The Lawless Kind

by Hilton, Matt

  I glanced at my SIG. One round. One shot. One kill. I had to go for it, and have faith that McAdam didn’t put a bullet through my skull during the brief time I was in his sights.

  ‘What are you getting out of this, McAdam? Hope they’re paying you well for turning on your old mate?’

  ‘I’d do this for nothing,’ he called back. ‘We were never mates, I always thought you were a tosser.’

  ‘Funnily enough, I thought the same about you.’

  While I was still calling out, I sat up, gun held in both hands for stability. I zoned in on the sound of shuffling and saw the silhouette of the injured man as he prowled towards the lip of the ditch a good twenty yards away. In the dark, in a bad position for shooting, it was going to be a tricky shot, but I had to take it while McAdam was still absorbing my words and considering his response. I almost pulled the trigger, but didn’t.

  There was no need.

  Rink – who’d been absent from the fight for good reason – suddenly came off the floor like a prowling tiger going for the kill. Even I had no idea where he’d got to in the darkness, and the men trying to kill me had temporarily forgotten about him. The injured man tried to turn his gun on the unexpected attack, but he was too late. Rink drove the garden fork he’d taken from the Dodge into the man’s gut with such force that he was lifted off his feet. The sharp tines speared through his innards and spine and protruded from his back. Rink was no slasher-movie killer; he didn’t go for the grandiose by lifting the man on the end of the fork, he simply thrust downward, taking the man to the ground, and then released the handle so he could grab the dropped handgun. He placed a bullet in the man’s head, putting him out of his misery. Rink is like that: a thoughtful killer.

  There was no room for philosophising, and I didn’t think of his merciful act at the time. Then and there I still had McAdam, and an M-4 Carbine, to worry about. I twisted quickly, sighting on the ex-para. More correctly I sighted from memory of where his voice had last come from. He was very close to the SUV now, and it was partly between him and me, offering him some protection. He had turned, staring in a moment of horror at what had just happened to his friend, but he had the machine-gun shouldered, and he was a moment away from spraying Rink with bullets. I fired first.

  My bullet missed him, but it struck the corner of the SUV with a bang and a spray of sparks. It made him flinch, and his barrel went high as he pulled the trigger, hopefully higher than Rink was tall. McAdam swore, bringing the gun round on me. I swarmed out of the ditch, keeping low. Now the SUV that offered him protection gave me some cover too. McAdam had to move in order to aim round the back of the big vehicle to get a bead on me.

  He fired, and my only recourse was to go belly down on the earth again. My sore leg screamed with pain, but I had to keep moving, and I went across the ground on my hands and knees as McAdam’s bullets first sought me then arched away to tear Rink to bits.

  The dull roar of the M-4 was punctuated by three rapid cracks.

  The machine-gun fell silent.

  Glancing through the dust that swirled in my vision, I saw Rink advancing, holding the gun ready in case he had to put McAdam out of his misery too.

  I rose up, beckoning Rink. If McAdam was still alive then it was my duty to do the merciful thing.

  Except McAdam was as dead as dead could be.

  Rink’s shots had found heart, throat and skull, amazing shooting at any time, let alone while under fire from a machine-gun: amazing or incredibly lucky. I knew which Rink would choose if asked – for such a centred guy he could also be a bit of a tongue-in-cheek braggart when it came to his prowess. Now wasn’t the time for bragging though. Under difficult circumstances we’d come through, but things were about to get much worse.

  The foremost vehicle of the convoy was now ploughing its way across the landfill site, while two others continued up the track to cut off our escape route, the three of them all trying to trap us with our backs to the open desert. Shoving away my SIG, I lifted the M-4 from McAdam’s dead fingers and shot at the nearest car. The bullets churned their way up the front grille and found the windscreen. Men’s shouts of alarm rang wildly from within, competing with the smack of bullets through metal. Doors flew open and those inside leaped out, seeking a safer place than the confines of the car where the ricochets were as dangerous as a well-placed bullet. I fired another spray of bullets and then the mag was empty. A quick check of McAdam’s prone body didn’t hint at a spare magazine. But I didn’t throw away the gun, I ran for his abandoned SUV, just as Rink also charged for it.

