South

by Lance Charnes

  She blew him out the door.

  Nora had her cuffs off in seconds after the DEA charged in. She’d picked up an M4 from a fallen QRT agent and started sniping Zetas through the smoke. A D.C. flunky tried to grab the carbine from her hands, but she clipped him with the butt and he toppled on his rear, sitting dazed until a bullet took him out. No loss.

  Then Paul screamed.

  He’d dropped flat behind her when the shooting started. Now he clutched his thigh, blood forcing its way between his fingers.

  Oh no. No. Big arteries. He’d bleed out. She had to get him out of here.

  She slung her carbine, grabbed Paul under his arms and tried to drag him down the central aisle while staying as low and small as she could. He outweighed her by a good sixty pounds, and the position was awkward and stole a lot of her strength, even though the adrenaline had her heart and eyes going crazy.

  They’d just made the aisle when something hot slammed into her side, ripped through her guts and sprayed blood all over the floor. The next moment she stared up at the ceiling, her midsection full of lava, blood in her mouth. “Paul!” she gasped. “Help!”

  A few moments later, Paul’s face loomed over hers. “Hang on, honey,” he gasped. “Hang on. I’ll get us out of this.”

  “You’re hurt!” She coughed, felt a warm and wet trickle down her cheek. “Don’t—”

  “Just shut up and let me drive, will you?”

  Nora rocked her head up enough to see that Paul had taken off his shirt and tied it to his thigh with his belt. The blood all over his pants terrified her even more than her own wound. Don’t let him die, Allah, if you’re out there. Let me die, not him…

  Paul pushed himself across the floor with his good leg until his waist was even with her shoulder. Then he grabbed her shirt collar and heaved, screaming in pain. She slid a foot or so. “I’m so glad,” he panted, “you never got fat like your mom. A little help, huh?”

  A few inches at a time, they dragged themselves away from the battle and the smoke. Every move was true, blinding agony. After a few minutes that seemed like hours, Nora surprised herself by thinking, where are you, Luis? Help us. We need you.

  Luis lay back gasping, his head spinning from its collision with the concrete. He probed the spot where the sledgehammer had hit him, found torn Kevlar but no blood. After a minute, he managed to roll over, grab his pistol.

  The door to the storage room stood open about fifteen feet away. The firefight was sputtering out inside the warehouse, though it still roared away outside. Some DEA guys chased the remaining Zetas into the shelves—sudden bursts of automatic fire marked when they met up—while the rest secured what was left of the American delegation.

  Luis crawled on his elbows and knees over shards of loading door, dropping whenever a SWAT trooper looked his way. His wounded shoulder screeched with every move. At the storage-room door, he found Casillas draped over a mound of junk, chest torn open, body drenched in blood. Dead already. Luis felt a surge of bloodthirsty disappointment that he hadn’t been able to kill the man himself.

  “Bel?” he called into the doorway. “You there?”

  “Lucho?”

  They crawled to each other to avoid the bullets pinging through the wall. What Luis saw of Bel shocked him—black eyes, bruises on every bit of exposed skin, blood splattered across her face and clothes, a bloody rag wrapped around her right hand. She dragged an AK along with her, its sling like a tail. Luis risked an upright lunge to get to her.

  They crushed together on the floor, kissing and touching and crying. Luis couldn’t take his hands off Bel for even a moment, he was so afraid she’d slip away or turn into a mirage. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “it’s okay, we’re safe, it’s over, God I love you, I’m so sorry…”

  After a couple minutes that went by in a flash, Bel pulled back enough so she could knuckle the tears out of her eyes. Then she slugged Luis’ healthy shoulder. “You took long enough,” she snuffled, then kissed him again.

  Luis smiled. “I’ll do better next time. What happened in TJ? How’d they get you?”

  “They were waiting for me at the station. Ray’s playing both sides, huh?”

  “Yeah. I figured it out a minute too late.” He hugged her again, ran his fingers through her hair, beamed as she told him what a big dummy he was and how she’d never let him out of her sight again.

  Then she asked, “Where’s Nora and Paul and the kids?”

  He nodded toward the former window. “Out there. Last I saw, she and Paul were with the FBI guys. The boy’s hiding and the girl’s at a church downtown.”

