Takeoff

by Reid, Joseph

  “So, what’s the best tactic to deal with them?”

  All humor drained from Peña’s face, and his eyes locked on mine. “Get the fuck out of their way. You say you’ve had a couple of run-ins already? Consider yourself lucky and steer clear, man. Let them do what they’re gonna do, ’cause they’ve got plenty of men, they’re well equipped, and they got years and years of pent-up anger and frustration, all just dying to spill out.”

  I glanced down at my half-eaten bowl of cereal, but my appetite had disappeared.

  “Whatcha thinkin’, amigo?” asked Grayson.

  I looked up at my friend, and his eyes said he was nervous, even if I wasn’t. I shrugged. “Max is just a kid. I’ve been at this almost a week, and I still have no clue why they’re trying to kill her. The FBI’s been zero help—”

  Grayson turned to Peña. “If these Mayan guys are such a force, how come the Feebs are sayin’ they never heard of ’em?”

  Peña raised his eyebrows. “Dunno why they’re saying that. But I know they know about the Second Guerrilla Army. I’ve sat in task-force meetings with our friends out on Justice Way where we talked about nothing but these guys. In fact, the running theory is that their leader, a dude named Petén, has moved north and is calling the shots from up here.”

  “Payton?” I asked.

  “Pronounced ‘peh-TEN.’ It’s the name of a Maya-heavy region in northern Guatemala. We figure that’s where he’s from. Nobody knows much about him. Some say he’s a Braveheart-type man of the people who just got fed up and started leading. Others figure he’s former military or something, the way he’s gotten them organized. The folks we’ve dragged in who do business with Petén—not the soldiers, they love him; I’m talking about the dealers, the street runners—they’re all scared shitless of him. Guy can be brutal.”

  Grayson turned and gave me a wary look.

  I shrugged again.

  “Running and hiding’s really not an option here?” he asked.

  “I’d love to, but where could I take the girl that’ll be safe? They already shot up my house, ambushed us twice.” I looked to Peña for support. “You make it sound like they won’t stop coming.”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “All right, then,” I said. “Guess it’s off to Austin.”

  After some small talk and a cup of coffee, Peña checked his watch and announced he needed to head for his shift.

  When I thanked him, he nearly broke my hand again.

  “You need a ride?” Peña asked Grayson.

  Grayson nodded. “Meet you outside.”

  Peña excused himself and headed back out the sliding doors at the front of the lobby.

  Once he was gone, I turned to find Grayson staring at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You know what.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I know how you are when you get a bee in your bonnet,” he said. “You got the same stupid, stubborn look in your eye right now that you did when you were trying to convince me that Berkeley woman was a killer.”

  I smiled. “And I was right.”

  “This ain’t funny.” The tone in Grayson’s voice wiped the feigned confidence from my face. He lifted the handle of his cane above the surface of the table and nodded at it. “You saw what one badass woman could do. Now you wanna take on an army? C’mon, Walker. Use that big ol’ brain of yours.”

  “Jim, I’ve got a sick sixteen-year-old girl on my hands that they’re trying to kill. What am I supposed to do, hand her over to them?”

  “No.” Grayson rapped his cane on the floor. “That’s not the only other choice here. Look”—he leaned in toward me, speaking more softly—“the FBI knows something’s up. They’ve got something cooking behind the scenes. Gotta be. Why else would they play all coy with you? So find some nice bunker to hide in, and don’t stick your head out till after the shooting stops.”

  “I’d love to sit this one out, believe me. But you weren’t there. You didn’t see these guys, the way they butchered the FBI at the airport . . .”

  Grayson took a deep breath, then released it through his nose slowly before leaning back in his seat. “What’s your next move?”

  “Austin’s her hometown. I’m thinking the head of her record label could be in with the Second Guerrillas. Plus, her nanny tipped the gang off to our route. That means she’s involved, or they’re using her.”

  Grayson directed his gaze down to the tabletop and nodded. “When’re you leavin’?”

