Chapter 14
Leine began the long, slow climb up the face of the cliff. When she reached the top, she took a moment to rest before unhooking the rope from the tree. The area around her rib throbbed with each breath, like someone was jabbing her lungs with a hot poker and enjoying it. Pissed off, she ignored the pain and untied the harness, removed the pulley and clips, and coiled the rope.
When she walked to the back of the SUV she noticed a rank odor waft toward her from somewhere nearby. Unable to locate anything in the surrounding area, she sniffed her shirt, grimacing at the cloying scent of the dead.
She’d have to change. She refused to smell like a corpse all the way back to LA. She slipped her phone out of her back pocket and called Lou, but got voicemail.
“Hi, Lou. It’s Leine. I found the car—somebody drove it off a cliff into a ravine. I think we can rule out carjacking on this one. Looks like Josh was murdered—a white male matching his description was inside the trunk with his face blown off. I have photos for Gunderson and Nabokov. I haven’t located Elise, but I found her phone. She was more than likely in the car when Josh drove up to Vista del Mar.”
She paused, thinking. “You should probably know I’ve had a run-in with a couple of local heavies but the situation’s under control. I’m planning to be at the border in the next couple of hours and should be home by tonight. I’ll give you a call when I get back.”
She disconnected and opened the door to the cargo area where she began to stow the equipment. The sound of an approaching vehicle caught her attention, and she covered the rope with the floor mat before turning to see who it was.
The dark blue Suburban slowed, coming to a stop several yards away. Leine pulled the door to the cargo bay closed, the machete still in her hand and concealed behind her leg. This time Ignacio and his driver immediately exited the vehicle. Neither looked happy.
“You’re pretty stupid for a gringa.” His eyes glittered as he walked toward her. “Didn’t you get my message?”
The driver stayed a step behind Ignacio. His look mirrored his companion’s. Ignacio stopped abruptly and waved at his nose.
“What the fuck?” He glanced over his shoulder, searching for the source of the rank odor. Sidekick mimicked him, looking left and right. Unable to pinpoint where it was coming from, Ignacio took a step toward Leine and stopped. Comprehension lit his face. Clearly, he recognized the smell of a decaying corpse. His eyes narrowed, and he slowly shook his head, making a tsking sound with his tongue. “You’ve been a bad gringa.”
“I was just leaving.” Leine kept her expression neutral but her body was strung tight, thrumming in anticipation of his next move.
“Too late. You should have left when I told you to.” He stepped back and nodded at Sidekick. “Teach her how things are done in Tijuana.”
Sidekick lifted his shirt and went for his gun. Events slowed in the haze of adrenaline as Leine swung the machete. The blade sliced into Sidekick’s right arm, blocked from severing it when metal hit bone. Eyes bulging, he screamed and gripped the gaping wound. The gold-plated nine millimeter clattered to the ground as the first spurt of blood from an artery soaked Ignacio’s expensive black boots. Leine flipped the machete and swept it back, carving into the soft flesh of Sidekick’s belly.
The shocked look on Sidekick’s face as he collapsed to the ground paled in comparison to Ignacio’s. His eyes wide, he fumbled for his gun while Leine pivoted forward, bringing the blade with her. Unable to get a grip on his weapon, he threw himself backward with a cry as the machete bit air.
Ignacio recovered and pulled his gun free, but Leine kept coming, throwing him off balance, not giving him time to set up, sweeping the machete in wide arcs as she advanced. He managed to squeeze off a round, but the shot went wide.
Leine ignored the pulsing ache from her recent rib injury and kept the blade moving, advancing toward Ignacio with laser-like focus. He stumbled backward, regained his footing, and raised his gun. Leine heard the gun fire several times, felt an acid-like burn in her left arm and ignored that, too, the adrenaline spurring her on as she brought the blade across and down.
He’d apparently miscalculated the length of time it would take her to cover the distance between them, and Leine scored a direct hit, slicing through tendon and muscle and the smaller bones in his wrist. Ignacio cried out as the gun fell from his now useless hand.