  Bel pulled back and squinted into his eyes. “Shouldn’t you go get them?”

  “Out there? People are still shooting at each other. Nora’ll be okay, she’ll hunker down. I’m not leaving you alone.”

  Bel frowned. “You went through all this for them. You ripped up our lives for them. You’d better finish the job.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘but.’ Make sure they’re okay. They might need your help.” Bel grabbed both his ears. “This is absolutely the last time you’re ever doing this, so do it right. I’ll wait.”

  Luis opened his mouth to argue, but saw that dead-set stubborn look in Bel’s eyes and didn’t bother to say a word. Instead he kissed her, cupped her face in both hands, and said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He nodded toward the AK. “Keep track of your little friend there. I love you.” Then before he could change his mind, he scrambled to the door, stepped over what was left of Casillas, and charged into the thinning fogbank of smoke.

  By the time an LZ opened up for McGinley’s chopper, the first team had breached the warehouse. The firefight was just on its downhill slide when he ducked through the blown-out loading door and squatted in the near corner, getting his bearings. Weapons noise bouncing off the metal walls, wounded bawling their heads off, damn white smoke everywhere. The situation plot on his tactical goggles showed a dozen green spots scattered all over the warehouse.

  Damn shame there weren’t red dots. One of them would be Alcala.

  He switched his carbine to single-fire, then crabbed from one shot Mex to the next, comparing each face (or what was left of it) to the photo of Alcala off to the right on his display. He disarmed the wounded ones, zipped up their hands, and moved on. Bullets burned over his head and sparked off the concrete floor, but he paid them no mind.

  Nine faces later, he was hard up against the nearest metal shelf stack, wheezing from all the smoke. That rat-faced bastard was still alive somewhere, probably back yonder in the warehouse where all the shooting was. McGinley needed to find him before some ICE or DEA troop shot the man down. If someone was going to kill the fucker, it was going to be McGinley—but not until they’d had a chat. That blond hair from the RV didn’t have enough testable material for a DNA match. He needed Alcala alive.

  Most of the noise was coming from the right-hand bank of shelves. McGinley scrambled down the central aisle, stopped at each row, squinted through the smoke and dust to see if anyone was there. He found another couple dead Zetas—not Alcala—and a couple live ones the DEA boys had corralled.

  Ojeda’s picture showed sixteen Mexes. McGinley had found thirteen so far. Did that sumbitch get away? A dose of anger made him move faster and ignore the crossfire more. If that piece of shit escaped, McGinley was going to have him some squad-leader ass for supper.

  Halfway down the warehouse, he saw a Mex in a suit blur by the side wall going the other way, toward the breach. McGinley spun and sprinted down the center aisle. He made a big target, but didn’t give a shit.

  He rounded the last shelves just in time to see the suit duck through the hole in the door. McGinley fired a couple rounds his way, then followed the Mex out into the dark. Mucho action out here, the gunship circling, a passel of Zeta sicarios and firefights all around. He switched his goggles to night vision and lit out after the green suit dodging through the green cars.

  This fucker was f
ast. He jinked through the rows of cars, slid over hoods, crawled under trucks. McGinley tried to end around as much as he could, let the suit wear himself out trying to be cute, but while he didn’t fall any farther back, he didn’t catch up none, either.

  Then the suit broke into the open, trying to reach another line of cars, and just as he made it, two of them blew apart bad enough to blank out McGinley’s goggles. The gunship hummed by over his head. McGinley shoved the goggles off his face and ran full-tilt toward the last place he saw the suit, cussing out the drone in case it’d fried the Mex.

  The man staggered up on his hind legs about twenty yards off, took a few wobbly steps, then tried to trot away.

  No you don’t, asshole. McGinley stopped, wiped his eyes clear, switched his carbine to full auto. He fired a burst into the man’s legs.

  The suit screamed loud enough to hear over the fires and explosions and gunfights all around them. McGinley tossed the man’s pistol into the weeds, chased it with his backup weapon, then zipped his hands together. He stuck a knee in Alcala’s chest to keep him from squirming around, then bore down a tad more to get his attention.

  McGinley said, “Cordero Alcala? I’ve been looking for your ass. Glad to meet you.”