  “Soon as you and I are done, I’ll head back and scrape her out of bed.”

  We sat at the table silently for several moments.

  Finally, he said, “Guess I better go. Mindy’ll kill me if I miss rehab while she’s gone.” He started pressing himself up over the top of the cane.

  I rose as well. We both stood there a moment, staring at each other. “Thanks for the help,” I said. “And the car. I’ll talk to you soon?”

  Grayson nodded. He gave me another hug, less enthusiastic this time, then slowly cane-rolled his way out the door.

  CHAPTER 16

  After returning to the crash pad, getting on the road proved more difficult than I’d expected.

  I straightened up the house as best I could, then went to wake Max. Even after I had her up, though, Max’s skin remained ashen and clammy, her eyes half-closed. She didn’t answer any of my questions—in fact, she seemed delirious. Her muscles trembled as I worked to pull clothes onto her, and then I supported nearly her entire weight as we walked to the car.

  Getting her buckled into the little sedan was even harder. Just when I thought I had her settled into the tilted-back passenger seat, she squirmed and fought against my free arm, spilling out onto the sidewalk in a heap. As she struggled, she kept slurring “Gotta get away,” so it sounded like one word.

  “Sh,” I whispered in her ear. “We’re going home today. To Austin. But you’ve got to get in the car.”

  Max made a noise in her throat that sounded like an angry cat and shook her shoulders, but in her weakened condition, it was only half-hearted. I finally lifted her in, belted her, and locked the passenger door before closing it.

  By that point, I was drenched in sweat.

  Thankfully, the drive to Austin was far less eventful. After some construction delays around Dallas, the freeway cleared up outside the city, and I switched on cruise control. That left me freer to monitor vehicles around us. I paid particular attention to trucks; mostly we encountered tractor trailers, crawling along in the slow lane. While passing one of those, though, a black SUV zipped up behind us, causing my hands to tense up on the wheel. But as soon as I cleared the truck and merged back right, the SUV gunned its engine and passed us in the fast lane.

  Although I’d heard Austin referred to as being part of Texas’s “hill country,” the scenery remained fairly constant as we progressed southward: broad, flat, grassy plains alternated with thick stands of trees. The sky was a darker shade of blue than it had been in the desert; the clouds, still white, were thicker and more purposeful. Above it all, the sun loomed brilliant and blazing, seemingly unwilling to leave its perch at the top of the sky.

  As signs indicated Austin was approaching, I considered where exactly to go first. If Max had her way, we’d head straight for her house to try to find Marta, although now I had to wonder whether that was motivated by love, withdrawal, or something else. Regardless, though, it struck me as dangerous. We had no idea what Marta’s situation was, and if the Second Guerrillas were watching anyplace for Max, it’d be her home. Plus, if Garcia heard we’d reached town, he might get spooked and run.

  The safer move, it seemed to me—the move they’d suspect least—was to check Garcia out first thing.

  While finding the website for Garcia’s record company on the burner was easy, it didn’t include a street address. Internet searches got me nowhere. As much as I hated to bother her, and as unsure as I was whether she could actually help, I c
alled Max’s name.

  After several tries, she finally stirred.

  “Max, I need you. Can you stay awake for a little bit? Can you answer a question?”

  She nodded loosely, her head swaying from side to side.

  “Charlie Garcia. Where do we find him? Where’s Otra Records?”

  “South . . . east,” she said, in almost a whisper. She mumbled out what sounded like a street name. I took a chance and plugged it into the burner, and a dot appeared near the airport. Expanding the map, State Highway 130 branched off just north of Georgetown and then tracked along Austin’s eastern side. That seemed just about perfect.

  And, merging onto it several minutes later, it was. Newly paved construction, and nearly empty, even with rush hour approaching.

  I glanced over and saw that Max’s complexion had turned greenish, and I worried about a repeat of last night. “We’re getting there, Max. You recognize all this? You’re almost home.”

