by Fox, Logan
Finn’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. It wasn’t like he had intimate knowledge of cartels or anything, but ECV’s recent influx of heroin into the southern states of America had made news at least once a week for the past month. Which meant he knew they were one of the biggest cartels, had two leaders instead of just one, and that they were adding at least six figures a year to America’s war on drugs budget. ECV didn’t get as much airtime as their closest rival, Plata o Plomo, though — POP had a signature public execution style that left the newspapers running short on red ink whenever they made the front page. Fuck, what if it was Plata o Plomo that was after Cora? If they’d sent the letter to Tony Swan to flush him out of his impenetrable safehouse, then that would have left Cora as easy pickings. Especially if they got rid of her loyal bodyguard first and had him replaced with a guy they knew Tony Swan would have issues trusting with intel.
This was sounding more and more like a strategically planned kidnapping. If that was the case, how many moves ahead had Cora’s pursuers thought?
“We have to leave. Now.” Finn wrestled his cellphone from his pocket, dissembled it, and headed for the RV’s door.
“What? What is it?”
Finn spun back to her, stabbing a finger in her direction as she scooped her Taurus from the coffee table and shoved it behind her belt. “You...” He broke off with a strangled sound. “He was right; you’re goddamn plutonium.”
* * *
Finn put a bread knife down on the dinette. Then he wiped down the strips of duct tape binding the man and his wife with a bleach-drenched cloth. He tossed the towel in a garbage bag along with Cora’s bloodied vest and hoody and his cellphone.
“Money,” Finn said, pointing his Five-seveN at Rita.
She went stiff, and then her eyes flashed to one of the cabinets above the kitchen sink. Finn rooted around inside it until he came out with a small petty cash box. Inside was over a thousand dollars in notes and a handful of coins. He took the notes, folding them and sliding them into his jean pocket.
Cora took up the duffel bag of clothes, one hand absently wrapped around the pendant hanging from her neck. Finn opened the door to the motorhome and carefully stuck his head out just far enough to take in as much of the RV park as he could.
The sky was a sullen gray — dawn was on its way. Nothing stirred in the camp. He stepped outside, cocking his head for Cora to follow. He took out the bleach-soaked cloth, waiting for her to exit before wiping down the inside and outside of the door, paying particular attention to both handles. Then the cloth went into the garbage bag dangling from his hand as he moved away from the motorhome.
He took them about a hundred feet into the wilderness hugging the outskirts of the RV camp, and then tossed the garbage bag as far as he could. They moved around the RV camp, using the perimeter as a guide. Dawn was already leeching into the day, giving the shadows substance and painting the first hint of color into the world.
There was only one road in and out of Oxbow; the RV camp was at the end of the small estate, with several free-standing trailers and RV’s scattered between it and Route 87. There were a few mobile homes close to the street, and some of them had a vehicle or two parked in front. He veered off course to study each one, running a finger along the seam between the back window and the trunk. A few minutes after they’d cleared the camp, Finn found what he’d been looking for.
One of the cars — a rusting Ford pickup parked under a tree — had a fine layer of dust on it. Far enough away from the mobile home housing its owner that slight noises shouldn’t wake them. He tried the handle, but the driver’s side door was locked, as was the passenger’s.
Finn put his hand on the side of the truck and bent to the side as if he was trying to get something out of his shoe.
“What—” Cora began, eyes wide.
“Keep a lookout,” he murmured.
There were no lights on this road, but the mobile home did have a bare, sulfurous yellow bulb dangling outside on its makeshift porch. It provided just enough illumination to pick out the vehicle’s interior, but not much else. He tugged free his boot’s shoelace and hurriedly tied a slip knot in the middle of the lace. He wiggled the lace behind the door’s top corner.
Cora took a step back from him and began scanning the street.
Jesus, if they saw her guilty expression, they’d be calling the cops long before they even saw him trying to break into the car.
He maneuvered the slipknot around the truck’s lock and tightened it, then jerked up the laces. The latch popped up, and he was inside the car a second later.
There were no keys behind the visor. He checked the glove compartment — insurance papers were inside, at least — and then shut it again. Glancing outside to make sure the street was still clear and the owner hadn’t decided to wake up before the crack of dawn, he popped the Ford’s hood.
He took his knife from his boot, dug in the duffel bag, and found the flashlight and one of the kitchen knives he’d stolen from the old folk’s motorhome. Then he shoved his boot down on the clutch and took the Ford out of gear, making sure the emergency brake was all the way up before getting out.
Cora watched him silently as he made his way around the car. She was doing a shit poor job of watching the road, but it didn’t look like anyone was awake in Oxbow this time of the morning.
He opened the hood, scanned the engine compartment with the flashlight, and quickly found the relay box. Finn beckoned Cora, and she came to him with a wary glance down either side of the road. He handed her the flashlight and positioned it above the Ford’s fuse box. Jerking free the cover, he studied the diagram. Then he located the starter relay in the fuse box. He wriggled free the fuse cover and used the faint chart on the side of the small black relay to pick out the switch side pins.
“What are you doing?” Cora whispered.
