“I’m not sure. I’m really, really caffeinated.”
They’d driven practically nonstop from Kansas City, and McGlade had only let Katie take the wheel for a four hour stretch, and for brief two minute interludes when he got up to use the bathroom.
“How much of that energy drink have you had?” she asked.
“I finished it.”
“You finished a whole case?”
“You helped.”
“I only had one.”
“Well, you missed out. I don’t know what Taurine actually is, but my piss was neon green and shot out in spurts, like a sprinkler. Are we still being followed by those bigfoot UFOs?”
“No,” Katie said, deadpan. “The dinosaur ate them.”
“The one on roller skates? Or the motorcycle?”
“Don’t be stupid, Harry.”
“You’re right. The roller skater could never catch a UFO. Unless they were… rocket skates! Were they rocket skates?”
“You sure go to lengths to amuse yourself, don’t you?”
“You may notice the pig in the beanbag sitting next to you. So, yes.”
Katie glanced out the window. “How long will it take to cross the border?”
“Assuming no problems, maybe an hour. I just texted Jack. My suggestion; let me break it to her that you came along. She doesn’t like surprises. You need to ease her into them. It’s like climbing into a hot tub, but the hot tub vocally disapproves and acts bitchy.”
“No problem.”
Convincing McGlade to bring her along had taken very little effort, but Katie still needed Jack to find Luther. It would be easier to be with Jack when that happened, rather than follow her around.
They got in one of the inspection lanes and slowed down.
“Time to hide the guns,” Harry said. “You have anything to put in the trap?”
Katie opened up her duffle, removing her Colt and the X26 Taser with extra cartridges.
“How about knives?” she asked, thinking of her Schempp.
“Stash it. Can’t hurt.”
McGlade flipped a few switches on his dashboard, including the defrost, rear cabin lights, and cruise control, and then pushed the button on his seat forward. The floor next to Herb opened on hydraulic cylinders, revealing a smuggler’s box. Katie placed her weapons atop Jack’s bag, already stored away.
She also put a padded envelope in the compartment; one of the items she’d recovered from the alley in Kansas City.
“So how many times have you gotten past the border in this vehicle?” Katie asked.
“Never tried it.”
“Seriously?” She stared down at her packet.
“Shouldn’t be an issue, even if they search, they won’t find the compartment. Besides, they’re primarily looking for drugs, not weapons.” He locked eyes with her in the rearview mirror. “You didn’t put any drugs in there, did you?”
“No.”
“They have dogs, Katie. I’m not holding. I don’t want to risk it, even though I’ve got a medical marijuana card for Mittelschmerz.”
“What’s Mittelschmerz?”
“Painful ovulation.”
“How’d you scam that?”
“I’m rich. And a smart ass. Did you hide drugs in there?”
“No.”
“Even if it’s pills, Katie. Those dogs are supernatural. They can smell a termite with salami farts from a hundred yards away.”
“No drugs, McGlade.”
Harry closed the trap door. It seated in seamlessly, blending into the floor without leaving an outline. Herb looked at her and snorted.
It’ll be fine, Katie told herself. As long as we don’t draw any special attention to ourselves, we’ll be okay.
Then McGlade started singing scat music, and Herb began to oink along.
“Zaba doobie yabba doo da doobie yabba doo bad dee dee dooba dooda deebie deebie da!”
“Oink oink!”
“Zooba dee opp opp deebie dooda doobie dabba deepie doopy da!”
“Oink oink!”
Katie took out her phone and Googled Mexican prison, so at least she’d know what to expect when they locked her up for life.
She frowned at the search results. They didn’t look very nice.
When they finally pulled up for inspection, and the pig did a dead-on Ned Beatty impression, and Harry joined in, Katie emotionally prepared herself to be hauled away. The quest she’d been on almost her entire adult life was at an end, and she’d failed.
If only things had gone differently in Kansas City.
If only she hadn’t decided to ride with that idiot, Harry McGlade.
If only—
“Welcome to Mexicali!” Harry said, starting up the RV as the border patrol waved him through. “We need to find some energy drinks.”
She blew out a breath, grinned, and shook her head.
Un-fucking-believable.
JACK
The Crimebago Deux was parked in a convenience store lot on Boulevard Lázaro Cárdenas, sticking out like a giant red sore thumb. The taxi let me out across the street. I tipped the driver, gave the rest of my change to some poor, badly disfigured man panhandling, and walked to the RV.
I knocked on the door, and Herb Bacondict answered
“Hello, Herb.”
The pig pressed its wet nose against my face and snorted.
I climbed aboard, and saw Harry sitting on a beanbag, wearing a large red Mexican hat. Several other beanbags and body pillows were strewn around the cabin, along with a few folding lawn chairs. Herb plopped down next to Harry and oinked.
“Congrats,” I said. “You turned a hundred thousand dollar vehicle into a freshman dorm.”
“Hiya, Jackie. Want a gas station churro?”
He reached over and opened up the fridge. Every shelf was filled with churros.
“You think you have enough?” I asked.
“You can never have enough churros, Jack.”
I gave Herb a pat on the head, looked for a place to sit, and saw a pair of ear buds on the counter.
