“Yes, but she is worried about her father dying. I told her he was badly hurt.”
Sarai was Ian’s only link to Villarreal, and she was on the move. She might be heading to a safe house or prearranged rendezvous point. Villarreal was the kind of man who would plan for trouble. Ian sent another text to LaGuardia, mentioning the camp.
LaGuardia offered a terse response: Check it out.
He put his phone away, pleased with the response. “What did the letter say?”
“Armando’s letter? I don’t know.”
“You didn’t read it?”
“No.”
He shook his head in disbelief. Of course she hadn’t read it. That would have been impolite. “The letter might have included some instructions or the name of a trusted contact.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because I saw her face when she read it. She looked sad and lost. If anything, he told her not to leave the school.”
“And yet, she did the opposite.”
She shrugged. “This is the way of teenagers, no?”
He pondered that for a moment. He hadn’t been a rebellious teen, probably because his mother hadn’t been a responsible parent. Her addiction had prevented him from having a typical childhood. “Was it your way?”
“No. I was eighteen when I left, and I did not sneak out como un ladrón.”
Like a thief.
“What was your impression of Armando’s daughter?”
“She’s small and pretty. Not like him. But she has his eyes.”
“Dark?”
“Calculating. I think she was hiding something.”
Ian drummed his fingertips against the table. They were all hiding something. Ian hadn’t told his boss that he’d brought Maria to Taxco. LaGuardia didn’t need to know every little detail. He was busy coordinating a clandestine manhunt in Tijuana.
“I will go with you to the camp,” Maria said. “I know her face.”
Once again, Ian hesitated to accept her offer. He was already on dangerous ground with her, enjoying her company more than he should. But taking her home would eat up the rest of his day. He could drop her off at the bus station and say adios forever, or he could let her come along. She was more likely to spot Sarai in the crowd. Maria was also a useful asset in general. She was bright and inquisitive, even disarming. People enjoyed talking to her.
LaGuardia had told him not to touch her, and Ian planned to follow that order. Her beauty and charm were heady temptations, but he wasn’t a horny teenager. He could control himself. He’d overcome tougher obstacles than unsatisfied lust.
“Okay,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll take you.”
It was one afternoon. How hard could it be to keep his hands off her?
She smiled and used her straw to spear a chunk of cantaloupe from the bottom of her drink. Then she brought it to her lips for a juicy bite.
Very hard, he decided. It would be very hard.
He didn’t think she was trying to be suggestive, even with her mouth shaped like that. She was naturally sensual and expressive, unabashed in her pleasure. That was the way she’d been in bed too. Innocent, but so damned responsive.
“Why do you want to help me?” he asked.
“You, or Sarai?”
“Me.”
The night they’d shared hung between them like a heavy weight. She’d rejected his marriage offer, which was probably wise. But she’d also left without saying goodbye. “You lost your job.”
“You feel sorry for me?”
Her brows rose at his bold question. “No, Ian. Sorry is not what I feel for you.” She finished the cantaloupe, chewing thoughtfully. “I feel sorry for the trouble I cause. Not sorry for you. Not sorry for what we did.”
He willed his thundering heart to slow. “That can’t happen again.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Qué lástima.”
What a shame.
He was too wound up to laugh at her glib response. Too enthralled by the idea that she might want him as much as he wanted her. It seemed impossible. But maybe she felt what he felt, an all-consuming fire that ignited every time their eyes connected.
Tearing his gaze away, he tossed some bills on the table and rose to his feet. She followed him out to his rental car. He opened the passenger door for her, determined to stay aloof. He had to treat her like a colleague, not a woman he’d been obsessed with for four years. He couldn’t have intimate conversations with her or imagine his hands on her exquisite body.
The camp was about ten miles away, at the edge of a densely wooded area on the outskirts of town. Maria gave him directions. He drove down a series of dirt roads until they came to a bridge that had been washed away by a recent flood.
“We’ll have to walk from here,” she said.
“How far is it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”
He checked the map on his phone, which showed the train route but no station. “Where does the train stop?”
“It doesn’t,” she said. “It just slows down around the curve.”
His GPS app might give him an idea of the distance. Instead of fooling around with it, he shoved the phone into his pocket and gathered his backpack. He didn’t care how far it was. He was stiff from sitting so many hours on the plane and in the car.
They crossed the creek over a fallen log and continued for another mile. His injured thigh ached off and on, but it felt good to work the sore muscle. Soon the dirt road narrowed into a muddy footpath. Discarded clothing and random bits of trash littered the area. Anything that couldn’t be worn or easily carried was left behind.
“When will the train come?” he asked.
“Anytime, day or night. They vary the schedule to discourage freight-hoppers. I’ve heard that the trains go faster now, for the same reason.”
As they reached a clearing, a telltale puff of smoke appeared at the top of the trees and a rhythmic clacking rumbled over the ground. His breath caught in his throat. The train was already here.
He started running, though his wounded thigh ached in protest. There were makeshift shelters set up along the edge of the clearing, plywood shacks and lean-tos covered with tarp. Large groups of people had gathered by the tracks. Before he’d made it halfway across the clearing, the train was pushing through the trees, and passengers were scrambling aboard.
