The Long Run, page 31
“Is there anything else?”
She thought of the rush of arrests she had just completed. Gustavo beating Hank’s head like a piñata filled her mind. All that seemed trivial now. Lost in the rush to rescue two people running for their lives. “Nothing that can’t wait for an email.”
“Understood. I’ll alert Mexico City. They’ll take it from there. Good work, Agent. I’ll be in touch.”
Another abrupt end to a call. Another moment for Agent Dominguez to linger on the sidelines. She hated watching the action from the sidelines. Like a great white shark suffocating in stasis, Agent Dominguez thrived best on movement. Her duty station was McAllen. Finding Sofia and Israel rested in the hands of those residing in Mexico. And with Centavo’s confession, this felt like the final chapter to a pinwheeling case file. Only paperwork cleanup remained. But one last thought twisted inside.
How the hell were Sofia and Israel going to reach the border? Sofia gave little help in locating them. A truck-stop in Campeche. Which they doubtless already abandoned. Riding the trains was far too dangerous. Besides the ever-present chance of banditry, a network of cartel lookouts watched every car. They had cash now. They could hire a ride. Plenty of people would risk the cartel gauntlet for the right amount of money. But it was almost as dangerous as riding the trains. A long drive punctuated by occasional roadblocks. Not to mention the possibility of the driver taking the money and calling the cartel, anyway. Cash in on both ends. Anyhow, there was no way for her to track their movement by car. All she could do was wait and hope they called.
She had one last thought. That much money could hire a private plane ride. Commercial airlines were out of the question. But a small plane skipped everything. A pilot could fly them all the way to McAllen. Best of all, from her perspective, she could track a plane flight. She swiped open her phone. She would ask the Mexico City SAC to contact the Campeche tower and inquire about any private flights taking off in the last four hours and their destinations. If one was coming to McAllen, she wanted to be there to greet it.
CHAPTER 57
Chucho
Chucho didn’t care about the Lear jet’s luxurious accommodations. He was a simple man from simple stock. He preferred the ground under his feet and the tactile feel of tree and plant. But there was one benefit to flight that he loved. It provided a front-row seat to the heavens. An embrace with the Gods. He peered out the portal window. Clouds blotted out the Gulf of Mexico below the plane. But that wasn’t his focus. The sun radiated warmth from the sea of blue above.
A mounted rider in the clouds hazed into vision. His steed’s coat shimmered obsidian black. Its enormous sinewy chest spread across miles. Was he the size of a city? A country? Scale was meaningless to the Gods.
Chucho blinked and fought off his blurry vision. The mescaline in his veins was working its hallucinogenic magic. But this was no fantasy. There was no doubting the rider’s identity.
A headdress of bright plumage crowned Buluc Chabtan’s colossal skull. A jade mask covered his face. The mask sneered below furrowed blank eyes. He gripped a warrior’s spear—wrapped in animal hide and feathers—at his side. His charger nickered as the jade mask turned to watch the jet glide past.
It was the will of the Gods that Chucho find the gringos. Half a millennium before, the conquistadors subjugated their people. Rapists and murderers. Plunderers of sacred lands. Chucho would right the wrongs. Rid the land of its defilers. Bring justice to their people. It was his destiny. Lightning arced across the sky, rippling Buluc Chabtan’s mighty headdress. He paid no mind. His head tilted slowly—the ponderous movement of the giants—in deference to Chucho’s great sacrifice.
A spirit moved Chucho. A need to praise the cruel greatness before him. He slid forward off his seat and kneeled on the cabin floor. He raised his hands above him and chanted.
“Oh, great and mighty! I praise your strength and cruelty! Let your will course through these hands!” He balled his fists and trembled in anger. “Grant me a test, Buluc Chabtan! Allow me to prove my worth!”
Buluc Chabtan’s eyes glowed red behind the jade mask. He nodded before he and his steed merged into a towering block of clouds. Chucho leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the carpeted floor. A prayer for the dead. A prayer for the living. And a prayer for those he wished dead.
“Uh, perdón. Señor,” Hugo said meekly. Chucho sat upright and peered into a ghoulish face. Its mouth twisted in a hideous grin below a mirthless, slitted stare. The face shimmered and faded before being replaced by Hugo’s chubby visage. “Perdón. The plane is about to land.”
