by Steven Gore
Moments later, thunder rolled again and the rain began.
Donnally heard drops ticking the canopy of leaves above him. Then the rhythmic squishing of rubber soles on wet concrete. They ceased and a flashlight swept the bushes concealing him. They moved on. A disciplined stop-and-go as the police officer worked the perimeter.
Donnally peeked through the branches, trying to locate the trellis Lalo’s friend described as the easiest route to the roof, three floors up. It had borne the weight of kids using it as a jungle gym, but Donnally wasn’t sure it would bear his.
For a moment he tried to imagine where Sherwyn was holding Janie, but put it out of his mind. If there were as many cops in the building as Lalo’s friend had claimed, trying to rescue her now would be suicidal.
After waiting for the officer to make another circuit, Donnally skirted the courtyard. He reached through the ivy and pulled on the trellis. It held firm. He found a foothold and eased himself up, distributing his weight between his hands and feet. His damaged hip jabbed at him. He thought of Mauricio. Maybe his friend was right. Maybe he should’ve gotten it replaced years ago and broken the last link to his past, or at least not have relied on pain to maintain it.
As he reached the second floor, a flashlight beam swept the bougainvillea securing the perimeter. The light died. Donnally heard the rip of a zipper and the sound of the officer peeing into the bushes below him.
And Donnally let himself enjoy the fantasy of putting a slug into the top of the cop’s head.
After the man moved on, Donnally continued upward and hoisted himself onto the roof. He removed a rope from his backpack, tied it around the air-conditioning unit, then lowered himself down the front of the building toward Sherwyn’s office.
As he reached to pull the window open to climb in, he had a panicked moment, wondering whether Lalo’s friend was still bought, or whether he’d sold them out to Jago Cruz, who’d be poised like an executioner on the other side.
Chapter 62
Just after 6:50 A.M., Donnally alerted to thudding footsteps. The sound was deadened by the book-lined shelves of Sherwyn’s office and the heavy closet door behind which he was hiding.
Then two male voices. Sherwyn and a Mexican.
The shadows of moving bodies skimmed the gap between the door and the floor.
“Sientate.” Sit. An order. Jago.
Lighter footfalls followed by scraping, maybe chair legs rubbing against the hardwood floor.
Janie?
Then a nervous drumming of fingers. Donnally guessed that Sherwyn was sitting or standing behind his desk a few feet away.
Jago spoke. “It’s almost time.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Sherwyn said. “I’ll call him.”
Donnally felt his cell phone vibrate. He let it go to voice mail, where Sherwyn would hear his recorded message:
Bring Janie to the front gate at 7 A.M.. I’ll hand you a CD containing the recantations as she steps out.
“You need to hear this,” Sherwyn said, presumably to Jago.
Donnally’s phone vibrated again, and again he let it go to voice mail.
Thirty seconds later, Jago said, “Your boyfriend is not answering his phone.” Then to Sherwyn, “Puzzling. Why didn’t he try to force us to do it in a public place, a shopping center or at the beach? Doesn’t he realize that my men will grab him before he even walks up to the gate?” Jago chuckled. “He must love you too much. It has scrambled his brain.”
A crackle of Jago’s police radio broke the silence, followed by his voice.
“Está todo en posición?” Is everyone in position?
Donnally guessed that Jago had sent his team out of the hacienda to set up along the streets bordering the property.
“Sí.”
Donnally lit up his cell phone screen: 6:55.
“Andale.” Jago again. Let’s go.
“Aren’t you coming with?” It was Janie’s voice. “Or are you too much of a coward?”
“There’s a better view from up here,” Sherwyn said. “Anyway, I’ll see him soon enough. Or should I say, he’ll see me soon enough.”
Janie and Jago’s footsteps faded as they walked from the office and down the hallway toward the stairs.
Donnally heard Sherwyn take a couple of steps toward the bar next to the closet door. A quavering of glass on glass followed. Donnally imagined Sherwyn’s hands shaking as he poured.
