“Ten-six, ten-eighty, ten-eighty-five,” she said, keying the mike. Tapia’s eyes narrowed, but he made no move to take the mike. She handed it back to him, Maybe it was a grimace, perhaps a grin, but he shrugged philosophically.
“So now they know,” he said.
“Now they know.”
She watched as he shifted the pistol and lowered the hammer. She took a breath, relieved that the threat had been reduced, seven or eight pounds now required to snap the double-action trigger. For a long time, he rode in silence, one hand holding the Beretta, the other arm crossed in front of him, hand grasping the molded assist handle on the windshield post.
“Is Hector well?” he said after a moment.
“Why is that important?” She regarded him with interest. “How is your nephew somehow worth more than the three Salvadorans you left dead in the desert? Or more than Mr. Hansen, whom my deputy says you killed without an instant’s negotiation? Or my deputy, whose hip you ruined?”
“I had no choice with your deputy, señora. I did only what I had to do for self-preservation. He fights like the lion. You can be proud.”
“Anyone fights for his life, señor. And that is exactly what your nephew is doing. Hector will tell us what we need to know.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. Then you do not know the boy. He may steal your heart, but beyond that, my son is like the tempered steel. And he is so eager to learn.”
Estelle looked across at Tapia sharply. “Your son?”
The assassin ducked his head in self-deprecation, and let his left hand slide down his leg. He leaned forward, the Beretta still focused on Estelle, and lightly touched his ankle. “Ah. My wits are not as sharp as they should be. I tell you more than you need to know. But yes.” He straightened up and sat back, pulling himself upright in the seat, taking the weight off his leg. “Hector is my son. And I cannot simply leave him now. I am amused that he referred to me as merely an uncle. Clever.”
He reached for the microphone, and as if his touch had triggered the signal, Sheriff Robert Torrez’s quiet voice floated from the speaker.
“Three-ten, three-oh-eight.”
Tapia looked quizzically at Estelle.
“Now what?” she asked, and he frowned, his eyes going hard. He rapped her smartly on the forearm with the silencer, and she flinched.
“Who is this?”
“That would be the sheriff,” she replied. She gripped the steering wheel hard, flexing the fingers of her right hand, feeling the deep ache of the bruise.
“Reply to him,” Tapia said, once more handing her the mike. “He must keep his distance.”
“Three-oh-eight, three-ten, go ahead.”
“Ten-twenty?”
Estelle hesitated. There was a certain safety in keeping Tapia isolated out in the desert. The killer leaned toward her, obviously making his own decision. “Give it to me.” She did so, and he palmed the mike expertly, as if he’d had considerable experience. “You must have children?” he asked Estelle, not yet keying the mike.
“That is no concern of yours.”
“If one of them is threatened, imagine how you would feel, you see,” he said. “If someone were holding your son, you would do anything you could to see his release. You know that.”
“My son is not a killer. He doesn’t steal airplanes and cross international borders. He doesn’t chauffeur professional hit men.”
Tapia laughed. “¡Caramba! Such fire,” he said, and lifted the microphone. “But he is still my son. Now, what is the sheriff’s name?”
“Robert Torrez.”
“He is the person who can make decisions?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Señor Torrez, can you hear me?”
“Go ahead.” The sheriff’s tone was guarded.
“Good. This is what you must do.” Tapia released the transmit button for a second as he collected his thoughts. As he broke in, Torrez’s tone was blunt and unequivocal.
“Ten-twenty-one. Three-oh-eight out.”
Tapia looked across at Estelle quizzically. “He wants you to use the phone,” she said. “You have mine in your pocket.” He fished the small phone out and opened it. “Press auto-dial, then eight,” she instructed. He did so, and in a moment the connection went through.
