She stared at him with resentment. He was the devil she knew, so she nodded her agreement. “I’m Caitlyn.”
He attempted it. “Kate-Lan.”
She didn’t bother to correct his pronunciation. “I’ve already searched this place up and down. There’s nothing to use as a weapon, and no way out, other than the door.”
“What about this?” he asked, indicating the morphine.
“It’s administered intravenously. I can’t stab someone in the muscle and expect it to work. Besides, they don’t come in.”
He studied the heavy wooden door. It was rock solid. There was no lock to pick, and slamming against it would get them nowhere. He didn’t think there were any cameras or listening devices installed, but he lowered his voice. “You can lure the boy inside and I’ll overpower him.”
“How am I going to lure him inside?”
He gave her a brief inspection. She was pretty enough, even tired and unwashed. She had breasts. Too pale for his taste, but she was okay. The problem wasn’t her, it was their target. Domingo was young and green. He’d probably run the other way when propositioned by a mature woman. “You could ask him for something special, like soap and a change of clothes.”
“He’ll put it through the slot.”
“Then ask him to let you out to take a bath. I’ll pretend to sleep. As soon as he opens the door, I’ll grab him and put the needle to his neck.” He picked up one of the covered syringes and placed it against his jugular to demonstrate.
She recoiled in horror. “I don’t want to help you hurt anyone.”
He dropped his hand, frustrated. “What do you suggest? Asking nicely to be released?”
“Isn’t that what you just did?”
His irritation mounted. He didn’t like the fact that she’d heard him beg. His mind flashed back to a memory of her begging him not to take her anywhere. He didn’t like that, either. He tossed aside the syringe and smothered the image of her tearful face. Then he put his conscience in a chokehold, applying pressure until there was nothing left.
Chapter 8
It was one of the most stressful, uncomfortable nights of Ian’s life.
And he’d had a lot of bad nights.
Sleepless nights in that rathole apartment during his undercover assignment, waiting for some crackheads to bust in and rob him. Exhausting nights on the line, rucking a heavy pack and tracking movement with infrared. Terrified nights in his bedroom closet, praying his mother’s friends wouldn’t find him.
He didn’t know how the other passengers did it. They seemed so relaxed and nonchalant about being on top of a massive, deadly piece of machinery. Some were sleeping. The guy across from him had secured his belt to the metal grate and started snoring.
Maria was silent beside him. She’d learned that their riding companions were from Guatemala. They spoke very little Spanish and no English, but they were all better prepared for the trip than Ian and Maria. Most had jackets of some kind or several layers of shirts. One man had wrapped himself in a burlap blanket and a square of tarp. They had food and water. They passed around bits of jerky and chatted among themselves, laughing quietly in the dark.
Ian didn’t appreciate their good humor, or the fact that they’d seemed amused by his near fall. They thought he was a stupid American, riding the train for kicks. He’d been ridiculed by Latino boys throughout his childhood, so he was familiar with their macho attitudes. They hadn’t respected him until he’d learned to fight.
By the time he’d reached high school, he was quick to throw a punch and fluent in Spanish. Then he got into trouble with the same boys for chatting up their sisters and girlfriends.
The Guatemalans hadn’t bothered them or acted threatening in any way. A few of them snuck glances at Maria, but they were just looking. They wouldn’t make a move on her with Ian there. Even though they outnumbered him eleven to one, and they were strong men, this country wasn’t their turf.
They were the illegal immigrants in Mexico, subject to beatings and deportations by officials. They were targets for roving gangs. Ian had heard that bandits from MS-13 roamed the train stops. They forced passengers to pay a travel fee, or flat-out robbed them. They terrorized women.
Men like that would do more than look at Maria. Ian had a Sig 9mm in his pack that he wasn’t supposed to use. His current status as a temporary attaché didn’t give him the full power of an international law officer, and U.S. agents weren’t allowed to carry weapons on Mexican soil anyway. That was just a technicality, but he didn’t want to draw his gun. He wasn’t eager to get into a gunfight on top of a moving train.