Sherwyn walked toward the window.
Donnally checked the time again: 6:58. Corazon should be parked down the block.
Sherwyn began pacing. A gulp. Then back to the bar. Another drink.
6:59.
Uncle Beto should be a few hundred yards away, driving toward White Sands in a rental car matching Donnally’s.
7:00.
“Where is he?” It was Sherwyn speaking into his cell phone.
Donnally turned the door handle.
“No,” Sherwyn said. “I don’t see him—wait. I see his car. Get him.” Now more urgently, yelling. “Get-him-get-him-get-him.”
Donnally heard the whine of Beto accelerating, then the sirens of police vehicles chasing him down.
“What is Donnally doing?”
Donnally swung open the door. “Holding a gun to your head.”
Sherwyn spun toward him.
“Put your hands up,” Donnally said.
Sherwyn raised them, his phone in one and a glass in the other.
Donnally stepped next to Sherwyn. He then grabbed him by the back of his collar and pressed the barrel against the base of his neck. The glass fell from his hand and exploded on the floor.
Donnally glanced down toward the gate and took the phone from Sherwyn’s hand.
“You hear that?” Donnally said to Jago. “Let her walk out into the street.”
Jago drew his weapon and pointed it at Janie.
“You shoot, I shoot,” Jago said.
Donnally covered the phone mic and said to Sherwyn, “Let’s go. We’re going to fight this out in the courtyard.”
Sherwyn struggled, now understanding Donnally’s strategy and terrified of becoming a human shield.
Donnally braced Sherwyn against the window to control him.
The whump-whump of a helicopter rose up in the distance. Donnally guessed it was a tourist flight heading inland toward the Aztec ruins.
Jago lowered his gun to his side, waiting for it to pass over.
The helicopter slowed, then hovered above White Sands.
Donnally uncovered the mic and said, “Release her. You’ve got too many witnesses.”
Jago looked up. Staring. Donnally saw his eyes widen. Jago licked his lips, then spoke into his radio. Donnally watched a cop standing across the street abandon his position and walk toward downtown. The officers surrounding Beto got into their cars and sped off.
Jago opened the gate. Janie walked through. Corazon climbed down from her van parked across the street, and Janie ran toward her.
Donnally looked up and saw what had spooked Jago.
CNN. The acronym painted on the side.
How did the old man get them to come here?
He looked down again. Janie was getting into Corazon’s van. Jago was running toward the front door.
Why doesn’t he make a run … ? Donnally asked himself, but the answer arrived before he finished the question. He wants a shot at avenging his brother before the world caves in.
Donnally decided that it was better to battle him here than run for the rest of his life.
The helicopter rotated in place. Glare blocked his view. It rotated further. He saw a handheld video camera pointing down.
Something didn’t look right.
Without showing himself, Jago yelled from the hallway:
“Throw out your weapon.”
Sherwyn grabbed for the gun. Donnally pulled away. Sherwyn fell into him. They crashed against the bar. Sherwyn’s grasping hands swept the bottles and glasses off the mirrored counter. The gun broke f
ree of Donnally’s hand and thunked to the floor next to the built-in bookcase. They both dived for it. Sherwyn grabbed first, but missed and sent it sliding across the floor toward the door ten feet away.
A gunshot shattered the bar mirror.
Donnally looked toward the doorway. Jago stood pointing a revolver at him.
Sherwyn crawled toward Donnally’s gun.
“Freeze,” Jago ordered.
Puzzlement consumed Sherwyn’s face. “What are you … ?”
Donnally grasped Jago’s plan, or what should be his plan if he was thinking clearly. Donnally decided to buy some time, even if it meant laying it out for him.
“He’s going to kill you pretending that he was trying to rescue me,” Donnally said, standing up. “He’s leaving no witnesses. That’s the way El Mandamas would want it.” He glanced at Sherwyn. “I suspect that at this point The Man with the Last Word, whoever he is, would conclude that you’re expendable.”
