He peered through the windshield, which had quickly become a battlefield of slaughtered swamp bugs. Miles turned on the wipers in an effort to clear them—but it was as if they were beating against a monsoon.
When the road ended, they were in a small clearing all by themselves. Miles stopped the car.
“I guess this is it,” Miles said. He tapped the steering wheel, once, twice, peering nervously from side to side. Miles might’ve felt half responsible for Paul’s predicament, but it seemed like he might be having second thoughts about actually accompanying him. “What’s the protocol with drug deals? Half-hour waiting time?” He looked at his watch. “We’re five minutes early.”
Paul said, “Are you sure this is it?”
“No.”
“Great. Just checking.”
Ten minutes went by. Miles commented on the weather, then immediately ran out of small things to say. Paul understood. Making conversation when you’re scared shitless was an effort. Paul rubbed his hands together and attempted to swallow his own dry spit.
Paul heard the car first.
“Someone’s coming,” he said.
A minute later a blue Mercedes-Benz emerged out of the cattails and came to a lurching stop about twenty feet from them.
Both cars sat there, facing each other.
“Okay,” Miles said after a good minute went by, “I guess we get out.”
Miles flipped the trunk switch, pushed his door open, and gingerly stepped out of the car. Paul followed.
They met at the back of the car.
“You want to hold it?” Miles said. “Or me?” The well-traveled black bag was peeking out from under an old tarp.
“I’ll take it,” Paul said. “I’m the one who was supposed to deliver it in the first place.”
He pulled his bag out. No one had gotten out of the other car. It was still sitting there, its engine idling, no discernible movement from inside.
“Did you hear the one about the lawyer and the actuary?” Miles said.
“No.”
“Me either.”
They approached the Mercedes side by side. It reminded Paul of a western—just about every western ever made, where the two lawmen stride toward the gunslingers shoulder-to-shoulder in the movie’s final showdown. As a responsible actuary he would be remiss not to mention that legions of western heroes had defied the odds—roughly fifty-fifty—of getting their heads blown off.
The Mercedes’ driver’s door opened. Two men stepped out of the car. They might’ve been car salesmen. No mirrored sunglasses, heavy gold chains, or garish tattoos. Instead, they wore well-pressed chinos and golf shirts. One in a powder-blue Izod, the other opting for a striped Polo.
The driver—he was in Polo—nodded at them. “You guys look a little nervous.”
Okay, Paul thought, give him points for being perceptive.
“Which one’s Paul, huh?” he asked. He spoke with a noticeable accent—Colombian, Paul assumed. His voice was high-pitched, almost girlish.
Paul had to restrain himself from raising his hand.
“Me. I’m Paul.” They’d stopped about five feet from each other. The black bag seemed to be growing heavier by the second.
The driver nodded, slapped his neck. “Fucking mosquitoes. I’m gonna get West Nile.” When he took his hand away, there was a blotch of bright blood on his neck.
He looked at Miles. “Who are you, my friend?”
“His lawyer,” Miles said.
“His lawyer?” He laughed and turned to his companion. “Fuck me, I don’t have a lawyer.” He turned back to them. “Are we going to have to sign papers or something?”
Miles said, “No papers. If you could just make sure they give him his wife and daughter back.”
“Hey, don’t know what you’re talking about. Not my job,” he said, affecting a thicker accent for comic effect. No one laughed. “I’m here to sight the white, okay?”
“Okay,” Miles said.
Paul remained silent. Good thing. He was too scared to speak.
“So, boss?” the driver said. “You here to give me the bag or ask me to dance?” The other man laughed.
Paul held the bag out at arm’s length.
“Open it,” the driver said. “I like to see what’s inside first.”
Paul laid it on the dirt ground and zipped it open. When he bent down, he felt light-headed and nearly tipped over. Something began humming in the swamp, an überhum, the biggest insect in the pond.
The driver stepped forward and gazed down at the bag.
“Huh? Looks like fucking rubbers to me.” He had a lazy left eye; he seemed to be looking in two directions at once.
Paul started to explain. “They’re filled with—”
“Shit, I know what they’re filled with. I’m goofing with you, boss.” He smiled. “Let’s take one out and make sure, okay?”
When Paul hesitated, the man said, “You do it. No offense, but they were up your ass.” He turned to his pal. “Culero, eh?”
The insect hum had gotten louder—Paul’s ears were ringing. Paul reached into the bag and took out a condom, neatly tied in a knot by one of those women back in Colombia. He held it out in his now seriously sweating palm.
The driver pulled something out of his pocket.
Click. A sinuously shiny blade caught the light. Paul tensed, and Miles took one step back.
“Relax, muchachos.” He gripped Paul’s hand, almost gently, and pointed the blade straight down. Paul wondered if the man noticed his hand was shaking.
He did.
“Don’t worry,” he said to Paul. “I’ve only slipped a couple of times.”
He flicked the blade at Paul’s palm. When Paul twitched, he laughed and did it again. The other man—the one wearing the Izod with the little green alligator—said something in Spanish. He had a thin, almost whispery voice.
The driver jabbed the end of the blade into the condom, opening up a tiny slit. He was reaching down to scoop up some of the white powder onto his finger when something happened.
It was that hum.
It had grown even louder, annoyingly loud, as if it were causing vibrations in the ground itself. You wanted to shout shut up, to swat whatever it was with a newspaper, to crunch it under your shoe.
It would have been useless, though. Using your shoe.
The two cars plowed out of the cattails at about the same time.
Jeeps, the kind with fat, deeply treaded tires and juiced-up engines. They were belching black smoke and closing fast.
The man looked up and slapped his neck again. And just like last time, his hand came away with smeared blood.
“They shot me,” he said.
He grabbed the bag and ran. The other man too. They vanished into the cattails. Polo and Izod.
Paul felt frozen to the spot. It took something whizzing past his ear and puck-pucking into the ground about a foot from his left shoe to actually get him to move. That, and Miles, who grabbed his right arm and yelled, “Run.”
He scrambled after Miles into the weeds.
He could hear this behind him: the sound of rumbling engines being shut off, of car doors slamming, of shouts and screams and war whoops. He thought westerns again: the outlaw band riding into town on a Saturday night intent on letting off a little steam, firing their six-shooters into the air. Jeep Riders in the Sky.
Only they were shooting semiautomatics, and they were shooting them in their direction.
Paul ran straight through the cattails, dry thin stalks whipping his face and arms. He followed the shape of Miles’ disappearing body. The ground wasn’t conducive to running for your life—it was wet, thick, and mucky. Ten seconds into the weeds his socks were soaked to the skin.