Authors: Rob Sangster
“I said there had to be a mistake. He sneered and said, ‘No mistake, but if I keep this man in jail for killing so many women, someone will kill him. Bad publicity. So I will let him out on bail until the trial.’”
“I took it for granted,” she said, “that he didn’t expect you to come back, and he’d pocket the money.”
“How much did he want?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“Don’t tell me you—”
“Not a chance. I came on like the late Johnny Cochran. I promised to make flaming meteors rain down on him and would produce witnesses to prove you were in Zanzibar on whatever dates they claimed the killings occurred. That’s when he decided that you were only a common drunk and could go home for a mere 2000 pesos. Cash only, of course.”
“So you paid it?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t come up with any defense to the common drunk charge.” She gave him a disgusted look. “For heaven’s sake, Jack, it’s D-Day, and you’re falling down drunk in the street. Why?”
He really didn’t want to go there, but she deserved an explanation. “Ana-Maria was supposed to have been taken across the border. That didn’t happen, so I went to her house hoping to find her. She was there, in the back yard, shot in the forehead.”
“Oh my God.” She covered her face with her hands. He knew the death of another young woman hit her hard. There was no need for her to say so. And she had no idea how hard it had hit him.
“Yeah, and a biker saw me at her house. In Anapra, everyone watches the streets, so others probably saw me and the car. The cops could get those descriptions any moment and make the connection.” He rubbed his eyes. “And that police chief would love to send his goons to the El Diablo to snatch me. We need to get out of there fast, find a new hotel. I just hope they aren’t already waiting for us.”
Chapter 39
July 9
8:00 a.m.
“PROFESSOR STRIDER is calling,” Mrs. Pounders announced through the speaker. “What would you like me to tell him, sir?”
Justin Sinclair hesitated. Strider’s threat to sell out Palmer Industries had been mutiny. Well, at the Hearing he’d gotten a lesson on how the classroom differs from the real world. Surely he wasn’t calling to complain. So what
did
he want?
“Put him on, Mrs. Pounders.”
Impatient to get to the reason Strider was calling, he skipped pleasantries and pushed the conversation forward.
“Good to get that Hearing behind us,” he said. “Dismissal with prejudice. Best possible result.”
“Justin, this
isn’t
over. You need to listen to me.”
Odd. That sounded like a threat
.
“No, you need to listen to
me
,” he replied in his best “don’t-fuck-with-me” voice. “I promised I’d tell Arthur to clean up their environmental practices. I did, so that’s the end of it.” He didn’t mention that Arthur had let fly a string of curses and said the only thing he’d tell Montana was not to get caught again.
“There’s another problem at Palmer Industries,” Strider said sharply. “And it’s much bigger than the ones PROFEPA knew about.”
“Forget about other problems. You’re off the case. Time to walk away.”
“Justin, you have no idea how much is at stake here—and it affects you personally.”
He wanted to slam down the handset, but held back. If Strider was about to cause trouble, better to know about it so he could head it off.
“I’m listening.”
Strider described oil tanks, a pipeline, injection wells, and toxic waste, and made it clear he intended to bring the roof down on Palmer Industries.
He broke in. “Stop right there. All your conclusions are based on speculation.” That was true, but the bombardment of details was troubling.
“The shots they fired at me when I was at the wells weren’t speculation.”
“Probably just a warning. By your own admission, you were trespassing.”
“They were more than a warning. Montana doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s about to dump the contents of those tanks straight into the aquifer that provides water for El Paso and Juarez.”
Son-of-a-bitch. That was a firebomb out of left field
.
Montana couldn’t possibly
—he took a deep breath. He’d made a career in diplomacy by carrying on smoothly when shocked by a nasty surprise. He had to do that now. Strider had the bit in his teeth. He had to find a way to make him let go.
“There must be a good explanation for that pipeline and well contraption.”
“There is
not.
I have reports from a biochemistry professor about toxicity of the chemicals in the tanks and from a hydrology professor about the vulnerability of the aquifer.”
Reports?
