by Steve Brewer
Rita Gutierrez felt giddy as she climbed into the towering cab. She'd never ridden in a big rig before, and she'd eagerly volunteered when she and El Gűero were deciding how to get this load of weapons out of Albuquerque. She'd sensed El Gűero didn't want to ride with Jackie anyhow. He wanted to always be the one behind the wheel. The fact that Jackie could drive the enormous truck and he couldn't somehow wounded his pride. El Gűero might look like his fair-skinned German forebears, but he was a macho Mexican male, through and through.
He'd even hesitated in handing over a pistol for Rita to use. He always wanted to be the one handling the firearms, too. But she couldn't control Jackie without one, so El Gűero had given her the smaller pistol, the shiny one he'd brought with him on the private jet. He kept Duvernay's big Army .45 for himself.
Nothing phallic about that, Rita mused.
The smaller gun made more sense for her anyway, especially when she was climbing up into the cab in her pointy-toed shoes, her shoulder bag knocking around, in her way. She opened the door and hoisted herself inside.
Jackie easily swung up into the cab, dropping into the seat behind the wheel as if she were born to drive these rigs. Rita sat against the passenger-side door, turned toward Jackie, the pistol pointed her way so she wouldn't get any ideas.
The cab stank of ancient cigarette smoke, but the seat was comfortable. From up in the cab, Rita could see the whole gravel lot and the roofs of nearby buildings.
El Gűero waved both arms above his head as he backed up to the open garage door, getting into place, ready to direct them inside. All they needed to do was back up ten meters or so, in a curve, to line up the hitch of the truck with the front of the trailer.
The engine rumbled to life when Jackie turned the key, and the seat beneath Rita vibrated as the truck settled into a throaty idle. Nice. She settled into the seat, holding the pistol with both hands.
As Jackie shifted the truck into gear, Rita turned her head, checking the side mirror to see El Gűero behind them.
Jackie popped the clutch, but the truck didn't go backward as Rita expected. It lurched forward a few feet and Jackie slammed the brakes.
Rita wasn't braced for the sudden stop. She went flying off the seat and crashed into the steel dashboard, her shoulder taking most of the impact as she tumbled into the floorboard.
Jackie popped the clutch and the truck jerked forward again. Rita's head cracked against the dash. Her vision blurred.
Where was the gun? She'd lost the pistol when she fell off the seat. Where had it gone? She made it onto all fours, her face near the gearshift as she felt around under the seat, trying to find the pistol.
Jackie cranked the steering wheel to the left as the truck surged forward, but she leaned away from the wheel long enough to swing a backhand fist at her passenger's face. The blow connected with her cheekbone, further stunning Rita, who fell back against the door.
Jackie hit the brakes, throwing Rita around some more, then jammed the gearshift into reverse. The truck backed up rapidly, but for only a short distance.
Rita saw what Jackie was doing. Turning around, so the truck would be pointed toward the open gate. Gun or no gun, Rita couldn't let that happen.
She got a foot under her and pulled herself up onto the seat. Then she lunged across the cab, her nails like claws, going for Jackie's eyes.
Jackie swung her arm up to protect herself, and her elbow caught Rita squarely in the forehead. Lights popped inside her skull as Rita's head snapped back.
She tumbled backward, slamming against the door.
Chapter 55
Jackie Nolan got both hands back on the wheel, but it was a second too late. The front bumper clipped one leg of the spidery diesel tank. The steel leg crumpled with a metallic shriek and the big rusty tank toppled over onto its side, squarely in front of the truck's headlights.
"Shit!"
The tank burst along a central seam as it hit the hard ground, sending rivets and shrapnel shooting into the air. A hundred gallons of diesel fuel geysered up from the crack, splashing everywhere, spilling toward the garage as it followed the slight contour of the lot.
Jackie ever so gently eased off the clutch. The truck lurched forward as the gears caught, and she spun the wheel, trying to steer around the spreading diesel fuel.
