by Hilton, Matt
I stood staring up at the sky. The sun was coming up behind me, making the sky overhead a pot-pourri of pastel shades while the western horizon was wreathed in purple haze. The contrail from a jet liner had broken apart, making a dotted line through the heavens. The highway was deserted, bordered on either side by tilled fields, with distant buildings marking small farmsteads. A few goats grazed on scrubby grass; nothing else moved that I could see. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. I’d had similar misgivings when Kirstie had first arrived in Arizona: that someone was watching her beyond my ability to spot them. I caught a look of realisation from Rink. He stalked over, nodding me out of earshot of Kirstie. ‘The van was supplied by Walter. You think the old bastard has been monitoring our movements?’
‘He doesn’t need to,’ I reminded him. ‘Walt knows where we’re going and what we intend doing when we get there. He can call us any time for an update. Plus, why would he organise an ambush and try to have us killed? If he had, he wouldn’t have sent one soldier and a bunch of local gangbangers.’
‘I suppose you’re right. But we have to consider something else.’ He stabbed a finger at the van. ‘That van is from a CIA pool.’
‘You think the Agency got wind of Walter’s private mission, and sanctioned the hit on us by Marshall?’
‘Just a suggestion.’
‘But why would they want us to fail?’
‘Who knows what operations they’re involved in concerning the various cartels. Perhaps they don’t want us blundering into the middle of an op they’ve got going concerning Molina.’
‘Bit extreme having us killed, isn’t it? They could quite easily have followed legal protocols and had us arrested by the genuine police.’
‘Walter’s not the only one with enemies inside the Agency,’ Rink said. ‘There are certain individuals who would prefer to see us dead. Maybe they saw this as the ideal opportunity to kill us and strike a blow against Walt.’
Pondering those words we joined the others by the van. I waved everyone together, while Rink took over sentry duty from Velasquez and McTeer.
‘There’s a possibility that the van has a tracker inside somewhere, but without tearing it to pieces we’ll never find it. The thing is, we can’t abandon it. Not yet. We still need to get to Hermosillo fast. From here we’re going to have to be alert at all times, because you can bet your arse there’ll be another attempt on our lives. If you need the toilet, I suggest you go now, because we’re not stopping again until we reach Hermosillo.’
Kirstie checked out the flat land, where the tallest obstacle nearby was a boulder the size of a basketball poking from the gritty earth. ‘I think I can wait.’ She climbed inside the back of the van, allowing the men privacy to go through with the necessities.
Taking my own advice, I took a leak on the shoulder of the road. Back in the van, Kirstie was holding her Glock in her lap. I didn’t comment, or ask her to put it away. If further attack were imminent, we’d need all the firepower we had.
Chapter 14
Hermosillo was a huge city, but then it is the capital of Sonora State. It was spread throughout a natural basin, dotted with large rock formations – one of them known locally as The Bell standing proud over the city, adorned by twin telecommunication towers that blinked with aircraft warning lights in the early-morning haze. To look at the city’s location with a different eye, I could imagine that this was once an inland sea, and the rock formations islands that spotted its surface. But then what did I know of prehistoric Mexico? The city was a mixture of high culture and extreme poverty. On the one hand there was the neo-Gothic Cathedral of the Assumption, the neoclassical Government Palace, and the grand façades of the Museum of Sonora, and on the other, tenement buildings and humble adobe structures both decrepit and overcrowded. The place was known as the Sun City, but I wondered how often its poorer denizens actually lifted their heads from abject poverty to view the brilliance above them. I made a silent bet that Jorge Molina lived in opulence while making his living from the subjugation of those poorer souls. There he would find the customers for his drugs, the girls for export to the sex trade, and the footsoldiers of his private army. I hated him passionately.
That I was growing to admire his ex-wife so much may have been a factor.
Following the incident earlier, those of a faint-hearted disposition would have succumbed to anxiety, even hysteria.But Kirstie had grown more resolute. Maybe she had inherited some of the grit from her grandparents, who could not have survived as long in their positions with the CIA without having staunch hearts. Or perhaps I was underestimating the love of a mother for her child.
