“There’s something wrong with you.”
“There’s something wrong with the world. At least I’m honest enough to see it for what it really is. You, on the other hand, are a disappointment.”
“Nesbitt thought so, too.”
“I don’t know what he expected from you. I mean, look at you.”
“You have to understand, Jeff. Nesbitt unleashed something he couldn’t control. He thought I could finish it.”
“I’m the one who will finish it.”
“Your way isn’t what he had in mind. He was hoping to make amends.”
“Look,” he says, desperation in his voice, “there’s a back door here. We can slip outside and disappear into the night. But not until Brandon here tells me where to find his friend. So what do you say, Brandon? Do I have to ask the question again?”
He extends the knife toward Ford’s maimed hand, the blade gleaming.
“Jeff-”
The barn’s metal hull amplifies the gunshot. Then there’s the ding of my spent casing bouncing against the wall. Jeff bends at the waist, letting the knife fall, twisting as he tips toward the ground. My round struck his hip, probably shattering it. I had no choice but to shoot, but I couldn’t bring myself to aim for center mass.
“You shot me,” he wails.
I pick up the knife and cut Ford’s torn hand free. Then I loose the other one. Hands are pulling at the barn’s roll-up door, looking for a way in. As I cross to the shop light and rip the plug from the outlet, a shot rings out from the open side door. They’re in the barn. I take Ford by the scruff and start pushing toward the back exit.
“March,” Jeff moans.
I pause over him. “I trusted you.” This has no effect on him in his state, and there’s no time for speeches anyway. “Listen, your rifle is where you left it. They’re coming for you. What you do about it is your choice.”
Then I’m pulling the door open, pushing Ford through, and closing it behind us.
Outside, he starts to mumble his gratitude, which I don’t want, then says he’s able to walk if I’ll steady him a little. We stumble toward the concrete perimeter wall, with Ford’s good arm slung over my shoulder and his injured hand clutched to his chest. He sucks in breath through his teeth with every step. As I mount the wall and reach back to help him over, the barn turns into a live firing range. The explosion of gunfire, the projectiles punching through steel-it’s like a roll of quarters tossed into a clothing dryer, clattering free as the dryer spins.
“Don’t leave me! March! You can’t leave me alone with them! ”
The sound draws more fire.
I don’t stop to think about the men advancing through the dark on either side of the tractor. I don’t stop to think about the dwindling number of bullets in the M4’s magazine.
I drop to the far side of the wall, reaching up to cushion Ford’s landing.
Then we head off into the darkness, pushing forward, ignoring injury and fatigue, ignoring the all-too-real possibility of a bullet in the back.
“What are you even doing here?” Ford mutters, barely loud enough to hear.
“I came for you. Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“You took the van-you and him?”
“Don’t talk. Just keep running.”
“What happened to your partner, that’s not on me. He got the jump on us coming out. Drew down. Lodge started shooting before I even knew what was going on.”
I stop in my tracks. Try to catch my breath. I hear gunshots, distant and intermittent, engines revving.
“Keep moving,” I say.
“We couldn’t trust the cops,” Ford says, “not after what happened to Nesbitt. For all I knew, you guys were out to punch my ticket.” He starts coughing. “Tonight you almost did.”
“Shut up,” I tell him. “Just shut up and keep moving.”
We run, holding each other, kicking our way past underbrush, stumbling and rushing on, until Jeff’s voice is gone and the sound of gunfire is gone and everything’s gone but the scrape of our feet through the scrub. That and the tortured breathing of the man beside me, Bea’s lover, with his flayed hand.
CHAPTER 28
It takes me a while to remember the crossroads where the cantina is situated, the street where I left my car, and I have to repeat the names several times before the Mexican in the pickup nods with comprehension and tells me to sit back. He’s a small man with a contented smile who shows no qualms about having stopped for us, despite our condition, and waves away the wad of cash offered in compensation for the ride, as if assisting gringos in distress comes so naturally to him that he wouldn’t dream of taking a dollar.
Ford slumps between us, his hand in a hastily improvised wrap, slick with sweat, eyes closed, murmuring under his breath. Before we reached the road, he went through a phase of feverish delirium. When I wouldn’t agree to getting in touch with his men, he said there was one other person in Matamoros who could help, one other person who’d have the incentive since tonight’s escapade would put his own life in danger.
“Inferno,” I say. “It’s not César, is it?”
“What? No. Inferno was Nesbitt’s secret weapon, the guy who made sure César rose to the top. Only César used him to wipe Nesbitt off the board.”
“If you know that, why are you doing business with him?”
“I’m trying to stay alive,” he says, gesturing with his mangled hand. “And I don’t know anything. You never do with these people. Look, it’s Inferno you want anyway, not me. We can make a trade. Just let me walk out of here and he’s yours.”
On our way into the city, we come across a column of police vehicles advancing in the opposite lane. If it weren’t for the flashing lights, it could pass for a military detachment. They seem to be heading to the location of the gunfight. Hopefully they’ll arrive in time to take possession of the van and its contents.
The streets of Matamoros have gone quiet in the intervening hours, apart from a lonely drunk here and there, or a couple on a late-night stroll. There are also ominous trucks full of young men crisscrossing the intersections, prompting the Mexican to shake his head and release a spew of words under his breath. What he’s saying is all a jumble to me, but the gist seems clear. The cartel has turned out in force. Probably looking for us.
Before hitching a ride, I had to dump the carbine-I stripped it down and threw the parts in different directions, keeping the bolt with me until I found a soft bit of ground in which to bury it-so we’d be defenseless in the event of a confrontation. It’s not uncommon out on the highways for the cartels to set up roadblocks, but here in town they seem to content themselves with cruising around at high speed with a menacing air. The cops are out and so are the gangs, and I don’t want to run into either of them.
The pedestrian alley in front of the cantina is empty when we pass by, most of the neon signs now doused. If I were being extra cautious, I’d have the man drop us a couple of blocks away from my car, but the injuries from his fall, the cut on his hand, and our breakneck run have all taken a toll on Ford. I doubt I could hustle him two blocks without prompting a collapse.
“¡Gracias! ” I say.
The Mexican wards off my thanks just as he did my money.
Once the truck drives off, I settle him in the passenger seat, buckling him in. Then I check the street to make sure nobody’s watching, then duck under the car. Feeling around, I locate the Browning and the nylon bag, slicing the zip-ties with my knife. The rifle I leave in place-it’s too big to conceal. I clip the holstered pistol onto my belt, adjusting my untucked shirt to keep it covered, and then get behind the wheel.