“Goddammit, McGlade, you brought her along.”
“I had no choice, Jack. She promised me sex.”
“So you did it for sex?”
“No. I did it for the promise of sex. I never got any sex.”
“Where is she now?”
“I told her to wait in the store until you calmed down because you were gonna throw one of your why did you do that McGlade? fits without any appreciation for the fact that once again I’m putting my ass on the line to do you a favor that you’ll never, ever pay back.”
I considered my responses, and then my phone buzzed. I smiled, and texted back my location.
“So where are Moodypants and Wheels?”
“At a hotel. You gave her that wheelchair?”
He shrugged. “Seemed like the nice thing to do. Former owner didn’t need it anymore. Is Cuervo Junior with them?”
“He and Fleming are… getting reacquainted.”
“Seriously? That guy gets more ass than a bar stool. You think it’s because he’s got those rock hard abs?”
I considered Tequila’s abs. “Might have something to do with it. Any problems at the border?”
“Smooth as cake. Did the Jason Bourne twins come up with a plan?”
“It’s going to be harder than we thought. Let’s get the guns ready.”
McGlade did his super-secret-press-seventy-buttons thing to open his smuggler trap, and when the top raised I found myself staring at my bag, Katie’s Colt, a stun gun, and something in a padded envelope.
“Harry, is this envelope yours?”
“Is it filled with clown porn?”
“For some reason I’m reluctant to check.”
He came back from the cockpit. “Did I ever tell you my clown porn name is Mr. Scrotals?”
I pointed into the trap. “Is that filled with Mr. Scrotals selfies?”
“Never seen it before. But I’ve got some selfies on
my phone.”
“Pass.”
“Mr. Scrotals is a bad clown. He needs a spanking.”
“He needs a muzzle.”
I squatted down and picked up the envelope, giving it a light squeeze. There was something firm and rectangular inside.
“This isn’t yours?” I asked.
“Never seen it beforepants. Must be Katie’s.”
I tore it open, not sure of what I was about to discover. It turned out to be a digital camera.
“Jack…” Harry said, shaking his head, “that’s not yours and might be filled with private, intimate pictures.” He took it from my hands. “Me first.”
After a few seconds of button mashing, McGlade frowned. “No battery.”
“Do you have any batteries?” This was more than just curiosity. It was cop instinct. Something was up with Katie, and she’d deemed this camera important enough to hide from the Border Patrol Officers.
“No. It’s one of those weird-shaped rechargeable batteries.”
I put the camera in my pocket, and then hauled up the gun bag.
Harry and I spent five minutes checking the extra magazines and adjusting the Hensoldt scopes on my two Heckler & Koch PSG1 semi-automatic sniper rifles. I’d also brought a Mossberg 500 tactical shotgun, and three 9mm Glock 17s with side holsters.
When someone knocked on the Crimebago door, I had a feeling who it was going to be.
What I didn’t expect was for her to be on crutches. But it didn’t make me any less happy to see her.
“Val Ryker! Welcome to the Crimebago Deux,” Harry had somehow come up behind her on the street. “Can I help you up?”
“Why do I think you’re just looking for an excuse to grope me inappropriately?”
“You mean there’s some situation where I could grope you and it wouldn’t be inappropriate?”
She handed McGlade her crutches, and I helped her aboard. Then we embraced.
“Thanks for coming, Val.”
“Glad I could finally return a favor.” She gave Herb Bacondict a pat on the head like having a hog in an RV was normal.
“You… doing okay?” I asked, giving her a once over. She was about my size, a little younger, wearing jeans and a Packer tee, standing slightly askew.
“I bet it was Lump,” Harry said, climbing in and tossing her crutches on the floor. “Did he confuse the front door and the back door again?”
Val had learned to ignore Harry years ago. “How is your cute firefighter fella?” I asked. She’d been with David Lund for longer than I’d been with Phin.
“Still cute. Still fighting fires.”
“Has he seen a specialist about the whole micropenis thing?” Harry asked.
“Am I the first one here?” Val asked. “Other than the smelly pig?”
“Don’t listen to her, Herb,” Harry said, covering his ears. “You smell fine.”
“I wasn’t referring to him.” She offered McGlade a fake smile.
“Oooh. Burnpants.”
“Chandler is doing recon,” I said. “Fleming and Tequila…”
“Are also doing recon,” Harry said, “on each other.”
“How was your flight?” I asked.
“Shitty. I had to lie to Lund so he didn’t insist on coming with. I said you and Phin are having problems so I was going to Mexico with you.”
“Not exactly a lie.”
“When I landed, I had eight messages from him. He knows something’s up.”
My cell rang, and I excused myself. It was Herb.
“Jack, where are you?”
“I’m in Mexicali, Herb. What’s up?”
“Where exactly? My plane just landed.”
I wasn’t sure I heard that correctly. “You’re here?”
“Mexico is really strict on firearms, so I couldn’t bring mine. I hope you have extras.”
My eyes began to well up, and I wiped them with the back of my hand. “I think we can find something suitable for you, partner. We’ll be right there to pick you up.”
DONALDSON
That was Jack Daniels. He was sure of it.