Jago smiled.
“But he’ll need to do some staging first,” Donnally said.
Jago shook his head, then pointed his barrel at Donnally’s waist and jerked it up and down.
Donnally glanced down at Sherwyn. “Apparently he wants to count the weapons first.” He then raised his shirt and jacket to show he was unarmed. Jago made a circling motion, and Donnally showed his back.
Jago nodded.
Sherwyn pushed himself onto all fours, as if testing to see how far Jago would let him rise. His breathing was heavy. His flesh red.
Donnally leaned back against the bookcase.
“What do you say, I’ll stand here?” Donnally said. He extended his hand toward Sherwyn. “And you can be next to me.”
Sherwyn stood and backed toward Donnally.
“Come on Jago,” Sherwyn said. “I’ll protect you. Everybody knows Donnally is crazy.”
Jago shook his head.
Donnally pointed skyward. “He needs a story that matches the video, or at least close enough for the Mexican press. He has to make it look like he rescued Janie from you, then failed in rescuing me. He knows that once I’m dead, Janie will keep her mouth shut to protect Corazon.” Donnally smiled. “But that means I need to be dead first.”
Donnally glanced around the office.
“What do you say we make it look like even more of a fight?” Donnally asked. “Maybe throw some things around?”
He reached behind him and began pulling books off the shelf and spilling them to floor.
“You really are crazy.” Sherwyn’s voice turned desperate. “What are you doing?”
Donnally grabbed Sherwyn by his collar and shoulder and threw him toward Jago, then grabbed the book he’d hollowed out the day before.
He ripped it open and reached inside.
It wasn’t the tape recorder Lalo’s friend had thought he’d smuggled in, but the .32 cal revolver Donnally had bought from Beto.
Donnally fired once, hitting Jago in the shoulder. Jago fell backward, pulling Sherwyn with him.
The cop’s gun discharged, the explosion muffled by Sherwyn’s body.
Donnally ducked behind the desk. He raised his head in time to see Jago push Sherwyn away, then point his gun not at Donnally’s forehead, but at the thin panel covering the leg space. Donnally dived to the side. Jago’s shots punctured the desk and blew out the window behind it. Donnally rolled, fixed the gun in a double-handed grip, and kept firing until Jago stopped moving.
The helicopter’s motor whined as it spun away.
Only then, in the silence that followed, did Donnally feel his hip joint raging. He clenched his teeth and pushed himself to his feet.
A groan came from Sherwyn.
Donnally limped over and kicked the gun out of Jago’s hand.
Sherwyn looked up, his palm pressed against the wound in his chest. His face was pale, draining of blood.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Donnally lied. “Unless you bleed out.”
Panic twisted Sherwyn’s face.
Donnally poked at Sherwyn’s ribs with his shoe.
“Maybe I’ll keep you conscious for as long as I can so you can watch it happen.”
Sherwyn grimaced, then squeezed out, “What do you want?”
Donnally retrieved the tape recorder from his backpack in the closet.
“I want a confession.” He then pulled out his cell phone, punched in 066, the Mexican version of 911, and showed Sherwyn the screen. “As soon as I’m satisfied, I’ll press ‘send’ and an ambulance will come to take you to the hospital.”
Donnally thought for a moment. He needed a way for Sherwyn’s words to live on in the world he would soon leave behind.
“How about you call it your dying declaration so you can’t retract it later?”
He then kneeled down and switched on the recorder, knowing that the last sound on the tape wouldn’t be the siren of a rescue, but Sherwyn’s death rattle.
“After that, explain who El Mandamas is and how he fits in.”
For the next three minutes, Donnally focused more on his questions than on the content of Sherwyn’s answers, for he’d already played his last card: He’d threatened the absolute.
At the same time, he knew from the terror in Sherwyn’s eyes that he was a man who feared death more than shame, so Donnally knew he’d get at least some of the truth.