A thump to her right. She looked over to see a face appear in the passenger window. El Gűero. He'd leaped onto the truck while she was backing up, and now he'd reached the cab.
His girlfriend still was stunned, all her weight leaning against the door, and she fell right out when he opened the door. He tried to catch her, tried to hang on, but nothing worked and they both fell away into the night.
Jackie stomped the accelerator and the truck surged forward. The passenger door slammed shut as she wrenched the wheel to the left. Now the gate was straight ahead. Her escape route was clear.
She hit the brakes.
She couldn't leave it like this. Diesel spill or no, those guns were still intact inside the garage. The Mexican cartel would still end up with the rifles and the ammunition, and people still would be slaughtered.
Jackie checked her mirrors. El Gűero was helping Rita to her feet in the red glow of the truck's tail lights. Jackie couldn't see their guns anywhere, but the woman still had her purse with that wicked razor inside. For a second, Jackie was tempted to back up, to run them down, but that would make her no better than a murderer herself.
Instead, she reached for the one knob on the dashboard she'd never used before.
She pushed in the cigarette lighter.
Chapter 56
Rita Gutierrez tasted blood. She turned her head away from El Gűero and spat on the ground. The air reeked of diesel fumes, burning her sinuses and making her feel even dizzier. El Gűero gripped her under the arm, holding her steady so she wouldn't topple off her tall shoes.
Everything glowed red from the truck's bright tail lights. The towering garage, the broken diesel tank, the huge blot where the fuel soaked into the ground. The red lights reflected on the fuel that pooled against the wall of the garage, a hundred mirror images of the flaring brake lights—
Wait. Why had the truck stopped?
"Come on," El Gűero said to her. He was limping, but he held them both upright as they hurried away from the pool of diesel fuel. Rita stumbled along beside him, watching the rumbling truck over her shoulder.
A tiny orange light flew from the window of the cab, arcing through the night air to the pool of fuel, instantly igniting it in a roar. Flames whooshed up the side of the garage, climbing the wall. The blaze was so instantly intense, it felt as if the very air around them had caught fire.
Rita and El Gűero stumbled farther from the inferno, clutching at each other as the night filled with flickering firelight.
The big truck roared away, bouncing out the open gate into the street.
El Gűero stood Rita up on her high heels, hesitating just a moment to make sure she had her balance, then he scrambled back toward the flaming garage. She shouted behind him, but her words of alarm were swallowed up by the roar and crackle of the fire. He ducked low under the spiraling black smoke, going to the ground. He came up with the big black pistol in his hands, firing two booming rounds at the distant truck, which was turning onto First Street, getting away.
El Gűero sprinted after the truck, then veered left once he'd cleared the lake of fire. Rita lost sight of him for a moment behind the thick black smoke, then she realized he was going for their rental car, which was parked perilously close to the far end of the garage.
Orange smoke roiled out of the top of the building, illuminated from beneath by the roaring fire. Flames licked through the blackened metal siding as the fire climbed the building's wooden ribs. The whole garage would collapse into flames soon, and they had no way of moving those guns out of the way.
Only then did it occur to her what would happen when the fire reached the ammunition inside the trailer. She turned and limped after E
l Gűero.
They needed to get out of here.
Chapter 57
Jackie Nolan checked her mirrors as the truck growled through gears, building speed on First Street. No sign of the Mexican couple's blue sedan behind her, but she could see the orange glow of the growing fire and its spiral of smoke lighting up the sky above winter-bare trees.
She blew through a yellow light, someone honking at the intersection behind her, then let off the gas a little, bringing the bobtail truck closer to the speed limit. She rolled down her window, letting the rush of night air blow the stink of smoke and diesel fumes out of the cab. The cold slapped her cheek and froze her ear, but she needed the window open. She was trying to hear over the grumbling engine of the truck.
