Hailey's War

Two people were walking the rolling unfenced land. One was the tall young clean-shaven guy. The other was Nidia. She was not only recognizable, she was recognizably pregnant, her stomach full and round.

Her reddish hair had not been cut, so that it now hung well past her shoulder blades. I couldn’t see her expression clearly through the glasses, and I was glad about that. Because this was an abomination. They looked like they could have been lovers, or a young husband and wife expecting their first child. He was close by her side, almost solicitous, in case she stumbled.

It sickened me. Three months of that. She’d lived in the hands of strange young men who pretended to be taking care of her, when I suspected they’d be ready and willing to kill her when the time came. Three months without contact with anyone who cared about her, her family, her friends. If I’d had a rifle, I might have shot him. I had been a good enough shooter at school to do it.

Taking a steadying breath, I lowered the binoculars and withdrew deeper into the bush.

thirty-five

“Tell me again, why you didn’t stay up there another day?” Serena asked me.

“I could have,” I said. “But even if I’d spent three or four days in research, there’s no guarantee their schedule wouldn’t change the day we go up there. I just want to go up and do this, soon.”

We were in a narrow, windowless theatrical-supply store. I was watching what I said, not wanting the clerk to overhear anything suspicious.

Serena was looking at a lovely and fairly authentic-looking diamond choker. Paste, of course. All around us were romantic things: jewelry and feathers, yards of satin, glass slippers. It was dissonant in the extreme with everything else Serena and I had purchased today. That list would have given anyone pause: pepper spray, duct tape, gloves, ski masks, handheld radios, and another pair of binoculars.

“You and me always make the most interesting shopping trips together, prima,” Serena told me, raising her eyebrows. She was thinking, I knew, of the trip we’d made a year ago to the Beverly Center.

“I hope we live to make a few more,” I told her.

I’d planned the raid on the drive home, and had quickly realized that I wouldn’t need as much gang backup as I’d thought. Later, if we got Nidia out safely, we’d need more guys, to guard her in shifts. But for now, based on my reconnaissance, we were only going to be taking down two unsuspecting guys in an isolated house. What it would require was a fire team, not a squad. If Payaso, Serena, and I couldn’t do this by ourselves, we probably couldn’t do it at all.

The clerk ambled down the counter toward us. “What can I help you girls with?” he said.

“Stage blood,” I told him.

thirty-six

Two days later, I was lying by the edge of the road in Gualala. It was the only road down to Highway One from the Skouras place, the only one the tunnel rats could take to get groceries and supplies. It was also very lightly traveled, which was why I could lie on the roadside, stage blood staining my cheap disposable jacket, as though I had been in a hit-and-run.

Serena had wanted to play the victim. Her argument had been convincing: It was likely that the guys guarding Nidia were part of the ambush team in Mexico, therefore they’d seen me before. They’d seen me in the exact same position, at roadside. She’d worried that it’d be a tip-off.

I’d considered it but argued her down. “I’ll have my face turned away from him,” I’d said. “He’ll never make the connection to Mexico. It’s way too bizarre. You’re overthinking this.”

The truth was, this part was dangerous. I’d wanted Serena safe on the hillside, watching the house. Payaso and I would be the first team.

There was a vehicle coming my way. Serena, in the same surveillance spot I’d taken above the house, had already radioed down to Payaso and me that one of the guys was coming, allowing us to take our positions. I’d gotten the idea from something one of my West Point instructors mentioned, offhandedly, about overseas security and diplomat-protection postings. He’d said that terrorists and kidnappers like to put empty baby carriages in the road to get Americans to stop and get out of their cars, and that drivers have to be trained to ignore them. I’d used myself in lieu of the baby carriage-it would allow me to get into point-blank range automatically rather than trying to walk up behind the guy.

In our plans, we’d taken as a starting assumption that Skouras’s guys never left Nidia alone. For that reason, a roadside ambush was useful. A single guy would be easy to take down. We’d get the car he was driving, his keys to the house, and an extra weapon. Then we could walk right through the front door of the house, no trickery or door- kicking necessary.

I was sure, I’d told Payaso and Serena, that no one could drive right past a girl lying on the roadside motionless. “Even if this guy’s no Samaritan,” I’d said, “morbid curiosity alone will make him stop.”

If he didn’t, our job would get a lot harder. We wouldn’t have his keys to the front door. But we’d go through with the raid, anyway.

The engine sound grew stronger, louder. The air stirred around me as the SUV pulled up and stopped. A door opened and slammed. Athletic shoes made their squinching rubber-soled noise on the asphalt.

And then-what a fucking gentleman-he nudged me with his toe. “Hey,” his voice said.

I waited for him to sit on his heels beside me before I rolled over and stuck my SIG in his face, cocking it so he’d know I was ready to fire. “Don’t fucking reach for anything or I’ll put a round in your face,” I said. “Don’t test me. I will.”

He was the stocky guy I saw through the windows last week. Up close, he had almost innocent brown eyes, now wide with shock.

“It’s you,” he said. He was also one of the tunnel rats, it seemed.

“Yeah,” I said. “Teach me about roadside ambushes, prick. See how good I learn.”

Behind us, Payaso had come out of cover, holding his gun on the driver. I didn’t have to tell him to search the guy. We’d discussed it all in advance. “Get his everything,” I’d said. “Billfold, cell, gun if he has it. Who knows what’ll come in handy?”

Payaso did this, and then walked him off the road to bind him in duct tape.

I called after him: “Put on your gloves. I think duct tape holds fingerprints.”

Admittedly, it was unlikely that Skouras’s men had access to any law-enforcement computers, but if they did, they could learn Payaso’s real name from his prints. That was something even I didn’t know. Much less did I want Skouras having it.

I walked down to where we’d parked the Bronco out of sight. Our handheld radio was in the passenger seat. I picked it up and radioed Serena. “Warchild, this is Insula, we’ve achieved our objective down here. Over.”

“This is Warchild. You guys rock. What’s your ETA? Over.”

We should have stuck to cell phones. There was nothing like CB radio to inspire totally idiotic speech patterns.

I said, “ETA five minutes. Holler if you see anything funny, otherwise radio silence, okay? Over.”

I didn’t need to tell her any more. Her job now was to cover the house and driveway, to radio in if there were any unexpected visitors while Payaso and I were inside.

I drove the Bronco back up to the roadside. When I got there, Payaso was already behind the wheel of the SUV.