The van was parked on a shoulder of dirt high on one of the ancient islands, so that we could observe the city before driving in later. If indeed the van’s position was being monitored, no one had tried a second assault on us during the drive here. On the outskirts of the city it was unlikely we’d be troubled too much so we’d taken the opportunity to stretch our legs, and consume some of the food and drink we’d fetched. Having eaten a sandwich and gulped down a bottle of water, Kirstie had retreated inside the van, as much to escape the burgeoning heat as from fear of discovery.
Having had my fill of the view of Hermosillo, I climbed back inside to find Kirstie sitting on the bench seat she’d occupied since losing our car. Her Glock was pushed into her waistband, at the back, mirroring my usual carrying position. She was staring into space, her mouth slightly open, the tip of her tongue dancing from one tooth to the next. I took it that she was not in the mood for company. I was about to back out of the van when she looked directly at me and smiled. It would have been rude to leave.
‘This is it, Joe,’ she said. ‘The point of no return, eh?’
I came to sit next to her.
‘Yeah. This is where things begin to get dangerous,’ I said with no hint of irony.
Her chuckle was strained, but she shifted, squaring her shoulders, subconsciously showing that she was ready for any challenge. Her shoulder touched mine, but she didn’t move away. Neither did I. In the close confines of the van her perfume was heavier, a musky edge to it, and my eyelids closed as I savoured it. I exhaled, and Kirstie perhaps mistook the sigh for concern.
‘Do you think everything will be OK?’
Her face was inches from mine.
‘We must have faith.’
‘In God?’
‘In whatever gives you strength,’ I corrected.
‘You’re talking about the abilities of you and your friends.’
Pinching my lips, I nodded slowly.
‘You’re pretty sure of yourself. I don’t mean that as an insult, Joe.’
‘I didn’t take it as one. Maybe I can come across as rather conceited, but unless you’re certain of your abilities you shouldn’t be in this kind of business.’
‘I wish I was as confident.’
‘Of us?’
‘Of myself,’ she corrected.
‘You’re doing just fine.’ I patted her knee, then quickly withdrew my hand for fear she’d misconstrue the gesture.
‘Am I? Maybe it doesn’t show but I’m terrified. Not for myself. I’m terrified for Benjamin and what he might become if we fail to rescue him from Jorge.’
‘That’s only natural.’
‘Are you ever afraid?’
‘In situations like this?All the time.’ I hung my head, wondering if I’d just admitted a truth I shouldn’t have. Kirstie required a fearless champion, not someone who admitted to weakness. ‘But fear is good. Fearlessness can make you reckless, whereas a healthy regard for your life keeps you alert. Soldiers learn to embrace their fear, to control it, and use it to take the war back to their enemies with more determination.’
‘That’s rather philosophical,’ she said. ‘How do you do that when you can barely think straight, your stomach’s in a knot and you can’t stop your hands from shaking?’
If a soldier had asked that question there’d have been one answer: suck it up.
But these circumstances demanded a different approach. ‘You think of your kid, and you do it for him.’
Her eyes glossed with tears. ‘That’s what I’m trying to do . . . but it doesn’t seem to be working.’
‘I think that when it comes to the crunch you’ll surprise yourself, Kirstie.’
‘I hope you’re right, Joe.’ She placed a hand on my forearm, her fingers gripping tightly. ‘But right now I really need the reassurance. Will you do something for me?’
‘Yeah, of course, what is it?’
‘Will you please hold me?’
‘Sure.’