  Although I wasn’t sure what she could see from her reclining position, Max seemed to try to smile, but all her muscles could manage was to turn up the corners of her mouth. Even that seemed forced.

  While she remained conscious, I needed to keep her talking, get her mind working. “You glad to be coming home?”

  She grunted softly.

  “Think your dad will be here?”

  Her eyes snapped toward me, the most purposeful movement I’d seen her make in hours. “No,” she said. “Not him.”

  “I’m sure he’s worried about you—”

  “No!” Max pulled her legs up so her face was nearly buried in her knees. She was shivering.

  “You know, you’ve told me about Charlie, and all the things Nancy Irvine did. But you’ve never told me why you hate your father so much.”

  Doubled up as she was, her answer came out as a mumble. “Everything.”

  “Seems like he’s helped you with your career.”

  “Stop. Stop!” Her head shook violently.

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” Like the problem of her possible addiction, Max’s relationship with her father was something I needed to nail down, but I could tell now wasn’t the time. Heck, in her state, she hardly knew what she was saying.

  I didn’t have much time to worry about Max’s feelings. Signs quickly began announcing the airport exit, and I took it.

  As we traversed the ramp, the terminal loomed to our left. Seeing planes moving around the tarmac left me feeling slightly hollow, but I didn’t dwell on it: the road forked almost immediately, and soon I turned right to head to east Austin.

  We crossed the Colorado River—looking much more like a small creek—on a high concrete bridge. After clearing a series of freeway overpasses and underpasses, we found ourselves on a broad but plain-looking street. Unlike all the new concrete and stone that had adorned Highway 130, here the asphalt bore long, jagged scars where cracks had been sealed over with tar. The buildings were low-slung and industrial, the billboards and signs in Spanish as often as English.

  Following the map, I made a few turns and, tucked back behind a series of small clapboard houses, found Otra Records. A sign with the name written in narrow cursive letters stood at the foot of a gravel driveway cut through a grassy field. The building it led to looked like a warehouse from this distance, with a corrugated roof above ribbed metal walls painted a dull yellow.

  The parking lot was empty other than two large pickup trucks, one shiny white, one faded blue. As we started slowly crunching across the gravel toward them, I said Max’s name. “Hey, look up for a second, I need you.”

  With a groan, she sat up in the seat.

  “Is one of those trucks Garcia’s?”

  She peered over the dash before flopping back down. “White one.”

  Once she said it, it made perfect sense. The truck looked brand new—a big crew-cab model, with a wide bed, tinted windows, and shiny chrome accents. The plate read OTRA.

  “So he should be inside. Did you recognize that other truck next to it?”

  She nodded weakly. “Bruce. Sound tech.”

  Although both trucks were parked at the entrance, I circled the building counterclockwise, stopping along its left-hand side, pulling forward just enough that I could monitor the front door. “You think Bruce will leave at five?” If so, it’d be worth the ten-minute wait.

  Max shook her head. “Could be . . . all night.” Although she mumbled, her voice cracked as if her throat were rough and dry.

  I glanced around and checked the mirrors. The sun still hung midway in the sky, a long way from setting. There was no foot traffic, and the row of houses blocked the view of most cars on the street.

  After a moment considering it, I unclipped my seat belt. “We’ve got to go in before Garcia realizes we’re here. But I can’t cover two guys and carry you. Are you gonna be able to stand and walk?”

  Max nodded the same way a drunk tells you he can drive.

  I opened the door to the sedan, slid out onto my feet, and switched off the earpiece. The adrenaline was pumping now, and I could feel my senses sharpening. The only steady noise here was the high-pitched hum of traffic up on 35. Although the heat still squeezed my skin as it had in Dallas, it didn’t dominate the air the same way here; the scent of cut grass filled my nose.

