The Lawless Kind

by Hilton, Matt

  ‘I don’t like the way this looks,’ Rink said as he continued to cling to the side of the freight container. He’d slung the M-4 machine-gun over his shoulder.

  He was forward of my position by around ten feet, and had a clearer line of sight along the side of the train. Lights from the industrial units spilled on to the tracks, allowing for some view, but I doubted that Rink could see all the way ahead to what had caused the train’s unscheduled stop. However, he surprised me.

  ‘Looks like there’s something on the tracks,’ Rink called. ‘It’s a stalled vehicle or something. There are men with lamps, warning the driver to slow down.’

  ‘I don’t like it either,’ I said. ‘I’ve a feeling those guys aren’t rail workers. Time we got off this train, I think.’

  The land was largely undeveloped on the left-hand side of the tracks, a strip of ground dotted with stunted shrubs and dirt trails, before it climbed towards the nearest peaks. On the right, the same side of the train to which we clung, there was a narrower strip of fallow land alongside a broad roadway, this dotted by parked cars. A little ahead of us, between the train and the obstruction on the level crossing, stood a long green and cream building topped by terracotta clay tiles, which I took to be the station that served the commuter trains. Sure enough, a few seconds later I read a sign that said: ‘Estación del Ferrocarril Magdalena’, and could see rooms with barred and arched windows, one of which was a ticket office. It appeared closed for business, but on a raised patio that extended from the building as some kind of observation deck, a trio of figures moved. One of them had a flashlight, and was playing its beam along the carriages. In moments the light would find Rink, hanging like a four-legged spider from the edge of the hopper.

  Good strategy would be to edge round, using the hopper to shield us as we dropped from the slowly moving train, then we could scurry across the fallow land and avoid the men poised to capture us. But that wasn’t a strategy we could follow. We required transportation, and the only vehicles I could see were the cars dotting the roadway behind the station. I turned, holding on to the side of the carriage with one hand as I pulled out the Glock 20 given to me by Rink earlier. The spare ten-millimetre ammo had not been interchangeable with the ammo for my SIG, so I’d shoved that deep in my waistband and elected to keep the Glock handy. I checked the ground for hazards, saw rocks and spiky plants, and thought, ‘Fuck it.’ Rather a few bruises than hang around and be shot by the men on the observation deck.

  ‘C’mon, Rink,’ I called urgently, even as I leaped clear of the train.

  Landing in the shallow gulley at the edge of the tracks, my feet sank into soft silt and pebbles. I staggered on my sore knee before righting myself and looked for my friend.

  Rink was only seconds behind my decision to leave, but it was a second too late and the beam of a flashlight caught him mid-flight. A shout of warning sounded from the deck. The flashlight-wielder stabbed the beam around, checking where Rink had got to, and for the briefest moment it played over me, then jerked back to keep me illuminated. I sprinted as fast as my injured leg could manage, and I was hard put to avoid the bullets that dogged my path. Rink moved parallel to me, about ten yards nearer to the station.

  The angle of the building offered some protection from the gunmen on the deck, but only until we ran out on to the road. From beyond the structure came more shouts, all in Spanish, and the sound of an engine firing to life. A vehicle roared towards us from where moments earlier it had blocked the level crossing. There was also a deep thrum as a second engine revved.

  ‘Rink,’ I yelled, ‘get back to the train.’

  My friend didn’t question my insanity.

  With the car out of the way, the train crew must have decided it was much safer for them to leave the area where a gun battle was about to erupt. The engine gave a roar as it was given more power, the wheels squealing in protest as they fought for traction. I ran back the way I’d just come, trusting that the man with the flashlight had gone to the front of the building in order to catch us as we ran for the road. The train was picking up speed, and I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to match it in order to scramble aboard.

  Rink flashed by, vaulting the last few yards and grabbing at a bracket on the side of one of the large skip-shaped hoppers on the rearmost car. He slammed into the metal wall, but clung to the bracket, then turned and reached out for me. I put my head down, pumping my arms and legs as I charged after him.