“Señor Torrez? Are you there?” Estelle could not hear Torrez’s reply, but she knew it would be monosyllabic. “What I want is very simple. I have your delightful undersheriff with me.” He glanced at Estelle again. “And you have my son, Hector. There is nothing more simple, no?” The sheriff said something cryptic, and Estelle found herself straining to hear his voice. “So,” Tapia said. “I don’t think you understand. Perhaps you can imagine that someday a hiker might find the bleached bones of your undersheriff somewhere in the Mexican desert. No? You care so much about keeping my son that you would allow that to happen? I don’t think so.”
Tapia listened briefly, tapping the muzzle of the silencer on his thigh.
“This is what you will do,” he interrupted. “Now listen to me. You are familiar with the small private strip, I’m sure. The one owned by the gas company? I believe you already have had some business there. So. You will leave the boy standing by himself on the east end of that runway, right by the dirt road that passes by. You will leave him there, and clear the area. If I see anyone as we approach, anyone at all, that will close the agreement. You know what will happen. When we have picked up the boy unharmed, and are well away, I will release your undersheriff unharmed. But only then.”
He listened for a moment, a slight smile touching the corners of his mouth. “There is high country to be used, I know,” he said. “By both you and I. But I hope you will be intelligent in this, señor.” Torrez said something, to which Tapia merely shrugged. “As we are both aware, there are innocent bystanders, Sheriff. You will allow this bicycle race to continue…There is no reason for any of them to become involved.”
He’s going to fly. Estelle slowed the SUV to negotiate another dry wash, her mind racing ahead. Of course the assassin planned to fly out of Posadas County. He could not cross the border at the Regál crossing—there were too many agents, too many cops swarming. A single vehicle was too easily stopped. He could wind his way east beyond the village of María and find a remote spot, but that route was too easily blocked, too. He’d be traveling with a crowd of officers at his heels, awaiting the opportunity for a well-placed shot.
“That way,” Tapia said, pointing again. He kept them heading roughly north, taking the trails that eventually would bring them out on the state highway just west of the Posadas Municipal Airport—and a selection of airplanes.
“You will free my son immediately,” Tapia said into the phone, “and proceed to the spot that I described.” His features brightened as a thought occurred to him. “I’m sure that in the next few minutes you can find two things: a convertible automobile and your wonderful county manager. She…” And he turned to Estelle. “Her name?”
“You don’t need her,” Estelle said.
“Ah, but I do. Her name? It is merely a courtesy. She will be in no danger. You have my word.”
“Leona.”
He nodded and once more spoke into the phone. “The señora Leona,” he said. “She will drive the convertible. Only she with my son as a passenger in the front seat. Is that quite clear?” He looked at his watch. “It is now one fourteen, Sheriff. I will pick up my son at two o’clock. That gives us both sufficient time to get there.”
Apparently Torrez protested, because Tapia said, “Oh, yes it is. I’m sure you can move efficiently.” He snapped the phone closed and dropped it in his pocket. “So,” he said, as if waiting for Estelle to voice her thoughts. When she said nothing, he asked, “Your sheriff. He is a creative man? I suppose we shall see.”
“You don’t really want your son back, do you?”
He looked at her in surprise. “But of course I want my son returned to me.�
�
“Then why all the theatrics? You know that what you ask is not possible in forty-five minutes.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “By now, they know exactly where this county manager is, yes? They have a helicopter in the vicinity. They can pluck her away, return to the village, and by then, your sheriff—who must surely know everyone in this small community—will have secured a convertible automobile. And then they drive that automobile to our rendezvous.”
“It’s a thirty-minute drive,” Estelle pointed out.
“Ah. Then I hope they waste no time.” He laughed. “But no one drives the speed limit these days.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Estelle heard the helicopter before she saw it, and although she was sure that Tapia also heard it, he showed no reaction. For a few minutes, it paced them from behind, out of sight. Then, it drifted off to the right, paralleling them. Once, when it sounded as if it were descending dangerously close, Estelle ducked down and caught a glimpse of it. The garishly painted flanks announced Channel 8 FirstNews.
“So, we have an audience now,” Tapia said finally. “This is unfortunate, I suppose. Perhaps your sheriff is having trouble making up his mind.”
