Holding her breath, Cameron slowed down, forcing herself to watch as the vehicle got closer. When the car was ten feet away, she jammed the accelerator to the floor. Rocks and pebbles flew up behind her as her back tires swerved before gaining traction. She narrowly missed being slammed again. As she accelerated, she reached across and pulled the seatbelt out, warring with the desire to pull fast. She managed to get it latched.
Still gaining speed, she palmed around on the floor behind her seat for her purse with her gun and her phone. She couldn’t feel them. She reached toward the other side, but the car caught up and slammed into her rear.
Her back window shattered. Her arm was wrenched backward as her body flew forward. The seatbelt snapped against her ribs. Her injured shoulder screamed, but the car didn’t let up. Cameron floored it to keep distance between them. It was only a mile until they were out of the naval station. She had to make a quick decision about where to go.
The road in the naval station was almost always quiet. She wasn’t going to get any help once she was outside its gates either. Out there, she had to deal with the projects if this guy ran her off the road. A Caucasian woman in these parts was not going to go unnoticed after dark.
Her best chance was either to turn around and get back inside the Bay, or to make it to the freeway. Inside the naval station, there wasn’t a place to make a good loop without giving her pursuer a chance at her head-on.
Her heart pounding, Cameron started up the hill and shifted into second, listening to the engine rage as she picked up speed. She blew by the guard post, ready to honk for help, but it was empty. Where the hell was the guard? Pressing the accelerator to the floor, she spun out of the station onto Northridge Road. The car bottomed out. A truck swerved to miss her, blaring his horn. The other car sped around the truck, too. He was on her tail again.
The streets grew busier. In front of her was a low-ride Camaro or maybe a Trans Am, cruising. Cameron didn’t slow down. Pushing sixty, she darted into oncoming traffic, bearing down on another car to pass the sports car. She swung back into her lane as the other car passed. Behind her, the sedan was blocked momentarily, but not long enough.
The freeway overpass was three blocks ahead, shining like freedom. Between her and it was a red light. A sixteen-wheeler barreled through the intersection as Cameron considered running the light. She pumped her brakes with both feet, sending her car skidding left. The sedan was coming straight for her door, fast.
She stomped on the pedal. Screeching tires filled her head. Burnt rubber stuck in her nose. She flinched and rammed her foot down on the pedal. Nothing happened. She pumped it again and closed her eyes for impact. The Blazer responded to the accelerator, and the car jerked forward. She opened her eyes and gripped the wheel as she crossed the double yellow lines and stopped under the bright light of a Chevron station. She swung around in the seat, searching for the other car, but it had turned the other way. All she could make out were two red taillights burning in its path.
There was a knock on the door and she started in her seat. She saw a large man at the driver’s side window. “You okay?”
He was black and young, in his late twenties or early thirties, and she did what she always did when her pulse was outworking her brain. She judged him by the statistics—a black man, young, in this neighborhood. She found herself fingering the door lock as he stepped back, his hands up. “Hey, lady. Chillax. I was only checking on you,” he said, his voice resonating through the glass.
Cameron watched him shake his head, and she hung her own, knowing how she’d acted. She, of all people, was supposed to know better than to judge people by their skin. Goddamn it. She watched the man getting into his car and considered going after him. But, there was nothing to say. Instead, she dialed the police’s nonemergency number to report the incident.
On hold, she revved the engine and steered the car onto the road toward home. She recited the events of the evening to one of her colleagues—not someone she knew, just someone taking down notes for another case. Another case to be opened. Twelve opened for every one closed—was that the statistic she heard?
Suddenly, she was exhausted. Depressed, scared, sad, but too tired to pinpoint which one stood out the most.
Chapter 37
It was Saturday night, and Luis missed Candi. He’d called her a bunch of times, but she never called him back. He’d left a message that he had the money he owed her, hoping he might get to see her that way. But, she’d sent another woman to pick it up. That woman hadn’t given him the time of day.
Aside from Candi, he really hadn’t met anyone in America. His nights off had been spent with her and his days off in front of the television. At least, when he’d been getting free cable. He’d had a hundred channels and all sorts of great porn. To make matters worse, they’d shut his cable off. He didn’t want to cough up the sixty bucks it would cost him to get the same channels again. He appreciated money more after spending days living on the beans he’d bought with six dollars, the change he found under the couch cushions and leftovers from whatever they fed the girls.
He found himself calling home more, which wasn’t like him at all. And his wife was almost never home. How was she doing without him? Better, probably. Even his boys barely talked to him when he called. She’d probably poisoned them against him. He’d finally called one of his brothers-in-law to check up on everything. Paulo had insisted that Laura was fine and happy and that nothing had changed. Luis thought that sounded all wrong.
She hadn’t been fine and happy when he was there. She’d been a nagging, whining bitch. So, things were different. He’d have to go home for a visit soon. He hadn’t made a trip yet. While she’d bothered him about it all the time the first couple of weeks, she almost never asked now. Something was definitely not right with that. He was writing his pages as though they were letters to her. Letters he would never mail, could never show anyone.