I opened my arms and Kirstie moved into their embrace, pressing her face into my chest so that the cap fell off and her hair spread over my shoulder. She held on tightly, her shivering detectable wherever she was pressed to my body. There was nothing sexual about the embrace, just one human being seeking solace in the closeness of another. A moment later the sobbing began, and I adjusted my arms to hold her tighter, to help her through the moment of heartache. My left hand fell on her hair and I smoothed it over her ear and brow, even as I told her that everything would turn out just fine. We remained that way for perhaps some minutes before her weeping subsided and she stopped shaking. Slowly, as if unsure of herself, she lifted her face. I felt her breath on my lips and it was my turn to shiver. The tips of her fingers traced the wound on my scalp, before trailing down my cheek to my jaw. I exhaled a pent-up breath, and she opened her mouth as if to accept it. To ease its passage I leaned in and our lips brushed. I felt an electric spark jump between us, and gave in to the inevitable attraction. I’ve loved women before – my ex-wife Diane, Kate Piers, Imogen Ballard – but it was a long time since I’d kissed anyone the way I surrendered to Kirstie’s mouth.
Hell if I know where that kiss would have led if Rink hadn’t chosen that moment to bang on the side of the van.
‘Time to roll,’ he called loudly before coming round to the open doors.
By the time he appeared, I was on the opposite bench, scratching my head as though checking out my wound, while Kirstie had pulled the cap back on. Rink said nothing, but he knew. He spared our blushes for as long as it took for Kirstie to feign sleep once more, then he dug me in the ribs with an elbow and showed me his best shit-eating grin. I grinned back like a besotted teenager.
Chapter 15
‘Getting in is going to be difficult. Getting out could be impossible.’
Raul Velasquez sat down at the café table I’d commandeered in a market square in an old part of the city. I’d ordered him a Coronita, just the one light beer, because we needed our full wits about us. A wedge of lime had been jammed in the neck, and Velasquez used the fleshy part of his thumb to press it further into the liquid. He took a long draught of the cold beer as I considered his words. My own beer was about half finished, but I didn’t touch it for now. From the doorway of the restaurant an elderly man was being over-attentive, and each time I reached for the bottle he took a step forward, anticipating another sale.
‘Numbers?’ I asked.
‘Best guess is around a dozen. Not all of them are footsoldiers, some of them are staff. And that doesn’t include Molina or his father. Unfortunately I didn’t get a look at either of them.’
‘Supposing that they have six house staff, that leaves at least eight guns to contend with.’
‘Perhaps more. I was only able to count those I saw, but there could have been others inside. One of the house staff has to be considered a bogey as well. He’s a chauffeur, but most of those guys double as bodyguards.’
‘Did you see the kid?’
Velasquez shook his head.
I reached for my beer. ‘We need to go back.’
Velasquez had been the obvious choice to run first surveillance on Molina’s home. He could pass as a local in a way that none of the rest of us could. An ex-cop and practising PI, he had experience of conducting surveillance, but that was with a law enforcement eye and not military. He’d said that it would be difficult getting inside the walled complex, impossible to get back out again, but he was talking from a cop’s perspective. Rink and I and, to a lesser extent, Harvey, came with a different skill set, and had experience of infiltrating and escaping enemy strongholds.
Taking up his beer, Velasquez quaffed the contents in one long swig. I took some dollars from my pocket, waving for the waiter. He looked disappointed that we weren’t going to add a second round, or better still a full meal, but remained professionally polite; smiling and thanking me for the tip I loaded on top.
We headed out of the market square, passing stalls selling everything from fruit and vegetables to pirated copies of the latest Hollywood movies and pop hits. Here in this older quarter of the city the houses had a colonial style, with balustrades at the upper floors, arched doorways, and plaster façades. Each building was painted a different colour from the pastel palette, with the occasional vibrant canary yellow, magenta or rust red. A few were even a dull grey, never having seen the application of paint, the plaster webbed by cracks, and the odd bare patch under which the original brick showed through. But they were more interesting to me for their shabbiness.
Around us the street was teeming with activity, mainly locals making the most of the market, but there were plenty of white faces in the crowd too. Tourists were more common now in Mexico and often strayed further than the beachside resorts and pyramids. It helped me blend in, but it also gave equal opportunity to the likes of Marshall, or other mercenaries. As we walked I engaged in counter-surveillance techniques, but saw nothing that caused worry. Velasquez was also looking, but from his easy chatter I took it that he hadn’t spotted a tail either.