Gunfights were not fun. Gunshot wounds were no picnic, either. He shifted his injured leg again, searching for a position that eased the ache. Maria was shivering, so he put his arm around her to share body heat. The temperature dropped as they gained elevation, clacking through a fog-shrouded forest. As the tallest man on the railcar, perhaps the tallest passenger on all the railcars, he was the most vulnerable to taking a wallop from an overhanging branch.
When the men in the front called out a warning, Maria gripped his arm and he ducked his head. The branch seemed to appear out of nowhere, passing close enough to ruffle his hair. His skin broke out in goosebumps.
After that, he hunched his shoulders and stayed low. He didn’t get hit by foreign objects or robbed by gang members, but in the wee hours of the morning, it started to rain.
Of course it did.
Everyone had a tarp or plastic trash bags to shield them from the elements. The man next to Ian and Maria scooted closer, offering his shelter. It was a nice gesture that Ian didn’t want to accept, but Maria nodded cheerfully. Then Ian had to rub shoulders with a stranger who smelled like wet wool and achiote.
Dawn broke and the rain slowed to a drizzle. They traveled through a series of small towns before arriving at the next cargo station in San Juan del Río. There were no customs officials waiting to arrest them, but the passengers climbed down in a hurry. It had been a long ride with no bathroom. Ian descended the ladder and followed Maria into the woods on the other side of the tracks. She squatted behind a bush. He unzipped his pants and watered the tree right next to her.
It wasn’t dignified, but it was better than pissing over the side of a moving train. When he was finished, he shook off and tucked in. She tugged her pants up, cheeks flushed. He realized that this might be their last moment alone together. Instead of a romantic memory, he’d have this to remember her by. An awkward pee in the woods.
His phone rang in his pocket, interrupting that thought. It was LaGuardia.
“Where the fuck are you?”
“San Juan del Río.”
“Really? That’s convenient.”
“How so?”
“We just learned that Sarai has a relative on her mother’s side named Anita Flores. She lives in that town, and supposedly arranges trips to the U.S. for a hefty fee.”
“What’s the address?”
“I’ll text it to you. Why are you there, anyway?”
“The train passed by, so I climbed aboard.”
LaGuardia made a noise of disbelief, as if Ian was even crazier than he’d figured. But he didn’t criticize, because Ian happened to be in the right place at the right time. LaGuardia hung up and sent the address, along with instructions to check out the residence.
Proceed with caution.
Ian glanced at Maria. Despite the sleepless night, she was wearing that bright-eyed, hopeful expression. She wanted to stay with him.
He rubbed a hand over his face. Train-hopping with her wasn’t the professional disaster he’d expected, but that didn’t mean he could recruit her as his sidekick. He was on a career-defining mission. He was struggling to get his life back on track. Disobeying direct orders had ended his career with the DEA. It wouldn’t win him any job offers in ICE.
The man who’d shared his tarp with them walked by, so Ian reached into his pocket. “Oye,” he said, handing him a twenty. “Gracias, e
h?”
The man frowned and shook his head.
“Take it,” Ian said.
The man rattled off something in his native tongue that neither Maria nor Ian understood. Then he accepted the money—in exchange for his tarp. Ian didn’t want it. He tried to tell the man to keep it, but Maria shushed him.
“What?” Ian asked, after the man left. “I don’t need a tarp.”
“It’s rude to offer money for a simple kindness.”
“Ah.”
“Would you accept payment for helping someone in need?”
He wouldn’t, no. But he wasn’t in dire straits, like that Guatemalan refugee. Instead of arguing this point, he fell silent. There were cultural differences to consider. She knew these people and their customs better than he did.
The passengers walked around the cargo station and dispersed into smaller groups. Many gathered outside a nearby building with the Cruz Roja emblem. There was some kind of soup kitchen inside, with Mexican charity workers ready to feed the hungry. He didn’t see anyone who fit the description of Sarai. The vast majority of train-hoppers were young men. Ian and Maria continued down the block to a bus stop.