The more he wrote, the more he realized that America wasn’t so different from Mexico—colder, not so dry. But the same. People were mean and cruel, or stupid. Like him. He wrote, “Soy estupido.” He signed it like he always did and folded it up to take to the bank. That was his only treat—going to his safety deposit box. The people at the bank had looked at him strangely, but they couldn’t do anything. It was his box. He had paid for it. They told him the first day that he could come and go as often as he liked, so he did.
He studied the clock and thought about what he would do after the bank. He wasn’t going to sit in another Saturday night by himself. That was for sure. He’d been paid and with no one to spend money on, he had a wad of it built up. Tonight, he was going to find himself a new Candi. He tried to be positive about it, but his latest realization—that he was stupid—made him wonder if it was a good idea.
He told himself he needed a little fun and forced himself to dress in his best shirt. The shirt, a plaid-button down from Old Navy, desperately needed ironing, so he smoothed it out with his damp palms, hoping to take some of the wrinkles out. He put on the cleanest pair of khakis he had and doused some aftershave he’d bought at the drugstore on his cheeks, flinching as it burned his skin. Using a little gel, he smoothed his hair back and took a look at his complexion. He sucked in his gut, which was bigger than when he’d arrived in America, and checked his profile. Not bad. Certainly not bad enough to get dumped by some floozy like Candi. Her loss, he told himself out loud, pulling the wad of bills from his pocket and flipping through it. Close to four hundred dollars. He knew better than to take it all and tucked half in with his letter for the bank and pocketed the rest.
He pulled the bottle of Maker’s out from under the sink where he’d left it the night before. He picked up the cup from the side of the sink, sniffed it quickly and poured four fingers of whiskey into it. Downing it in two full gulps, he felt it burn its way down to his belly. He loved the taste of whiskey, especially since he could drink it without his wife’s constant bothering. She hated the smell. Her brothers all d
rank tequila. As far as she was concerned, that was the only acceptable liquor. But it was so Mexican. Whiskey was more American. He didn’t want to come across as some dumb Mexican when he drank in America.
He poured himself another glass and made a mental note to try to save enough money from the two hundred to get another bottle tomorrow. And food.
His head light, he thought about the bitch who had robbed him and wondered if he’d ever see her again. He wasn’t sure he would recognize her. One thing was for sure. He was buying his own drinks tonight. He took a last look at himself in the mirror and headed out with his money, his writing, and two keys—one to his apartment and one to his deposit box.
He walked the three blocks to the bank and made his deposit a few minutes before it closed. The old biddy who worked Saturdays gave him a nasty sneer and made a comment about the smell of booze. What the hell. It was Saturday.
In an effort to show her that he wasn’t some bum, he hailed a cab in front of the bank and told the driver to take him to the ORG Lounge, a place Marty talked about. If Marty could get some there, surely he could too. Luis watched the meter the whole ride over and by the time they reached the bar, it was almost twelve dollars. He had a bad pit in his stomach as he shelled out the twelve dollars plus a dollar tip. The bus would have taken longer, but it would have given him twelve more dollars toward drinks.
He was thinking about the spent money when he sat down at the dark bar and ordered a Dewar’s on the rocks from a big bald guy behind the bar. He found an empty chair facing the stage and watched the women dance. One of them had breasts the size of watermelons. She watched him as she pressed herself against a pole on the edge of the stage, one melon on each side. What would it be like to be in bed with melons like that?
Candi had decent size breasts, certainly bigger than Laura, whose breasts always seemed like an extension of her belly. Even if she’d had any breasts, his wife wouldn’t have let him enjoy them. She never let Luis suckle her breasts. She said they were for babies. So prissy. No wonder he was obsessed with boobs.
Just then, the melon woman crossed the stage to a man shelling out bills. They looked like twenties. Luis couldn’t stop staring. The man was vaguely familiar. Maybe he’d been in the warehouse or something. The idea made him uncomfortable. He picked up his glass and made his way back to the bar. Over his shoulder, he noticed the man watching him. He hoped he wasn’t in trouble. He finished his drink. Maybe coming to a place Marty frequented wasn’t such a good idea after all.
He felt a little drunk as he set his glass down and walked unsteadily to the door. He hit the street, swaying a little on his feet. He leaned against the building and thought about getting home. He didn’t have the slightest idea which way to go since he’d taken a cab and hadn’t paid any attention.
He turned to his left, the direction the cab had come from and took a few steps. Damn, he was drunk. Twenty feet down the street, a homeless man pissed against the building. That was pathetic. He staggered a couple feet and stopped.
He thought about the woman with the melons. He wanted to go back inside. He thought about the man in the bar. He didn’t want to bump into him again, but there were a lot of people. He started for the door when a woman walked out. “Hi,” she said, pulling a cigarette out of her purse.
“Hi.” He hesitated at the door.
“You need some company?”
She wasn’t as skinny as Candi, but she had good boobs. She wore a sheer red top and a black skirt. She had straight, blond hair that poured over her shoulders, and bright red lipstick. He couldn’t make out her face in the dark, but she was pretty enough.
“Sure,” he finally said. The last thing he wanted was to be alone tonight.
“You want to buy me a drink?” she asked.
