police hadn’t tied to them yet. C.C. was the one who delivered the headlines. He’d also be the one who got them a lethal injection, if they were ever caught.
They herded the employees to the manager’s office and tied them up. The Guide said to forget about the safe-just get the cash from the registers. They went shopping-grabbed some new clothes, a shitload of ammunition. Elroy picked up a bow-and-arrow set and Luis was like, “What the fuck are you doing?”
The big black man smiled. “Always wanted to be Robin Hood, brother.”
The Guide said, “Time to leave.”
He went back to the office and gave the employees a spiel-don’t yell for help, don’t try anything funny or we’ll hunt down your families and kill them.
Luis knew what they’d remember-the guy in charge was an Anglo in a ski mask, medium build, West Texas accent. The police would figure it was Will Stirman. They’d figure the five of them were still together, heading north. Four guys did the heist. The fifth stayed in the car, playing lookout.
As it turned out, it would’ve been better if there had been a fifth on lookout.
As soon as they got outside, there was a blaze of headlights. Some guy was shining his brights on them. A red Chevy. The driver wore some kind of uniform. Luis couldn’t tell through the glare-an off-duty security officer, maybe. The guy was leaning out his window, training a gun on them. He yelled, “Freeze!”
C.C. and the Guide opened fire. Luis and Elroy took off toward the van, locusts crunching under their boots.
The guard’s Chevy revved and careened forward, toward the van, and Luis knew he was going to die. At the last minute the Chevy swerved toward the glass storefront, where C.C. was standing, a pistol in each hand, firing away. C.C. didn’t have time to jump before the red Chevy plowed into him, slamming him through the glass.
Luis ran up. The Chevy’s engine was grinding. It wasn’t going anywhere, steam billowing out the hood, gas leaking from its belly. Behind the blood-spattered web of glass that used to be the windshield, the driver was dead. He wasn’t a security guard-he was a cop. Fucker must’ve been on his way home from his shift, spotted the holdup, had to stop and play hero.
The worst was C.C. He was sprawled on the cement, half under the Chevy, broken glass and locusts all around him. He was screaming, and his leg was pumping like a busted pipe. The Guide yelled, “Get pressure on that!”
Luis stripped off his shirt and tried to bind the wound. But then he saw what had happened. A plate glass shard had gone clean through C.C.’s calf like a guillotine blade. Nothing was holding the leg together but a few shreds of fabric.
Luis managed to wrap the mess with his shirt, tying off the sleeves like a tourniquet, but C.C.’s eyes were rolling back in his head. He was shivering.
Luis looked at Elroy, and they didn’t need to say anything. They were both thinking about stained glass, a broken angel feather stabbed in an old supervisor’s gut.
The Guide said, “Get him in the van.”
“He needs a doctor,” Elroy said. “We can leave him here, call
911-”
“No,” the Guide said. “Nobody leaves the group.”
So they got C.C. in the van and gunned the accelerator, made it to the highway. They drove north into the dark plains of Oklahoma, listening for sirens that never came.
C.C.’s breath smelled like raw meat. The wound oozed.
They’d just passed the city limits sign when C.C. spat up blood, tried to wipe his chin and shuddered for the last time.
They dug C.C. a shallow grave in the red earth of a creek bed. They shoveled dirt on his open eyes. A little sneer traced his mouth, like he was going to tell Satan a thing or two.
The Guide took it in stride. He kept the same calm expression as when faced with police roadblocks, or WANTED signs in grocery stores, or the hotel night manager who had the fugitives’ faces on the television as they checked in for the night. The Guide was a Freon-blooded son-of-a-bitch, just like his boss, Will Stirman.
Third day together, now, and Luis still didn’t know the Guide’s name. Luis didn’t trust him any more than when they’d first met in the Floresville Wal-Mart parking lot, when the Guide had given them all fresh clothes and guns, cell phones with clean numbers-Luis and Pablo exchanging looks, silently promising they would keep in touch.
Stirman had said, “Take these folks to Canada. Get ’em set with paperwork and cash. Anything they want.”
Luis had never trusted that promise. He tried to believe it would happen, because he had nothing else. He’d never really cared about going home to El Paso. And there was no chance he or Elroy could have made it so far on their own. The Guide had saved their asses a dozen times already.
Luis knew the Canada trip was a diversion. It was a false flare to make the police think Stirman was going north. Luis just hoped he and Elroy wouldn’t end up like C.C.
“Least we take some heat off you, cuz,” he told Pablo. “Hope you get back to Angelina. Brother Stirman treating you right?”
Pablo stared out the warehouse windows, over miles of San Antonio railways.
Angelina. All he wanted was to see her.
Pablo didn’t have the heart to tell Luis what he and Stirman had been doing-how C.C.’s death sounded like a joyride compared to his last two days.
I own you, amigo, Stirman had told him. You are my new right-hand man.
Pablo remembered yesterday morning, in this room, holding a video camera for hours as Will Stirman interrogated the former owner of this warehouse, who used to be Stirman’s right-hand man.
“I’m cool,” Pablo told Luis. “Just be careful. I keep thinking, maybe me and Angelina-”
“Guide’s coming, man,” Luis whispered. “I got to go.”
The line went dead.
Pablo kept his eyes on the rain. He didn’t want to turn and see the work that was waiting for him.
He thought about the night four and a half years ago in El Paso when he’d lost everything, drinking straight tequila in a bar on Airway Boulevard while a so-called good neighbor stoked his worst fears into anger. He was over there again last night while you were at work, ese. I hate to tell you this, but there ain’t no doubt. If I was you…
Pablo remembered very little about loading his shotgun, driving home.
He rubbed his eyes to get rid of the memory.
Stirman had promised a chartered plane from Stinson Field. There was a drug runners’ airstrip near Calabras, in the mountains south of Juarez, only a few miles from El Paso. Pablo would be able to contact his wife from there. All he had to do was a few more days of service for Stirman.
Pablo mastered his nerves.
He turned. Behind him, waiting patiently in their metal chairs, were two corpses-a pair of fucking nobodies he had to dispose of before Stirman got back. Stirman hadn’t even hated these guys. They just happened to have some information he wanted. They’d recently seen some people Stirman was looking for. So after their heartfelt conversation, Stirman had let them die pretty easy, which was why you could still sort of recognize Lalu and Kiko Ortiz’s faces through the burn marks.
Will Stirman focused on the boy.
Fred Barrow’s widow was in the drop-off line for the school summer camp. There were nine cars in front of her.
The boy had his arm out the passenger’s window. He was drumming his fingers against the Audi’s door. He had a mop of black hair, a coffee complexion that was nothing like his mother’s.
The people Will had questioned didn’t know much about the kid. He was adopted, they thought. From