The whump-whump of the helicopter increased in volume as it once again approached the hacienda.
Donnally glanced toward the window, then looked back. Sherwyn had fallen silent. Dead. Donnally felt the satisfaction of knowing he’d called it right. Sherwyn wouldn’t have lived long enough for an ambulance to have arrived anyway.
Donnally flicked off the tape recorder, then walked to the window and squinted into the rising sun to try to see into the cockpit.
He realized what was wrong. He’d never seen a CNN helicopter before. They always got their news feeds from local stations.
The machine rotated and the passenger side came into view. The camera operator lowered the video camera. Donnally recognized the flowing white hair before he recognized the face, then felt the thrill of weightless flight, as if the floor beneath his feet had fallen away, leaving him hovering, light-headed.
His father grinned and waved.
It was all an illusion, a substitute for a real world that wouldn’t or couldn’t act.
Donnally smiled back.
For the first time in both their lives, the old man really had shot the dawn.
Chapter 63
Janie ran toward Donnally when he arrived at the front gate. He embraced her, then pointed at Corazon crossing the street and held up his palm, telling her to keep the gathering crowd outside the hacienda.
He grabbed Janie’s arm and they raced back up to Sherwyn’s office.
Janie gasped and covered her mouth as she stood in the doorway staring at the bodies, the blood of the dead now intermingled in a dark pool between them.
Donnally retrieved his 9mm from the floor, then wiped off the .32 and put it into Sherwyn’s hand. It was better to leave a confusing crime scene than one that pointed to Donnally.
He crouched down and rubbed Sherwyn’s gun hand against Jago’s to transfer some powder residue, then flopped it into the blood.
He straightened up and looked around the office.
“Let’s grab whatever we can before the police get here.”
They searched Sherwyn’s desk, filling Donnally’s backpack and a cardboard box he found in the closet with the doctor’s laptop and every piece of paper they could find. Phone records. Bank records. Anything they thought might expose the network of men who sought the services of White Sands.
Janie picked up the hollowed-out book lying on the floor.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“I had Lalo arrange to smuggle in an extra gun in case I got caught breaking in. It’s got my fingerprints on it. Take it.”
After they searched the file cabinet, Donnally called his father’s c
ell phone. The helicopter rumbled in the background.
“Where are you?” Donnally asked.
“Are you okay?”
“I guess you could say that I’m healthy as a sunrise.”
“A what?”
“I’ll explain it later.”
“We’re on our way to land,” his father said, “so we can strip the lettering off this thing before we return it to the rental company. And then we’ll catch a charter flight back to the States before anyone figures out who we are.”
Donnally heard the scream of police sirens, rising in volume like incoming mortar.
“How soon can you get back here?” Donnally asked.
“What do you need?”
“I’m going to leave my backpack and a box of documents on the roof, on top of the air conditioner. Can you get close enough to snag them?”
Donnally heard a quick interchange between his father and the pilot, then his father’s voice.
“We’ll figure it out. How soon?”
“Two minutes.”
“I’ll have them waiting for you when you get back to California.”
Chapter 64
But the twisted expression on the angular face of Captain Joaquin Felix sitting in his office an hour later told Donnally that their going home might not happen for a very long time.
Or it would happen by sunset.
Donnally had recognized the captain’s name when he’d introduced himself in the doorway of Sherwyn’s office at White Sands. He was one of the government officials whom Corazon had accused in the press of protecting sex traffickers.
Felix folded his arms on his desk and looked first at Janie, then at Donnally.
“Officer Cruz was not the self-sacrificing type. I can’t imagine him risking his skin to rescue anyone.” Felix’s face relaxed. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Picking bodies clean of valuables afterwards, now that’s something Cruz would do. It is not by chance that his nickname was La Buitre. The Vulture.”
Donnally didn’t smile back. “Sometimes true character is revealed in a time of crisis.”
“Perhaps crisis is also the explanation for why his brother disappeared.”
Donnally shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”