Hugo leaned forward in deference and weakness. Behind him, the other men looked away. Embarrassed? Or ashamed? The simple fools. To them, this was a job. A way to earn the filthy blood lucre of their subjugators. They didn’t understand the greater deed in motion. But they played their parts. Useful idiots. Their sacrifices would not go unnoticed despite their stupidity.
“Bueno,” Chucho said. He stood and reclaimed his seat. He strapped the seatbelt across his lap. A buzz in his pocket. The screen displayed the notification. Another call from La Doña. But he was done with her. Done with her kind. Today began a new age. A return to greatness for his people. And it started with the gringos.
CHAPTER 58
Agent Dominguez
Dusk descended on McAllen as Agent Dominguez tapped on her keyboard. Another evening in the empty office, eating a cold chicken salad sandwich for dinner. Another night staring into a numbing computer screen. She tapped on her phone. A direct message from a high school friend asking her to pretty-please come to her bachelorette party. They had rented a hall filled with friends and wine. Strippers were in the offing. Agent Dominguez grinned. Maybe in her youth. She remembered an evening of partying after graduation. One of the rare times she let her hair down and acted a fool. Police should have arrested her that night. She sighed. Those days were over. Now she put people in jail. She would craft a regretful reply later. Her job was too important. Her old friends didn’t understand. They lived normal lives with day jobs and boyfriends and husbands. An increasing number were having children. Their photos filled her Facebook timeline. Insta fabulous. But that wasn’t her future. Not yet, at least. Passion had seized her. And it wouldn’t release her until Sofia and Israel were home.
Henry and Hank Carson were in jail now, awaiting a bond hearing. Regardless, their twisting legal futures were out of her hands. Now was the humdrum of closing loose ends, filling out forms, and putting this case file to bed. She tapped the keyboard and yawned. She might climb into bed on time tonight. With at least one glass of Cabernet Sauvignon to warm her belly. A notification window blinked into existence at the bottom of her desktop display. A new email from the Mexico City SAC. She clicked to expand it. A match for her query had been located. A Cessna had departed Campeche with its destination, a private airfield outside Reynosa. Not that far from here. If the flight plan was accurate, it would land in… she checked her phone. Forty minutes.
The email continued. The SAC had contacted the federales seeking permission to dispatch agents to meet the plane. But they were slow to respond outside business hours, and little time remained before the flight landed. And though the local police had been alerted, their participation was sketchy. In short, the plane was likely to land alone, and in the dark. She copied the airstrip’s address and pasted it into a Google map for directions. Forty-five minutes away.
If she left now, she could meet Sofia and Israel as they stepped onto the tarmac. But to go in official capacity, she needed authorization from both her superiors and the Mexican government. Something she was highly unlikely to receive on short notice. She hovered her thumb over her phone’s power button. If she called, she would just be told no. She dropped the phone in her pocket. Better to go and ask forgiveness later.
Going as a citizen meant leaving her service weapon behind. She’d be a tourist, like any other American in Mexico. She stood and unclipped the holster from her waistband and pulled out a desk drawer. The 9mm and its holster fit snugly atop a pile of documents. She closed the drawer and locked it. She’d prefer meeting them with her sidearm handy, but she didn’t want to spend the night inside a Mexican jail. Most likely it wouldn’t be needed, anyway. She patted her jacket pocket. Her FBI badge was still there. The best defense she could muster. It would have to do.
Dusk settled across the south Texas sky in saturated oranges and reds as she found her Blazer in the parking lot. Alone in an empty lot, save for the security guard’s truck. She mapped her GPS for the desolate airfield across the border and drove away.
CHAPTER 59
Israel
Israel’s head lolled to one side, and his cheek rested on top of his clavicle. The ceaseless drone of the Cessna single engine had rocked him to sleep somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico. Only his seat harness held him upright, preventing him from spilling to the floor. Despite the occasional turbulent bounces and jostles of the plane ride, he never woke even to shift weight.
“Hey!” Clark’s voice pulled Israel from his sleep. His dreary eyes fluttered as they focused on Clark. He swiveled in his seat and gave Israel a sidelong glance. “We’re about to land.”
