Yeager's Law

by Scott Bell

  “Do what?”

  “Turn into such a ninja warrior and, uh, take care of all those guys with guns.”

  The elevator clunked to a stop, and she pushed the button for the doors. He didn’t speak for so long that she thought he wouldn’t answer.

  It wasn’t until they were in the apartment and he had dropped the bags by the door that he murmured, “You mean, how’d I kill so easy?” He crossed to the sofa and sat back with a sigh.

  She snuggled next to him. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”

  “No, it’s best you know who you’re tangled up with.” But then, he turned silent, staring at the far wall. His eyes seemed to lose focus.

  His voice, when it came, sounded as if rubbed across fine grit sandpaper. “In Afghanistan, there was a time the Tally-ban started using women and kids as suicide bombers. Didn’t make the U.S. news all that much, but nothin’ those people do to women in that country makes the news. My first tour. My first time in the field. Green as grass. We’re manning a checkpoint on a road to nowhere, from somewhere else. Stopping traffic, checking for insurgents, you know. Insurgents, my ass. Terrorist, chickenshit, backstabbing bastards is what they were. I guess that don’t make the papers much, either.”

  She made a sympathetic noise in her throat and rested her head on his chest. She trailed her fingers in gentle patterns on his thigh.

  “Anyway,” he continued, sounding annoyed at his own bitterness, “men, we were ready for. Women, we were ready for. Then this kid wearing a jacket comes out of nowhere. It’s, like, a hundred and ninety degrees, and the kid’s wearing a jacket. He’s approaching on foot, out of the middle of nowhere. All of us could tell something was wrong with his eyes, with the way he walked. He sort of stumble-shuffled. It was wrong, you know? Just wrong.”

  “We tell him to halt, but he keeps coming, kind of stumblin’ and draggin’ his feet, like he’s some kinda zombie. The sergeant on the checkpoint, a real badass and a tough sonofabitch, he starts yellin’ that if he don’t stop, we’ll shoot, blah, blah, blah, all that, you know.”

  “Of course, he didn’t stop. He gets closer, and I can see it’s a skinny kid, not much older than David. Sweat’s runnin’ down his face, and his eyes are zoned out. About thirty feet away, he reaches for his chest. All the guys knew what the kid was about to do. Even the sarge knew. But none of them wanted to… to take the shot. It’s not how we’re raised, you know? To shoot a kid. But soon as he reached for his chest, I didn’t hesitate. Three rounds, head shot.”

  He deflated with an extended sigh. “The kid was strapped with an explosive vest packed with ball bearings and nails. He’d gotten any closer and tripped that switch…”

  She put her hand on his. “But you did what you had to do. You saved their lives. You shouldn’t feel bad about that.”

  “He still haunts my dreams. Now. But at the time it happened… no hesitation. Boom! I dropped him like a can of toxic waste. I do the hard thing when I need to. Took me a while to figure out that other people don’t… or can’t. I’ve always done the hard thing without thinking about it. It’s like a… which one is it that’s the monster, Jekyll or Hyde?”

  “Hyde.”

  “Right. Always get those confused. It’s like there’s a Hyde in me, waitin’, ready to come out and tear ass. I invented these silly rules. I call ’em Yeager’s Laws. The first law is: Come home at the end of the day.” He looked at her with a grim smile. “Not original, I know, but it helps.”

  “Well, I’m glad we got to come home. Thank you.”

  He waved her off. “Have to think I brought the trouble, so you got nothing you need to thank me for.”

  “Aside from last night.”

  He laughed, breaking the seriousness from his face like a clay mask. “Yeah, there is that, of course. If you recall, I got something outta that deal, too. I’ve been pretty much a robot these past few months. I feel like I’m coming back to life after being in a coffin.”

  He put his arm around her, pulling her close. She breathed in his scent and soaked up his heat, which seemed to radiate off him like pavement on a hot day. For some reason, she felt safe with him, despite the story he’d just told. She would need time to think about that new information and decide how she felt about it.

  But in the meantime… “Hungry?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I could eat. Woman like you around, I’m likely to waste away.”