And she gave me three bucks and change.
Donaldson hadn’t seen Jack in a long time. Before he’d been disfigured. So it made sense that she didn’t recognize him.
But he’d never forget that bitch.
He could only think of one reason why she’d be in Mexico. She was after Luther Kite and Lucy, just like he was.
So how could he follow her?
Donaldson had no car, was in excruciating pain, and his fingers were still glued to his eye socket.
He watched Jack get into the big red recreational vehicle, and had a ridiculous idea.
The RV had a ladder on the back, leading to the roof. At the front of the roof was a wind deflector; a large v-shaped wedge that made the vehicle more streamlined so it used less gas.
Donaldson had driven trucks. Wind deflectors were hollow, to save on weight. They also made a good place to store dead bodies, provided the corpse was properly secured. If he could climb the ladder, traverse the roof without making any noise, and then hide inside the deflector, he could tag along with Jack to her destination.
It was difficult, risky, and really stupid. But Donaldson didn’t have any other options. At the rate he was going, he’d starve to death in Mexico before ever finding his Lucy.
But there was no way he’d be able to climb up there with one hand. No possible way.
He tugged on his arm, grunting in pain, the scabby skin around his socket stretching until Donaldson’s world went squiggly.
No good. He had to try something else.
With great difficulty, Donaldson got to his feet and scanned the street, looking for inspiration to strike. He was actually considering stepping into traffic, because the force of being hit by a car would probably be enough to remove his hand from his face, and that’s when he noticed the red and white candy cane pole outside of a shop, glinting in the Mexican heat.
The universal symbol of barbers.
He stumbled over to the barber shop, garnering the expected looks of shock when he walked inside and everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at the freak. While they gawked, he quickly located an errant pair of scissors on a nearby tray and snatched them up. The nearest hairdresser began to protest in Spanish, but stopped his approach when Donaldson raised the scissors and giggled manically.
He wasn’t about to mess with his eyelid again. Especially when it had been such a hassle to get shut.
But fingers? Who needed fingers?
The sharp implement made quick but bloody work of his fingertips, hacking them off in only a few forceful snips, and then his hand was free.
Donaldson shoved the scissors into his pocket, grabbed a towel, and got the hell out of there.
As expected, no one followed the crazy, disfigured, bleeding man out into the street.
Walking so erratically he almost fell, Donaldson dribbled the rest of the superglue onto his new wounds, pressed the towel against the stumps, and then stumbled toward the motorhome. He climbed the ladder with caution, but caution probably wasn’t needed.
Donaldson felt indestructible.
Donaldson was indestructible.
Nothing could stop him. Not injury. Not pain. Not lack of drugs. And definitely not some old, obsolete bitch cop.
Destiny was calling, and Donaldson was its willing servant.
Quietly climbing across the roof, he made it to the wind deflector, hid inside, and gummed the towel to his face so he didn’t make a sound, because something was threatening to come out of his mouth and Donaldson had no idea if it would be laughter, sobs, vomit, screams, or some combination of all four.
LUCY
Death is the end of everything. And it closes in on us.”
K was acting crazy.
Again.
Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was PTSD. Maybe he’d finally just gone mad like one of those stupid kings from the Shakespeare plays he was getti
ng more and more obsessed with. The other day she’d found him reading King Lear, and he was literally leering at it.
“I don’t like it when you get weird like this, K.”
“For the poor wren, the most diminutive of birds, will fight, her young ones in her nest, against the owl.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“Birds of a feather, Lucy.” K stared into space. “And the flock is coming.”
“Maybe we should get the flock out of here,” Lucy said.
K didn’t react.
“I said—”
“Don’t repeat yourself, Lucy. Once is enough.”
For a millisecond, Lucy considered jumping him. They were equally weak, equally disfigured. She carried a razor, he carried a knife. But K was bigger, and had more fingers. Lucy might get a slash or two in, but then the guards would come, and K would likely do something to her out of spite, like skin Lucy’s legs and make her crawl across an acre of rock salt.
He was unduly vindictive in that way. Probably best to keep a lid on her temper.
“Hanover told me who his wife is.”
“Hanover?”
“The prisoner. Number 17. The one who came here to kill you. Remember?”
K didn’t respond.
“His wife is a true crime writer. I downloaded a few of her ebooks. She writes about serial killers.”
“Does she now?”
“Her name is Katie.”
“Katie?”
K did that stare-off-into-nothing thing, but with more intensity than usual. As if he was trying to remember something.
“What is her last name?” K asked.
Lucy considered her answer. If she told the truth, and K remembered who the woman was, he might take Mr. Hanover away from her and ruin her murder plot. But her gut told her it wouldn’t matter. And Lucy always did get a thrill out of almost getting caught.
She went with her gut.
“Glente. Katie Glente.”
No reaction at all from K. Lucy found it marvelous. Stupid Mr. Hanover came out here to protect his family, and Luther Kite didn’t even know who they were. Both were absolute idiots.
“A ministering angel,” K whispered.
Lucy sighed, raising her voice. “Prophetic words, my king. I must now hither to yon water closet and replace my stoma bag.”
Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 10) Page 20