Clutching his forearm, Ignacio backed away but pulled up short, his way blocked by the mesquite. He leaned against the tree, raising his arm in order to slow the bleeding. Leine stepped over the gun and walked toward him, her gaze never leaving his sweat-soaked face.
“Who the fuck are you?” he choked out the words and doubled over, gasping from the pain.
“The woman your mother warned you about.” Leine brought the machete back and took aim.
A smirk flashed across Ignacio’s face. “She never warned me about women.” His good hand snaked toward his ankle, but he was too late. Leine let the machete fly.
Ignacio’s eyes bulged as the blade cleaved through his skull. Blood spurted from the rupture, arcing through the air. He stood for a moment, wavering. A river of red coursed down the center of his face before his eyes dulled and he tumbled backward into the ravine.
“Maybe she should have,” Leine said.
The caustic pain in her upper arm roared back and she glanced down. Blood flowed from a gunshot wound. The force of the adrenaline evaporated and she started to shake. She applied pressure to slow the bleeding as she made herself walk to the edge of the cliff. A large shrub had blocked Ignacio’s descent. He’d landed face up, his leg bent at an unnatural angle beneath him, the machete no longer attached to his skull. Leine scanned the cliff face and found it, several yards up and to his left. She briefly considered what would happen if authorities retrieved the murder weapon and were able to pull latents off it, but remembered what Herrera had said about evidence collection by the local police and decided it wouldn’t be necessary. She’d be long gone by the time they found it.
The blood loss had left her weak. Carefully stepping over both of the dead men’s guns on her way back to her vehicle she repeated the mantra, Everything’s fine, Leine. You’re going to be fine.
Close to blacking out from the searing pain in her arm and shaking from the fading adrenaline, she noted with the odd detachment of someone going into shock that at least the bleeding had slowed somewhat. With a grimace, she opened the cargo door and sat on the tailgate, bending her leg to release the knife sheathed to her calf. The sharp blade made quick work of the bottom of her shirt, which she used to fashion a tourniquet. She pulled the knot tight with her teeth above the wound. It would have to do until she located medical supplies.
In a sort of daze, she closed the back and walked to the driver’s side. Before getting in, she reached into her back pocket, slid out her phone, and punched in Lou’s number. Then she got in, started the engine and pulled away from what was left of Ignacio, Sidekick, the Porsche, and Josh.
The call went to Lou’s voicemail again. She decided against leaving a message. She’d tell him what happened when she saw him.
That was, if she made it across the border.
She needed to address the injury before she started for home. She wasn’t going to spend hours in line waiting to cross with a gunshot wound in her arm, especially without painkillers. A phone call to Herrera flitted through her mind, but his request to not make his life any harder stopped her from contacting the DEA agent. She’d just killed two local criminals. No point in stirring up more trouble.
She’d undoubtedly raise a few eyebrows if she walked into a store for bandages. Yes, she had a change of clothes, but the long-sleeved shirt in her bag would soon be soaked with blood if she wore it without a bandage. She needed to keep the fabric clean so as not to raise suspicion at the border. Another factor to consider: it wouldn’t be long before someone discovered the bodies near the ravine and raised the alarm. She had to find a doctor, and s
oon.
There was only one other option.
I need to talk to him anyway. Resigned to her next move, she slid out the piece of paper with the map to Vista del Mar. She braced her knee against the steering wheel to keep the rental on the road and punched in Willy’s phone number.
“Willy Flint.”
“Willy. It’s Lana Turner.” She held the phone between her ear and shoulder, driving with her right hand.
Silence. Leine frowned at the windshield.
“The woman in the alley?” she prompted.
“Sorry. I’m just surprised you called.” Willy’s voice sounded like he was holding his breath. A moment later he exhaled. “Did you find the car? Because, you know, if you did, then you owe me. It’s only fair, right?”
Leine rolled her eyes. Evidently, Willy never stopped partying. How much help would the guy be stoned?
“Yes, Willy. I did.” She started to say something else, but Willy beat her to it.
“Where do you want to meet? I can be anywhere in no time. Just say the word.”