If Montana dumped those chemicals and these reports went public after that, the fallout would be like acid rain—and it would fall on him. He’d spend the rest of his career defending Palmer Industries in court. This could bankrupt the Palmers and blacken his own reputation. He had to deal with this before Strider did.
“You’re saying Montana is a monster. I just don’t believe that.”
“You should. A week ago, a secretary with information that would expose plant secrets was murdered. Three nights ago, Montana hired punks to ambush me outside a restaurant in Juarez. They damn near killed me. And last night, Montana’s assistant, who he thought might betray him, was murdered at her own home.”
“Accusations are easy. What’s your proof?”
“Montana had the means, opportunity, and sure as hell had motive. For God’s sake, Justin, face it. Montana is a psychopath. All he cares about is that bonus Edward complained about. He’ll collect his money and disappear, leaving Palmer Industries—and you—holding the bag.”
Sinclair looked at rows of testimonials hanging on his office walls, every one validating his self-image, his power. He’d been threatened by the best. He wasn’t going to be fucked with by the “new” Jack Strider. But what the hell was really going on down there? Was Montana completely off the rails? Arthur would have to control him—or dump him. Sacrifice Montana to muzzle Strider. Just good business.
“You’re right, Jack. Maybe I’ve been too much of an advocate for this client. So what’s the next step?” He had to flush out Strider’s plans.
“Call Arthur and tell him to stop Montana. If he won’t, I will. Whatever else he does, I know Arthur will call Montana to warn him. If that stops this disaster, I’d rather let Montana cover his ass than have him destroy an entire ecosystem.”
Justin thought about what Strider had just said. Strider knew there was no point in him calling Arthur Palmer directly. But why hadn’t he called the EPA? Easy, because it had no jurisdiction in Mexico. Why not PROFEPA? Because those two red-hot lawyers had been canned. And Juarez cops would side with Montana. So Strider was calling him because he had no other options.
“Of course I’ll talk with Arthur,” he answered, “but he’s no fan of yours and won’t believe what you’ve just told me. I’ll need some time to think this through.”
“There
is
no time. Montana will dump that poison as soon as he can. Listen, I’ll read you what the biochemist said will happen to the aquifer.”
“Just fax that to Mrs. Pounders. You’ve already convinced me. I’ll figure out a way to stop Montana.”
“I’ve already thought it through. Hire private guards in El Paso to remove Montana from plant grounds this afternoon and lock him up. Start dismantling the wells immediately. Then bring Montana to San Francisco and have him arrested. If I don’t see evidence of the first two steps before five p.m. today, I’ll blow the whistle so loud they’ll hear it in Candlestick Park.”
“Don’t bullshit me. If going public was your best shot, you wouldn’t have called me. So back off.” He was probably right about that, but Strider might not be bluffing, and he didn’t want to find out. “Give me a chance to convince Arthur. Is there anything else you should tell me?”
“I’ll tell you more when I have more facts.”
“Jack, come back to San Francisco. We should talk this over face-to-face.” He used the deep imperial tone he rolled out when he wanted to sound like God commanding Moses. “We also need to talk about Rick Calder. I’ve been holding him off, putting myself on the line for you, but I don’t know how long I can do that.” That was a lie, but Strider would get the message.
“I’m not finished down here.”
Justin blinked in disbelief. The blunt refusal was a slap in the face. But something was going on, and that meant he couldn’t afford to break off communications with Strider.
“That’s a mistake, but I suppose it can wait. By the way, I’m worried about Ms. Vanderberg. I sent her to Mexico City to help you. Then she spent a day at the Palmer plant doing some contract work, but Montana hasn’t seen her since. She’s not answering her cell phone, so Mrs. Pounders checked this morning and found out she wasn’t at the Rialto Hotel in Juarez. Any ideas where she is?”
“Probably on her way back to San Francisco. Look, I’ll call you to confirm that Arthur did the things I outlined.” Strider hung up.
Justin set the receiver on its base and leaned back. From his first meeting with Strider, he’d been able to read him like an eye chart. That had changed. Strider had become opaque. Worse, he was sounding like he’d turned into a pit bull. That worried him, because pit bulls can bite.