“OK.” Israel sat up straight and wiped his eyes. “Thanks.”
“Ah,” Sofia groaned, as she woke from her own slumber. She rubbed her neck with a scowl. “I don’t think God meant for people to sleep like this.”
Israel felt it too in his aching bones and joints. He rubbed his stubbled pate and peered out the cabin window. A patchwork quilt of towns filled the darkening landscape. Twinkling lights identified Reynosa below them.
“Maybe we sleep in our beds tonight,” he said.
“That sounds good,” Sofia said. She offered a weary grin below her baggy eyes.
The Cessna glided through thin clouds and aimed for a short runway far below. Twin rows of pinpoint lights flanked it, marking the airstrip in a rectangle of darkness surrounding it. A strip of airplane hangars sat beside the runway. That was it. Sparse. Simple. Nothing like the sprawling international airports in McAllen and Cancun with their spaghetti noodles of runways and concourses. He scanned the hangars for signs of movement. But they remained tiny in the distance and obscured in the dim twilight. Israel steeled himself to disembark. They had eluded Chucho. The cartel was searching for them in the Yucatan jungle. He sucked air through his teeth as the plane’s wheel’s tapped and bounced on the smooth airstrip. Sofia gripped her harness and stared outside the portal windows. The Cessna slowed and taxied onto the apron near the final hangar. It circled before stopping, so its propeller faced the runway.
“Y’all can breathe now,” Clark said as he switched off a row of dash-mounted controls.
Israel met Sofia’s gaze. She smiled in relief. Home was a few miles north, though crossing the border would be a bitch. Still, being this close filled him with renewed energy. They unsnapped their harnesses and stepped down through the exterior cabin door. They stood on the runway apron—between the rear of the plane and the hangars—enjoying the languid breezes flowing around them. Israel leaned back, popping his stiff back.
“My ride doesn’t get here for another hour,” Clark said from the pilot’s seat. “I’m going to wait for him at a bar down the street. You’re welcome to join me. But if you want to leave now, you’ll have to call a cab. Y’all still got cash. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sofia said and turned to Israel. “What do you want to do?”
The thought of riding a cab to the river made Israel smile. But, he supposed, it probably wasn’t all that unusual for someone immigrating north.
“I wanna go the fuck home.”
“There’s a phone at the bar,” Clark said. “Give me a minute in here and I’ll walk you there.” He disappeared inside the cabin to complete the plane’s shutdown procedures.
Clapping hands interrupted their conversation. Like the polite clap of an appreciative golf fan. Israel peered around the Cessna’s wings at the runway beyond. What he saw chilled his blood.
Seven figures emerged from the darkness on the opposite side of the runway. Silver boot tips glinted reflected lamp light. Heavy heels crunched on brittle asphalt. Four of the men gripped black-barreled AK-47’s. Two wielded stubby Uzis. Chucho strode before them in his standard black leather vest. His hooded calavera chest tattoo stared at Israel. Chucho clapped his hands chest high with a twisted smile parting his lips. He directed six men to surround the nose of the plane. Chucho stood at the left wingtip—nearest to Israel and Sofia — and spread his arms apart like a game show host.
“¡Muy bien, gringos!” he said with a stern face. “You almost made it home.”
“Izzy!” Sofia squeaked. Israel backpedaled until his body shielded hers. He searched for an opening to escape. There were no narcos behind them. A quick spin and dash would propel them into the dark field behind the hangars.
“You’re faster than a bullet? Really?” Chucho glanced between Israel and his men. “Go on. Run. See if you can outrun a bullet.” His temples flexed as he stared at Israel.
Sofia’s hand gripped his from behind his back. She squeezed hard. There was no running. No hiding in plain sight, either. Trapped between the locked hangars and armed men.
“We’re gonna be OK,” he lied.
“Whoa!” Clark’s voice sounded, fracturing the ice that blanketed the group outside the plane. One of his feet rested on the apron. The other remained inside the cabin. Caught unaware by the newcomers. His gaze darted back and forth, gathering visual clues. “What’s going on?”
“Another gringo?” Chucho said.