“Willy, listen to me. I’m going to need a favor. A big favor.” A pulse of excruciating pain rocketed up her arm and into her shoulder, taking her breath away. She glanced at the wound, which had begun to bleed again.
“Seems to me I already did you a solid. Big favors cost big money.”
“I assumed that,” she said, gritting her teeth to stop herself from making a sarcastic comment. The combination of pain, crashing adrenaline, and having to ask Willy Flint for a favor grated mightily on her nerves. She was in no mood to play games. Fuck. She hated asking the guy for anything. She knew the type. Flint was the kind of person who would make you pay dearly for a favor. And pay.
And pay.
“Okay, okay. You looking for something in particular? Drugs? Available males?” He paused. “Females?”
“No, Willy. I don’t…” Leine bit her tongue, again. She was beginning to feel light headed. “I need the address of a competent doctor. Someone who doesn’t ask too many questions. Preferably one who works outcall.”
“Uh, well. Let me think a minute.” Willy paused. “Yeah. I know someone.” He lowered his voice. “Why do you need a doctor?”
“What’s the address?” she asked, ignoring his question.
“How dumb do you think I am? We meet first. You pay me. Then I give it to you.”
“Whatever, Willy. Meet me at the Pemex near the junction of Agua Caliente and Hermosillo Street.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
You can do this, Leine. Just keep driving, stay conscious.
“I’ll be there in fifteen,” Leine replied and ended the call.
Chapter 15
Willy Flint was waiting for her at the station in a rusty, brown, 70s-era Pinto—more rust than brown. The interior made up for what the car lacked in exterior pizazz with a multitude of incandescent shades painted in swirls across the dash and bright, strangely clashing covers on both of the bucket seats. An acid green blanket covered the back.
You don’t see that every day, Leine thought.
Which was probably a good thing.
She pulled up next to him and parked. Willy held out a bag of lime-flavored tortilla chips. Leine shook her head. The spots were getting worse. Maintain, Leine.
He shrugged. “Your loss. These are really good.”
“What’s the doctor’s address?” she asked, way past caring about food, or Willy, or fucking Mexico in general. The pain from the gunshot wound had intensified to full-on agonizing while she drove. Combined with having wasted her time offing Otero’s thugs, dealing with the increasingly hot afternoon, and fighting to stay conscious, the morning’s events had put her in a supremely foul mood.
“You know our agreement. Ya gotta pay to play.” Oblivious to Leine’s disposition and avoiding eye contact, Willy Flint peered inside his bag of chips, acutely interested in its contents. She caught the acrid scent of cannabis sativa wafting her way from the interior of Willy’s car.
Fuck it. I don’t have time for this. Leine dug into her bag and counted out two hundred dollars, which she wadded up and lobbed through his window. Willy tracked the bills as they arced past him and leaned over to retrieve them from the passenger seat. A couple of seconds later he was back, head down and lips moving as he counted the money. A slow grin spread across his face. He held a slip of paper with an address out the window and tried to hand it to her.
“Tell Doctor Ramirez I sent you. He’ll treat you right.”
Leine glanced at the paper, memorizing the information.
“Thanks. Get in.”
Startled, Willy looked up from his snack chips. “Get in?”
Leine had been tracking the two customers getting gas at the Pemex. She and Willy were parked far enough away that they weren’t attracting attention.
“Get. In,” she said through gritted teeth. She looked pointedly at the gun she held out of sight behind the side mirror. Willy blanched, reminding Leine of an extra from her daughter’s favorite television show, The Walking Dead.
“Get your ass in the car. Show me where this Doctor Ramirez is and bring me in the back door. Now,” she added, in case he hadn’t quite gotten the message.
Willy looked back at the station attendants as though they might be able to save him from the scary woman with a gun.
“Now, Willy.”
Willy Flint slowly opened his door, eyes riveted on the nine millimeter.
“And lose the chips.”
Willy dropped the bag of chips onto the front seat, closed the door to the Pinto, and walked around to the passenger side of Leine’s vehicle. For a second, Leine thought he might bolt, but he got in and closed the door.
