When he was a teenager, he and his brother, Manny, had spent a couple summers breaking into houses in their neighborhood to steal beer and cigarettes, which they sold to their friends at the local rec center. They got so good at it that most of their victims never even knew they’d been there at all.
But that was a long time ago, and Vargas wasn’t sure if he still had the skill-or the guts-to pull off a B and E. Breaking into a neighbor’s house was one thing. If you got caught, they’d probably call your parents. But if Vargas were to get caught now, Ainsworth would likely blow his head off.
So his only hope was that Big Papa and Junior had taken a detour to a Mexican whorehouse and hadn’t yet returned from Juarez.
Locking his car, he glanced around to make sure he was alone and unobserved. The housing tract had the feel of a ghost town-which, he assumed, was a fairly accurate description. Thanks to the failing economy, construction sites all over the country had stalled or gone bankrupt, and he didn’t figure it was any different out here.
Checking up and down the street, he saw no people, no traffic, no Town Cars…
So he sucked in a breath and crossed toward Ainsworth’s property.
36
If he stayed low, there was just enough brush to give him cover. Keeping about ten yards out from the access road, he moved parallel to it, working his way slowly toward the grouping of warehouses that sat a good distance from the main dwelling.
He assumed that one of them was a chicken coop and had expected to hear clucking sounds coming from inside.
But the place was still and silent. Another ghost town. Which might explain why Ainsworth and Junior were working for the bad guys.
Reaching the first warehouse, Vargas pressed his back against the rusted aluminum siding. There was an open doorway about ten feet away and nothing but darkness inside.
Vargas looked across the yard at the Ainsworth house.
No lights. No sign of the F-150.
Maybe he’d been blessed with a bit of luck for once.
Still, it was wise to be cautious. His best approach, he decided, was from the rear of the place. If he continued to stay low and quiet, he could circle around with minimum risk, then put his burglary skills to the test on one of the rear windows.
He was about to make his move when he heard it. On the road behind him.
The sound of a truck approaching.
Shit.
So much for luck.
Headlights flashed in his direction and he dropped down, scurrying-as best as he could-through the open warehouse door. He watched from the shadows as not one but two sets of headlights, one after the other, bounced along the road toward the house and two familiar vehicles came to a stop out front:
Ainsworth’s F-150.
And the Lincoln Town Car.
Something cold and dead wrapped its fingers around Vargas’s heart.
Check your trunk, Mr. Vargas.
I think the message is clear.
Doors flew open and Ainsworth and the burnt-faced man, Mr. Blister, emerged from their vehicles, Ainsworth looking a little less cocksure than normal.
Vargas waited for Junior to climb out also, but it didn’t happen. Which was odd, considering that father and son seemed to be glued together at the hip.
He thought of Sergio’s fate and wondered if Junior had joined him. That might explain Ainsworth’s change of demeanor.
“Where is it?” Mr. Blister asked.
Ainsworth gestured toward the side of the house. “Still in the shed. We just got the bikes unloaded when you called, and I figured it was best to get a move on. I know the boss man don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Show me,” Mr. Blister said.
They walked toward the house, moving into the darkness along the right side. After a moment, a light came on, revealing a row of rabbit cages. The two men stepped past them to a small metal shed, its doors chained and padlocked.
Vargas’s view was partially blocked by the vehicles. But that could work to his advantage. He needed a closer look and they’d give him cover.
Sucking in a breath, he moved forward, running in a quick straight line to the rear of the Town Car and crouching behind it.
Much better view.
Ainsworth had opened the padlock and was pulling the chain from the door handles. Gesturing for Mr. Blister to stand back a bit, Ainsworth swung open the doors to reveal the two dusty red dirt bikes sitting inside.
Moving to the closest one, he grabbed hold of the seat and pried it upward, then reached beneath it and brought out a tightly wrapped Hefty bag.
He handed it across to Mr. Blister. “Seis burritos, amigo.”
He wasn’t talking about dinner.
Vargas had heard the term “burrito” before. It referred to a rolled-up sheet of Ecstasy tablets. A thousand tabs, with a wholesale value of about five grand. Which meant that the bundle Mr. Blister had in his hand was worth thirty thousand dollars, with a street value of at least double that.
But Ainsworth wasn’t done yet. He moved to another part of the bike-a piece of plastic molding just above the rear wheel-and pried it apart, revealing another hidden compartment, and another tightly wrapped Hefty bag.
Mr. Blister, in the meantime, brought out a switchblade, flicked it open, then sliced through the first bag, checking its contents.
After tucking the new bundle under his arm, Ainsworth moved to the second bike and went to work. By the time he was done, he had two more bundles.
Vargas did some quick math and came up with a total street value of about $240,000. Not bad, but not an earth-shattering figure in the world of drug smugglers.
Ainsworth and Junior were obviously small-run couriers, but Vargas figured that whoever they were working for had a variety of transport methods.
So much for the War on Drugs.
But what did all this have to do with a house full of dead nuns?
Could they have been couriers, too?
“Where’s Monday’s run?” Mr. Blister asked.
Ainsworth gestured with a thumb. “Up in the house.”
“Show me,” Mr. Blister said again, then added, “and I’ll need something to carry it all in.”
Ainsworth nodded and the two men turned, taking the Hefty bags with them to the front of the house.
Vargas crouched low, peeking around the bumper of the Town Car as they headed up a set of creaky porch steps and disappeared inside.
A light went on, illuminating the front room, which was clearly visible though the windows. Ainsworth handed his Hefty bag bundles to Mr. Blister, then crossed to a door and opened it, revealing a closet full of coats. Bending down, Ainsworth disappeared from view for a moment, then reappeared holding a black duffel bag.
Returning to Mr. Blister, he held the bag open while the burnt-faced man started stuffing the bundles inside.
Vargas glanced down at the Town Car’s license plate. Alabama, of all places. Which didn’t quite fit.
