Saint Death

57

Jesus Plato got out of his car. There were six soldiers. The oldest of the three, the one who had spoken to him at the station, was with Smith. Plato could see dead bodies in the gardens behind him. He saw three, at least, maybe four. A massacre. His stomach turned over. Whoever these six were, they were armed to the teeth and ruthless as hell, and they had just subdued El Patrón’s mansion and all of the sicarios that he had at his disposal.

And now Captain Pope had a gun pointed at Smith’s chest.

“Someone going to tell me what’s happening here?”

“This is the man we’re here for. We’re taking him back over the border.”

“You told me he was a colleague.”

“He is a colleague.”

“And you were going to help him.”

“That’s true.”

“This is helping him?”

“He’s also a wanted man.”

“For what?”

“That’s classified.”

“Not good enough.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to have to do.”

Plato shook his head. He drew his Glock and aimed at Pope.

“What are you doing, Lieutenant?”

“Let’s just keep it nice and easy.”

“Put that down, please.”

“I’m going to need you to explain to me why you think you can take him. You got a warrant?”

“We don’t need one.”

“Afraid you do. Can’t let you do anything without one.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” the woman said. “Step aside.”

“Wish I could, Señorita, but I’m afraid I just can’t. This man is wanted for further questioning — that ruckus at the restaurant on Monday, seems there’s a bit more to that than we thought there was. And, unless I’m mistaken, this is Mexico and I’m an officer of the law. The way I see it, that gives me jurisdiction.”

Pope spoke calmly. “Think about this for a moment, Teniente. We are here with the approval of your government and with the co-operation of the American military. This man is a fugitive. There’ll be serious consequences if you interfere.”

“Maybe so.”

“Your job, for one.”

He laughed. “What are they going to do? Fire me? I retire tomorrow. That’s what you call an empty threat. Drop your weapons.”

They did no such thing.

Plato tightened his grip on his pistol.

A stand-off.

There were six of them and one of him.

He had no second move.

He heard a siren; another cruiser hurried through the gates and pulled over next to his car.

Sanchez got out. He was toting his shotgun. “Alright, Jesus?”

“You sure about this, buddy?”

Sanchez nodded. “You were right.”

Pope turned to Sanchez. “You too?”

“Let him go.”

The shotgun was quivering a little, but he didn’t lower it.

“Now, then,” Plato said, stepping forward. “I’m going to have to insist that you drop those weapons, turn around and put your hands on the car.”

The younger man fixed him with a chilling gaze. “Don’t be a fool. We’re on the same side.”

“I think in all this noise and commotion it’s all gotten to be a little confusing. I think the best thing to do is, we all go back to the station and work out who’s who in this whole sorry mess.”

“If we don’t want to do that?”

“I suppose you’d have to shoot us. But do you want to do that? British soldiers, in a foreign country, murdering the local police? Imagine the reaction to that. International outrage, I’d guess. Not what you want, is it?”

“Alright,” Pope said. “Do as he says.”

He took a step backwards.

Sanchez raised the shotgun and indicated the car with it. “Now, then, please — the guns on the floor, please.”

They finally did as they were told.

“Señor Smith,” Plato said. “You’re riding with me. Señor Pope — you and your friends stay with Teniente Sanchez, please.”

Sanchez said that he had called for backup and that it was on its way. Plato turned to Smith and took him by the arm. As he moved him towards the waiting cruiser, he squeezed him two times on the bicep.

58

Milton sat and watched the streets of Ciudad Juárez as they rushed past the windows of the Dodge.

Plato looked across the car at him for a moment. “You alright?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Milton saw his reflection in the darkened window of the car: his right eye was swollen shut, lurid purples and blues in the ugly bruise; there was dried blood around his nose and from the cuts on his face. He probed his ribs gently; they were tender. “Looks worse that it is,” he said.

“Want to tell me who they are?”

“Ex-colleagues.”

“They seem pretty keen to meet with you.”

“They’ve been looking for me for six months.”

“You think it was my fault they found you?”

“Those fingerprints you took get emailed anywhere?”

“Mexico City.”

“Probably was you, then. Doesn’t matter.”

“What do they want?”

He sighed. “I used to do the same kind of job that they do. Then I didn’t want to do it anymore.”

“I know the feeling.”

“But the problem is, mine’s not the kind of job you can just walk away from.”

“And they want you to go back to it again?”

He chuckled quietly. “We’re well beyond that.”

Plato mused on that. “Where’s the girl?” he said.

“With Baxter.”

“He got her out?”

“As far as I know.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“Briefly.”

“And?”

“I don’t think they touched her. But you’ve got a problem.”

“I know,” he said grimly.

Milton nodded. “Alameda.”

“I think I’ve known for a while. He ducked out when they attacked the restaurant and, if you asked me to bet, I’d say it was him who called González from the hospital then disappeared so he could do what he came there to do. I checked who responded to that murder, too, when she was taken. It was him.”

“She said he took her.”

Plato sighed.

“What are you going to do?”

“Haven’t worked that out yet.”

“What’s the plan now?” Milton said.

“You don’t wa

“Not if I can help it.”

“Thought so. Sanchez will keep them busy for an hour or so. Papers to fill out, and suchlike. Give you a bit of a head start. The only thing to decide is where do you want to go?”

“North, eventually.”

“My opinion? El Paso’s too obvious. I’m guessing your passport is shot now and even if you could bluff your way across it’d be easy to find you again from here.”

“I think so.”

“So, if it was me, I’d go east and then go over. You can walk across, somewhere like Big Bend. It’s not easy — it’s a long walk — but the coyotes take people over there all the time. I’ve been hunting there, too, I can show you the best place. You’ll need some gear. A tent, for one. A sleeping bag. A rifle.”

“I’m not going yet.”

Plato glanced across at him. “Why not?”

“There’s something I need to do first. But I’m going to need your help.”

“Am I going to regret that?”

“Probably. Can we go to your house?”

“That’s where we’re headed. I was going to kit you out.”

He slowed, turned left across the flow of traffic and headed into a pleasant residential estate. Milton recognised it from before. Oaks and pecan trees lined the broad avenue. After five minutes they pulled into the driveway of the house and parked behind the boat. A light flicked on in a downstairs window and a woman’s face appeared there; Plato waved up at the window and made his way to the garage at the side of the house.

Plato led the way inside, switched on the overhead striplight and started to arrange things: he took out a one-man tent, a rucksack, a canteen that he filled with water.

“What are you going to do?” Milton asked him.

“About what?”

“Juárez.”

“Stick it out like I’ve always done.”

“And El Patrón?”

“Nothing’s changed there.”

“But if he finds out you were involved with me? And the girl?”