The Watcher

I settle back in the seat. "So, how did you and Burke get together anyway?"

A sideways glance. "Mutual friend."

"Ah. Martinez, right? He has some interest in the black arts does he?"

Foley chuckles. "I think it's crap. But he and his crazy mother believe in that stuff. After I told him you'd dissappeared from San Diego for real yesterday, he said Burke knew she could find you—could 'summon' you because she had some friend of yours. He paid Burke a shitload of money to lure you to that freak show. He really wants you bad." A smirk touches his mouth. "It worked. I'll give them that."

"You don't have a clue, do you?"

He snorts. "About what?"

"You think last night was all pyrotechnics and special effects. If Burke had succeeded, you would have been demon food. It almost would have been worth it."

He laughs. "Yeah. Right. I do have one question for you, though. What were you on? Speed? Angel dust? You got scary looking for a minute. And strong. And you beat it out of there so fast I couldn't even catch you in the car. Lucky Burke knew where to find you."

Yeah. Lucky.

I put my head back and close my eyes. It will give me such great pleasure to show Foley how really scary I can be.

I wonder if Culebra can track the car the way he said. But it doesn't really matter. I'm on my way to Max. The only thing I ask is that he still be alive when I get there.

We stay on the main road for a mile or two from Beso de la Muerte. Even pass the wreck of my rental car. But not too far after that, Foley yanks the wheel sharply to the left, cranks into four-wheel drive, and we off-road it into the desert.

I turn an inquisitive eye toward him. "Where are we going?"

He keeps his eyes on the road. "You'll see soon enough."

He has both hands firmly on the wheel, fighting the car whose name, TrailBlazer, was not meant to be taken literally. I brace myself with one hand on the dashboard and the other on the door to keep my head from hitting the roof. Even the seat belt does little to lessen the pounding. The only good thing is that if Culebra really is following, these tracks will be easy to spot.

"Now that we're alone," I say, my voice bouncing along with the bucking car, "you can come clean. You have been following me, haven't you?"

Foley glances at me. "I told you. I haven't been following you. Why the hell would I? I didn't know Martinez was go

"I don't believe you. You wanted Max. You thought I'd lead you to him."

He shakes his head. "I actually believed you when you said you hadn't been in touch with him. Are you telling me you were lying? What a surprise. Anyway, right after I left you, I got a message from Martinez. He told me Max was on his way to Mexico. He was waiting for him to cross the border. Bad luck for me that he got to him first." He snickers. "But we made another deal."

I don't have to ask for whom. But Max was with me for an hour or so after my meeting with Foley. How did Martinez know where he was headed? Guilt tightens my shoulders. If I hadn't left when I did, I might have known what Max had pla

Have I done anything right the last few days? It doesn't feel like it now.

A dust cloud rises from the rim of a hollow ahead of us. Suddenly monotonous desert sounds, the chatter of insects, the cries of animals and birds, are drowned out by the din of a helicopter engine.

I glance over at Foley. "Martinez has spared no expense, has he?"

Foley grunts a reply. "Don't know why he bothered. He should just let me shoot you and be done with it."

"And Max? You'd let him shoot Max, too?"

He shrugs. "He knew the risks."

His nonchalance about Max's fate—the fate of a fellow law enforcement officer no less—quickens my anger, but I hold it in check. Foley will feel the force of it soon enough.

The helicopter is a small one, painted a gunmetal gray.

The rotor turns in a whirl of speed that kicks up dirt and sends it spiraling into the air. I can see the pilot at the controls, head turned to watch our approach. The sun has not yet risen fully in the sky, but his eyes are shielded by the requisite Ray-Ban Aviators favored by pilots—I glance over at Foley—and evidently, Feds. He's wearing an identical pair.

Foley pulls to a stop beside the copter. He looks at me. "Are you going to make this easy?" he asks.

"And if I don't?"

He reaches across me to open the glove compartment and pulls from it a small leather case. He unzips it and tilts it so I can see what's inside. A syringe, filled with a pale gold substance. "I doubt you'll have as much fun with this as you did with whatever the hell it was you took last night," he says. "But I guarantee it'll get you on that copter."

I push his hand away. "You still don't get it, do you? I'm getting on that copter because I want to. Because of Max."

He doesn't look convinced. He slips the case into the pocket of his jacket with a "just in case" expression. I shake my head and beat him out of the car.

The pilot has climbed down and is standing beside the copter. He sports an impatient frown behind those sunglasses, the air of one who is not happy to have been kept waiting. He says something to Foley in Spanish, in clipped tones.

"Relax, compadre," Foley replies in English. "We're here. Let's go."

He gives me a needless little shove and the pilot smiles. I let him get away with it. I even let him manhandle me through the narrow door and into a seat. His puts one hand on my chest to hold me in place while he secures the harness. The pilot watches from his place at the controls and Foley, knowing he is watching, lets his hands wander over my breasts and down between my legs.

"Want to be sure you're secure," he says, yanking the belt tight. "Wouldn't want you to have an accident, would we?"

That brings a bubble of laughter from the pilot. He understands English. I file that away for future reference. He snaps his own harness into place and turns his attention to the controls. Foley slips on a headset identical to the pilot's and they begin to chatter back and forth in Spanish. He doesn't offer me a headset.

The helicopter rises in a tornado of dust. The pilot clears the hollow and banks sharply to the south. Doesn't surprise me that we're headed farther into Mexico. I look down at the ground. Unless Culebra can enlist the help of a bird or two, I'm on my own.

We fly over desert, mostly, and the occasional village. My bet is we are not headed for the coast or any crowded tourist destination. We're flying low. A little too low for my taste. I can see coyotes scramble on the ground as we roar past. Avoiding radar detection maybe? If that's even a consideration. Money can buy anything in Mexico, including invisibility.

After fifteen minutes or so, we approach a hilly, forested area. The copter slows. I don't see any place to land until we come up over a rise and there, beneath us is a valley. I see no roads going in or out, only a compound tucked so completely into the folds of the hillside, I'd bet it's hidden from any view except ours—a bird's-eye view. I search the surrounding terrain. You'd really have to know where to look to spy this even from the air. Have to give it to Martinez. Perfect setup for a drug dealer.

As we get closer, more details snap into relief. Buff-colored buildings with red-tile roofs, three that I can see, and a wall that stretches all the way around them.

While we're still a good distance above ground, I search for a road. Or for anything that looks as if it could be used by ground transportation. With a sinking feeling, I realize there's nothing. Which means getting Max and I out of here might prove to be tricky. And that whatever happens, I'd better protect this asshole pilot.