“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Arrogant bitch.”
“One shot and that old gun’s no good.”
“I can get it up, dammit.”
“Get off me.”
“Shut up.”
“Get off me.”
He sucked her breasts and moved in slow motion. He was erect, but not as hard as he could get. It took longer. Another sign of aging. The tingling swelled and his erection strengthened. Again he was twenty years younger. Then he picked up the pace.
She was the enemy.
Every time he stroked her too deep, too hard, her gun discharged. Bullets hit the ceiling. Bullets hit the walls. He stroked her. Her gun exploded. She moaned. She fired until it was empty. After that, she dropped her spent weapon on the wooden floor, the barrel aiming at her head as she grabbed his hips. She thrust upward and he felt her returning the animosity.
It was as close to World War III as the world had ever been.
It wasn’t pretty. It was a brutal fight. Biting. Grabbing. Strangling. Pushing. Pulling. Slapping. Scratching. Grunts and curses. Sliding across wooden floors. Knocking over books. Knocking over end tables. She growled at him and gyrated her Punjabi hips like she was a belly dancer in heat. Rough, loud sex. Crazed and nasty sex. Crazy women were always the best fucks. They always fucked a man in a way that made them unforgettable.
He knew he had made another mistake. But that mistake had felt damn good.
And it was a mistake he might do again, if she lived that long.
She moaned that she was coming.
He came with her. Fucked her until her orgasm was finished.
When it was done, he was panting.
She was panting too. Panting as if she were recovering from anaphylactic shock.
He stood up, pulled his pants up, picked up his gun.
She was sprawled out. Her gun empty. Marked like territory.
At that moment she would’ve been an easy kill.
But he had orders.
He told her to get cleaned up. To get dressed. Told her that The Four Horsemen had work to do.
The bird had landed, and it was time to go hunting.
She had responded, “The other part of the package is here?”
“Clean yourself up, soldier. Get dressed. Get in uniform.”
“Yes, sir.”
He went to her window and pulled back her thin curtains. It had started raining.
Then he frowned at the fresh bullet holes decorating her ceiling and walls.
Each shot like a lethal orgasm.
He’d never been inside her living quarters.
She had IKEA-style furniture mixed with furniture from Walmart. There were hundreds of black-and-white pictures on her virgin-white walls. Señorita Raven before the shrapnel. Before the military. When she was prettier than Madhuri Shankar Dixit.
Her apartment was a shrine to the physical beauty she used to possess.
He had been inside her, as close as enemies could get. That was a few hours ago.
Now it was time
to soldier up, and deal death to their rivals.
Señor Rodríguez said, “We only have one tracker.”
Medianoche nodded. It would have to be enough.
Señor Rodríguez changed clips in his nine. “The stations take up a city block. At least three sections to the buildings. The one ahead, that one over there, and the section down at Padre Mujica, where the omnibuses are. At least three. What if they get a taxi? Or a bus?”
Medianoche said, “Nothing is moving except the trains. Every bus and taxi is blocked.”
Señorita Raven said, “The subte. They could be heading for the subte. Or the trains.”
Medianoche said, “We follow. We find. We improvise.”
Just then, police blew whistles, officers ran toward the protest, ready to shoot to kill.
A group of hooligans had shown up and disrupted the demonstration. A police officer was attacked. Medianoche and his team kept moving. Not their problem.
They pushed by women with photos of other abused women taped to their chests. Images of a young black woman with a swollen face caught his eye. The black woman’s damaged face was taped to the front of a young Spanish girl’s plastic raincoat. The name RIHANNA was written across the bottom with a black magic marker.
Inside the main terminal, there were thousands of people with backpacks and bags. Hundreds with umbrellas.
Subte C. Gate 3 heading to Suarez. Gate 4 heading to Tigre. Trains loading and unloading on the concrete platform. Vendors in the crowd screaming they have café for sale. Medianoche moved past a blind man selling magnifying glasses for five pesos and pushed his way through a long, snaking line at one of the
boleterías
.
