Dead Heat (30 page)

“And why did they need Michael?”

“Like the others, he delivers things. Anything Jaime needs done. I don’t know why Jaime needed him for this job.”

“Where is Michael now? I believe he can lead us to Trejo and therefore lead us to Bella.”

“I don’t know!”

Ryan and CeCe reentered the room.

CeCe said in a small voice, “I know why Michael left. He said he was going to get out and go back to the bad place. I asked him once, why would he want to be in a bad place?

“And he said, ‘To kill the bad people.’”

*   *   *

Sean was on his way to the private airport he used when Lucy called. “We’re about to board at the Air Force base,” she said.

“You could always fly with me.”

“Sean—you don’t need to do that.”

“Need and want are two different things. I’m working on reaching Kane right now. You need all the information you can get.”

“Thank you—but let’s keep it quiet for now. I told Brad and Juan about what Kane already gave us. They seemed … I don’t know, not completely comfortable. Especially Juan.”

“I like your boss, Lucy, but this is not a murder investigation. These people are not like people you know.”

“I get that,” she said, irritated.

“I didn’t mean to be insulting.”

“I know. I’m just tired. Brad’s boss, Samantha Archer, knows Jack.”

“I’m not surprised, considering what he used to do, and he lived outside McAllen for years. If Jack knew one of the cartels threatened you, he’d put you in protective custody so deep even
I
might not be able to find you.”

“Jack would understand I’m doing my job,” she said.

“Sleep, okay?”

“I will.”

“Let me know where you’re staying. I’m sure it’ll be a dive, the FBI doesn’t spring for five-star hotels.”

“Is there one in McAllen?”

“Funny. I’ll be less than an hour behind you, princess. Be careful.”

As soon as he hung up, his phone vibrated with an unknown caller. “Rogan.”

“It’s Kane. It’s not always easy, or safe, to answer a call.”

Sean didn’t respond to that comment. He said, “Sanchez or whoever he works for sent two thugs to break into our house while Lucy was there alone.”

“I’m sorry,” he said flatly.

“Dammit, Kane, what do I have to do to get you to help?”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“Information.”

“I gave it to your girlfriend last night.”

“We need more. I want to know where Vasco Trejo is right now and how to get to him. I want to know if there are any other boys like Michael Rodriguez who are being forced to run drugs and guns from the border north. I want information so that Lucy and her team don’t walk into a trap.”

“I already told her that the operation the DEA has planned is problematic. Tell her to walk away. Half those people are idiots.”

“Jaime Sanchez kidnapped a seven-year-old girl. Would you walk away?”

“I’m not most people.”

“Can you, for once, drop whatever the fuck you’re doing and help your family?”

Silence. Damn, he’d pissed Kane off. “I thought I was,” he said quietly. “I have an ally in Hidalgo. Padre Cardenas. He was Special Forces with Jack, now he’s a priest. He gets information for us, helps when needed. Is your girlfriend still going down to McAllen?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll make contact with Padre. He’ll reach out to you when he knows something. But under no circumstances should you seek him out. He has to be extremely careful. He walks a dangerous line.”

“Thank you.”

“If I were you, I would get down to McAllen and keep an eye on the situation.”

“I’m already on my way.”

*   *   *

There were two faces to every city. The ugly and the pretty. The good and the bad. As Michael had learned long ago, maybe before he could consciously think about it, people were blind. He didn’t know if it was a choice—if they saw the desperate and dying but turned their heads, or if they were truly blind and
didn’t
see.

It helped him now. Getting down to McAllen had been easy; he’d snuck into the back of a truck at a rest stop south of Corpus Christi. He’d crept out, only miles from his destination, when the truck stopped at a light. Once he got to Hidalgo, then it would get dangerous.

He walked the rest of the way, at night, hiding in the shadows, drinking water he collected every chance he got. He had three water bottles, and he filled them up at a church, then at a gas station with tepid, unclear water, then at the rest stop. The night was cold, but he didn’t care.

