by Rob Sangster
“Nothing. Okay, only a few scratches and bruises. I took a fall climbing around on the ridge. It was worth going up there, though, because I figured out what Montana’s doing, at least some of it.” After another swallow, he told her about the oil tanks and the injection wells in the grove near the plant. “Unfortunately, I stepped on a branch. The workmen started yelling, and one of them saw me, close enough to describe me. Then a guard popped up and fired AK-47 bursts my way. I had to pick a little mesquite shrapnel out of my hair. No big deal.” Yeah, right. And yet he felt a rush of excitement as he recalled those moments.
“So Montana will know it was you.”
“Remember in Mexico City when he said he could find me anywhere? I figure he had a tail on me from the beginning. As soon as he heard I was flying to El Paso he knew I hadn’t given up, even though the PROFEPA charges were thrown out. That’s why he posted extra guards. Here’s the thing. As soon as the setup in the grove is finished, Montana will drain the tanks down the wells. That’s going to be within a couple of days. I took samples from several of the tanks. They’re in the car. I’ll have them analyzed and find out from my friend George McDonald how much damage Montana will cause when he starts dumping into the wells.”
“I need to stop you right there,” she said, looking pensive. “Maybe I should turn this whole thing over to Sinclair.”
“That’s a dead end. Here’s how that would go. You tell Sinclair you’re not sure what’s in the tanks and you’re guessing what Montana intends to do with the stuff. At that point he orders you to stay away from his client.” She didn’t look convinced, so he said, “Listen, if McDonald says there’s no big problem, I’ll write memos to PROFEPA and Sinclair, tell them everything I know and suspect, and let them do their legal dance. But McDonald is going to say there is a potential disaster. I know it.”
From under the brim of the Stetson, he checked out the other diners. One man sitting at a table with three other men caught his eye and quickly looked away. A middle-aged man just walking in looked half-familiar. Maybe after hearing what happened on the ridge, Montana had staked out Debra at the Rialto. If they’d followed her cab, Montana already knew they were inside Casa Lupo. Then he remembered the two cars that had passed her cab on the otherwise deserted street. He was getting a very bad feeling, all his senses ramping up. This wasn’t paranoia. This was a bad scenario in real life.
“I’m going to the bar to pay, then we’re getting out of here.” He tried not to let his voice give away the urgency he felt. He didn’t want to spook her.
When he got back to the table, a muscular truck driver-type was leaning over Debra, red face thrust only inches from hers. Jack looked down at the stocky intruder with a look that said, “This is over.” The guy straightened, scowled, and rolled his shoulders like he was loosening up. He looked Jack in the eyes but, after a couple of seconds, shrugged and walked back to a table across the room.
“If that guy had leaned just one inch closer to me,” Debra said, “I was going to turn his right knee into mush.”
Jack couldn’t help it. He grinned. “I’ll remember that. Right now we’re going to El Paso International Airport, and you’re getting on a flight to San Francisco.”
“Like hell I am. You need my help here.” She looked more pugnacious than the departed truck-driver. “I’ll tell you again, Cowboy, I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, and I was on the boxing team in college, but we’re both way out of our weight class here. And we’re not safe in this place. Let’s go.”
He led her to the door, pushed it open, and stepped onto the dimly lighted street.
Chapter 32
July 6
11:15 p.m.
CARLOS GARZA HAD been an assassin-for-rent half his life and had nothing to show for it.
Only $750 U.S. for this job. That sucked. He’d tried to get double for taking on a rush-rush order, but the man said he’d find somebody else. And he could. Competition forced Carlos to work cheap.
He glanced at the “Casa Lu o” neon sign a block and a half down the street. He loved lying in wait, even in a filthy alley like this one, to ambush a target. The man who’d hired him said to watch for a tall guy, black hair, blue eyes, probably the only gringo leaving the restaurant. He said the man’s name was Strider, like Carlos might give a shit about that. They were all the same to him. There would be a woman too, with long black hair, but he hadn’t bothered with her name.
