The Watcher

The copter heads for the pad nearest the larger of the buildings. The pilot brings it down smoothly, touching ground with just the slightest of bumps. He glances back at me, expecting what? A round of applause for the smooth landing?

I ignore the look and busy myself getting out of the harness. Foley has already freed himself and jumped down. He motions for me to come on with an impatient snap of his fingers. I congratulate myself for not grabbing those fingers and snapping them off.

I jump down and look around. No Martinez. No armed guards. No welcoming committee of any kind.

My face must reflect surprise because Foley says, "What were you expecting? Banditos with automatic rifles?" He waves a hand. "Look around. Where would you go if you even attempted to escape? That's the beauty of this place. Only one way in and one way out. Come on. Martinez is most anxious to meet you."

We landed in front of a hangar. Inside are two small prop planes and a second, larger helicopter. The pilot heads into the hangar while Foley steers me to the right, toward the second of the buildings I saw from the air.

As we approach, I realize this might be a residence. There is a courtyard leading to oversized carved oak doors. Water cascades in a melodious tumble from a three-tier stone fountain. Hibiscus and jasmine climb up the walls in a riot of glorious color. It looks like something out of Architectural Digest.

Whoever said crime doesn't pay never saw this place. Or didn't deal drugs.

Foley steps in front of me and knocks on the door.

We wait. The seconds tick by and I start to think Foley has dragged me to the wrong place. Just when I'm ready to call him a fuckup and tear the truth out of him, the door swings open.

A small Hispanic woman smiles a greeting at Foley. She is wearing an ankle length black dress over which is tied a spotless white apron. Her dark hair is salted with gray and gathered back into a braid that reaches down the middle of her back. She looks to be midfifties maybe and her compact little body, while sporting an extra twenty pounds or so, is well muscled and not the least bit flabby. She looks like she can take care of herself.

She and Foley exchange greetings in Spanish. When her dark eyes turn to me, they spark with something that looks very much like anger. The corners of her mouth turn down in a tight frown and the comment she spits out does not sound flattering.

I look to Foley for an explanation.

"Your reputation precedes you," he says. "She knows you are the whore of the man who killed Martinez' family. She looks forward to hearing your death screams."

I don't know how embellished Foley's interpretation of her remarks are, but such an ugly sentiment coming from the mouth of this pleasant-looking woman sends a chill down my spine. Obviously, when the time comes, I can expect no help from her.

She turns away abruptly, starts down a hallway.

Foley puts a hand at the small of my back, but I move after her before he can push. The interior of the house is cool and dim, insulated by thick walls of whitewashed plaster. She leads us through rooms with tile floors and heavily curtained windows. She moves quickly and with purpose, giving me only the briefest impressions of plush furniture, shiny wood, and gilt framed pictures. I make mental notes to mark the rooms we pass through. If I have to get Max out of here in a hurry, I don't want to get lost. The house is big.

And we seem to be going straight through it to the back, ending up in a kitchen the size of the entire first floor of my house. A big steel refrigerator and a restaurant-sized stove look like they belong in here, a rich person's kitchen. Only an arsenal of automatic weapons displayed in a gun case near the back door strikes the wrong chord.

There are two people, an elderly man and woman, chopping vegetables at a granite counter. The two don't look up or say a word as we pass. Neither does our hostess, ignoring them as she heads for a row of cabinets lining the back wall. She reaches for a canister on the first shelf, but instead of picking it up, she yanks it forward. There is a mechanical whir and the entire middle section of the cabinets moves silently forward.

An entry way appears.

And through it, a staircase.

She stands aside with a grim smile and motions me ahead.

I'm so startled by the setup that this time Foley manages to move faster than I do and he pushes me toward the stairs. I stumble forward. The woman does not come with us. When Foley and I are on the stairs, I hear the mechanism once more and turn to see the cabinets realigning themselves. They snap into position with an audible click and we are plunged into darkness. I almost stumble once more but catch myself. Foley is right behind me and I feel him pause on the stairs while my eyes adjust to the darkness and assume he is waiting for his to do the same. But in a moment, track lighting from above and below blinks on. Miniature incandescent bulbs glow softly along the bottom of each stair step and a fixture on the ceiling lights our way.

That's what Foley was waiting for. With a grunt, he prods me onward.

The stairs are thick wood, uncarpeted, and our footfalls echo in the narrow passageway. There is no handrail. The staircase is steep. I count twenty steps before we come to a landing. There is a door. I put my hand out to open it, and Foley swats it away.

"Careful," he says. "Want to get your head blown off?"

I don't bother to remark on the irony of that statement, seeing as how I imagine that's precisely what Martinez has pla

Foley steps around me. There is a button to the right of the doorknob. Foley pushes it. Two short, two long pulses that translate into muffled buzzes just barely audible on this side. The door must be thick. After a moment, there is a click and the door opens.

Martinez is there to meet us.

CHAPTER 39

I'D SEEN MARTINEZ ONCE BEFORE, SEVERAL months ago, but only at night and from a distance. He'd been wearing a suit then and my impression was of a large, thick-bodied man. Not my impression now. Martinez has lost weight—a lot of it. His scarecrow frame is clad in an open-neck polo shirt hanging loose over jeans. He's barefoot. His dark hair is unkempt, longer than I remembered, curling around the collar of his shirt. It's limp with the oily texture of hair that hasn't been washed in a while.

And it frames a face ravaged by sorrow and madness.

I've seen the look before. On a vampire, not a human. But the effect is the same. I feel my muscles tense, constrict as a rush of adrenaline prepares for a fight.

But Martinez doesn't attack. He doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge Foley's presence.

He stares at me, eyes hollow and devoid of life. His hands hang at his sides, one holds a small black box. A light blinks red. Some kind of detonator? He's so utterly still, it's u

"Well," he says. "Here she is. When can I get out of here?"

His voice sparks light in Martinez' eyes, drags him back from whatever pit he'd lost himself in. He places the box on the floor beside the door and the red light blinks to green. He glances at Foley with a look that reminds me of the flicker of a snake's tongue before a strike—quick, decisive, deadly. If I were Foley, I'd be getting out now.

But, of course, Foley is not that smart.

"I did what you told me to. She's alive. I'd like my money now. I've got to make plans. The San Diego PD will be on my trail. Can't go back across the border. Your pilot can take me to Mexico City, though, right? I've got a fake passport. I'll go south from there …"