There were police officers on the sidewalks, toting sidearms. Some of them looked like fresh-faced kids, but others were tough veterans. I noticed that their uniforms weren’t the same as the one Marshall had dressed in for the ambush. He’d underestimated his enemy: always a bad thing. But I shouldn’t underestimate him either. He would have expected the charade to last as long as it took to blast the occupants of the car with his shotgun, and after that it wouldn’t have mattered if we’d seen through his deception.
‘Were Molina’s guards on high alert?’ I asked.
‘They were disciplined, if that’s what you mean, but no, I wouldn’t say they were on edge.’
‘So Marshall isn’t working for him, then. He’d have reported his failure to stop us out in the desert; Molina would have strengthened his defences.’
‘Looks that way to me,’ Velasquez said.
‘Which begs the question: Who the fuck is Marshall working for?’
‘Maybe we’re missing the obvious. What if the ambush was just what it first looked like: robbers? There’s nothing to say your old buddy isn’t working for the gang that attacked us.’
I thought about the stack of brand-new US dollars in the machine-gunner’s possession, and begged to differ. Plus, Marshall had led those punks, he wasn’t just another hired thug brought in to bolster their number.
We turned into another street, this one lined with restaurants, gift shops and street traders with their wares spread on blankets and tarpaulins on the ground. There were even more people than in the market. Kids darted through the throng of tourists. Some of them were pestering the rich Yankees for change, while others were more furtive about the way they earned their cash. I’d have walked with one hand on my wallet, but I was more concerned about the gun in my waistband. I noticed that Velasquez crossed his arms over his chest, holding tight to the gun hidden under his left armpit. There were fewer police in evidence here, unless they were undercover. I kept a discreet eye on the kids, because if anybody could spot a plain-clothed cop it would be them.
We reached the far end of the street without incident, moving into an open square, at the centre of which stood a fountain. There was a statue of a Mexican general astride a horse, but he wasn’t an historical figure I recognised. Tourists were posing in front of the statue while their friends sn
apped photographs. I disregarded them as I scoped the rest of the square. The crowds were less dense here, but there were dozens of people sitting at tables outside the cafés that lined the square’s perimeter. Later, I guessed, the punters here would sample stronger delights than the coffee and soft drinks they nursed now. Many were reading newspapers, or fiddling with cell phones and e-book readers, but many others were content to people-watch. It made things more difficult to spot surveillance. But not impossible. I caught the eye of a man who was paying more attention to me than I warranted. Practised as I was in counter-surveillance, I allowed my gaze to wander away, kept my face immobile, as if I hadn’t noticed the scrutiny. But I was the proverbial duck on a pond, outwardly calm but paddling furiously beneath the surface. The sudden rush of adrenalin wasn’t simply because I’d spotted a watcher, but because, as with Marshall, I recognised the man’s face.
‘Velasquez.’ I said his name softly to elicit a natural response, and he turned his head to me with less than mild curiosity. To the observer we would look like two friends in conversation. ‘We’ve a shadow. White guy, early forties, wearing denims and a grey shirt, at nine o’clock.’
Velasquez was experienced enough to avoid looking for the man.
‘Cop?’ he asked, as we continued nonchalantly across the square. ‘Or one of Molina’s men?’
‘Neither,’ I said. ‘He’s another guy from my army days.’
‘He recognise you?’
‘Without a doubt.’ In the split second that our gazes had stuck, I noted the involuntary widening of the man’s eyelids. He was as surprised to see me as I was him.
‘You think he’s working for that Marshall dude?’
‘Without a doubt.’
Ian McAdam was another para with whom I’d served, but I had never seen eye to eye with him. Last time I’d met the surly northerner we’d parted on unfriendly terms, primarily due to the fact that the imprints of his two front teeth were embedded in my forehead after I nutted him.