He couldn’t believe there were so many people climbing up at once. They raced along the tracks, dangerously close to the spinning wheels. Metal ladders offered a handhold and a way to the surface. Freight-hoppers piled onto the top of the railcars and sat at the precarious edge.
Ian stopped short of the tracks, gaping at the train’s immensity. It appeared much larger and faster at close range. He scanned the passengers for Sarai, but it was impossible to tell if she was among them. The only way to look for her was to climb aboard. He watched a boy jump on the ladder with an old man. They didn’t have any trouble. It was dangerous, but doable.
Even so, he hesitated to follow. These people were desperate, hungry, and out of options. He wasn’t. The poverty he’d grown up in was nothing like this. There was a difference between trailer-park poor and third-world poor, and he was looking at it.
He also didn’t want to put Maria’s life at risk. The last time he’d gone off the rails, an innocent woman had been killed. Sonia Barreras’s death weighed heavily on him. He couldn’t allow a civilian to get hurt on his watch, ever again.
Maria gripped his arm to gain his attention. “If you want to get on, we have to go now!”
He shook his head, but she wasn’t deterred. She released his arm and started jogging alongside the tracks. Before he could shout at her to stop, she grabbed the next ladder and swung up. Her slim legs dangled in space for one chilling moment. Then she ascended.
Fuck.
He rushed to catch up with her, his mind reeling. What other choice did he have? He
couldn’t let her go alone, unprotected. His feet moved in step with the train, boots thudding along with his racing heart. As he leapt for the ladder, his wounded leg buckled and almost gave out on him. He smothered a cry of pain and regained his balance. He managed to avoid the crushing wheels, but it was a close thing. His hands found the rungs and he pulled himself up, arms shaking.
He made it. Just barely.
Chapter 6
Maria gripped the slippery rungs and looked over her shoulder for Ian.
He was running along the tracks, coming after her. She held on tight and prayed for his safety. It wasn’t easy to leap aboard a moving train, especially when it was starting to regain speed, but most healthy adults could manage.
Accidents happened, of course. Strong men tripped and fell. Able-bodied youngsters slipped off ladders. People got jostled and shoved aside in the mad rush. Some tumbled onto the tracks. Others were accosted by roving gangs of train robbers. She didn’t know which tragedy had befallen her father. There were no witnesses on these routes, just weary travelers and ruthless scavengers.
Ian was quick and lean, with the sculpted physique of a marathon runner, so she didn’t think he’d have any trouble. She was wrong. He faltered at the last second, as if his ankle had twisted. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered his gunshot wound.
Oh no. How could she have forgotten he was injured?
She’d been distracted on the way here by his handsome face and tall, broad-shouldered build. He’d been walking at a brisk pace, without a misstep or a single complaint. If anything, he’d seemed to enjoy the exercise. He’d looked muy sexy, like a rugged outdoorsman.
When he recovered his balance and climbed up, she rested her face against the rungs, relieved. Then she scrambled over the top of the railcar to give him room. The surface was covered with flat metal grates. There were only about a dozen men aboard, so it wasn’t crowded yet. She found an open space near the ladder and waited for Ian to join her.
Ian ascended slowly, knuckles white with tension. His face was pale. When she reached out and tried to help him, he scowled in annoyance. She shrank back, heart racing.
The other men atop the railcar chuckled at this exchange. They thought Ian was a clueless thrill seeker or an amateur reporter, spoiled by luxury and in over his head. Most of the passengers who rode La Bestia were Central American. They were hard as nails, and tended to be very macho, like Mexicans. They respected physical strength and bravado.
That was one of the reasons she’d felt so compelled to climb aboard. She’d seen a boy in the crowd, and she knew then that her brother wouldn’t hesitate to jump on the train. Hugo had too much pride to let a ten-year-old kid outdo him. He’d risk his neck, but he wouldn’t risk ridicule. He wouldn’t return to Mezcala a coward, too scared to ride the rails.
Young men were fools. All of them.
Ian pulled himself up, dragging his left leg. His pants had a dark stain above the knee. When the other passengers saw that he was injured, not weak, their amusement faded into disinterest. They’d seen worse. They had no pity for a rich American who’d decided to take this journey for fun, or to tell a story. This was life and death for them.
Maria studied Ian as he settled in beside her. He was clearly in pain, but he didn’t seem to want her help. He had his own streak of machismo.
“I’m sorry,” she said, touching his knee. “I wasn’t thinking.”
His eyes darkened at her apology, as if it irritated him further.
She dropped her gaze to his wounded thigh. The bloodstain on his pants was about the size of her palm. “Do you have any bandages?”
He shrugged out of his backpack and rifled through it for a large square bandage. She held it for him while he unbuttoned his fly with one hand. He reached down his pant leg and removed the old bandage, which was soaked with blood. He tossed it over the side of the train. Then he slapped on the new bandage, holding it in place.
“How are the stitches?”
“They’re okay.”
She doubted the doctor had expected him to be this active. He needed to rest and recuperate, not train-hop across Mexico.