Medianoche was more concerned with the
policía
than with the civilians. More concerned with surveillance cameras high above. Cameras pointed down from almost every angle.
Not the ideal scenario. But war wasn’t about the scenario being ideal.
War was about adapting to terrain and circumstance.
Medianoche
struggled through the crowd and took the entrance closest to Avenida Libertador and Plaza San Martín, moved through exiting foot traffic, felt like a fish swimming upstream as he moved by lines of people with suitcases, some with makeshift cardboard luggage, some using plastic bags to carry their belongings.
Sensor in hand, Medianoche walked the line, looking into the crowd.
Señorita Raven said, “I should check the next terminal.”
Medianoche said. “Affirmative. Stay on air. Rodríguez?”
“Nothing, sir. I’m in front of the escalator for the subte.”
“What about the trains?”
“Platform is crowded, but the trains aren’t boarding and they don’t leave for another ten minutes. Going downstairs to check the subte, then double back to the trains. How is the signal?”
“Signal is still good. Raven, double back and go with Rodríguez.”
“I can handle it, sir. We can sweep, meet in the middle.”
Medianoche said, “Affirmative.”
The signal was as green as new money in the United States of America.
And getting greener as he headed across damp, dirty red tile toward the
boletería
.
Rodríguez came back on. “Downstairs. Bottom of escalator. I see the package. It’s a briefcase, same as the one we took from the Uruguayans. The tango holding it is—”
Señor Rodríguez grunted, his words cut short.
“Señor Rodríguez?”
No response.
Medianoche hurried through the multitude, took to the escalator. Only two escalators. One going up, one going down, descending into a cavernous section that had graffiti etched in the walls. He rushed into a stench and staleness he didn’t have time to process.
At the bottom, he paused at a kiosk that was illuminated with a green Beledent sign.
“Señor Rodríguez, where are you?”
No answer.
“Señorita Raven?”
She responded, “Almost back inside the station.”
“Rodríguez?”
No answer.
Señorita Raven could hear him. It wasn’t being underground that was causing interference. He went to the right. A crowd was exiting the subte, rushing his way, hurrying to the single escalator. Another train pulled away. Package could be gone. Rodríguez could be with the targets. Train disappeared. Signal remained green. Package hadn’t left. Rodríguez had to be here. Had gone silent. He looked around. Bar Tolo had a few customers. No sign of Señor Rodríguez. Saw armed policemen, casual stances, smoking cigarettes. At least a hundred more people were in line at another
boletería
. Looked toward the lottery agency. No sign of Señor Rodríguez.
Medianoche called him again. No response. Newspaper stand. No Rodríguez.
Nuestras Café. No sign of his Spanish soldier.
Anger mixed with anxiety.
Medianoche saw another exit. Plaza San Martín. The signal remained strong. He was rushing that way.
Then.
“Sir, I’m downstairs.”
Medianoche stopped. “Señorita Raven.”
“I’m at the bottom of the escalator. I turned left.”
“Find him?”
“No sign.”
Medianoche moved past a dozen armed policemen. He turned around. At the base of the escalator, straight ahead, was another entrance, stairs that went straight, extended beyond a photo shop that had Kodak banners in its window. Again, droves of people stormed toward him, again he found himself swimming up the goddamn stream of never-fucking-ending pedestrians.
At the end, where it took another sharp left, he saw Señorita Raven.
“Sir. Sir. Sir.”
The voice was in his earpiece. It was Señor Rodríguez.
“I . . . I found the package. Main level. They’re already on the train. Train going to—”
His words stopped.
Medianoche asked, “Which train is the package on?”
Heavy breathing. People talking in Spanish. Background sounds. A commotion.
Medianoche led the way, hurried back to the main level, the stairs ending in the middle of a swarming crowd at the Tomonado kiosk. The gates for the train were to the right.
The trains were boarding. Track 3 and track 4. Trains to Tigre and Suarez.
Medianoche called Señor Rodríguez again. Señorita Raven did the same.
No response.