  Alcala’s face was all twisted up from the pain, and from McGinley’s knee crushing all the air out of him. “Who are you?” he croaked. “What do you want?”

  Not bad English for a Zeta. “Me and you, we’re gonna have us a nice long talk right soon, maybe in the hospital after they cut those legs of yours off.” That got Alcala wiggling around some more. “Right now, I got two questions. First. Were you in a convoy that got all shot to shit on Fed Highway Two three days back? Big ol’ green Olympia? Remember that?”

  Alcala stared at him. “Why? What do you want?”

  McGinley got a solid grip on his carbine, then drove the stock into one of the holes in Alcala’s legs. The Mex howled like a coyote. Then McGinley drew his tactical knife from his calf sheath and stuck the tip into Alcala’s nose, sharp edge outward. “I’m asking the damn questions, son. Were you in that convoy?”

  “Si. Yes.”

  “Y’all had whores in them RVs, right?” Alcala nodded fast. “Any American ones? Maybe a little blond Texas girl? You remember her?”

  Alcala gave him a look that said are you crazy? McGinley answered that question by pounding another of the Mex’s leg wounds with his carbine.

  After he stopped yelling and carrying on, Alcala yelped, “Yes, a rubia! Yes. But a Mexicana, not a gringa.”

  “You sure?” McGinley pushed the knife a skosh farther in. Blood dribbled down the man’s cheek. “How many American whores you got?”

  Alcala coughed, likely from the blood pooling in his sinuses. Self-waterboarding. “I don’t know. I don’t run the whores.”

  “Ain’t what I heard.” McGinley flicked the knife through the side of Alcala’s nostril. He wiped the blood on the man’s nice suit jacket while Alcala screamed out the pain. When he was done, McGinley stuck the knife up the other nostril. “Let’s try that again. Y’all got an American whore called Carla Jean from San Antonio, snatched her in Matamoros. You seen her lately?”

  The Mex tried to back his head away from the blade, but ended up with his chin pointing at the sky. The other nostril blew blood bubbles. “I don’t know,” he panted. His eyes looked ready to pop out. “Don’t know names. One of my men. He runs them. He knows. Not me. Not things like that. Almost nine hundred in the region. I know that. I don’t know names.”

  McGinley considered whacking another of Alcala’s new holes, but didn’t. Nine hundred whores, minus the twenty kicked loose at the mine. That sounded mighty close to being the truth. He glared into Alcala’s eyes. “What’s this boy’s name, and where’s he work out of?”

  For a moment, McGinley thought he saw Alcala’s spine grow back. He twisted the knife so it didn’t fit so good in the man’s nostril and pushed. Alcala let out a wolf howl, tried to slither away, but that just made the blade cut deeper and poured more blood into his sinuses.

  “Dominguez!” he finally yelped. “Ivan Dominguez. He’s mobile, like me. His base is Nogales. He has a list. He knows.”

  Another name. Another link in the chain. Not what he’d hoped to get, but better than nothing. McGinley felt tired all of a sudden. He wiped his knife on Alcala’s shirt, climbed off the man, and watched the firefights wink out one-by-one around him. Then he kicked Alcala in the ribs, just because. “That’ll do for now, hoss. Me and you ain’t done yet, not by a long shot.”

  He turned and jogged toward the warehouse. He still had to find Khaled. Then he had to decide what to do with her.

  Nora raised her head from whatever Paul had rigged up for her pillow. Everything between her ribs and her hips was a solid mass of pain, but numbness crept in everywhere else. Even lifting her head a few inches threw her brain into a whirl. The long, red smear trailing out into the central corridor fascinated her. That used to be in me. What a mess.

  The backs of Paul’s fingers stroked her cheek. “Hold on,” he murmured. “We’ll get you to a hospital. You’ll be okay.”

  She wished Paul was right, but wishing was all she could do. “No I won’t,” she whispered. Talking took effort and concentration. He’d spent a lot of time and energy trying to plug the holes in her sides with no success. She’d finally told him to stop. It wouldn’t help anyway; she’d just bleed inside.