Chapter 40
July 9
9:00 a.m.
WHEN HE AND Debra got back from Juarez in the middle of the night, they’d cased the El Diablo carefully to make sure no cops were waiting for them. Then he’d shaken Gano awake, they’d all grabbed their gear, and fled.
Jack joined Gano in the small restaurant of the Buena Vista Motel, the place they’d chosen after their hasty exit from the El Diablo.
“Okay, that’s the gist of it,” he said to Gano. “If Sinclair doesn’t come through by my five p.m. deadline, we have to take action ourselves as soon as the workers leave the plant.”
“You think Sinclair will call Palmer? And will Palmer do anything anyway?” Gano was clearly skeptical.
Jack shrugged. “I don’t know, and that’s why I have a backup plan.”
“Damn, you’re good,” Gano said. “No wonder they pay you the big money. What’s your vision?”
“Attack the wells, but first we have to get onto the plant grounds without being stopped.”
“Deep thinking, Plato. Maybe some kind of magic cloak?”
“Exactly.” Jack smiled. “I know how to make us invisible.”
“Spell it out.”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you.”
They drove the rented Mustang for less than five minutes before he spotted what he was looking for. He pointed down a side street. “That’s our magic cloak.”
“Can’t see a damn thing. That garbage truck is blocking my view.”
“That garbage truck
is
the magic cloak.”
“And I’m the Wicked Witch,” Gano scoffed. “Give me a break.”
Jack gave him a smug grin. “Guards at the Palmer plant see garbage trucks every day. They blend in because they’re not a threat. We’ll drive around the plant yard like we were on a job. When we’re close enough to the wells, we speed up and ram the main pump and as many wellheads as we can. Get it?”
“You’ve missed your calling, my man. That’s brilliant.” Gano gave him a mock salute. “Well, except for a couple of tiny flaws.”
“What?” Jack asked, frowning.
“After all hell breaks loose and we’re sitting in a smashed-to-hell garbage truck, how do we get away?”
“Got that covered. Even if it’s not out of commission, it’s too slow. Which is why we leave this Mustang parked outside the gate and take off in it during the excitement. You said there were a couple of flaws. What’s the other one?”
“No biggie. Just that we don’t have a garbage truck, and I don’t think Hertz carries them. So where do we get one?”
“Steal one when we get to Juarez.”
“Hard to believe I’m listening to Mr. Law & Order. But I do have something to add. I always feel more prepared when I bring my own fireworks to the party.” There was a maniacal glint in his eyes.
“What are you talking about?” Jack asked warily.
“I need to do a little shopping so, in case the Sinclair/Palmer team doesn’t come through, we’ll be ready. I’ll give you directions.”
Ten minutes later Gano was admitted into a corrugated metal warehouse with no sign. When he returned, he carried several bundles wrapped in rough burlap and a six-pack of empty beer bottles in a carton.
“Get everything you need?”
“Nah,” Gano said. “They were out of rum.”
Later, back in the motel room waiting to hear from Sinclair, Gano looked up from his work. “I’d rather use C-4, but if we go that heavy we’d blow ourselves up. So I put together some small stuff with timers to use as diversions. And I’ve rigged these Molotov cocktails to carry for self-protection. How’s that sound?”
Molotov cocktails? How the hell did Gano think it sounded? Like a stroll through the park?
Before he answered, the phone rang. Sinclair.
The call was short and consisted mostly of Jack listening. When it was over, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“What excuse did the former Secretary-of-Weaseldom use?” Gano asked.
“That he couldn’t reach Arthur Palmer for four or five hours after we talked this morning. When he did, he said Arthur argued but finally agreed to get back to him tomorrow. Sinclair was lying. I heard it in his voice.”
Damn Sinclair for covering for Arthur Palmer. And damn Palmer for everything.
Gano frowned. “Was he lying about what Palmer said or about calling Palmer at all?”