  If there was extra ammunition I didn’t see it, so I threw the gun in the back while I hit the button to start the engine. Rink climbed in, choosing the back seat where he could manoeuvre and offer covering fire.

  ‘That was an impressive move with the garden fork,’ I told him.

  ‘That guy didn’t dig it so much. Didn’t have the guts for gardening, eh?’

  I groaned at his awful puns.

  ‘I was thinking of conserving ammunition,’ he said more seriously. ‘While you were scuttling around like a rodent, I was collecting the spares from the guys you killed.’ He dropped a couple of clips on the passenger seat to prove his point. ‘Those bullets should fit your SIG. If not . . . here.’ He passed over the Glock he’d taken from the man he speared. Then he was rummaging in the back, and I heard the slap of a magazine going in the M-4, and the bolt released. ‘Army Ranger weapon,’ he said, ‘wonder how the fuck it got into cartel hands?’

  ‘It’s probably not the only American weapon making its way across the border. Makes me wonder about Regis’s part in this. I’d bet my life it’s why the CIA is kissing Molina’s arse. They deal with him, put him in a position of power at the head of the cartels, and he’s a ready-made multi-million-dollar weapons buyer.’

  ‘If you don’t get moving you’ll probably cash in on that bet.’

  Just as Rink’s warning came, so did the bullets. The men who’d decamped from the vehicle had found places to hide, and were now intent on bringing the fight back to us. The other two cars were bouncing into the yard, guys leaning from the open windows with guns, like a bunch of rednecks shooting mailboxes. I hit the gas. Rink smashed the back windshield with a short burst of rounds, then as I wheel-spun away he loosed his next volley at the approaching cars.

  ‘Grab on to something, Rink, things are about to get a little rough.’

  With bullets stitching patterns in the air around the SUV I drove not for the road, but for a space between two of the sheds, hoping this one wasn’t chock-full of oil drums. The SUV lost both wing mirrors to the narrow walls, but that was all, and it blasted out back and through a barbed-wire fence with little hitch. The SUV was a warhorse in comparison with the Dodge, and it bounded across a strip of hard-beaten earth and on to the untouched ground of the desert. Here the desert floor was formed of a series of ruts, the soil blown into small drifts by the wind, then baked hard as clay by the sun. We bounced and jigged, but the SUV kept going straight and we shot between the electricity pylons. Taking the vehicle to fifty miles an hour was like riding a bucking bronco, but we were clear for now of our pursuers’ guns. They hadn’t followed us into the alley, but were most probably seeking other routes round the cluster of sheds. We’d won some respite, and the gap was broadening. I wondered how far from their enemies Kirstie and the others had made it by now.

  Chapter 29

  ‘Keep the little one quiet, don’t look up and we should be fine.’

  It wasn’t the first time she’d heard those words, and she supposed it wouldn’t be the last before this journey was over. Then again, Harvey’s instructions didn’t do much to calm Kirstie’s racing heart. They were heading for the border crossing at Agua Prieta/Douglas, a four-and-a-half-hour drive of more than two hundred and thirty miles through the Sonoran Mountains. Right now they were around the midway mark, approaching a small town called Moctezuma on Carretera Federal 14, seeking Mexico 17, which would take them north towar
ds the USA. Their journey had been uneventful, and Kirstie had concentrated on comforting Benjamin. Now he was beginning to stir. Perhaps he could sense his mother’s anxiety as she noted the black and white Policia Federal cruiser passing them by. At first the police car had continued, accelerating away, but a few hundred yards ahead the brakes had been applied. Kirstie was positive that the cops inside were checking them out in their mirrors. The fact that all they would see in the dark was the glare of headlights didn’t register in her mind. But then the lights on top of the car were switched on, and the cop car slowed, forcing them to a halt as well.

  ‘Just play it cool, people,’ McTeer said from the front passenger seat. ‘Let’s not forget that these are supposed to be the good guys, yeah?’

  ‘Depends on your perspective.’ Velasquez was sitting alongside Kirstie in the back of the car. ‘Some of these guys are worse than the scum they’re supposed to protect their people from.’