  “Don’t say that.” Paul sat beside her, his leg splayed at an awkward angle in front of him. The bullet must’ve broken his thigh bone, yet he’d managed to drag her this far out of the battle that sputtered on around them. He clutched at her carbine, laid across his lap, and she had no doubt that even though he’d never fired one in his life, he’d try to use it to defend her. Pain fogged his eyes. His beautiful brown eyes. They were so scared, so sad.

  She’d come all this way, gotten this close, and some random bullet got her. Each breath was a struggle. She could barely focus her eyes or her mind on anything. How much longer did she have? “Paul? Darling? Hold my hand. Please.” He rubbed away a tear, then fumbled for her hand. She felt the pressure but not much else. “You need to go…without me,” she panted.

  “No, honey, no. They’ll make you better, they’ll—”

  “No. They can’t. It’s okay. I love you.”

  “Don’t you give up, I won’t let you, don’t leave me!” Paul leaned over her, tried to look brave, but his pain defeated him.

  “Sorry.” If her heart wasn’t already broken, it would’ve started cracking open now. She was going to leave Paul and the kids. She didn’t want to, but that choice wasn’t hers to make anymore. She let her head fall back on the makeshift pillow. It snapped—bubble wrap. She wanted to laugh, but didn’t have the strength. “Find Luis. He has my pendant. Take the kids. Get away.”

  “You’re gonna be there with me—” His head snapped up, facing the other end of the aisle. She watched him pick up the carbine with trembling hands. “Stop! Who’s there?”

  “Stand down, Paul.” A familiar voice. Luis.

  She heard running feet, then Luis was kneeling to her left, checking her wounds. He was dirty and scratched and had blood on his face, but just seeing him gave Nora a little lift. Paul would be okay now. The kids would be okay. Luis would make them safe. He’d promised.

  Luis swiveled and gripped her shoulder. He murmured in her ear, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” she whispered. “Bel?”

  “She’s okay.”

  His face, Paul’s face, and the ceiling spun around her. “Peter?”

  “Safe. He’s hiding. Want me to get him?”

  An instant mind-fight: yes, let me see my son. No, it’s too much for him. “I don’t want him…don’t…he can’t see this.” She tried to touch his hand, but didn’t have the strength. “Get them out. Paul, the kids. To England. He knows…knows the story. Give him my pendant. You promised.”

  “I know. I will.”
/>   “Thanks.” Nora rolled her head toward Paul. Everything was so dark. “Darling?”

  “Honey?” He took her hand. She could barely feel it.

  “I’m sorry.” All she could see was Paul’s face, the tears streaming down his cheeks. Don’t cry, darling. I can’t bear it.

  “Paul,” Luis rasped, “if you’ve got anything to say, say it now.”

  Paul gazed through the swirling black fog into her eyes. “I…I love you…so much.”

  Nora tried to speak but couldn’t find her lips. Her last conscious thought before her long slide into absolute blackness was, I know.

  75

  TUESDAY, 18 MAY

  McGinley found Ojeda jacked up against a big industrial shelf unit in the warehouse, zip-tied, a DEA troop holding a carbine on him. “Son, I’ll take this one.”

  That’s when he noticed the bodies on the floor. One of his boys, a medic, strapped a folding splint on a civilian man’s leg. McGinley didn’t know the man—he looked the right color for a Mex—but he did know the dead woman next to him. He didn’t like what she was, but she was a gutsy lady, he’d give her that. “Well, shit.”

  “Yeah.” Ojeda stood rubbing the red stripes the plasticuffs had left on his wrists, looking like someone had taken away all his favorite toys. “Think you guys took long enough?” He sounded mad, and McGinley didn’t blame him for it.

  “Weren’t my call. My chain in D.C. wouldn’t make a decision. Then the DEA got the ‘go’ and all sudden like, we got tasked to support the drug dogs.” When the medic charged away, McGinley pointed to the Mex man with the bum leg. “Who’s he?”

  “Paul Khaled,” the man croaked. “Her husband.”

  Ojeda told McGinley, “He took one in the thigh, busted his leg. He’ll need a hospital.”

  “But not one in the States, right?”

  “There’s a couple big ones downtown here. They’ll be fine. Cheaper, too.”

  And lots of practice with bullet wounds. “The little ones?”

  “Safe. Peter’s here, hiding, I need to get him. Hope’s at the church.”