There. A crackling, popping sound, like distant firecrackers. Getting louder. The fire had reached the trailer and was setting off the ammunition. Like most semi trailers, its deck was made of narrow oak planks, not much different from the polished hardwood floors in people's homes. Once the flames reached that hot-burning floor, it was as if the boxes of bullets had been tossed into a roaring campfire.
She pictured the wooden crates catching fire, the polymer stocks of the rifles melting, the steel barrels warping into uselessness.
Was it worth all the trouble and noise?
A siren came to life nearby, which caused her heart to jump, then she saw it was a fire truck pulling out of a station two blocks ahead, red lights flashing. She downshifted and hit the brakes, slowing and making room as the fire truck roared past her.
Jackie got her father's Kenworth up to speed again, checking her mirrors. Glowing smoke coiled up from the gravel lot, thick as a tornado. She prayed that none of the firefighters would get injured by the crackling bullets.
Still no sign of the blue sedan. Had the Mexicans gotten caught in the fire? Jackie had to admit, she wouldn't feel too bad if it turned out they hadn't survived. She'd done what she had to do to rid the world of those weapons. They shouldn't have been standing so close when it happened.
She shuddered as she remembered what they'd done to Howard. She was sure something even worse had awaited her if she hadn't made her move.
Now that she'd survived, the worst thing, really, was that the fire would attract the attention of the authorities to her father's garage. It wouldn't be long before the police traced the ownership of the property to her mother, which would lead them right to Jackie.
She had no faith they would believe her story, that destroying the rifles and ammo had been the only way to keep them out of the hands of the Mexican drug cartels. In her mind, she'd done something heroic. But the cops likely wouldn't see it the same way. They'd see arson, destruction of property, grand theft auto, maybe even murder.
Jackie needed to get out of town before the police connected her to the truck thefts and the deaths and the fire. She needed to ditch this rumbling truck and pick up her Mom and get the hell out of Albuquerque.
Chapter 58
Rita Gutierrez pressed the back of her hand to her nose, trying to keep out the stench of scorched paint. The front end of the rental car had bubbled and charred in the heat before El Gűero backed it away from the spreading fire, and it smelled terrible.
They were going north, the way Jackie had gone, but they had no real hope of catching up to her. Mostly, they were putting distance between themselves and that inferno.
Rita ached all over from her fall from the tall truck, especially her right shoulder and hip, which had taken the brunt of the landing on the gravelly ground. Her forehead throbbed from the cracking Jackie had given her, and she felt sure her face was bruising. Her hose were shredded at the knees and her shoes and leather clothes were smeared with dirt. She stank of diesel.
"You okay?" El Gűero asked.
"Nothing is broken. You?"
"I'll live, but this suit is ruined."
She looked over at him as they stopped for a red light. His face was streaked with black smudges, and he held his elbows close to his body, as if protecting injured ribs. His gray suit was dusty in places and muddy in others, and the shoulder of the jacket had been ripped open along the seam so that white padding peeked out. His blond hair was curled and crispy on the ends, where it had been licked by a flame.
"Dios mio," she said. "It's a miracle you didn't go up in blazes."
"It was a close one," he said. "But I had to get this car. Without it, we didn't stand a chance of getting away. We would've been arrested on the spot."
Another fire truck flew past, siren screaming. Rita put her fingers in her ears until it was out of sight.
So much noise. They'd expected a quiet little operation. Get in, pick up the guns, get them transported across the border. Do a little shopping and fly home. But Jackie Nolan had interfered. And now the guns were gone. Their bosses back in Mexico would be unhappy about the loss, but they'd be really unhappy about all the noise.
"It's too bad Jackie got away."
"No, it's okay," he said.
"How can you say that?"
He looked over at her, a smug smile on his smoke-smudged face.
"I know where she's going."
Chapter 59
Jackie Nolan shifted the truck to its lowest gear to inch into the parking lot of the Travelodge. The motel had extra-large parking spaces out back for semis pulling trailers, but Jackie spotted two regular spots side by side and wedged her dad's Kenworth into the gap.