  ‘We can’t jump to conclusions,’ Harvey warned, as he slowed down to pull in behind the cruiser, ‘but neither can we be suckered just because they look official.’

  ‘Half the fucking cartel footsoldiers are municipal or federal cops that’ve jumped ship. I’ve still friends and family here, they tell me tales all the time about the methods some of these assholes employ.’ Velasquez adjusted his posture so that his gun was concealed beneath his thigh, but still accessible.

  ‘Listen to civilians and they’ll have you believe all cops are bad guys,’ McTeer said, in support of his past career as a law enforcement officer. Velasquez had also been a cop. ‘Keep calm and remember that we have a kid in the back, OK.’

  Yes, never forget that, Kirstie wanted to add. She looked at Benjamin and found the boy staring at her quizzically. He wrinkled his nose and closed his eyes. It wasn’t a cute look: it was as if he hadn’t liked what he’d woken up to. She could feel his chest rising and falling and his breathing was erratic. He’d cut himself off from her because he hated what he’d seen. No, she told herself, she mustn’t keep thinking that way. Jorge would have played mind games with the boy, turning him against his mother, but wouldn’t instinct win over when it came to her son’s affections? He hadn’t been with Jorge long enough – or at an age where he was susceptible to brainwashing – for him to learn to hate his mom. She recalled that strange and disturbing dream where an adult Benjamin had chased her, and how he had shown how like his father he’d grown by piercing her with a blade. They were irrational fears born from her stressed subconscious: nothing about the dream had been real. The real threat lay in what they faced now. The two Federales strode towards them, one playing a flashlight over the car. It reminded her of the attack during the initial trek to Hermosillo, and she felt a doomed déjà vu infecting her now.

  McTeer wound down the window.

  ‘Evening officers, is there a problem?’

  The two cops were close enough that their black uniforms didn’t blend so resolutely with the night. Their badges – a seven-pointed star – stood vivid on their chests. So did the weapons on their belts. One of the cops held his hand close to the snap holster, but on hearing McTeer’s question, or rather his American accent, relaxed somewhat.

  ‘Are you people heading for the border?’ His interest didn’t linger long on Kirstie or her son. As per Harvey’s instructions, she kept her head down.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ McTeer replied politely. ‘Returning home after a trip to meet friends in Hermosillo.’ He chose to bend the truth, rather than go for an outright lie. The cop didn’t seem suspicious of the answer. ‘I wasn’t speeding was I, sir?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Professional courtesy engendered a similar response. ‘There’s a problem on the highway ahead. You’d best find another route north if possible.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘The route’s closed ahead. You should turn back.’

  ‘This problem with the road, is it expected to last long?’

  ‘The road could be closed all night. Look, I don’t want to frighten you people, but there is an ongoing police operation against gang activity a few miles ahead.’ The cop eyed McTeer, while slowly nodding his head. ‘It’s not something innocent people should be party to. You understand?’

  Kirstie heard the friendly warning in the policeman’s voice, and she glanced up to check she wasn’t mistaken. The policeman winked at her. The second cop had backed away, waiting while his partner finished up. His demeanour said that he would rather be somewhere else: possibly a few miles north where the operation was ongoing.

  ‘Appreciate it,’ McTeer said.

  The cop merely flicked a finger against the side of his head in salute, then walked away. McTeer waited until the cops were back in their cruiser before he turned to bait his pal, Velasquez. ‘What was that you were saying about Mexican cops?’

  ‘OK, so some of them are good guys. But that’s all down to perspective, as I said. They’ve heard the reports coming out of Hermosillo, that a group of Yankees have taken the gang boss’s son. It was obvious that they knew who we were, and yet they chose to turn a blind eye.’

  ‘He was warning us that there was an ambush ahead: where’s the wrong in that?’

  ‘Not exactly what you’d expect from a cop doing his duty, that’s all.’

  ‘You’d prefer it if he’d tried to arrest us?’ McTeer asked, his voice full of incredulity.

  ‘Just saying it was still a corrupt act.’

  ‘Then thank fuck for corruption,’ McTeer said.