Not likely, Estelle thought, and almost added aloud, but he doesn’t do well with ultimatums. And now that they were pinpointed by airborne observers, she hoped that the sheriff both had gained an advantage and would put it to good use. At that moment, Estelle supposed, Channel 8’s big zoom lens was focused tightly on the dust-covered Expedition, hoping for a good profile shot of Tapia in the passenger seat. If they were lucky, they might even win a network feed. The narrator of America’s Wildest Cop Chases would have to figure out how to make a dirty SUV, lurching along on desert two-tracks, exciting for viewers.
The radio crackled.
“Three-ten, chopper eight ETA a minute or so.” Gayle’s voice was steady, and the television station’s Jet Ranger banked sharply away from them, angling back toward the original crime scene.
“Ah, you see?” Tapia said, and flinched as a slight change in position shot agony up his leg. “Now, go.” The two-track flattened out, and far ahead she could see the flat black line of the state highway and, to the east, the low buildings of the airport. If they could stall long enough, one of the Border Patrol’s Blackhawk helicopters might be brought within striking range, but the Mexican counterparts certainly were not a factor. Manolo Tapia knew as clearly as she did that although he might be paced by ten dozen officers and half a dozen helicopters on the north side of the border, once across that imaginary line etched in the desert, he was a free man.
“Tell me something of yourself,” Tapia said conversationally, as if they were engaged in a leisurely Sunday drive.
Estelle ignored the request and slowed the SUV to avoid a wash of rocks that a careless road grader operator had left when he pulled his blade out of the bar-ditch cut. For a moment, she considered a sudden swerve, crashing the truck’s suspension into the rocks. The outcome of that was unattractive any way she looked at it.
“You have young children,” Tapia persisted. “What…two? Three?” When she didn’t answer, he reached across with the gun and once more aimed a quick, hard rap at her right forearm. Estelle saw the black barrel coming and more out of reflex than anything else, intercepted the blow with her left hand, grabbing the weapon by the silencer and twisting up and away as hard as she could. Tapia was caught off-guard. As she saw his weight jar forward, she stomped the brake pedal and yanked the steering wheel with her shackled hand.
The SUV swerved right, surging over a hump just before its front wheels plunged down in the bar ditch. Estelle ignored where the vehicle was headed, concentrating instead on twisting the pistol with all her strength. As the truck crashed down into the ditch, she floored the accelerator, the tires spraying dirt and rocks.
Tapia cursed and with astonishing strength lashed out in two directions at once. He yanked his right hand away from her, so hard that the front sight of the Beretta raked a trough across the palm of her hand. Chopping with his left at the same time, he struck Estelle with the back of his fist, the blow smacking her in front of her right ear.
The SUV burst through a thick grove of creosote bush and with the gas pedal still mashed to the floor, began a long, almost lazy power slide to the left. As skilled as a rodeo rider on a plunging bronc, Tapia grabbed the back of Estelle’s neck, using her as support as he drove his good leg against the firewall.
“Stop,” he commanded. His hand clamped her head, and he pulled her toward him, tight against her shoulder harness. The gun’s suppressor dug into her cheek. “You will stop.” Still spraying rocks, the SUV vaulted back over the bar ditch, crossed the two-track once again, and slid to a halt, its front wheels cocked sideways in the prairie gravel.
For a moment their harsh breathing was the only sound other than the idling engine. Tapia did not release his hold, and his viselike grip forced Estelle’s head toward the side window. He was smart enough to know that, alone in the desert without Estelle as a shield, he would be easy prey. Slowly, Estelle lifted her left hand in apparent surrender. Blood trickled down her wrist.
“You must be smarter than this,” Tapia said. The pressure on her neck increased, and Estelle panted, trying to keep her vision clear, waiting for the cervical vertebrae to pop. For emphasis, he jerked his hand sideways, smacking her skull against the glass. “Now go. There is nothing to be gained by your heroics.” He touched her forearm with the gun again, this time gently. “Only much to be lost. Now go.”