The El Camino was right where she'd left it, two spaces from their motel room, and she could see from up in the cab that the luggage still sat in the bed. A pleasant surprise.
Jackie locked up the Kenworth and climbed down from the cab. She hurried around to the driver's side of the El Camino, sorting through her keys to find the right one.
She unlocked the car's door and bent down to look inside. The duffel bag sat in the floorboard, barely concealing the lines of the sawed-off shotgun. Jackie never would've thought she could be so happy to see a gun.
Once behind the wheel of the El Camino, she cranked up the engine and listened to it purr, the General Motors power plant still doing the job after forty years of loving care. Jackie rolled down her window to let in the night air as she backed out of the parking space.
A light blue car pulled into the parking lot, catching her in its headlight glare, and Jackie froze for a second, afraid that the Mexicans had caught up to her. But the car drove past, and she saw it was nothing like their rental car. Different make, different model.
She took a deep breath and tried to get hold of herself. She needed to keep her wits about her, keep her nerve, just a little while longer. Then she and her mother would get free of the city, leaving their pursuers behind.
Don't kid yourself, she thought, you'll never be entirely free now. The drug cartels don't just shrug and give up when somebody burns up a truckload of their valuable goods. They'd send people to hunt her, relentless people. And they'd keep sending them until they got the job done.
Even if Jackie could land somewhere new under a new identity, she'd still be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life. Had it been worth it, burning up those guns? In exchange for the lives she'd saved, had she surrendered her own future? Her mother's?
Jackie shook her head to clear the dark thoughts. No time for that now. She needed to get to safety. Everything else was secondary.
She wheeled the El Camino around in the parking lot and pointed it toward Carlisle. A last glance at her Dad's truck, which stood out like a big toe in a row of pinkies, then Jackie zoomed away.
Chapter 60
Special Agent Romeo Sandoval knelt before the frail-looking, gray-haired woman, smiling up into her worried face. He didn't think he was getting through to her, but he kept trying.
"Mrs. Nolan? Who were those people in the car with Jackie? Do you know them?"
She shook her head, but the movement was so subtle he couldn't be sure it wasn't a tremor of some kind. A shiver seemed to run through her occasionally, but he
couldn't tell if that was fright or cold or some symptom of her decline.
"You didn't know them?"
Nothing. She seemed to be staring at his chest, even though he'd gotten down to her level. He couldn't get her to meet his gaze.
Marge Nolan sat in a comfy chair in the living room of the Moore home. The chair's upholstery matched the rest of the tweedy, no-nonsense furniture in the room. The walls were covered in family photos going back generations, new babies and smiling graduates and beaming brides.
Rose Moore stood in the arched doorway that led into her kitchen, wringing her hands. She was a plump African-American woman dressed in comfy blue scrubs and thick-soled nurse shoes. She had kind eyes, but Romeo could tell from the set of her mouth that she wished this trouble hadn't landed at her home.
"Mrs. Nolan?" he tried again. "Mrs. Nolan? Do you know who was in the car with Jackie?"
Nothing for a second, then she looked up at him, her blue eyes suddenly focused and sharp.
"That woman had a straight razor," she said, clear as day. "Just like the one my father used to use."
"What woman?"
"You don't see those much anymore."
Marge Nolan nodded, as if confirming what she'd said. Then she went back to staring blankly at his chest.
"What woman, Mrs. Nolan? Was she in the car?"
No response.
"She had a straight razor?"
"You don't see those much anymore," she repeated, her voice now a mumble. "No, you don't."
Romeo glanced over at Rose Moore, but she was no help. She shook her head, nothing she could do, as they watched Marge slip away again.
"Mrs. Nolan?"
Romeo was starting to feel desperate. He remembered what the APD detective, Holmes, had told him about the body of Howard Bell, how he'd been cut up all over before he died. Is that what Jackie was facing now?
"Mrs. Nolan? Can you hear me? I need your help, Mrs. Nolan. I need to find Jackie. Do you know where she is?"