A couple came out of Casa Lupo and walked fast in his direction. The guy looked pretty fit, but Carlos didn’t give a damn. He stroked his fat gut. It had fooled quite a few people, made them overconfident. Years in prison had made him tougher, and lifting weights had made him stronger, than any target. Besides, no one was faster than his pig sticker.
He didn’t need Vincenzo and Raul for this one, but the man had said to bring help, take no chances. He just hoped they weren’t too wasted on the crack they’d done in the van. He’d seen Vincenzo go crazy on one job when he was flying high, sticking a guy over and over long after he was dead, screaming at him to fight back. Raul didn’t get that bad, but sometimes he let his dick make stupid decisions.
Carlos squinted down the street. With the restaurant lights behind him, and the man’s Stetson pulled down, Carlos couldn‘t see the face at all, couldn’t even be sure he was a gringo. But he was tall and had a black-haired woman with him. That was enough. He’d been ordered to make this look like a crack-head street robbery, so he could keep the wallet except for the ID that would prove he had wasted the right man.
The stingy bastard was giving him only half-pay for doing the woman. He’d take her with them to the old Calderon Building and fuck her before he did her. Raul would love that.
Back pressed against the brick wall, he whispered over his shoulder, “They’re coming.”
Raul pushed forward to take a look. “Hey, Carlos, that chick looks bad, man. This goin’ to be some good shit.” He cackled softly.
“Shut up. Vincenzo, you and me take the gringo. I’ll front him.”
He liked to kill from behind before his target even knew he was in trouble. This time, to be sure this was the right guy, he had to see his face. No point doing the work then finding out it was some other bum.
“You take the back. Give him plenty of room so he don’t get around you if he tries to run.” It pissed him off to have to chase some dude down the street. “You hear me, man?”
Vincenzo’s glassy eyes looked dead. “Shit, yeah, man. This ain’t nothin’.”
“Raul, you get the woman. Keep her quiet. We’ll take her with us after.” He felt loose. It was time. “Vincenzo, vámonos.”
Vincenzo strolled out of the alley toward Casa Lupo, paying no attention to the couple across the street walking in his direction. He turned his face away as they passed, continuing farther before angling across the street behind them as if heading for dinner at Casa Lupo.
When Vincenzo was in place behind the couple, Carlos edged out of the shadows and crossed to the opposite sidewalk, arriving about thirty paces in front of them. When they noticed him, he gave the man a half-wave and a smile. They slowed, but kept walking. Good, I won’t have to run him down. Then the man put his hand on the woman’s forearm and whispered something. They both looked back at Vincenzo standing still on their side of the street. They stopped. Shit, they know something’s up. He immediately gave them his full gold-filled smile and called, “Perdón, conocen donde esta un medico? A doctor?”
The man answered, “No conocemos. We’re tourists,” and he pointed back to the restaurant, taking another look at Vincenzo.
Same old shit. He didn’t need a doctor, and they weren’t tourists. He was within a few feet now and able to see the man’s face. A gringo, for sure. Black hair. Too dark to tell if his eyes were blue, but he had the woman with him. He was the target all right. Ca
rlos slipped his right hand behind his back, fingers closing around the grip of the eight-inch double-edged blade in the sheath on his belt. He’d step forward fast, swinging the knife in an arc to slash the target’s face. From the front, he always started that way. It hurt like hell and poured blood. While the target was screaming and clawing at his face, Carlos followed with a stick straight into the heart.
But Strider seemed to expect the knife and blocked Carlos’ swing with his forearm. Out of the corner of his left eye, Carlos saw only the blur of Strider’s fist before terrible pain exploded on the left side of his face. The knife flew from his grip. He knuckled blood out of his eye, stumbling backward to get out of range. Suddenly, a kick in the back of his right knee buckled his leg. A second later, an elbow slammed into his neck. Shit! The goddamn bitch was on him too.
“Behind you,” Strider shouted to Debra.
Carlos saw Raul sling her off her feet and into the barred door of a pawnshop. He got an arm around her chest. His hand clamped over her mouth.