  ‘I’m surprised that he didn’t have his hand out for a bribe before he walked away,’ Velasquez continued.

  Harvey sighed. ‘I for one would happily pay him. If he hadn’t given us the heads up, we’d have driven directly into a trap. As it is, we can find another way through the mountains, without Molina’s boys snapping at our heels the entire way.’

  ‘Unless he’s setting us up for an ambush somewhere less public than the highway,’ Velasquez warned. Kirstie was staring at him with a look of horror. He shrugged. ‘Just expressing my concern, lady.’

  Kirstie directed her next question at the two men in the front. ‘If we don’t follow this highway, which way do we go? And if we don’t get to Douglas, as planned, how will Joe and Rink know where to join us?’

  ‘I’ve still got my cell phone,’ Harvey reassured her. ‘We’ll just make alternative arrangements as necessary.’

  ‘Why not call them now?’ Up ahead the Policia Federales cruiser pulled away, sending up a plume of road-grit in its wake as it sped off. The emergency lights had been extinguished, but the cops were in no less of a hurry to head north.

  ‘They’re busy.’ Harvey was party to his friends’ plan to play decoys and draw Molina’s bullyboys after them and had no desire to slow them down with unnecessary telephone conversations. ‘Best we leave them to it.’

  ‘I’d be happier knowing they’re still alive,’ Kirstie said.

  ‘I’ve no argument there, Kirstie. But neither do I want to distract them. Who knows what they’re contending with at the moment?’

  Velasquez cleared his throat. ‘Bet they don’t have a friendly neighbourhood cop watching out for them.’

  Chapter 30

  When not in my car, my favourite mode of transport is rail travel. I prefer a train over airplanes or coaches, because you can relax, watch the scenery, get up and walk around, stretch your legs when you wish, or visit the buffet car to grab a coffee or sandwich at your leisure. Trains for me are – in general – more comfortable all round. But I had to admit to not enjoying my current ride.

  This train was carrying freight. It was a colossal beast, forging its way through the Sonoran Desert, all noise and fury, with very little light to mark its progress. Earlier I’d spotted another train headed south for Hermosillo, loaded down with passengers by the dozen, but this one held only a handful of crewmen, and all of them were up at the front. Fewer people to see us clamber aboard as the train slowed to negotiate the points at Benjamin Hill, where
the men working inside the huge engine sheds didn’t notice us; fewer people to be endangered when Marshall and the rest of Molina’s hired killers caught up with us.

  After losing our pursuers, we had dumped McAdam’s SUV behind one of the engine sheds at the depot in Benjamin Hill, before getting on to a rear container-car of the freight train. The SUV was out of sight of the highway, but the vehicle would be discovered soon enough, and killers would be dispatched to each station along our route to cut off our escape. However, I didn’t expect that they’d be in place as we swept through the long bend towards the station at Santa Ana, the wind battering our bodies, trying its damnedest to rip us from our tenuous hold on the train. Perhaps by the time we arrived at Magdalena, or maybe Imuris, they would be ready for us. They would definitely be waiting at Nogales, where the train would be subject to border control before it was allowed to continue into the USA.

  Currently we were travelling adjacent to the highway, the terrain a series of low foothills as we headed in the direction of the Sonoran Mountains, but soon the ridges would grow tall around us, the tracks hemmed in by the road to one side and steep rock faces the other. The train slowed marginally as it took the right-hand bend towards Santa Ana, but didn’t have a scheduled stop and continued through the station. Faces of weary travellers were pale blurs on the platforms as we roared by. No one raised a fuss on seeing two guys hanging precariously to handholds on the side of a hopper filled with scrap metal. As I recalled from the maps we’d consulted before parting company with Harvey, Magdalena was a few miles away, and Imuris not far after that. That was where we planned to jump from the train, evade our pursuers and appropriate another vehicle to take us through the mountains on the Magdalena De Kino/Cananea road, where we could finally pick up Mexico 2 to Agua Prieta and meet up with our friends once more.

  But then workable plans never were my strong suit.

  This was proven when we arrived at Magdalena, the train slowing to not much more than walking pace as it crept towards a level crossing adjacent to an industrial estate.