched the authorities sweep the area buildings the evening prior and again that morning, stopping a block away, as he had been informed. If they had come into his building, he would have dispatched them and their animals and moved to plan B, but fortunately his contact had been correct. He was out of range for a sniper with less ability and less weapon. A weapon provided by the very government he was attacking.
Muerte had seen what this weapon could do to a barrel filled with water on a range in Mexico. The holes it produced entering and exiting were impressive and the thought of such damage to a human invigorated him. There would have been a shot at the motorcade passing, but it was riskier and he wanted this scene to be played and replayed in the 24-7 news cycle. The shock of watching something so heinous again and again would bring the feeling that no one was safe. No candidate was secure.
He checked his watch and cell phone. He knew Rafael had a knack for cutting things close, but this was unnerving. He liked being in control, and having the man play loose with something so precise gave him second thoughts.
Maria had called him earlier and he had been impressed that she had remembered the number. She offered to give herself up, playing the martyr now. The people who were helping her were innocent, she said, and they didn’t deserve to die. She would come to him if he would give her his location. He had hung up on her.
He watched through the scope as the motorcade pulled to the back of the stage area. Then he glanced below and saw Rafael sauntering, as if he were window-shopping on Christmas Eve. Muerte radioed the security guard, alerting him to open the door. They already had two bodies to deal with downstairs—the watchman from the day before and the replacement who arrived early that morning.
Then Muerte spotted something that troubled him. Someone was running full speed up the sidewalk straight toward the building. He moved closer to the glass and pointed the scope down, focusing as quickly as he could.
Maria.
It was too good to be true. She must have spotted Rafael and followed. As soon as he saw her, old feelings crept in, the desire and greed for the boss’s daughter. Now he was the boss. Now he would take what he wanted when he wanted it.
He radioed the guard. “There’s a girl coming. This is the daughter of Sanchez. Subdue her and bring her to me.”
Any other man would have been horrified at being discovered. Muerte was overjoyed. He glanced at the television monitor and saw the cameras focusing on Chandler. He raised the scope and changed the distance setting. The man was sitting; at the dais a Hollywood celebrity whipped the crowd into a frenzy.
The elevator dinged and Muerte moved to the hallway and held the door open for Rafael. He stuffed his sunglasses in his breast pocket and pulled out a pair of thin rubber gloves. Like a surgeon, he snapped them and entered the office.
“So glad you could make it on time.”
“I’m always on time.”
Rafael looked at the window, analyzed the hole Muerte had cut, then, satisfied, picked up the rifle as if it were an instrument that deserved obeisance. He let out a breath of air and ran his hand over the stock.
“I’ve waited my whole life for this,” Rafael said.
“Yes, this is your time.” Muerte nodded at a satchel in the corner. “There is your second payment. If you are successful, the rest will await you in Mexico.”
The man’s eyebrows rose. It was the most emotion he had ever displayed to Muerte. “I will succeed.”
35
J. D. SPRINTED TO CATCH MARIA but she was too far ahead. When she reached the front of the building, the door opened and she was yanked inside.
J. D. pulled up to catch his breath. Where were the police when you needed them?
Behind him he heard drums banging and a marching band. The crowd was at fever pitch. J. D. took off again and didn’t stop until he reached the front door. The glass was tinted and he expected someone to open fire, but as he cupped his hands, he saw the elevator door closing on Maria. She had tape over her mouth and her hands were secured. The guard next to her held two guns.
The front door was locked. But behind him was a garden with decorative rocks. He couldn’t budge the biggest one. He chose one half that size and tossed it at the door. Glass shattered but didn’t explode. An alarm sounded. He threw the rock against the glass again and made a hole big enough to unlock the door.
Her elevator had stopped on the twenty-third floor. He hit the Up button and the door of a second elevator opened. He punched 23 and let his heart slow as the car ascended. Deep breaths. Think. Focus. It was a fast elevator and his stomach, empty since the night before and still woozy from the medication, spun in the enclosed space.
When the elevator car stopped, he stepped aside and let the door open all the way, bracing himself. No one fired. The alarm sounded faintly through the elevator shaft. He took a deep breath and a quick look into the hallway but saw no one. He stepped out of the car and the door closed, leaving him feeling small and alone. The floor had the smell of an ultraclean doctor’s office. Intricate patterns wound through the carpeting and the walls were tastefully decorated. There was no reception desk, just a list of offices with arrows.