“We can take the bus to el centro,” Maria said.
“I’ll have to leave you there.”
Her mouth pursed with displeasure. “Then go. I’ll stay and look for my brother.”
There were dozens of passengers lined up for a hot meal, and hundreds more in the general area. Ian would rather escort her to the transit station and see her off safely, but he knew she’d refuse. He entertained a brief fantasy of using the handcuffs in his pack to drag her away. She was a stubborn woman, as headstrong as she was beautiful. Too bad he couldn’t wrestle her into submission. “If you don’t find him, you’ll get on the bus?”
“Yes.”
He gave her the folded tarp, along with some cash from his pocket and a card with his cellphone number. “Call to let me know you’re okay.”
Her eyes filled with tears as she accepted the items. He didn’t know what else to say. His chest felt tight and his throat was scratchy. She wore her heart on her sleeve. His was buried a little deeper, but no less affected.
He couldn’t promise her that he’d come back anytime soon. If LaGuardia offered him a permanent position with ICE, he could be sent anywhere around the world. And Ian still had to deal with the fallout from the shooting at the Hotel del Oro. He hadn’t waited for backup and an innocent woman had been killed. The DEA would conduct its own investigation. There was a chance he’d be charged with misconduct or negligence.
He wanted to tell Maria that his feelings for her wouldn’t change no matter what happened. Together or apart, it made no difference. He’d been hooked on her from the moment they’d met. She’d be on his mind every day, and in his dreams every night.
The bus arrived before he could voice these foolish thoughts. She kissed his cheek, rubbing her thumb over the spot as if she’d left a mark there. He forced himself to climb aboard before he did something stupid, like beg her to run away with him.
The trip to the bus station was short and uneventful. He grabbed a quick breakfast at a convenience store and flagged down a taxi. He drank his coffee as they navigated through rush hour traffic. When they finally arrived at the address he’d given, he paid the fare and asked the driver to wait for him.
Anita Flores lived on the third floor of an apartment building in a busy neighborhood. As Ian climbed the metal stairway, the hairs on the nape of his neck prickled with awareness. The door to Flores’s apartment was ajar. It appeared to have been kicked in.
Shit.
He drew his weapon and stood by the doorway, listening for intruders. The only sound was the blood rushing in his ears. He stepped inside, looking left and right. Papers and personal belongings were strewn about. There was a very plump woman facedown on the carpet. A telephone cord was wrapped so tightly around her neck that it had broken the skin. After he checked the other rooms, he returned to her side and knelt down for a closer inspection.
She was stone-cold dead.
He went back outside and waved the cab driver away. Then he called LaGuardia with an emergency update. LaGuardia’s secretary put him right through. “I’ve got a DB, female, late forties.”
“Anita Flores?”
“That’s my guess.”
“ETD?”
“I don’t know. Hours.”
“Method?”
“Strangulation.”
“Is anyone else there with you?”
“Just this sweetheart on the floor.”
“Take some photos and get the fuck out of there. We need to avoid local law enforcement.”
Ian didn’t argue with that order, although he assumed it went against protocol. The Mexican police might be on the cartel payroll, and he was on his own, hundreds of miles from the ICE field office in Mexico City. He couldn’t count on any support from LaGuardia if he ran into trouble. There had been almost no communication between them so far.
Ian got the feeling that LaGuardia was keeping him in the dark about something. Maybe he knew Ian had been traveling with Maria.
Gut churning, he ended the call.
LaGuardia didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust LaGuardia. No one trusted the Mexican cops.
This was shaping up to be a tip-top mission.
Ian snapped a few pictures of the body on the floor and did a quick search for evidence. Flores’s desk was littered with what appeared to be falsified documents. There was a half-finished passport on the surface for a female, age eighteen, named Sayra Torres. No photo was attached. He wondered if Sarai had been here, waiting for this fake passport, when the killers broke in. The place didn’t appear to have been ransacked. There was an open window with a fire escape on the other side. He stuck his head out to inspect the space.