“I don’t know, but, either way, Arthur Palmer is standing pat. They’re not dismantling the wells, and Montana’s still head honcho.” He stood and began to pace. “If Sinclair did talk with him, Arthur undoubtedly warned Montana that he’s being watched. If Montana’s really spooked, he may start trucking the toxic crap in the tanks to some remote canyon. If he’s not spooked, he’ll do nothing until he’s sure I’m gone. Then he’ll dump it into the wells. The worst case is if Montana dumps before he hears from anyone.”
He stopped pacing, looked at Gano and made his decision. “We have to take care of this ourselves.”
Gano’s wide grin showed he was ready for action. “Easy as scratching a grizzly bear’s ass.”
6:00 p.m.
AFTER DRIVING along Juarez back streets for thirty minutes, Jack found exactly what he wanted—a battered Waste Management Freightliner trash collection truck making its sluggish rounds in a low-rent commercial district. They passed it, parked a hundred yards ahead and waited. When it stopped near them, Gano walked casually around the massive front bumper, then jumped on the metal step under the driver’s window. Holding on with one hand, he pointed his silver revolver through the window and ordered the driver to leave the keys and get out.
When they hustled the driver to the rear, expecting to find one assistant who operated the truck’s hydraulic lift, they found two rough looking crewmen, instantly angry at having a gun pointed at them. When Gano ordered them to climb into the green trash bin they hadn’t yet emptied, they looked willing to fight rather than cram themselves into the reeking bin.
Gano grabbed the chubby driver by his shirt front, pointed the muzzle of the revolver at his balls, and cocked the hammer. Cursing under his breath, the man gestured to one of the others to help him over the side.
The second all three were inside, Jack slammed the lids down and slipped a stick through two eye bolts to lock the lids closed.
“They won’t suffocate,” Gano said. “As soon as they think they’re alone, they’ll shout for help. Then the search for the missing Trash Taxi will be on.” He pointed to that name painted on its side. “I’m psyched.”
“I’ll drive this thing,” Jack said. “Follow me. I’ll stop near the gate where you can stash the Mustang. Let’s go.” He was flying so high on adrenaline that the fear any rational lawyer should be feeling was a no show.
A few minutes later, a quarter-mile east of the entrance to Palmer Industries, Gano parked the Mustang and climbed aboard. The sound of Gano’s door slamming snapped Jack back to the reality of what he was about to do. He’d taken risks on the plant grounds before, but then he’d done everything he could to avoid being noticed. This time he was taking on the whole damn place out in the open. Even an adrenaline rush wasn’t enough to dissolve the knot he felt in his gut.
Gano buttoned the Trash Taxi jacket he’d taken from the driver and they both put on caps they’d found in the cab. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a gun?” he said to Jack.
“No.”
“So if we run into guards with AK-47s who try to turn us into confetti, you’re going to negotiate until they’re unconscious, right?”
Jack was glad Gano was using sarcasm to lighten the mood just before they went to battle. He slowed at the gate, waved at the guard and didn’t stop. The guard didn’t challenge him, so he drove slowly across the parking lot in front of the Admin building, stopping at its southeast corner.
Gano jumped out and raised the lid of the Dumpster, as if inspecting the contents, lowered it, and then swung himself back into Trash Taxi. Jack stopped at Dumpsters next to three other buildings where Gano, taking one of the burlap-wrapped packets with him each time, repeated the process. As Jack had predicted, guards ignored them.
Gano climbed back into the cab. “Phase One complete,
comandante.
Ready for Phase Two.”
Jack rolled past the last row of warehouses and turned west, staying close to the buildings, paralleling the Rio Grande less than a half mile north. He stopped in the shelter of the building at the end of the row. Ahead, a dirt track with deep ruts led to the grove of trees where the wellheads and pumps were hidden.
“This don’t beat flying into a dirt field along a row of flashlights held by Chiapas rebels, “Gano said, “but it comes close.” He handed Jack a couple of beer bottles. “Treat these like they were 18-year-old scotch.”
Jack wiped his hand on his sleeves before taking the bottles. His mouth was so dry he didn’t think he could talk. There was nothing left to say anyway.
Gano rolled up the window and checked his watch. “Three seconds until Dumpster
numero uno
—”
Ka—BOOM!