  ‘C’mon, goddamnit,’ Rink called through gritted teeth as he stretched for me. I pushed the Glock into my waistband, freeing both hands, then leaped the last few feet. Rink grabbed my wrist and I felt his powerful fingers dig painfully into the flesh and sinew. Fuck, it hurt, but nowhere near as bad as it would going under those huge steel wheels. I scrambled for balance, skipping out of the way of one wheel rim that threatened to dismember me. Then I scrambled a bit more, got my feet under me and punched upwards with the force of both knees.

  At the same time Rink hauled me up, grunting at the dead weight. Opposing forces worked against us and there was no clean way to pull me onboard. I swung up and hooked a leg over the side of the carriage deck, but the other trailed and almost got caught up in the piston working the wheels. I smelled hot oil and steel as the mechanism clashed close to my flesh. Then Rink was tugging me once more, and I was jerked further on to the car and able to work my other leg up beside the first.

  ‘You on?’ Rink demanded.

  ‘Barely.’

  ‘Good. You’re on your own now, brother.’ Rink released his hold and I almost fell off the train. But I’d managed to grab at the hopper, and jammed my left hand into a slot on its side and hung there for grim death. Rink moved away, placing himself in a shallow niche between two of the large steel containers, bracing himself so that he could draw his weapon once more. He chose his pistol over the machine-gun.

  The train was rolling again, picking up speed, passing the station building. I fought to regain balance and made it to my knees, craning round so that I could check what was happening. The car that had recently blocked the tracks was out of sight, probably behind the station house, as those inside searched for us. The men on the deck had their backs to us. That would have been it. We’d have given them the slip if it weren’t for more of Molina’s henchmen standing near the edge of the tracks. It was the men with lamps who’d originally planned to stop the train. As we thundered past, they spotted us on our precarious perches, and began hollering. Seconds later they were shooting.

  Hot metal clanged off the cold steel around me. Showers of obliterated rust rained over my shoulders and scalp, adding to the accumulation of muck I already wore. I wasn’t in a good pose to shoot back. But Rink was. Braced in the narrow alcove, he was protected from two sides, while having free rein to return fire. He held his handgun in a two-fisted grip, and he snarled viciously as he picked each shot. One of Molina’s gunmen went down hard, and I was certain he was dead. A second man was much noisier as he fell, so likely he would live. A third man ran sideways like an oversized crab, trying to avoid Rink’s aim while he fired at us both indiscriminately. He was armed with a MAC-10 machine pistol: the famous ‘spray and pray’ weapon favoured by criminals involved in drive-by shootings. Thankfully the gun on fully automatic was notoriously inaccurate. As he danced along, the man’s shooting was as wild as the look on his face. Rink put two rounds through his lungs and dropped him in the dirt.

  By now those on the observation deck had been alerted to our presence by the shooting, and the screaming of the injured man. They turned to join the fight, yelling at those beyond the station, but already we were moving out of their effective range of fire. Some of them took pot shots but they had little chance of hitting us. I was tempted to flip them the middle finger but I was too busy trying to avoid falling off the train.

  Rink came along the side of the hopper, balancing on the narrow strip of carriage bed available to us. He shoved his gun away, and offered me a hand. He lifted me easily
this time and set me on my feet. I hooked an arm over the top of the hopper, held on grimly.

  ‘They’ll be after us again,’ I said, like I was the wise Oracle of Delphi.

  ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Rink said. ‘But at least we’ve a head start. That’s supposing our buddies up front don’t decide to stop the train and run for cover.’

  ‘I’m not sure they’ll even suspect we’re still on board. I wonder how often they have to run an ambush. Maybe they thought those arseholes tried to stop the train to hijack their cargo, and don’t know about us.’

  Rink shrugged. ‘Whatever, I doubt they’ll slow down for anybody else waving lights from the side of the track. Not sure they’ll even slow down at Imuris.’

  ‘Then it’s going to be a hard landing, because we’ll have to jump.’

  Chapter 31

  ‘Twice now your man has failed to catch them. I’m beginning to think that Marshall is allowing his old friend to give him the slip on purpose.’