He ignored her and absently repositioned the flashlight when it began straying away from the fuse box. He bent the tip of a steak knife at a right angle using one of the slots in the engine compartment’s chassis where the hood clipped into place. Then he jumped the relay’s terminals by touching the blades of the two knives.
The Ford’s engine roared into life. The flashlight dipped as Cora jumped at the noise.
“Get in.”
She hurried around the side of the truck. He flipped the lock up, and she scrambled inside, shoving his duffel bag into the footwell and holding hers in her lap.
“Seatbelt.”
This time, she didn’t argue.
13
Best Rates
The Ford’s owner never came out; he’d probably forgotten what his vehicle sounded like when it started. Route 87 was empty as they made their way north to downtown Payson. The Ford’s headlamps picked out cat eyes as they drove, and illuminated shrubby trees encroaching on the shoulder of the road.
Cora glanced across at him, and then shifted in her seat. “Will we be safe in Silver City?”
It sounded strange for him to be lumped in beside the twenty-year-old daughter of a drug lord. He shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. He checked his rearview every few seconds in case someone decided to tail him, but so far the road remained clear. That didn’t make the sensation of eyes on him lessen though.
“Only three people still alive today know about the cabin. Me, Lars, and the estate agent who sold it to us.”
“What about the people that lived there before you?”
He and Lars didn’t live in the cabin — they went there to hunt sometimes, but it was too remote to make a comfortable living. “They’re dead.”
She turned narrowed eyes on him. “Because you killed them?”
“Jesus, no. Bear attack.” He glanced across at her, thought about laughing at her active imagination, and then restrained himself when he remembered how painful it would be. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to trust me, Cora.”
The girl looked up at him then, and he realized it was the first time he’d used her
first name. It shouldn’t have been strange, but it was, and she’d felt it — or heard it — too. But as soon as that bizarre moment passed, it was as if it had never been.
“Trust you?” she muttered, turning to the window. She pushed in her lip, gnawing at it as she glared at the day breaking around them. “I should kill you.”
He barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. “You can try,” he said. “You won’t get a second chance, though.”
She frowned at him and then settled back in her seat as if they’d been driving for hours already. Granted, she was no doubt still exhausted. And her broken nose still looked tender.
“I didn’t kill him,” Finn said.
Cora sat forward, blinking at him a few times. “Bailey?” she whispered.
Finn looked across at her. She was really hung up on the guy, wasn’t she? There was such desperation in her eyes, it made him want to pull over the car and shake her.
“No, the guy whose throat I slit,” he said.
Desperation was swiftly replaced with disgust, but it cleared just as quickly. “Bailey’s alive?”
“Don’t quote me on that,” Finn said. “He did get shot.” When he looked at her, she’d turned away from him again. “But if he got himself to a hospital, then he should be alive.”
“Why?” she murmured. “My father told you to kill him.”
“Yeah…” Finn muttered. “Seemed a bit rash at the time. Thought he was maybe just pissed off ‘cos the guy was boning his daughter.”
Cora blushed and went so stiff that she looked carved of wood for a few seconds. “We weren’t…” she trailed off.
“You were about to,” Finn said. And then cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. There was still a fuck-long way for them to go, and the last thing he wanted to discuss was this girl’s love life.
What he needed was more intel about their situation. He could remember reading an article a while ago about tension between the major cartels flaring up after a few year’s peace, but the specifics were lost to him.
“Your family ever have trouble like this before?”
“Always,” Cora said glumly. She tugged her hair free of its tie and ran her fingers over her scalp. “That’s why we came to America. It was supposed to be better here. We changed our names, kept moving. Guess they finally caught up with us again.”
“They?”
“Plata o Plomo,” she whispered.
“What’s it mean?”
She gave him a quick look and began retying her hair. “Silver or Lead. It’s their motto, I guess. You either take the money, or you get shot.”
“Jesus,” Finn murmured. “And El Calacas Vivo?”
“The Living Skeletons. Papá says Santa Muerte protects them more than any of the other cartels.” Cora gave a shrug as if she had no opinion on the name, but there was a hint of pride in her voice.
“Santa Muerte?”
Cora touched the pendant hanging from her neck. “Our Lady of Holy Death,” she said quietly. “She’s a saint.” Cora held out the pendant on its chain, twisting it to face Finn. “See?”
“That’s her?” he asked warily. It seemed, the richer someone became, the more their tastes devolved. The necklace her father had given her was ugly as sin. She toyed with it using her long, slim fingers as she stared through the windshield. A skeleton cast from platinum, holding a ball. What the fuck would they think of next? “So she’s okay with drug dealers?”
“La Flaca1 doesn’t judge. She accepts anyone’s prayers…” Cora trailed off as she turned to look out the window again. “Even criminals.”
“That’s nice of her,” Finn said.
He tightened his hands on the steering wheel. A pair of headlamps appeared in the rearview mirror, even though it was light enough outside that they weren’t strictly necessary anymore. Finn shifted in his seat. The car traveling behind them switched lanes and swarmed past at a ridiculous speed. A white truck with Nevada plates. He tensed until a turn in the road put it out of sight, and then let his arm muscles relax.