Carlos blocked Strider’s hook with both arms, but a fist hammered into the left side of his face. Get the son-of-a-bitch on the ground. Crush him. Driving forward, fists high to protect his battered head, he threw his weight into the man’s chest, carrying them to the pavement. He was on top, but the gringo’s arms wrapped around him in a bear hug.
A head butt in the face would do it, but the fucker kept jerking his head side-to-side. If he could get a hand free, he’d grab a fistful of hair and smash the guy’s head into the pavement. Last time out he’d done that and snuffed the target with one blow.
Raul’s shriek of pain told him the woman had gotten loose and turned on him. He couldn’t believe this was happening. With a bellow he broke his arms free. Again the gringo was too fast, hacking him in the throat with his elbow, knocking his head back. Desperate, he threw himself backward, rolled, and saw his knife next to him. He scooped it up.
He glanced toward the pawnshop. Raul rolled on the ground, arms wrapped around his head, knees pulled up to protect his nuts. The woman swarmed around him, kicking him as hard as she could.
The gringo was still down, vulnerable. Carlos moved in, weaving the blade back and forth through the air. The move was meant to be hypnotic, but Strider wasn’t watching the blade. He was looking straight into Carlos’s eyes. Suddenly, Strider rolled on one side. His leg slashed out, knocking Carlos’s legs from under him. He landed hard on his right elbow. Pain shot up his arm, but he got his knife between them as they both struggled to their feet. Carlos lunged in, swinging right to left. The blade was so sharp it barely slowed as it sliced across the front of Strider’s jacket.
“You’re mine now, you shit.”
Before he could swing again, Strider moved in fast and got a grip on his right wrist, forcing the knife to one side. Jabs like sledgehammer blows made blood spurt from his nose. By brute force, he jerked his knife-hand out of Strider’s grip and backed off.
The madman was about to come at him again, but Vincenzo got there on the run, shouting as he stuck Strider in the lower back. Carlos heard the blade hit bone.
“Ahhhh!” Strider cried out.
Yeah, Vincenzo always went in waist high. As the gringo pitched forward, Carlos unloaded a short uppercut that snapped Strider’s head back. He landed hard and didn’t move. Vincenzo straddled him, knife raised to strike down like slicing open a sack of wheat.
The woman leaped away from Raul and screamed. She swung her leg like she was kicking a field goal. Her shoe drove into Vincenzo’s crotch so hard it lifted him off the ground. As he jackknifed forward, the woman’s knee caught him squarely under the jaw. Carlos heard teeth splinter and then a whack as Vincenzo’s head hit the asphalt. Jesus, he’d never seen any woman fight like that.
While she was still focused on Vincenzo, Raul clubbed her on the back of the neck with both hands. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the pavement. Raul kicked her weakly in the thigh and whined, “Fuckin’ puta tried to kill me.”
The high-pitched sound in the back of Carlos’s consciousness got louder. Hoo-wah, hoo-wah, hoo-wah. It was the damn policia. Hoo-wah, hoo-wah, hoo-wah. They were close.
“Vámonos,” he called to the other two.
Vincenzo, barely able to get to his feet, limped back into the alley cupping his balls in one hand and holding his other hand across his mouth. Raul dragged the woman to her feet and painfully slung her across his shoulder. She was dead weight, head bobbing.
“This bitch owes me big time.” He followed Vincenzo, staggering under the woman’s weight.
Hoo-wah, hoo-wah, hoo-wah. Even closer. If the cops turned onto this street and saw him standing over a dead man he was cooked. He wanted to run, but he needed the ID to get his money so he ripped the wallet out of Strider’s rear pocket. Sirens shrieking in his ears, he ran into the alley after the other two.
The man had said the gringo would be a pushover. Shit! Vincenzo was so busted up he’d scream for a bigger split of the money. What a fucked up deal.
But at least he had the woman.
Chapter 33
July 7
12:30 a.m.
HOO-WAH, HOO-wah, hoo-wah.