Not really, he thought, but this was part of the game. “Sure. What would you like?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
A woman who drank liquor, that was a nice change. She led him back inside to a stool at the far end of the bar. The man was still down by the stage. She sat on the stool beside him and crossed her legs, so that her knees rested against his thigh. He felt himself get aroused as he tried to get the bartender’s attention.
He ordered two drinks.
She asked him about himself. Candi never asked him about him.
She touched his leg. “What do you do?”
Relaxing, he covered her hand with his. “Importing.”
She leaned forward and touched his cheek. “Sorry. You had something on your face.”
He felt buzzed and happy, almost deliriously happy. He was so thankful.
“So you work in importing, huh? That sounds cool. What do you import?”
“Labor.” The word slipped from his tongue. The man had described their business that way. He shouldn’t have said it, though.
But the woman didn’t even blink. Her hand crept up his thigh. “You mean, you import people?”
He felt himself grow excited. “Yeah, mostly women.” He told himself to shut up, but her hand was distracting him.
He finished his drink and they ordered another. They kept talking. He didn’t normally like to talk, but she was so nice. It was like she actually cared what he did. They finished their drinks. He searched for the bartender, but he was nowhere in sight.
He wanted to get another drink, to keep the buzz going.
“You want to go get a bottle and have a private celebration?” the woman asked. “I know a liquor store around the corner.”
Luis studied the woman and licked his lips. “Yeah, okay.”
“You have some money?”
He thought about the wad in his pocket, thankful he’d only spent twenty of it. “Some.”
“Okay.” She got down off the stool.
“Uh, how much?” he asked.
“For the liquor?” she asked with a coy smile.
He smiled back, feeling warm and frisky. She was good. “For the night.”
“A night with me?”
He let his gaze rest on her breasts. He could see their sharp points through her top. He couldn’t wait to feel them on his tongue. Anxious, he hoped he could afford her.
“One hundred and twenty-five, and I’ll throw in the liquor.”
That was a lot, but it left him money for food. Maybe he’d get to keep what they didn’t drink of the bottle. “Okay,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
“Wait until we’re outside.” Before he could speak again, she was heading for the door.
He followed quickly, his step lighter than it had been in days. He watched her butt under the tight, black skirt, thinking how it was going to feel under his hands.
They walked out into the cold night air, and he glanced down at the homeless guy he’d seen before.
She walked several feet from the door and stopped. “I’ve got a car. This way.” She put her hand out. “Pay up front.”
He had been tricked before. He wasn’t going to let it happen twice “I’ll give you half now, but the rest after.” He felt himself swell with pride. He was no dummy.
She shrugged. “Fine.”
He pulled the wad from his pocket and stripped three twenties off the stack. “Sixty now, the rest later. And a tip, if you’re good.”
Looking satisfied, she tucked the money down inside her bra. “Believe me, I’m good.” Putting her arm through his, she led him down the street.
He sucked in the cool air so different than Mexico’s. A tune from the radio was playing in his head. He wanted to sing out loud. He was going to get some.
Halfway down the block, she paused before they reached the police cruiser.
“Where’s your car?”
She reached into her jacket and pulled out a gun. “Right there.”
He glanced at the gun, his mouth drying up. “What?”
“I’m a police officer, and you’re under arrest for solicitation.”
Another cop emerged from a police car and walked toward him, swinging a pai
r of handcuffs.
Luis thought about Brad and Marty and the notes he’d been keeping. “Wait!” he blurted out.
The cop cuffed him.
“But, I have information!”
“Right,” the one cop said, and pushed him into the back of the cruiser.
“No, it’s true. There’s a group that sells women. For sex,” he rattled on, the buzz of the liquor hitting hard. “They bring them in by the boatloads.”
The woman cop turned back to him. “You better not be shitting us.”
“I’m not. I swear. They import them like drugs.”
As the police cruiser pulled away from the curb, Luis pictured Marty’s dead body, covered in flies, and wished he was the homeless guy pissing on the building.
Chapter 38
Cameron lay in bed. It was impossible to sleep and too late to call Hailey Wyatt. News would probably get back to her soon enough. A story of someone gunning down a police officer in her car would spread quickly. Ricky no longer seemed trustworthy. That left only Hailey Wyatt.
Cameron’s eyes closed, and she squeezed the lids shut, feeling the pressure mounted behind them release for an instant. She was tired and pushing herself too hard. She needed to rest. She focused on images of Nate, hoping he could keep her head clear. She pictured his smile, then saw the ocean behind him. Nate always led her to Diego, but she pushed him away, rolling onto her side. She was not going to think about him. Tonight, she needed rest. Her head felt heavy as she tucked her hands up under her chin and let herself drift off.
The waves were crashing against the rocks, the spray rising like white foam against the crisp bright sky.
She woke to the sound of something slapping. She sat up in bed, startled, and listened. She had to blink several times before the images of her room crystallized from blurry forms to recognizable landmarks.
Slap. Slap.
Her shoulder ached as she pulled herself out of bed and moved across the room. She listened before touching the door. Slap. Whish. Slap. The wind, she thought. Something outside. She pulled her gun down from the closet shelf and checked the magazine.
The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set Page 77