  “Can’t have that,” she said, getting up from the sofa. “Let me see if I can find some sandwich fixings.”

  She strolled to the kitchen and rooted around in the fridge. Pulling out bread, sliced lunch meat, and mayonnaise, she called, “Is turkey and mayo okay?”

  “Sounds like heaven.”

  Smiling, she pulled out the chopping board and started humming “Edge of Seventeen.” Going to the sink and washing a tomato, a strong sense of déjà vu hit her. She’d been standing in that exact spot the night everything had started. She looked out the window again, remembering the scene of the five men coming down the alley, sneaking past Abel’s truck.

  A flash of orange outside drew her attention. A Dodge Challenger, one of the new ones, was creeping down the alley. Her heart gave a heavy thud, but the car kept on, moving down the narrow lane until it was out of sight. But something else looked wrong.

  “Abel?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you move your truck?”

  “No, why?” he asked, coming into the kitchen.

  “Did the police take it?”

  Frowning. “Nooo… not that they told me. Why?”

  “Because it’s gone.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “Hola!”

  “Victor.” Yeager hunched over his laptop, his cell phone clamped between his cheek and shoulder.

  “Oh, man, don’ tell me you’re in jail again.”

  “Not this time, buddy. But I’ve got some trouble.”

  “No shit? What a surprise.”

  “Listen, man,” Yeager said. “They took my truck.”

  “Who took your truck?”

  “Hijackers, I guess.”

  “Didn’t you kill all those guys?”

  “I reckon not. Least not all of them.”

  “Well, shit, esé. What is it about your crappy old Peterbilt, huh? Ever’body wants to steal it?”

  “I guess it’s a good thing we installed that GPS thing, huh?”

  “You got him? You know where it is?”

  “Yep, I know where it is,” Yeager said. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that it’s already in Mexico.”

  “Damn, dude, that’s a long way from Austin. Where you been all this time? Taking a nap?”

  “Something like that, yeah.” Yeager tapped the mouse pad, zooming the map while trying to ignore the heat creeping up his neck. “They crossed the border down by Falcon. Going through Nueva Ciudad Guerrero now.”

  “How’d they get across the border? No, forget I said that. These are pros, no? What do you want to do?”

  “I want you to go to the Locker and load up the Huey then give me a ride down to Mexico.”

  After a short silence, Victor asked, “The Locker, homes? You serious?”

  “I’m done screwing around, Por Que. I need firepower. The cops took my .45. And I need a ride down there.”

  “So you want me to fly you across the border now?”

  “Yep.”

  “Man, I have customers, you know. Contracts and shit. I’m supposed to say, Sorry man, but I got a gringo compadre needs to go steal back his piece-of-shit truck?”

  “When did you turn into a citizen, Por Que?”

  “Ah, man. That hurts.”

  “I’m offering you a chance to load up with all kinds of guns, fly a dangerous mission into enemy territory, assault an unknown number of hostiles, and you’re whining about customers?”

  Victor paused. “You mean I get to shoot things? Well, shit, man. You din’t say that.”

  “I’ll
jump on the first thing smokin’ into McAllen then call with an ETA. Gimme thirty mikes.”

  “Cool. What you want out of the Locker?”

  “Bring it all, Por Que,” Yeager said. “Bring it all.”

  Yeager thumbed off the cell and pulled up a travel site on the Internet to find the first flight from Austin to McAllen. He felt the weight of Charlie’s stare and realized she’d been quiet since she gave him her WiFi password. He looked at her standing at the end of the sofa, but he couldn’t read her expression. They hadn’t been together long enough for him to learn her moods and gestures.

  “What?” he asked.

  “What’s the locker?”

  “Me’n Victor, we’ve been dabbling in the gun business—the legal gun business—since we were old enough to know which end to point downrange. We’ve put together a little collection we keep in a storage place. By now, we could pretty much take over a small country. At least for an hour or so.”

  She moved a vase on the table a half inch to the right. “What are you thinking about doing?” Her tone was neutral.