“Holy shit. You’ve been shot,” he said, staring at the blood on her arm. He leaned closer to get a better look.
Leine shifted into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. Spots continued to float in and out of her peripheral vision and she was getting lightheaded. “You’re a master of deduction, Willy. Which way?”
“Left,” he said, pointing east. Leine turned onto the busy boulevard. Willy sniffed at the air like a golden retriever. He turned toward her and was about to say something, but decided against it and leaned back in his seat.
“You know the smell,” Leine said.
Willy cleared his throat and shrugged.
“You’re the guy, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“C’mon, Willy. It’s obvious you’re the one who drove the Porsche off the cliff.” Leine waited for him to either accept or reject her assumption, but he stayed mute. “You’re better off being straight with me now rather than later. I’m not the forgiving type.”
Willy watched the scenery stream past his window while he sucked his cheeks in and out a handful of times.
“That’s a really annoying habit you have, you know that?” Leine said.
“I do it when I’m nervous.”
“What are you nervous about?”
“You.”
“Well, you should have thought about that before you followed me into the alley.” So he was scared of her. She could work with scared.
Ten minutes later they pulled up to a pleasant-looking stucco building in an older residential area. A black metal fence surrounded the perimeter of the manicured grounds with a pair of palm trees growing out of the middle of a lush yard. Leine and Willy waited until a car drove past before they got out and crossed the street, following the sidewalk to the back. Willy reached over the fence and unhooked the latch. He held it open for Leine as she walked through and closed it behind them.
“Wait here. I should probably give him a heads-up. Then I’ll come and get you.”
“Fine. But be quick, okay? And Willy?”
He turned.
“Keep things on the low down. No names, no stories about what I’m doing in Tijuana. Got it?”
Willy nodded. “Got it.” He paused. “What should I call you, then? You
have a code name or something?”
Seriously? “Anything you want, Willy. Just get the fucking doctor, will you?”
Willy nodded again and disappeared. Leine heaved a sigh of relief.
She walked unsteadily over to a wrought iron garden bench positioned beneath a large tree and dropped down onto it, grateful for the shade. Now that she had a minute to think she closed her eyes against the pain, took a deep breath, and began to sift through what she’d learned.
Elise had been inside the car as Brittany suggested, and was probably with Josh when he drove to the housing development, looking for the party. The carjacking theory had come off the table as soon as Leine located the Porsche. And, she was ninety-nine percent sure it was Josh’s body in the car’s trunk.
She was also fairly certain, contrary to what Willy claimed, that Willy Flint was the guy who did side jobs for the “businessmen” in town and had been the one to drive the Porsche off the cliff. Which meant he knew more than he let on. Leine intended to find out what he was hiding.
What she didn’t know was why Otero’s thugs were so worried about her finding out about the Porsche. Worried enough to track her down and try to kill her. She wondered how they found her, unless someone tipped them off. Which suggested either Willy was playing both ends, hoping for a payout from whoever came out on top, or someone else was in the mix and knew Willy was her source. That meant Willy’s life and the life of the friend on the local police force—if the so-called friend even existed—could be in danger. The press of the semiautomatic against her stomach reminded her she needed to stay alert. That meant no pain meds, at least until she was out of Mexico.
Not a pleasant thought.
Another thought kept nagging at her: the Russian guy who talked to Josh and Elise at the bar. His presence could have been an aberration—some random stoner out to party—but Leine didn’t think so. Especially after Agent Herrera mentioned the rumors about increasing crime in the area not fitting the M.O. of the local crew.
Willy poked his head around the corner and motioned to Leine. She held her breath as she stood, then let it go, ignoring the nausea, and followed him through a pair of French doors into a cool, dimly lit living area. Decorated in bright, colorful fabrics, the space boasted a tile fireplace at one end and a wooden dining room set large enough to seat twelve at the other. A massive wrought iron chandelier hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room, with various matching candlesticks and candelabras throughout. Lush plants spilled from even more colorful pots placed at various intervals on the floor and bookshelves.
The Body Market: A Leine Basso Thriller Page 9