“Hit me again and we’ll both be without a vehicle,” Estelle whispered through clenched teeth.
“Spectacular,” Tapia said with good humor. He released her neck, the powerful clamp becoming a caress with his fingertips that ran up the back of her skull to the top of her head, a gentle touch that a patient parent might use on a child—or one lover to another.
She guided the truck back onto the two-track. The blood from her hand was a sticky mess on the steering wheel, but she ignored it. Tapia pulled away, and now sat well away from her, his back against the door. “You have not answered my question,” he said pleasantly, as if they hadn’t struggled, as if he had not struck her, as if her neck would not carry the bruises of his grip. “You have children, no?”
“I will not discuss my life with you,” Estelle whispered through clenched teeth.
He regarded her with interest. A quarter mile ahead, where State Highway 78 cut its swath across the prairie, she saw two State Police cruisers parked along the shoulder of the highway. If Tapia saw them, he didn’t react.
“You must care for them,” he said instead. “The children. I can see that you do.”
“Do you now,” she replied coldly.
He actually chuckled. “You must put this all into perspective. What is done is done. The three? Four? They are nothing to you. What do you gain by putting your family at risk for them?”
“My family is not at risk.” She glared at him. “They will not be at risk.”
“Ah, but you see,” Tapia said, “they expect you to come home this evening, ¿verdad? You can assure that will happen, at this very moment you can assure it, by your cooperation. That is what I am saying.” He tapped the muzzle of the silencer on the dashboard, the gun aimed ahead at the police cars that could so easily block their path.
“What do you want?” Even as she spoke, she saw the wink of lights coming from the east as yet another cruiser, this time one of the county’s own, headed west on the state highway to intersect their route.
“Make sure the airport gateway is open,” he said, and picked up the radio mike and draped it over her arm once again. This time, his touch was feather-soft.
She took the mike, and for just a moment she held it, the transmit button untouched. Every law enforcement officer in the county—and surrounding counties—would know by now exactly where she and Tapia were. That Tapia had allowed County Manager Leona Spears to simply walk away was interesting. It was
clear that Manolo Tapia firmly believed that Estelle would make an effective shield, and that they would release Hector in exchange for her safety.
“What was Chester Hansen to you?” Estelle asked, the mike still ignored.
Tapia laughed. “Ah. You are wonderful,” he said. “How many children do you have? A fair trade.”
“Two,” she said instantly.
He tapped the dash again, watching the white county police unit pull across the highway, blocking both lanes. “Two. They are beautiful children, beyond a doubt. Your husband—what does he do?”
“What was Chester Hansen to you?” Estelle repeated. Tapia shifted, his posture almost casual, right elbow on the windowsill. His eyes twinkled with amusement.
“A man who refused to pay his debts,” Tapia said. “That is all. I entered into an agreement two years ago to eliminate a family problem for him and his company—and then he refused to pay after professional services were rendered. So.” He shrugged. “A question of honor, perhaps. Or just good business. In any case, what is done is done. Now you know a little more. It will make no difference. And your husband? He is delightful, I am sure. What does he do?”
“A physician.”
Tapia’s heavy eyebrows shot up. “Really so? Such a tiny village, deserving such grace.” He straightened a little, twisting in his seat to scan the country to the side and behind them. “Tell them now,” he said, nodding ahead.
“Three-oh-three, three-ten. We’ll be to the cattle guard in just a few minutes. Ten-eighty, ten-eighty-five.”
Deputy Jackie Taber’s voice was subdued. “Ten-four.”
“Make sure the troops understand,” Estelle said. Watch from a distance.
“Ten-four.” Now three hundred yards away, she could see one of the State Police officers outside his vehicle, watching them through binoculars. He held a short black assault rifle in his left hand, the butt resting against his hip. Sheriff Robert Torrez had headed back toward town when Tapia’s position was not yet known. Where was he now? Had he acted on Tapia’s demands?
Final Payment Page 24