  Jorge Molina gave Howell Regis a look that also included the CIA man in the accusation. They were walking across an open lot, behind them the car they’d recently abandoned, as well as a large tin structure from which the paint peeled in flakes and blisters. Two of Molina’s armed bodyguards followed in close formation.

  ‘I can assure you that Marshall knows where his loyalty lies.’

  ‘Yes . . . in cash,’ Molina spat.

  ‘That’s correct. But we are the people holding the purse strings,’ Regis reminded him. ‘It was circumstance that allowed Hunter and Rington to escape the first time. Had McAdam held off a few minutes then Marshall and the reinforcements would have arrived in time to corner them. As it was, McAdam was too keen to prove a point and was found lacking. Hunter and his friend were then able to steal McAdam’s vehicle and escape. Can I also remind you that Marshall was not in evidence at Magdalena: those were your men, Jorge. Neither incident can be blamed on Marshall. I have faith in the man. He has served me well in the past and will do so again.’

  Molina growled out a curse. Regis could not discern the man’s words, drowned as they were by the continuous chop of blades scything the night air. He ducked, following Molina under the rotor blades of the helicopter that had recently been towed from the confines of the decrepit shed. Unlike the structure that protected it from the elements – not to mention the prying eyes of tax inspectors or jealous rivals?– the red and white helicopter was a sleek and well-maintained craft. Molina’s father owned it, but the old man had little use for it these days and Jorge had inherited it.

  The spacious Bell 429 could seat up to eight people, so it was roomy enough to allow Molina and Regis to sit opposite each other in the aft cabin, the two bodyguards settling in on the far end of each plush seat. Molina’s pilot, a moustachioed man, bald of head, was at the controls, his earphones in place, while his co-pilot checked that everyone was safely inside before closing the doors and seating himself alongside the pilot. The pilot had already had his instructions, yet he still called back to Molina for final confirmation.

  ‘Agua Prieta.’ Molina had to yell to be heard over the whopping of the rotor. He turned to regard Regis once more. ‘I intend to be there when my ex-wife attempts to cross the border. I will be the one to show her the error of thinking she can take something from me. I will cut her throat even as I pluck Benny from her arms. Sometimes, Mr Regis, there are things a man must do himself, don’t you think?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Regis said.

  ‘I will hold you to that thought.’ Molina offered a smile that reminded Regis of a caged wolf prowling behind a fence, eyeing the juicy human morsels just out of reach, and planning how best to draw them to its waiting mouth. ‘Should Marshall fail to deliver Joe Hunter’s head, then I expect you to give me his. We understand each other, no?’

  ‘Marshall won’t fail.’

  Molina slapped the pilot seat, ordering the man to get going. As the helicopter rose into the night sky, he nodded once at Regis. ‘Let us hope that’s the case. Failure demands heavy compensation.’

  Regis neglected to answer.

  Yet he was thinking hard.

  CIA masterplan or not, there was no way he would allow the jumped-up little greaseball to take his head. His gun was primed and ready for the moment that Molina’s bloodlust got the better of him. He surreptitiously checked out the bodyguards, but neither man was paying attention to the English conversation, though they’d have to be idiots not to pick up on the undertones. Regis knew that the bodyguards were ex-Special Forces, but he was certain that he could draw, shoot them, and get their boss all in under two seconds. The pilots would be no problem. With a gun to the pilot’s nape, they’d take him anywhere he demanded.

  No. It wouldn’t come to that, he decided.

  He had been tasked with pandering to Molina’s wishes to gain the man’s trust and he’d do his utmost to give the man what he desired. If that meant handing him Marshall’s head, then so be it. His own head was something else.

  Regis worked under the auspices of an Agency divisional director, Thomas Caspar, who was more than equal in rank to Walter Hayes Conrad, and who could, if Regis requested, override Conrad’s part in this mission. It was not unknown for different departments of the CIA to work counterproductively on similar problems. You only had to look at Osama Bin Laden, fêted on the one hand, and hunted on the other by separate parties within the same agency. It was obviously the same here, where Caspar saw Molina as a valuable asset, while Conrad – whose brief was to upset the movement of human traffic across borders – saw him as a stumbling block to be removed. Though Regis could not understand why Conrad had dispatched his pet mercenaries to steal Molina’s son. Where was the value in such an operation, except maybe to cause Molina some inconvenience while trying to get Benjamin back?