  He sighed. “I’m going to get my truck back.”

  “Simple as that?”

  He pursed his lips. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation, Abel.” She sat on the chair across from him. She reached out and moved the vase back a quarter inch to the left. “It’s not like we’re married. I just…” She picked at the arm of the chair, plucking at imaginary lint.

  Yeager concentrated on the computer screen, typing the information for a one-way trip from Austin to McAllen. Nothing direct. Damn.

  “Why don’t you file with the insurance company? Why risk everything sneaking into Mexico and tangling with another bunch of hijackers?” Charlie’s questions came in a matter-of-fact tone, not judging and not whining. She looked more puzzled than anything else.

  He opened his mouth to answer but found that he didn’t have a good response. Why was he in a lather to get into a fight? What did he have to gain?

  “Look at it this way, Abel,” Charlie said briskly. “You’re out on bail for multiple homicides. We know it was self-defense and you’re not going to jail for it—knock on wood—but what if you get caught crossing the border into Mexico? How’s that going to look? They’ll bring you back and throw you in jail until your trial, which could take months.” She shook her head, tossing her thick red hair back over one shoulder. “And I don’t want to even think what would happen if the Mexicans caught you starting a war in their country. They’ll lock you up, and you’ll never be seen again.”

  Yeager scrolled down his list of flight results without really seeing it. Dammit, she made too much sense. He had no rational argument against anything she’d said. In the process of waking up from his long self-imposed sleep, his aggressive reactions had bubbled to the surface. His instincts clamored at him to hunt, to fight, to kill if need be, and to take back what was his. How to explain that in words? Everything that came to mind made him sound more like a dangerous animal than a rational human being.

  He tried out a wry grin. “Um. I’m trying to save the deductible?”

  She gave him an indulgent smile. “And so, if you get the truck back, where are you? Stuck in an occupation you don’t want, fighting an uphill battle to make ends meet.” She came around the coffee table and knelt in front of him, hands on his thighs. “Maybe this is a sign that it’s time to move on. We don’t really know each other at all, but that’s something I want to change. If you go off and get arrested or… or maybe killed, then I lose that chance. I’m too selfish to want that to happen.” She squeezed his thighs. “Maybe it’s time to change direction.”

  “Damn. I hate a sensible woman.”

  “That’s not what you said last night.”

  “Last night, you weren’t sensible at all.”

  She stroked his legs, moving her hands higher and higher. “But I am now. Being sensible, I mean. I want you to stay here so we can get to know each other.”

  Yeager fought his anger, shoving it back toward its cage. The need to take action, to find the people who kept messing with him, boiled up from that spot in his hind-brain where his killer-self lived, a piece of himself he assumed long buried. “Charlie… ” He paused, deciding what to say. “Charlie, I don’t know if I can let it go.”

  She didn’t reply, so he thought about it some more, watching her long, slim hands move on his thighs. How good would it feel to sit here and let her work her magic? Images kept popping into his head, derailing his train of thought: pale soft skin under his fingers; her legs, open and inviting; her head thrown back, eyes clenched, biting her lower lip.

  He shook his head, forcing himself to think straight. “Let me call Victor back and tell him to stand down, at least for the night. I’ll sleep on it, decide in the morning. Sound fair?”

  “Hmm. More than fair. Help me with this zipper, would you, sweetie?”

  Hacienda Del Norte

  Northern Mexico

  Enrique DaSilva stared at the handcuffed man in front of him. The prisoner was young, early twenties, with close-cropped hair. He sported a bloody nose and the beginning of a swollen right eye.

  “Do you know who I am?” DaSilva asked.

  The man twisted in slow circles, hanging by his cuffed wrists from a hook mounted to the ceiling’s crossbeam. He gave a small head toss as if he didn’t care, still acting tough.

  “I am DaSilva.”

  The man’s eyes widened, and he stared at DaSilva, his nostrils flexing. Sweat stained the collar of his T-shirt and dripped from the tip of his nose to join the pool of blood on the floor. Even late in the evening, the stables retained the heat of the day. A bare bulb, fly-specked and dingy, cast a yellow light, leaving most of the stall shadowed. The smell of dust and old hay mingled with the man’s fear-sweat odor.