“Can I do anything?”
He deliberated for a moment. “There’s an ACE bandage in my pack. It’s elastic.”
She rummaged around and found a roll of stretchy beige fabric. It would keep the other bandage from slipping off and give his thigh extra support. He tried to take it from her, but she held tight. She was the reason he’d reinjured himself. The least she could do was help him with first aid.
“Let me,” she said. “It’s safer.”
He couldn’t argue that. They were on a moving train, untethered. Letting go with both hands was risky. If they stopped suddenly, he could tumble over the edge. So could she, but his larger body made a better anchor. He could hold onto her and the train at the same time.
Wrapping his thigh required more room, so he shoved his pants down a few inches. Then he gripped her waistband to keep her in place. They were sitting side by side, close enough to kiss. She could feel his thumb against her lower back, almost grazing the cleft of her buttocks. Their eyes met for a split second. He was breathing hard. There was something scary about the way he looked at her, but she liked it. She liked the effect she had on him. She knew he felt the same desire she did. She sensed it every time they were together.
Flustered by his proximity, she focused on the bandage in her hands. She rolled it around his thigh and tried to ignore his state of undress. It wasn’t easy. His cotton boxer shorts cupped his manhood, outlining the soft bulge. She was curious about his body, though she’d seen and touched him before. She hadn’t seen or touched him in an unaroused state. She wondered how it would feel to stroke him to hardness. His thigh muscle twitched beneath her fingertips as she wrapped the bandage higher. He avoided her gaze, his jaw tense. When her elbow bumped his male parts, he made a strangled sound.
She went still. “Did I hurt you?”
He shook his head. She secured the bandage quickly, her face flaming. He released her waistband and buttoned his fly with a wry grimace. She glanced at the other passengers. There were eleven men and one other woman, besides her. They spoke among themselves in a Guatemalan dialect.
She perched beside Ian, fingers threaded through the metal grate, and watched the world pass by. Her father had told her that overhanging branches could knock passengers off the train. They had to be careful to stay low and keep watch, even at night. Another danger was falling asleep. It seemed impossible to drift off on a sharp metal bed rushing through space, but the rocking motion of the train was sort of hypnotic.
“I thought you wanted to board the train,” she said. He’d run toward it, after all.
“I was considering it, but I’d decided not to endanger you.”
She studied the railcars ahead of them, feeling guilty. There was no one nearby who looked anything like Sarai. Or Hugo, for that matter. About three cars down, the huddled figures became unrecognizable. She moved her gaze back to Ian and met his flat stare. He knew something was wrong. She had to tell him about Hugo before they went any further.
“I think my brother is on this train,” she said in a small voice.
His brow furrowed in confusion. “Why?”
“He ran away two days ago. I found out the night I arrived. He planned to take the train to Tijuana and join me in San Diego.”
“So you’re here to find him. Not to help me, or Sarai.”
She moistened her lips, anxious. He’d always been gentle with her, but right now he looked furious. “I’m here for all of those reasons.”
He squinted into the distance. When his eyes sought hers again, they were cold and hard. She preferred the hot anger she’d seen in them a moment ago. This was scarier, devoid of emotion. “What’s your relationship with Armando Villarreal?”
She flinched as if he’d struck her. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Assume you’d lie about him too?”
; “There’s nothing between us.”
“Except a big fucking favor.”
She didn’t know how to convince him of her innocence. They’d fallen into a tense bilingual conversation in which she spoke Spanish and he responded in English. It was the easiest, most efficient way for them to communicate. But it felt fractured now, like their connection. “He saved my life,” she said, tears clogging her throat.
“Why do you think he did that? Just to be nice?”
She opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it.
“He wanted to fuck you.”
“No.”
“Come on, Maria. You’re naive, but you’re not that naive. I spent the night with you, so I know. I remember how hot you were—”
“Cállate, cabrón,” she said from between clenched teeth.
He examined her face, which felt like fire. “He’s a drug smuggler. A cartel assassin. Men like that don’t rescue beautiful young women for nothing.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Did you save me for the same reason? For fucking?” She said it in English, because she wanted it to sound ugly.
“Yes.”
She didn’t believe him. He’d saved her because he was a good person, and he cared about her. But his harsh words stung, even if they weren’t true. He had the power to hurt her deeply—and she had the same power over him. She’d hurt him with her deception. That was why he was lashing out at her. He was suspicious of her for professional reasons, angry with her for personal ones. She’d left his bed to fulfill a promise to Armando. Men didn’t get over such things easily. She needed to backtrack a few steps and regain his trust.
“My father rode this train,” she said.
Ian looked away, not responding.
She followed his gaze to the blur of trees against the sunset. “He would travel from that camp all the way to Nogales. Then he’d cross the border and find work in the fields. He’d be gone for months, sometimes years. We never knew when he’d come back.” She snuck another glance at Ian, who appeared indifferent. “He was supposed to return for Hugo’s seventh birthday. We had a cake and a piñata and decorations. Bienvenido and Feliz Cumpleaños all rolled up in one.”
Off the Rails Page 5