Once he was in town, he staked out a Laundromat and waited until dawn when a harassed mother with four young kids started two loads of laundry and put two more in the dryer, then walked her kids to school. At least, that’s where Michael assumed they were going because three of the four had backpacks. The oldest was a boy, just a little smaller than Michael. The youngest, a girl, reminded him of Bella. He hoped Bella was okay. He hoped she didn’t get in trouble for letting him go. But he knew, family or not, Jaime would punish her if he knew the truth.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut to block out the image of Bella being beaten. It wasn’t his problem right now. He couldn’t go back; he could only do what he’d set out to do. When it was done, if he lived, he would go back and help Bella. Because when he was done, her uncle would be dead and no longer be able to hurt anyone.

Michael waited. The heat rose, but the sky darkened. There would be a thunderstorm today. He was sweating, and not from the heat. The air was wet, moving in and out of his lungs, making him wheeze. He cleared his throat, spit into the dirt. And waited.

People came and went. Some stayed to guard their clothing, but most left it. It was an old neighborhood, with a thick layer of dust that was as much a part of the peeling stucco paint as the paint itself. As if the paint had been wet and a dust storm came and stuck to every building, every inch of concrete.

He walked inside with purpose. His clothes stank and were filthy, covered with sweat and dirt and dried blood. He opened the dryer the mother of four had used and pulled out jeans and a T-shirt that looked like they would fit him. They were still damp, but he couldn’t wait. He stuffed them in the small pink backpack and walked back out, as if he had every right to be there. An impossibly old woman approached, looked like she was going to say something to him, tell him he was a thief, tell him to put the clothes back. Then she just shook her head sadly and went back to her own laundry.

Michael walked behind to the alley and stripped. He used one water bottle to scrub his face and hands, then put on the damp clothes. The jeans were too wide in the waist—he had lost weight—and a little short, but they wouldn’t stand out as being wrong. The orange T-shirt was worn and faded with a barely discernible logo for a soft drink on the front. Crush.

He used to love orange soda. He didn’t remember much about his mother, but she’d take him to the corner store and, for a treat, buy him an orange soda and one of Mrs. Jessup’s homemade chocolate chip cookies she sold for fifty cents from her front porch. She was always sitting there, in her rocking chair, blind as a bat. How had she made such delicious cookies when she couldn’t see? But she had good hearing, and if she didn’t hear those two quarters, her hand would reach out so fast and take the cookie from your grasp.

Michael missed her. And his mom.

Tears burned his eyes. If he could kill his father, he would. The urge to see him dead, to be the one doing the killing, overwhelmed him, and he knew he was going to Hell. It didn’t matter that Father Flannigan told him he was forgiven; he planned to kill. There would be no absolving him of his sin. And maybe he didn’t care. Maybe there wasn’t even a God. How could there be when his mother was dead and his father got away with killing her? How could there be a God when people like Jaime Sanchez could threaten to hurt good people like the Popes? When devils like the general could beat and hurt and kill boys like Javier?

But the Popes believed, and Michael’s mother believed, and Michael
wanted
to believe, but he didn’t, not really. He pretended because he loved Olive and he respected Hector; he pretended because Father Flannigan truly listened to him. He pretended because maybe, deep down, he hoped there was something better, where every kitchen smelled like Olive’s cooking and every girl was as sweet as Bella and every man as gentle as Hector.

Michael tossed his clothes into the overflowing Dumpster and set out for the tunnel. Fat, isolated raindrops fell sporadically around him.

This began the most dangerous part of his journey.

The tunnel wouldn’t be guarded, as people standing around would draw attention. There were three routes the general used, but this was the closest. Michael knew the system very well. He knew how to avoid border patrol—much easier going from Texas into Mexico. He knew how to blend, whether in Mexico as a Mexican, or in America as an American. That’s why the general liked boys like Michael. They blended. And they feared.

He would prefer to do this at night, but at night was when he would most likely be caught. Night cloaked them, the dark, the shadows, but there were predators everywhere. Now he was a boy on his way to school, heading into a neighborhood that looked like all the other broken-down neighborhoods in southwest Texas, hurrying because it was starting to rain.

