This section of wall, well outside the reach of the anemic streetlamp, is bathed in relative darkness. There’s some crushed glass on the top of the cinder blocks in lieu of razor wire, but it’s scattered loose on the surface and easy to clear aside. The moment of risk is when I’m perched on the rim, silhouetted against the sky. No one shoots, and I manage to drop to the ground with a quiet thud.
There are four buildings inside the perimeter. Three little bungalows are situated around a dirt circle, two of them with bulbs burning over the front doors. No lights on inside, which means the occupants probably went to ground when the shooting started. The fourth building looks to be a kind of ribbed metal barn with a big louvered door up front large enough to accommodate a tractor. There’s a side door, too, which stands open and reveals nothing but darkness within.
I see no sign of Jeff. Maybe he didn’t make it this far. Maybe he caught up to Ford in the dark and they’re still out there somewhere. With my flanking run I could have circled them without realizing. Or they could be inside one of the buildings. Somehow I can’t bring myself to break cover just to knock on the door.
“Jeff?” I hiss.
Nothing. I can always call him. I slip my phone out, feeling ridiculous the whole time. The line rings, but he doesn’t answer. Of course not. Before I put it away, there’s another call I should make. It’s time. We’re holed up without much ammunition in country that is unfamiliar, with an unknown number of cartel shooters converging on us. If there was ever a time to phone the cavalry. .
I pick the number out of my recent calls, pressing down on the glass. Several rings, and then her voicemail picks up.
“For what it’s worth, just so somebody knows, I’m down in Mexico,” I say. “On the highway south of Matamoros. I left it too long to blow the horn. And maybe I’m a fool to trust you, but what choice do I have? Brandon Ford is here somewhere. And the ringleader, César. If nothing else, there’s a murder you could pin on him from 1986. There’s not going to be a paper trail, but. .” My throat tightens up. “Anyway. We’re about to get into something ugly. I guess I should’ve said something sooner. It’s up to you now, Bea.”
I should call Charlotte, just to say goodbye. I’m about to push the button when the cars on the highway roll past the open gate. They’re in the far lanes, across the median, pointing in the opposite direction of traffic, though there’s little traffic to speak of. I rush across the dirt circle toward the gate, taking cover right at the edge. The concrete blocks afford pretty good cover against small-arms fire, and this is as good a place as any for a showdown. I’m not sure how many rounds I’ve fired, how many are left in the magazine. I swap it for the fresh one so as to put off the need for a reload as long as possible.
Then it’s time. Game on.
The cars have stopped, and a couple of the men are advancing over the median, trying to use the thin palm trunks as cover. I pick the one most exposed and line up my sights. The carbine bucks and he slumps to the ground. The rest of them drop flat or start rushing back to the cars. Tap, tap. Another man falls. And then a hurricane of return fire pelts the wall, pinging on the metal gate and kicking up dirt a few feet away. I glance around the compound for a new shooting position. That’s when I hear the scream.
Even under the circumstances, with my heart thumping and the task of keeping alive activating the problem-solving centers of my mind, this is a scream so primal and horrifying that I am yanked out of my cool efficiency. I don’t just hear it; I feel it in my spine, the way a kid in a spook house, even though his brain knows the haunts are fake, surrenders himself over to terror. Despite the gun in my hand, despite my will to live, that scream puts fear in me.
My first reaction isn’t to investigate. It’s to run away and hide.
I fire a few rounds to keep their heads down out there, then force myself to sprint across the open dirt, clearing a gap as another storm of bullets zings against the gate. The sound came from inside the metal barn. I pause at the entrance, fumbling in my pocket for the tiny Fenix flashlight I always carry.
Inside, the smell of oil couldn’t be more overwhelming if I were crawling through an engine. There’s ragged breathing coming from the back of the barn, a rhythmic, feral pant. I advance along the right-hand wall, keeping the carbine at hip level, holding the flashlight high and to the left in case it draws anyone’s fire. There’s a yellow combine or tractor to my left, and behind it a pegboard draped with greasy tools. A shop light hangs from a hook in the corner, casting a sterile white halo over the space. I can’t see around the tractor, but the sound is coming from here.
“You’ve seen what I’ll do,” a coaxing voice whispers. “Why make it so hard on yourself? This can end right now, if you’ll just tell me where to find him. Give me a name. Give me an address. Is that so hard to do?”
I click off the light near the back of the tractor.
“March,” the voice says. “We’re back here.”
I step into the halo, my finger on the trigger.
The first thing I see is Jeff’s hand, slick with blood. He stands beside a heavy wooden workbench, feet apart, with his M4 resting, muzzle up, against the bench leg. In his glistening hand he holds something flat and shiny. A sheaf of black zip-ties peeks out from his jeans pocket. He smiles at me with a smile I hope to never see again.
Brandon Ford kneels at his feet, his back against the bench and his arms extended along the table edge. His wrists are secured to the thick wood legs with plastic ties, and he looks like he’s been beaten badly, probably from jumping out of a moving car onto the highway. His black curls are matted with sweat, his face and throat and bare arms displaying the drained pallor of marble. His feverish eyes dart toward me an instant, then wander back to the site of trauma.
At the end of his outstretched left arm, on the back of his hand, a flap of skin hangs uselessly to one side to reveal the teeming redness beneath.
“He’s close,” Jeff says. “He can’t take much more.” He gives Ford’s cheek a gentle pat, almost affectionate. “Give me a second and we can get out of here.”
“Are you insane? ”
Before he can answer, another volley of gunfire explodes against the gate outside. They must be advancing.
“I don’t need much more time, but if you don’t get out there. .” He says the words slowly, like he’s instructing a child. The tip of his knife catches his attention and he turns it in the light. Just an everyday lockback knife with a clip on the side and a grooved nub on the back of the blade to make one-handed opening easier. It’s no different than the kind many people carry clipped inside their pockets, only the edge is honed razor sharp.
“You’re the one? You killed the man we found in the park? Why? ”
“We don’t have time for this,” he says. “They’re coming.”
I raise the carbine. “Why? ”
“At the time, I thought it was him.” He flicks the tip of the blade in Ford’s direction. “And they went through quite a bit of trouble to make it seem that way, too, don’t you think? After the fact. The thing with the DNA. That was for my benefit, wasn’t it?” The question is addressed to Ford and punctuated by a slice across the cheek. Ford winces and I take a step forward. “Never mind. Now we’re back where we started and it’s time for answers. He knows who Inferno is, and he knows where to find him. And if he doesn’t tell us, well”-Jeff’s smile widens-“he knows what to expect.”
Voices outside, then more gunfire, this time closer. They’re inside the gate and it won’t take long to figure out where we are.
“And Macneil, that was you, too?”
He appears to be straining to remember. “You mean the guy in Argentina? That was a favor for Mr. Nesbitt’s new friend. The one who was supposed to help him bring Englewood down. Supposedly he’d stashed a lot of money somewhere, but he must have spent it all. Otherwise, by the end, I think he would’ve told me.”