“Hey!” Clark raised both hands and swallowed. “I… I’m just the pilot! I don’t know them. They hired me to fly them here.”
“Come out, güero. Join us.” Chucho raised an inviting arm.
Clark glanced from Chucho to Israel. His tense body seemed to vibrate with indecision. Then he grabbed the handles beside the door and pulled himself inside, leaving a sandal on the apron. The cabin door slammed shut, and the plane rocked as he sat in the pilot’s seat.
“What are you doing?” Chucho yelled. “Do you think you can fly away?”
The engine fired, answering Chucho’s question. The spinning propeller blades gained speed as the engine built thrust.
“He thinks he can fly away,” Chucho chuckled. His men laughed with him as they aimed their rifles at the plane’s fuselage.
“Back up,” Israel said, low so only Sofia could hear. “Slow.” They were standing outside the plane, several feet away from where Clark had been. They backpedaled towards the hangar. Israel eyed the corner of the hangar and the darkness beyond it.
The plane rolled forward, forcing the narcos to retreat. They looked at Chucho for guidance. He laughed and waved for them to step back. “Hey!” Chucho yelled and waved his arms, trying to get Clark’s attention. “We’re still here! We haven’t left!”
The plane turned as its wheels bumped onto the runway. Clark appeared through the cockpit window. He stared at the horizon as if in a trance. Sofia and Israel continued backpedaling. They had put several yards between them and Chucho. A few more feet to their possible salvation.
“¡Esta bien!” Chucho shrugged. “We’re going to shoot you now!” A straight line of rifles cocked and aimed at the plane. Clark rolled on, oblivious to the threat. The plane had rolled several yards down the runway. Far enough to avoid the crossfire. Chucho nodded for his men to open fire. Gunfire rippled through the line, perforating the plane’s fuselage and shattering glass. Sofia screamed.
The engine compartment ripped apart under the withering fire, snapping the corkscrewing propeller blades into twisting shards. One piece caromed off the apron and punctured a hangar door. Israel watched in horror as the carnage unfold. Smoke and gunpowder obscured his vision of the cockpit. Clark was inside that kill box. And there was nothing Israel could do. The plane rolled forward, propelled by its own inertia. The narcos continued firing, converting the plane into a fiberglass cheese grater on wheels. Through it all, Chucho never wavered, standing still nearby and watching the action with narrowed eyes.
Israel couldn’t do anything for Clark, but he and Sofia still had a chance. Chucho and the narco gunmen were focused on the plane. Escape was now or never. “We gotta go!” he told Sofia. But her gaze was locked on the rolling horror happening on the runway. He grabbed her hand, forcing her to look at him. Her wide eyes blinked, and she nodded. They turned towards the field behind the hangar. Nightfall rendered it a black hole surrounded by the dim lights of adjacent neighborhoods. An invisible sanctuary to disappear into. A chance at survival. They scrambled to the corner of the hangar, ready to bolt into the darkness beyond.
“Uh uh,” a voice tutted. It was a narco, baby-faced and chubby with a smooth head. A thick bandage covered a wound on his forehead. He had taken position beside the hangar, a fail-safe to prevent escape. He stepped out of the shadow and pointed his AK at Israel’s chest.
“Hugo,” Sofia blurted. “Please!”
“Not again!” Hugo sneered. “Get back!”
He stepped toward them, forcing them back towards Chucho. Hugo gripped his rifle’s handguard and glared at Sofia; his brow furrowed into a bushy line. Israel guessed at some previous encounter between the two.
“Wait, Hugo! Please! I’m—” Sofia pleaded.
“Shut up,” Hugo yelled. His upper lip curled in a vicious sneer. “I’m not listening to your lies.”
They continued backpedaling, urged on by Hugo’s looming presence, until they returned to the spot they had abandoned moments earlier. On the runway, the crackle of gunfire faded. The plane was a smoking ruin, but its wheels remained intact. It continued rolling unguided, arcing in a wide curve that pointed it at the furthest hangar. It bumped down onto the apron and collided with the hangar door, caving it inwards. But the door held, stopping the plane’s forward momentum. The gunmen stood in a line parallel to the runway and lowered their weapons to inspect their handiwork.