He reached the abandoned building, and for a minute Michael thought the tunnel was gone. That when he’d escaped, they’d buried alive everyone who was left, buried them under the Rio Grande, where no one would ever find them. Where no one would know the truth.

He wished he could have told Olive. Or Father Flannigan. But Jaime did not issue idle threats. He said he would kill them; Michael knew he would. Escaping put a target on their backs, but Michael hoped they heeded the warnings he’d tried to give them.

If he could just get back to the camp. Kill the general. Kill Jaime. Free his brothers.

Kill the general …

His heart raced. He was no better than his father. He reached into his pocket, felt the cool steel of the switchblade he’d lifted from Jaime’s car while still in San Antonio. Was this the knife that had sliced Javier’s throat? Was this the knife that had carved the mark into his flesh?

He absently rubbed his forearm as his eyes looked left and right. He didn’t see anyone, but someone was watching. Someone saw him as he hesitated in the increasing rain.

Move, Michael! Move!

He went around to the back of the empty warehouse and the door was still there, still camouflaged. He was close.

So close.

Then a policeman stepped into view. And smiled.

There was no humor in his face.

And Michael knew he was going to die.

CHAPTER 25

Lucy had, surprisingly, slept during the forty-minute flight to McAllen. Not enough, but by the time they landed she was more relaxed. A team of agents met them, and Samantha Archer took charge. Lucy said quietly to Ryan, “Is it odd that the assistant director is on this op with us?”

“She’s supervising. Not odd, but unusual. I’m not DEA, though. You won’t see one of our ASACs—her comp level—in the field, unless it’s a major operation, and then they’d be in the tactical tent. But since she runs a field office under Houston, she has more autonomy. And I heard she misses fieldwork.”

“I wouldn’t like sitting at a desk, either.”

“You and me both.”

They followed Archer and Brad into a hangar where the two DEA agents promptly moved aside to confer with their McAllen staff, leaving Lucy and Ryan on the side, distant observers. Lucy put her bag at her feet, retrieved her Glock from the side compartment, and holstered it. She then pulled out a Kahr PM9 and fitted it into her pocket holster. She wasn’t supposed to carry a second weapon that wasn’t regulation, but nothing about this assignment seemed to fit with the regs, so she wanted the extra piece. Fortunately, Ryan didn’t say anything and she wondered if he, too, had a backup piece.

Her phone rang—a blocked number. She knew, even before she answered, that it was Kane.

“You should have told me about the death threat,” he said without identifying himself.

Lucy said, “You didn’t seem inclined to help us any further, above the information you already provided. I understand your dilemma—”

“Listen to me. I’ve asked around. That mark is reserved for slaves. Those boys were taken to serve Trejo. My source tells me the boys were given up by their incarcerated parents as a sign of loyalty to Trejo so they would be protected in prison. A couple of dead inmates is all it took for the others to fall into line.”

Lucy had no time to reflect on the horror of the situation, though it was close to what she’d thought. She asked, “And they’re forced to be couriers.”

“In part. They’re compelled by a system of reward and punishment. They’re essentially reprogrammed, retrained to be loyal to their captors. They may have gone in as young boys, but they come out just as dangerous as the men who took them.”

“I can’t believe—”

“I don’t care what you believe, Lucia, I’ve lost men to these young killers. Are you so ignorant that you don’t know that what has happened in Africa has happened on our own continent? You don’t have to look far to find evil, little girl.”

Lucy snapped, “I don’t need you to lecture me on evil, Rogan. Michael hasn’t been reprogrammed, he’s out for revenge. He’s going to get himself killed because he doesn’t care about his life, he cares about hurting those who hurt him. I understand him more than you can possibly know. And I can save him. There are children at risk, not just Michael, but a little girl kidnapped by her uncle. I will find her and bring her home. I won’t let her suffer.”

“You need to know that this situation is unlike anything you’ve ever handled.”

“I get that.” She glanced at Ryan; he was listening to everything. She asked Kane, “Do you know DEA Agents Samantha Archer and Brad Donnelly?”

“Yes.”

Nothing more. So she asked, “Are they good?”

“Not as good as me.”