“Now you must choose,” he said. “If there is no response, they will worry.” He winked at her. “I know what I would do.”
“And what am I to choose?” Estelle asked. She could picture Gayle Torrez on the radio, counting the seconds until she repeated the message. Tapia draped the mike’s cord over her arm, and she took it with her left hand. A word or two, and every cop in the county would descend on them, enough weapons to start a small war. Odds were good that Manolo Tapia would die, and there was a good chance that he might take some of them with him, even though his only weapons appeared to be two handguns and now the pump shotgun in the rack.
“Ten-six, ten-eighty, ten-eighty-five,” she said, keying the mike. Tapia’s eyes narrowed, but he made no move to take the mike. She handed it back to him, Maybe it was a grimace, perhaps a grin, but he shrugged philosophically.
“So now they know,” he said.
“Now they know.”
She watched as he shifted the pistol and lowered the hammer. She took a breath, relieved that the threat had been reduced, seven or eight pounds now required to snap the double-action trigger. For a long time, he rode in silence, one hand holding the Beretta, the other arm crossed in front of him, hand grasping the molded assist handle on the windshield post.
“Is Hector well?” he said after a moment.
“Why is that important?” She regarded him with interest. “How is your nephew somehow worth more than the three Salvadorans you left dead in the desert? Or more than Mr. Hansen, whom my deputy says you killed without an instant’s negotiation? Or my deputy, whose hip you ruined?”
“I had no choice with your deputy, señora. I did only what I had to do for self-preservation. He fights like the lion. You can be proud.”
“Anyone fights for his life, señor. And that is exactly what your nephew is doing. Hector will tell us what we need to know.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. Then you do not know the boy. He may steal your heart, but beyond that, my son is like the tempered steel. And he is so eager to learn.”
Estelle looked across at Tapia sharply. “Your son?”
The assassin ducked his head in self-deprecation, and let his left hand slide down his leg. He leaned forward, the Beretta still focused on Estelle, and lightly touched his ankle. “Ah. My wits are not as sharp as they should be. I tell you more than you need to know. But yes.” He straightened up and sat back, pulling himself upright in the seat, taking the weight off his leg. “Hector is my son. And I cannot simply leave him now. I am amused that he referred to me as merely an uncle. Clever.”
He reached for the microphone, and as if his touch had triggered the signal, Sheriff Robert Torrez’s quiet voice floated from the speaker.
“Three-ten, three-oh-eight.”
Tapia looked quizzically at Estelle.
“Now what?” she asked, and he frowned, his eyes going hard. He rapped her smartly on the forearm with the silencer, and she flinched.
“Who is this?”
“That would be the sheriff,” she replied. She gripped the steering wheel hard, flexing the fingers of her right hand, feeling the deep ache of the bruise.
“Reply to him,” Tapia said, once more handing her the mike. “He must keep his distance.”
“Three-oh-eight, three-ten, go ahead.”
“Ten-twenty?”
Estelle hesitated. There was a certain safety in keeping Tapia isolated out in the desert. The killer leaned toward her, obviously making his own decision. “Give it to me.” She did so, and he palmed the mike expertly, as if he’d had considerable experience. “You must have children?” he asked Estelle, not yet keying the mike.
“That is no concern of yours.”
“If one of them is threatened, imagine how you would feel, you see,” he said. “If someone were holding your son, you would do anything you could to see his release. You know that.”
“My son is not a killer. He doesn’t steal airplanes and cross international borders. He doesn’t chauffeur professional hit men.”
Tapia laughed. “¡Caramba! Such fire,” he said, and lifted the microphone. “But he is still my son. Now, what is the sheriff’s name?”
“Robert Torrez.”
“He is the person who can make decisions?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Señor Torrez, can you hear me?”
“Go ahead.” The sheriff’s tone was guarded.
“Good. This is what you must do.” Tapia released the transmit button for a second as he collected his thoughts. As he broke in, Torrez’s tone was blunt and unequivocal.
“Ten-twenty-one. Three-oh-eight out.”
Tapia looked across at Estelle quizzically. “He wants you to use the phone,” she said. “You have mine in your pocket.” He fished the small phone out and opened it. “Press auto-dial, then eight,” she instructed. He did so, and in a moment the connection went through.
“Señor Torrez? Are you there?” Estelle could not hear Torrez’s reply, but she knew it would be monosyllabic. “What I want is very simple. I have your delightful undersheriff with me.” He glanced at Estelle again. “And you have my son, Hector. There is nothing more simple, no?” The sheriff said something cryptic, and Estelle found herself straining to hear his voice. “So,” Tapia said. “I don’t think you understand. Perhaps you can imagine that someday a hiker might find the bleached bones of your undersheriff somewhere in the Mexican desert. No? You care so much about keeping my son that you would allow that to happen? I don’t think so.”
Tapia listened briefly, tapping the muzzle of the silencer on his thigh.
“This is what you will do,” he interrupted. “Now listen to me. You are familiar with the small private strip, I’m sure. The one owned by the gas company? I believe you already have had some business there. So. You will leave the boy standing by himself on the east end of that runway, right by the dirt road that passes by. You will leave him there, and clear the area. If I see anyone as we approach, anyone at all, that will close the agreement. You know what will happen. When we have picked up the boy unharmed, and are well away, I will release your undersheriff unharmed. But only then.”
He listened for a moment, a slight smile touching the corners of his mouth. “There is high country to be used, I know,” he said. “By both you and I. But I hope you will be intelligent in this, señor.” Torrez said something, to which Tapia merely shrugged. “As we are both aware, there are innocent bystanders, Sheriff. You will allow this bicycle race to continue…There is no reason for any of them to become involved.”
He’s going to fly. Estelle slowed the SUV to negotiate another dry wash, her mind racing ahead. Of course the assassin planned to fly out of Posadas County. He could not cross the border at the Regál crossing-there were too many agents, too many cops swarming. A single vehicle was too easily stopped. He could wind his way east beyond the village of María and find a remote spot, but that route was too easily blocked, too. He’d be traveling with a crowd of officers at his heels, awaiting the opportunity for a well-placed shot.
“That way,” Tapia said, pointing again. He kept them heading roughly north, taking the trails that eventually would bring them out on the state highway just west of the Posadas Municipal Airport-and a selection of airplanes.
“You will free my son immediately,” Tapia said into the phone, “and proceed to the spot that I described.” His features brightened as a thought occurred to him. “I’m sure that in the next few minutes you can find two things: a convertible automobile and your wonderful county manager. She…” And he turned to Estelle. “Her name?”
“You don’t need her,” Estelle said.
“Ah, but I do. Her name? It is merely a courtesy. She will be in no danger. You have my word.”
“Leona.”