Nothing.
Nothing but a whisper of intuition, and Maria’s assertion that the girl was clever. Maybe Sarai was small and spry enough to slip away, undetected. He considered climbing out for a closer look, but decided against it. Just looking at the fire escape made his leg hurt. His instincts told him to get moving. He strode toward the door and paused at the entrance.
Someone was coming up the stairs. Two someones, in black federales uniforms.
Fuck.
He ducked back inside, his heart racing. Despite LaGuardia’s warning, he hadn’t expected a police response so quickly. No ambulance or wailing sirens accompanied their arrival. There was no indication that Flores’s neighbors had called for help. Perhaps these federales were here to clean up the scene, not investigate the murder.
Now the fire escape was Ian’s only option. He scrambled out the open window and climbed down the ladder. It groaned beneath his weight, threatening to collapse with every step. The rungs were placed too close together for a man his size, and his injury added to the challenge.
About halfway down, his foot slipped.
He managed to hang on, but the extra yank caused the metal ladder to break free from the landing. And that was all she wrote. The ladder careened backward wildly. He let go midair and landed in an awkward sprawl on his stomach. Air rushed from his lungs and pain ripped through his leg. The ladder clattered to the ground next to him.
It took him a moment to draw breath. While he was facedown, gasping like a fish out of water, he noticed a little silver pendant by his palm. He closed his hand around it, rolled over, and looked up. One of the federales was on the fire escape, pointing down at him.
Shit.
Ian was too rattled to move. He thought about drawing his weapon, but didn’t.
That hesitation might have saved his life. Because the cop didn’t draw on him, either. He didn’t even keep an eye on him. An experienced officer would have watched Ian until his partner reached the ground level. This guy went back inside, shouting for help.
Ian took advantage of the rookie mistake and lumbered to his feet. He couldn’t run. The best he could do was limp away at a fast cli
p, so that’s what he did. His wound throbbed like a son of a bitch, but he ignored it. He reached the end of the building and continued across the street. It was a struggle to maintain his balance. When he glanced over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of two black uniforms.
Damn. They were already gaining on him.
He rounded the corner, stumbled into a parking lot, and almost got hit by a truck. The driver cursed at him in Spanish. Ian tapped his fist on the hood.
“I need a ride,” he panted. “I have money.”
The man gestured for him to get in. Ian jumped into the passenger seat a few seconds before the federales entered the parking lot. He lowered his head and hoped for the best. His fate was in the driver’s hands now. To his relief, the man seemed unconcerned or unaware of the police presence. He stepped on the gas and kept going. His radio was blasting mariachi music. If there were any orders to stop, Ian didn’t hear them. He stayed hunched over for several more minutes, sweating profusely.
“¿Adónde vas?” the driver asked.
Ian straightened to glance behind them. He didn’t see anyone following.
Holy shit. That was close. He unclenched his fist and stared at the object in his palm. It was a piece of hammered silver, shaped into a butterfly. Ian fished a twenty out of his pocket and asked the driver to take him to the cargo station. The man gave him a strange look, but he accepted the money and drove on. Ian’s next step was to contact LaGuardia. His battery was low, so he sent a text message.
Almost got intercepted by FP at the scene. Need to talk.
This situation had gone completely off the rails. Ian felt isolated, uninformed, and unprotected. Although San Juan del Río was a large enough city to hide in, he had no connections or resources here. He stood out from the crowd.
Ten minutes later, Ian had reached his destination. And his text remained unanswered.
Chapter 9
Maria spent the next few hours searching for her brother.
The passengers had spread out over a large area along the tracks. Some had eaten breakfast or sought medical attention at the Cruz Roja building. Others had stocked up on water or other supplies. Many were sleeping in the shade.
Off the Rails Page 7