He’d need sleep, and soon. His body needed to recharge, to recover, to heal. Where the seatbelt strapped over his chest, his flesh ached and burned.
The Ford went around a gentle bend, and, about a minute later, downtown Payson reared up to the right. The Mazatzal Casino’s billboard was on, and it made Cora’s head turn when they paused at the intersection, waiting for the lights to turn green. When her gaze tracked further left, settling on a gas station, her eyes met his. She looked intrigued, almost excited. He looked away to guide the Ford into a gas station. The truck’s fuel gauge had been on reserve when he’d left Oxbow estate — they’d need a full tank if they wanted to stay off anyone’s radar for the next few hours.
Leaving the truck in gear, he jerked up the emergency brake and released the clutch, stalling it. Cora made a surprised sound and then shot him a wary look.
He rummaged around in the duffel bag by her footwell and pulled out a bill.
“Pump six.”
As she sat forward to take the note, he moved his eyes to her waist. “Keep it out of sight.”
She shifted, tugging her sweater over the pistol nestled in the small of her back.
“And smile. A lot.”
Cora frowned at him and then ducked her head to look into the gas station’s convenience store. A young, tall guy manned the register.
“Was it you that hit me, or some other guy?” She pulled down the visor and fussed with her hair for a second as if it could somehow make the dark bruises by her nose and eyes fade away. Then she jerked out her hairband and tried arranging some of her hair in her face.
If she smiled like he’d told her to, no one would notice. When he didn’t answer her, she threw him a disgruntled look, snatched the note from his fingers, and slid out of the car. Taking the car out of gear, he made sure to leave the emergency brake engaged. He slipped the gas nozzle into the inlet and popped the hood. Cora was already inside, browsing the aisles closest to the register. The guy at the register seemed incapable of taking his eyes off her.
No surprise there; with those tight jeans, her entire ass was available for anyone’s viewing pleasure. But at least her Taurus was out of sight.
Perfect.
Finn checked the truck’s oil, water, and brake fluid levels and then left the hood open while he casually peeled off the fuse box’s cover. He waited a few seconds, glancing at the meter as the pump spewed gas into the truck. A white sedan drove past, indicated, and slowly turned into the gas station.
Luckily, it parked at the furthest pump away from the Ford.
Finn took out the gas nozzle, giving Cora a wave. She nodded and went to the register to pay. The attendant straightened, ducking his head when he took the bill from her. Finn hurriedly jumped the terminals with his two knives and slammed the hood shut, hurrying to the driver’s side door as Cora came walking out of the convenience store, a plastic bag dangling from her hand.
She slammed the truck’s door behind her, giving him a furtive glance and then looking back at the guy at the register as he drove off.
“Change?”
She tossed a few coins and two twenties in the truck’s console and then pulled a candy bar from the bag.
“Don’t eat that,” he said.
Cora burst out laughing. It had a touch of hysteria, but it was still a strange sound to hear in the confined space of the Ford’s cab. So bright. So innocent. Exactly like a twenty-year-old girl who thought he was a bossy prick.
“‘Cos I’ll get fat?” she said, her words still infused with laughter and, now, a bite of chocolate.
“Sugar crash.”
She chewed, hesitated, and then swallowed. The rest of the candy bar went back in the bag. She washed it down with water from the duffel bag and drew out a keychain.
He looked aside at her, shaking his head. “How much that cost?”
“Nothing.” Cora dangled a small, plastic skeleton from her finger by the ring. “The guy
at the register wasn’t paying attention to my hands.”
Finn shifted in his seat, and Cora fingered the keychain, staring through the windshield as they reached downtown Payson. He scanned both sides of the road as he drove. Pretty soon, a sign for a twenty-four-hour supermarket came up alongside the road. He turned into the parking and drove until he was out of sight of the main road and the two cars parked at the entrance. He stalled the truck, put up the emergency brake, and ducked his head to scan the shopping center through the windshield.
Then he got out, gestured at Cora until she followed, and led her inside the store.
He grabbed a basket and limped down the aisles. It didn’t take him long to find the clothing section. He took two pairs of dark jeans, two black shirts, and a change of underwear and socks. Then he swiped two black baseball caps from a rack and handed one to her.
“Put it on.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“Don’t we have to pay first?”
He gave her an expressionless glance, and she hurriedly shoved the cap over her head.
“Like this.” He tugged his cap low over his forehead. His neck bobbed for a moment, muscles still loose from the car crash. He’d be in a bucket-load of agony when the painkillers wore off. There was a dizzying selection of prepaid phones; he chose the second-cheapest and threw it into the basket with everything else. They walked to the woman’s clothing section of the store, where Cora got herself a pair of jeans, underwear, and two t-shirts.
The guy at this register was middle-aged, graying, and reeked of stale cigarettes. He scanned their items with barely a glance in their direction.
“You know a cheap motel, somewhere off the main road?” Finn asked as he handed over a few notes.
The man shifted his weight and gave them both a quick scan from the corner of his eyes. Luckily, Cora’s cap was all the way down her forehead. “You ain’t finding anything cheap around here anymore.”