Medianoche went to the gate. Stopped at a turnstile. Too much security. Needed a fucking ticket. He pointed and Señorita Raven nodded, hurried through the mob of commuters. The line at the electronic ticket booth was long. Señorita Raven went to the front of the queue, cut the line, and went next, pissed everybody off.
She could handle the situation. With a smile, curse, or with deadly force.
Medianoche moved back and forth, his attention now on tracks 3 and 4.
He looked at the tracker. Still green. Still bright green. Package was close enough to touch. Rodríguez had said they were on the train. Not
at
the train.
On
the train.
The only trains were at tracks 3 and 4.
Medianoche tried again. “Which train are you on Señor Rodríguez?”
Nothing.
Señorita Raven returned, handed him a ticket.
The signal was green.
But the trains were too close to each other to tell where the package was.
Nothing from Rodríguez in more than two minutes. Two minutes was a devil’s eternity.
Señorita Raven, “We have to make a move.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Sir, yes, sir. What are our options?”
“Would rather we took the same train, worked from opposite ends to the middle. Not possible at this point. You take Tigre. I’ll take Suarez. Walk the train from end to end.”
“Will be hard to do anything subtle if we come in contact with the tangos.”
“Like you did in Iraq, follow your gut.”
“I’ll attack the enemy like they are the Taliban.”
Gate 3 was for Suarez. Gate 4 for Tigre. Both trains were northbound.
He hit the turnstile, went with the crowd swarming to the left.
Señorita Raven hit the adjacent turnstile, moved with the masses rushing toward the right.
Capítulo 34
muerto es muerto
Morning commuters
were lined up on the platform in single file. More vendors moved back and forth through the crowd, carrying a half dozen colorful Thermoses and yelling they had café for sale. Four-decade-old trains. Worn rubber skid-proof floors. Windows scarred, vulgar words etched in some of the glass. The air was damp, thick, and stale. Most windows had been opened for ventilation.
There were five cars to each train. Each car was about twenty-five or thirty meters long. Three doors to each car, doors at opposite ends and in the middle.
That meant there were three ways to escape each goddamn car.
Fifteen exit points on each train.
The worn blue-and-white train to Suarez pulled away as soon as Medianoche entered the lead car. He flexed his fingers inside his gloved hand. Half the seats faced forward, half backward. A single seat facing the aisle was next to each door. The train was leaving the yard, and as far as he knew, he was being moved away from the other members of his team. Being moved away from the package. Soon, two dozen tracks funneled down to a single pathway cutting its way out of the city of Buenos Aires. Medianoche put his right hand deep inside his coat pocket, his fingers gripping a smaller backup gun. A .22 that didn’t have a silencer.
There was no security on the train. No police officers. No security cameras.
Hustlers squeezed by, moved back and forth, announcing the product they were selling for a few pesos, yelling like they were Latin auctioneers. Train was packed. Everyone held overhead rails and backs of seats to maintain balance as the rocking threw passengers into each other. A Castellano rapper blasted his music, began rapping for donations.
Medianoche yelled, “Rodríguez. Which train did you board?”
No response, only the echo from the falling rain mixing with Castellano chatter.
Medianoche yelled, “I’m on the train heading toward Suarez.”
Nothing but the irritating voice of that damn Castellano rapper.
He said, “Señorita Raven?”
“I’m here, Medianoche. I mean . . . I’m still here, sir.”
“Where are you?”
“Tigre train.” Señorita Raven’s voice was in his ear. “My train is still at the station.”
“No sign of Rodríguez over there?”
“Halfway through the train. Hard to squeeze by all these people. Sardines in a can.”
“Get to the end of the train. If he isn’t there, if you don’t see the package, abort mission.”
At the start of the second car, Medianoche saw Señor Rodríguez, seated in a hard plastic seat that faced out toward the aisle. People stood around him, heavy coats and soaked shoes squeaking on the train’s floor, oblivious to the soldier as he held his gut, his head leaning back against the wall. The carriage whined and pitched along the tracks, the floor soaked from umbrellas leaving water trails.