J. D. had no idea where to go. He walked to his right, straining to hear anything. He tried one door, then another, but they were locked.
At the end of the corridor was a stairwell exit and a large window that overlooked the side street an
d parking garage. The street was dead except for a homeless man who had evaded the sweep.
Then something caught J. D.’s eye. A security guard was pushing Maria in front of him toward a car in the open parking garage. Lights flashed and the trunk opened and the man shoved her inside.
Behind them came another man, stocky and block-like. He held a gun to the guard’s head and fired. The man crumpled and the shooter moved the body slightly, closed the trunk, and stepped into the car.
J. D. hurried to the elevator, fumbling with his phone, dialing Muerte. Anything to slow the man.
The license plate. He could get the number and report it. The police would stop him and find Maria.
He kept his head down, running for the elevator, concentrating, scrolling through the numbers dialed. Then a voice. Faint. Trying desperately to be heard. Was it his imagination? He passed the elevator and the voice became more clear. Pulled by some unseen force, he continued.
“. . . and this is clearly the moment the crowd has waited for. The preliminary speeches are over and here comes the man who may become the next president of the United States. Let’s listen.”
Cheering and music and noise. J. D. stepped into a dentist’s waiting room. The sound came from a room behind the front desk. The outer door was locked, so he scooted over the wraparound counter and spotted the reflection of the rally in a window straight ahead. With a thud his feet landed and he cringed at the noise.
“¿La agarraron?” a man shouted from the room. Where was he?
“Ahí viene,” the man said.
J. D. had no weapon or experience, just a beating heart and more adrenaline than he had ever felt. He noticed a glass paperweight in the shape of a heart and grabbed it. On the floor of the exam room lay a man in a prone position with a rifle sticking through a hole in the window.
On the wall to J. D.’s right was the TV screen with the sound blaring. The candidate shook hands in a sea of placards that waved like an angry ocean. Chandler stepped to the podium.
“I guess we’d better get started before the rain comes!” he shouted.
The crowd went into a frenzy and the man on the floor cursed as the signs rose higher.
“We need some rain here. Some relief. And I’ve come to tell the good people of Arizona, and in particular the good people of Tucson, that we are not going to put up with the violence and the killing and the drugs and the illegal immigration anymore.”
“Perfecto,” the man on the floor whispered. His finger tensed.
J. D. brought the glass heart onto the back of the man’s head and heard a sickening crunch. The man went limp and the rifle pitched forward. A red stain pooled in his hair and ran onto his starched shirt.
J. D. pulled the gun from underneath him and headed for the elevator. How close had he come to the kill shot?
He placed the rifle at the security desk downstairs and ran into the hot wind that blew every scrap of grit not tied down. Walking steadily toward Win’s truck, he dialed Detective Ross’s number.
J. D. gave him the address of the building. “There’s a guy in a dentist’s office on the twenty-third floor with a bad headache. That’s your shooter. The rifle’s at the security guard’s desk.”
“Slow down, J. D. What are you talking about?”
“Muerte had a shooter. He’s not in any shape to shoot now. But Muerte took Maria.”
“What is he traveling in? Where is he headed?”
“It was a grayish color—foreign car. And I don’t know where he’s headed. But unless he has another shooter, Chandler is safe.”
“Where are you? Let me bring you in.”
“No, I got something to do.”
“J. D., we’ll find them. Let us help you. Win said you have Muerte’s phone number.”
“Yeah, I do. What good does that do me?”
“Give it to me. We can track his phone, find out where he is.”
“I know where he is. He’s about five blocks from here. And I know he’s headed south. That’s all I need to know right now.”
“I can have someone to you in two minutes, J. D. Tell me where you are.”
J. D. walked straight up to a black-and-white cruiser but didn’t break stride as he crossed the street. “I’ll be in touch.”
36
AS MUERTE PASSED the outskirts of the rally, he expected to see people fleeing, screaming in horror at the shooting. Instead, the scene was calm and ordered. A police officer leaned against a cruiser. Muerte nodded and the man looked away.
He turned on the radio and found the local talk station covering the speech. Governor Chandler was heavy into the rhetoric, tearing into the current administration for its lack of attention to the border violence, making promises to change things when he was chosen by “the good people of Arizona.” Rafael should have taken the shot right then.