  DaSilva stepped forward. “The name on your identification says Juan Gomez. But the hidden documents in your bag say Hector Castillo. Which is your real name? And how did you come to be driving a truck full of my money?”

  “Money!” The word burst from the prisoner in an explosive gasp. His mouth gaped. A man who had the winning lottery ticket, but lost it, would look much the same. “But… there was no money.”

  “I have chased this truck all the way from St. Louis.” DaSilva paced behind the hanging man, who craned his neck, trying to follow the movement with his eyes. “We were ready to take possession of our… misplaced goods in Austin when, like magic, there is no truck.” DaSilva made a poof gesture. “We are forced to chase it again, this time following someone who has stolen it. All the way, I ask my men: Who would steal a truck if they didn’t know what was in it? No, it must be someone aware of all the money in the back, hidden in the books. And when I call ahead and arrange to stop this truck, I find you at the driver’s wheel.”

  DaSilva made his way around to stand in front of the captive. “So I ask again: Your name?”

  The man didn’t respond.

  DaSilva nodded at Pedro, who uncoiled from his position by the stall door, took one step, and punched the captive in the crotch. The cuffed man woofed and tried to curl up, but hanging from the ceiling prevented it. All he could do was groan and twist in a slow circle, his knees half raised.

  “Your name?” DeSilva prompted.

  “Cas-Castillo,” the man said through gritted teeth, his eyes clenched shut.

  “And who do you work for?”

  Silence.

  DaSilva held out his hand, and Pedro dropped a heavy lock-back knife into it. With a flick of his thumb, DaSilva flipped out the blade. He snagged Castillo’s right ear and cut it off.

  Castillo screamed.

  DaSilva tucked the hunk of flesh into the man’s pants pocket. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. Who do you work for?” he asked, enunciating each word as if speaking to an especially difficult child.

  Castillo blubbered, snot running from his nose. Blood ran down the side of his face and stained his shirt collar.<
br />
  The stall door swung open, and the specialist who had worked on Dmitri in St. Louis entered the cubicle. He wore a plain gray work shirt and gray chinos held up by a black belt. He carried a tool kit.

  Finally, we’ll get some answers. “I am glad you have come, old friend,” DaSilva said.

  The specialist nodded in respect and set his tool box down in the corner.

  “I want to know everything,” DaSilva told him. “Who this man works for. How they discovered our operation in St. Louis. How they knew which truck to go after. Most importantly, find out where the money is.”

  “Sí, Don DaSilva.”

  DaSilva glared at the prisoner. Castillo was more than halfway broken already. It would not take long for the specialist to finish the job. DaSilva spun on his heel, handing Pedro the knife as he passed. Pedro followed as he turned left down the central breezeway.

  At the entrance, Emilio Santos, a burly man in a too-tight polo shirt, slacks, and cowboy boots, hustled across the paved yard to meet them. Santos ran La Hacienda del Norte, a waypoint in the cartel’s pipeline of drugs headed north. La Hacienda housed a small number of workers and guards among the ranch’s buildings and storage areas, along with a significant weapons cache. Located to the east of Monterrey, it had seemed the logical place to bring the truck once they’d intercepted it an hour south of the border.

  The last of the day died with an orange glow to the west, and the first stars began to dot the cobalt sky. The breeze blew away the stuffy heat and smell of the horse barn.

  “Well?” DaSilva demanded. He kept walking toward the ranch house, Santos falling into step beside him. Pedro followed at a discreet distance, close enough to hear but far enough back to maintain respect.

  “Nothing,” Santos reported. “We stripped every pallet. The money is gone.”

  “Damn it. What else?”

  “The truck belongs to an owner-operator out of McAllen, a North American called Yeager. We also found a bag we think belongs to the man in there.” Santos jerked his head in the direction of the horse barn. “It contained some forged papers, along with a laptop and a portable printer. The laptop has some blank templates for more Customs documents. Typical for hijackers.”