  He could contact Caspar if necessary; have him order Conrad to hand over the child. But he doubted that Molina would be satisfied with such an arrangement. The burning hunger in the man’s face had nothing to do with getting his son back; it was all about punishing those who had the temerity to take something from him. Molina would pursue the thieves with equal determination if they had lifted a trinket from his bedside cabinet, or a single peso from his wallet. Molina was – after all – the man who planned to murder his own father, Felix Eugenio Molina, before the old dodderer lost all credibility with the other cartel bosses, and they moved in to take away what should rightfully be bequeathed to him. He could not do something as obvious as chopping off Felix’s head, which Regis suspected was Molina’s preferred method; instead he had been slowly poisoning him with doctored medication. Now he was intent on finishing off the old man with a massive overdose, and looked forward to dancing at his funeral.

  ‘There is always an alternative to this problem,’ said Regis.

  ‘There is no alternative. I want Joe Hunter dead. I want Kirstie-fucking-Long dead. I want everyone that aids them dead.’

  ‘Why not allow them all safe passage to the US, then take the boy when they least expect it? They will feel safer across the border, and less likely to put up a concerted defence.’

  ‘I relish the fight, Regis. Don’t you see that?’ Molina glanced at his bodyguards, who turned away. ‘I must show my competitors what will happen to them if they ever dare move against me, or what belongs to me. There is no fearing a “concerted defence”. I will batter every defence down, and I will take their heads, and it will be on this side of the goddamn border.’

  Regis held up his palms in surrender. Good luck, he thought. He’d witnessed Joe Hunter and friends in action and suspected that Molina was relishing a fight he might just regret. Molina feared losing face, but actually he should fear losing his head.

  Chapter 32

  Back in Depression-era America, men in search of work frequently travelled the tracks, hopping on and off trains, sleeping in stock carts alongside the other hobos making the same journey. I’d watched old black and white movies depicting those travellers, thought how
hard life was back then and somewhat admired the lengths to which desperate men would go to find paying work. Our presence on the back of the freight train wasn’t for such a noble cause, but Rink and I were equally desperate. The train was the only available mode of transport that could outrun the convoy of vehicles that dogged our trail all the way to Imuris.

  In those old movies, the hobos took whatever opportunity they could to leave the moving train, because they could not allow themselves to be found aboard by station guards who’d first beat them, then throw them in jail on vagrancy charges. Usually they were depicted leaping from fast-moving trains into discreetly placed haystacks or rivers to cushion their fall. We didn’t expect or receive such luxury. When we jumped it was on to sun-baked soil as resilient as concrete. The impact in both my heels was redirected all the way up to the crown of my head, despite my effort to tuck and roll, and for a few minutes afterwards I worried that I’d lost a full inch in height. Moving was painful, but I concentrated on the faces I conjured in my mind’s eye and they helped push me forward. Kirstie and Benjamin were relying on me, and I’d be no help to them lying down and complaining about my myriad hurts. Rink seemed unaffected, but then he had that samurai resolve to fall back on. He could be cringing inside, yet his face was set in Zen-like tranquillity. Mine was twisted in a grimace, as I made my way through the alphabet consigning a curse to each letter, and only struggling when it came to ‘Z’.

  Imuris was a small town in comparison with Hermosillo, or even Magdalena, and we were fortunate to arrive before Molina’s cavalcade of footsoldiers. There were enough of them to have encircled the place and denied us a way in. But time was an issue, they’d be arriving shortly, and best that we were on our way before they did.

  We required a reliable vehicle, because the next leg of our journey was through the mountains, some at high elevation, where the least we would need was a working heater. Although hot during the day, it was barely above freezing at night, and I’d not thawed out from my precarious train journey. Most of my aches and pains would be alleviated if I wasn’t so chilled. It didn’t help that my clothing was ripped, full of tiny glass shards and spotted with dried blood that felt like cardboard against my flesh. All added to the continued misery.