Perhaps something had gone wrong. Perhaps he had gotten cold feet. Surely that hadn’t happened. He would not back down. Unless the gun had malfunctioned. But Muerte had checked and double-checked.
As the speech went on, Muerte heard several moments when a well-timed shot would have been the ironic, spectacular coup de grâce he had planned. Why was this man still breathing, still speaking into a microphone and receiving enthusiastic applause?
His cell rang.
“Hey, Gabriel,” a man said with a drawl. “Looks like there’s a glitch in your plan.”
Muerte tried to control himself. “J. D. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Well, what I got to say isn’t too pleasant. You’re listening to Chandler, right?”
Muerte didn’t respond.
“He should have been interrupted by your Zeta friend by now. Guy with the rifle and scope.”
A sickening feeling entered his stomach.
“Now don’t get upset at him. He was ready. I could see his finger tensing up.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” J. D. laughed. “This was supposed to be your big moment. Take out a future president. Silence him and cause a big stink. I don’t think it’s going to work out.”
Muerte took a left onto I-10 and headed toward the I-19 exit. As he gunned the engine, something hit his windshield with a splat and he recoiled. Through the darkening skies a raindrop fell and spread in his field of vision. Just one.
“And here’s the bad news. After the speech, he’s moving down the road and probably into the White House. Not good for you and your business associates.”
Muerte wanted to disconnect, turn around, and hunt him down. Maybe cut off his head.
“I’m real sorry this didn’t work out,” J. D. continued. “I know you hoped to get the manure stirred up with that particular rifle. The authorities will find it and the fellow on the twenty-third floor. He won’t be available to help you for quite a while, I expect. But don’t worry about repairing that window. I took some of the money from the satchel and left it so the dentist won’t pay out of pocket.”
“What have you done?”
“What any red-blooded American would do. I smacked the snot out of your hired gun. A little too much snot, I’m afraid.”
Muerte could hardly contain his anger. “How did you find him?”
“Doesn’t matter. What does matter is the rest of this money. It appears to be the proceeds from some transaction you two had. Unless you were getting wisdom teeth taken out and you decided to pay cash.”
How had J. D. found them? Muerte pushed the question aside and focused. “All right, J. D. I applaud your resourcefulness. I never thought you’d survive this long. As payment, keep the money until I have an opportunity to . . . meet with you.”
“Well, I don’t like that idea. I suggest we get together sooner.”
“And why would we do that?”
“To trade.”
“Trade?”
“Maria for the satchel.”
Muerte chuckled, feeling the upper hand. “Ah, yes. Maria. Your love. You know, J. D., this
woman is dangerous. For your long-term health, I think you should stay away.”
The man’s voice changed. Instead of the country bumpkin, he was fixed and precise. “I’ll decide who I stay away from. Just like you can decide whether or not you’ll stay away from the border. I just talked with a detective who called the Border Patrol, giving them a description of your vehicle. Your license number. I don’t care how many people you’ve paid off—you so much as sneeze toward Mexico and the squad cars will make your head spin.”
“I do appreciate your concern.”
“This is not about me being concerned. I’m offering you a deal. Give me Maria. You get the money. And a chance to slither off and hide until this blows over.”
Muerte didn’t hesitate. “She is already dead. And I’m planning on cutting her into small pieces and scattering her from here to Sonora.”
“She’s in your trunk. She’s alive. And if you so much as bruise her, I’ll hunt you all the way to hell.”
Rain began to fall like bullets and Muerte switched on his windshield wipers. “Such bravado, J. D. It is much easier to be brave from a distance, on the telephone.”
“Which is why I’m asking you to meet me.”
“You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
“I’m getting sick of hearing that. I know what kind of man you are. You kill police officers who pull over the wrong car. Pastors who come back to their churches. I’m not appealing to your sense of goodness. I doubt you have any. But you’re scared and you’re cornered. And if I give the police any more information, they’ll swoop down like a hawk on a rattler. Now you decide. I can go that way or we can settle this. Clock’s ticking and you don’t have much time.”
Muerte thought a moment. He would kill the girl and J. D. and be done with them. Be done with the entire plan. Then he would make sure Sanchez died, if he hadn’t already, and go to the Zetas. It would take time, of course, but better a new beginning than a brick wall.