The wall of the building next to them lit up in a brilliant flash. The air rattled like hail hitting a metal roof. There were shouts everywhere, even a couple of cracks from a rifle.
The blast was more powerful than he’d expected. His voice was gruff when he said, “Jesus, Gano, what did you use?”
“Best incendiary money can buy. Semi-plastic gel. Stuff ain’t cheap when it comes out the backdoor, so don’t forget to reimburse me.” He checked his watch again. “Right about now.”
Ka—BOOM!
This one sent a message that the first explosion was no accident. Now everyone knew the plant was under attack. Four guards ran out of the grove of trees toward them at breakneck speed. They crossed the path of the Trash Taxi without registering it as a source of danger.
“Forward, Don Quixote,” Gano shouted, “into the fray!” He rolled down the window and banged his hand on the truck cab.
Jack jammed the accelerator to the floor, making the truck lumber forward like a crazed hippo, gaining speed on the dirt track.
Ka—BOOM!
A fireball lit the darkening sky behind them.
“Yee-haw!” Gano yelled. “Might have overpacked that puppy.”
Not much had changed in the clearing since Jack had been there three nights before—wellheads at the corners of a triangle about 25 yards on each side; pipes leading from each of the three wellheads to a pump in the center of the triangle. But there was one crucial difference. The fat white ceramic pipe coming down from the plateau was now fully connected to the pump. Montana’s time bomb was set to blow.
He’d planned to plow the huge truck straight over the pump, the nerve center feeding all three wells. After that, he’d circle around and take out the wellheads. The Trash Taxi would flatten them like Tonka toys.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Gano shouted.
Jack stared ahead in disbelief, then jammed both feet on the brake pedal and hauled back on the emergency brake lever. Montana had barricaded the big pump with a circle of concrete slabs at least two feet high.
“Got a backup plan, boyo?” Gano asked.
Not for this, but he said, “I’ll get that wellhead on the left first. Hold on.” He released the emergency brake, raced the engine and shoved it into gear. Like a locomotive pulling uphill, it rammed into the nearest wellhead which screamed in protest as it was crushed into a tangle of steel beneath the truck’s undercarriage. As the truck surged forward, the wreckage lifted its front wheels off the ground. Jack gunned the engine, trying to rock it forward and back, but it was crippled for good.
“Grab your bottles,” Gano yelled.
Ka—BOOM!
The halo of light from the explosion revealed that their diversions hadn’t worked well enough. Two guards were racing toward the truck. He and Gano had agreed what they’d do if they had to deal with guards. They looked at each other. Now was the time.
Jack’s door jammed. He rammed it with his shoulder until it opened and he half fell out. He got back up on the metal step and grabbed his two bottles.
Gano was already out. “Fire up that wellhead over there, Scoutmaster, and the other one if you have time. Do it the way I said. Screw up and it’ll kill you.
Now!”
Jack pulled the cork from the first bottle and smelled gasoline and white phosphorus. He took a strip of cloth that had been wrapped around the neck of the bottle, soaked half of it in the flammable mixture, and re-tied it around the neck of the bottle. He stuffed the cork back in place. The cloth lit immediately from the flame of the lighter Gano had given him.
One
. . .
two
. . .
three.
He looped it in a high arc toward a wellhead where it shattered. Brilliant flames shot into the air, with enough heat to take out gaskets, switches, and a hell of a lot more. He lit the wick and tossed his other bottle in the direction of the second wellhead. It exploded with a blinding flash.
They hadn’t destroyed the wellheads, but Montana would have to make some heavy repairs.
Gano’s gasoline bomb sailed above the dirt track and exploded directly in the path of two men who frantically fled back toward the plant. “That’s enough good deeds for tonight,” Gano shouted. “Let’s
vamoose!”
Jack studied their surroundings. They could attempt to get to the river, but there was almost no cover. If they tried to get away up the ridge, guards would come up the other side of the mesa and trap them. That left the escape they’d planned, a run back among the plant buildings to the Mustang, with only the fire and confusion to shield them.