Jack’s eyes popped open. For several seconds he was totally disoriented, lying in a heap on the asphalt. His jaw throbbed, and his back ached like hell. He felt along his jawbone and ran his tongue around his teeth. Nothing broken. As the siren’s wail diminished, he gingerly pushed himself up until he was on his hands and knees, then on his feet. He staggered when a sharp pain pierced his right ribs.
The three punks were gone. He looked around for Debra. Oh God, they have her! He looked down the street toward the restaurant and then in the other direction. The street was empty. He had to do something.
From the alley behind him came a distant scream—cut off abruptly. He ran into the alley. No way into the buildings on either side. Had they turned into the next street or crossed into the alley on the other side? He pressed his forehead hard. Damn, his head hurt. He had to get this right. Kidnapping a woman, they’d stay in the alleys.
He came to a door on his right, but the trash in front of it was undisturbed. The next door was padlocked. There, to his left, a door with no lock. He looked up. Shattered upper windows. Abandoned. A thug’s hideout. He slowly pulled the handle and entered a long, empty storeroom.
To his right, inside a glass-fronted office, one of the attackers sat in a chair, legs spread wide in front of him, whimpering, hand covering his mouth. The big man Jack had fought sat on the edge of the desk, clapping a steady beat. Both men had their backs to him, and Jack edged closer to the glass.
Debra was on her back on the floor. The smallest of the three men was on top of her trying to pry her legs apart, his trousers and underwear around one ankle. He ripped open her shirt. One breast came out of her bra. She tried to knee him, but he had her pinned.
Jack looked around for something to use as a weapon. Nothing. He flung the office door open and exploded across the room, driving his shoulder into the man on top of Debra, knocking him into shelves that collapsed, dumping dozens of cans on him. Jack hauled the man’s head back and pounded his neck, knocking him senseless. Jack threw him to one side and saw a man lurch out of the room, holding his crotch, eager to escape.
The man with the fat gut lunged away from the desk and came at Jack with a knife held low in his right hand. Jack ripped a broken shelf post loose and brought it down like an ax on the man’s right shoulder. He yelled, and his arm dropped. The knife clattered to the floor. Jack was on him, beating his head with both fists, driving him to the floor, landing on top of him. With an agonized roar, the man under him landed a roundhouse hook on Jack’s kidney. He felt the thud of the blow, but his rage blocked the pain. He threw his full weight into an uppercut to the man’s jaw, snapping his head back.
Then Debr
a was beside him. “Stop. Stop it, Jack. He’s done.” Hands still tied behind her back, her eyes pleaded with him to stop. He looked down at the unmoving hulk sprawled on his back, arms spread wide.
He pulled Debra’s bra back into place and freed her hands. She collapsed against his chest with a groan, arms hanging at her sides.
The punk who’d tried to rape her hadn’t moved, and Jack heard no sounds from the storeroom. They were safe, at least for the moment.
“He stabbed you in the back,” she said. “I thought you were dead.”
“I feel a burning back there, but I wasn’t stabbed.”
She slipped her arms around his waist to feel for herself. “There’s a slash in your jacket. Turn around so I can see.”
He turned and felt her lift his shirt.
“I can’t believe this. He did stab you but it didn’t penetrate. You owe your life to ‘Fort Worth.’”
“What?”
“That’s what’s spelled out in brass rivets on the back of your belt. His blade hit the “H” so hard it popped off. The knife tip must have skipped across your ribs at an angle.” When he turned back, she gave him a weak smile. “God, that was close.”
The crease in his ribs stung, but knowing it wasn’t serious made him feel better. He asked, “How did you get away from that guy who grabbed you from behind?”
“I flipped him over my shoulder and played hacky-sack with his head.”
“The last thing I saw, he was rolled up like an armadillo. I’ve never seen feet move as fast as yours.”
“When you went down, I came to help, but one of them whacked me from behind so hard I passed out.” She held out her hand. It was trembling. “In two minutes, I pumped more adrenaline than in a whole karate tournament.”
“You saved my life.”
“We’re even. Out there on the street I didn’t have time to be afraid. But when they got me in here on the floor, I was terrified. They were really pissed. If you hadn’t found me when you did . . .”