  Shutting the sedan door as quietly as I could, I stalked around the back to the passenger’s side, trying not to crunch the gravel too much as I walked. Max had gotten her door open, but hadn’t made it out yet. I helped her, then watched to see how steady she’d be. After a slight wobble, her legs seemed okay, and I turned to lead us inside. “Stay close, stay behind me,” I said.

  A security camera protruded from the corner of the building, pointing back toward the entrance. A quick glance confirmed a matching one on the opposite corner. I kept us tight against the front wall, hoping that might help a little, but, truth was, if Garcia were watching, he’d have already spotted us.

  I just had to hope he was busy.

  A small awning stretched over the ramp and glass doors. I paused at the side of it, stretching to peek inside.

  All I could see was an empty reception desk.

  Stepping to the door, I opened it, and one of those electronic chimes sounded—ding-dong.

  With a wince, I darted in and drew the Sig, letting Max slip behind me. The only other doorway led to the left, and I covered it in case the chime had attracted attention.

  When no one appeared after a few moments and my breathing remained the only sound, I started in.

  The door led almost immediately to a darkened switchback, sending us along what I guessed was the wall behind reception. The silence continued, while the hair on my arms detected a steady breeze of air-conditioning blowing past us. As we crept ahead, a reddish glow emanated from the entrance to a hallway, farther down on the left.

  Drawing up against that wall, I peered around the corner.

  Both sides of the hallway were lined with evenly spaced doors. Each was closed, with a light bulb mounted above its frame. Only one bulb was lit: the next-to-the-last one on the right.

  With the Sig at high ready, I crossed the hallway and pressed myself against the opposite wall, sidestepping down to the illuminated door. There were no windows into the room, no telling exactly who or how many were inside.

  I gave Max a signal to stop where she was on the wall next to me.

  Holding the Sig by its barrel in my left hand, I tried the knob with my right.

  It spun freely.

  As quietly as I could, I turned it all the way to one side, then pushed the door inward, just enough that the latch would clear the frame. Then I slowly returned the knob to its starting position.

  I glanced over at Max, but she wore a blank, uncaring expression. I couldn’t understand that—the hair on my neck was standing on end, and not from the air-conditioning. Reminding myself what the gang had done so far, I raised the Sig, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open with my foot.

  At the opposi
te end of the room, two men sat in rolling chairs, their backs to the door. Both wore heavy headphones over their ears, not unlike the cans I used to wear back in the sound lab, and faced a giant dashboard of sound controls mounted below a window into a darkened recording booth. Although the two men were about equal height, that’s where the similarities ended. The one on my left was bald and heavy, a gray sweat-stained T-shirt straining to hold back a roll of fat that desperately wanted to spill over the arms of his chair. The guy on my right had a dark, tightly woven ponytail trailing down to his shoulder blades, and wore a leather vest over a white tee that showed off muscular arms.

  I started into the room, tracking along the rear wall. I kept the Sig trained on the muscular one, stopping once I was directly between them. “Turn around, both of you.”

  The ponytailed man bobbed his head slightly, but otherwise, nothing happened.

  Realizing they couldn’t hear anything over the cans, I lifted the barrel of the Sig and put a single shot through the middle of the sound-booth window.

  Most soundproof glass is made by sandwiching two sheets of regular glass around a layer of soft, sticky lamination. The laminate acts as a shock absorber, dampening the vibrations of sound waves hitting one sheet of glass and keeping them from shaking the glass on the opposite side. Much like a car windshield, the laminate also holds the glass together when it breaks.

  That’s why, although the bullet I fired was traveling at about fourteen hundred feet per second, it didn’t shatter the window. It did, however, leave a nice, tennis ball–size hole surrounded by a spiderweb of cracks. That, plus the muzzle blast, got their attention: .357 Sig rounds are extra loud.

  Both men recoiled instinctively at the noise, then spun around. The confusion and terror on the fat man’s face when he saw the Sig’s barrel made me smile slightly. The ponytailed guy looked nervous, too, but mixed with another expression I wasn’t sure I recognized.