Once Nova’s made it down the ladder, we start moving forward. We move as quietly as we can, listening for footsteps farther ahead. Imna Rodriguez claimed the tunnel was about a half mile long. It’s only after the first quarter mile, as the tunnel curves again, that we spot somebody standing farther ahead.
Jose.
He stands there, motionless, his face tilted down. He doesn’t look up when he hears us approaching.
It’s a trap—obviously it’s a trap—but I’m unclear what the end game is here. Jose is their only hostage, from what the pilot told us. Without him, we have no reason not to shoot to kill.
The tunnel past him curves again. Hayward or Carla or maybe both of them are probably hiding right around the corner. Between the two, I imagine Carla is the one who will have the rifle. Hayward is a man who can’t tell the difference between a hollow point and a full metal jacket.
When we’re only ten feet away, Jose’s body jerks. He cries out, and falls to the ground. He starts shaking, screaming, but neither Nova nor myself advance. Instead, as much as it pains us, we wait.
We don’t wait long.
Carla steps around the corner, the rifle in her hands. She starts to raise it, to fire over Jose, but before she can, I quickly put a bead on her head and pull the trigger.
She falls in a heap.
Still, Jose continues to scream and writhe on the ground. Nova covers me as I hurry toward him. I pull the key I took from Louis from my pocket, hoping it’ll unlock this collar like it unlocked mine. It does, and I tear the collar off Jose’s neck and fling it aside. Even in the dim light, the bruised skin ringing the boy’s neck is vivid. It looks like a hideous tattoo.
The boy’s no longer screaming, and he’s no longer writhing, but he is crying. I touch his arm, trying to calm him, but he flinches away on instinct. It’s doubtful he’s ever had any human contact that wasn’t abusive.
“It’s all right, Jose. You’re safe now.”
The collar, flung a couple feet away, vibrates with electricity. Then, all at once, the buzzing stops. Which means Hayward—and the fob he’s been pressing all this time—is getting farther and farther away.
“Take him back.”
Nova nods, and crouches down beside the boy as he looks up at me.
“Be careful.”
“He’s been drinking, Nova. Plus he doesn’t have a gun. I think I’ll be okay.”
Nova grunts.
“Famous last words.”
I frown at him.
“Still not feeling the beard.”
He shoots me the bird.
I continue forward, stepping over Carla’s dead body, and head deeper into the tunnel.
Fifty-Four
I hustle through the tunnel, staying as quiet as I can, and soon hear unsteady footsteps ahead.
I shout, “Hayward!”
The footsteps pause for a beat, then start again, this time frantically. It sounds like Hayward stumbles, falls to the ground, picks himself up and keeps running.
I pick up my pace.
The tunnel curves once more, and then straightens out. I can see the end farther ahead, maybe seventy yards away. Like the entrance on the United States side, it dead-ends to a ladder. The trapdoor must be open, because bright light pours into the tunnel.
Oliver Hayward is maybe fifty yards away. With the light beyond him, he makes for an easy target. I could put him down with one simple squeeze of the trigger. But I don’t. I let him hurry forward and scramble up the ladder.
By the time I climb up the ladder, Hayward hasn’t gotten far. He stands motionless with his hands raised, a half-dozen federales aiming their guns at him. The moment my head pops up through the trapdoor, a few of the men shift their guns toward me, but an older man with a mustache tells them to ignore me, and they immediately aim again at Hayward.
This section of the tunnel opens up into a garage. Cinderblock walls, cheap roofing. An old car sits off to the side. The pungent smell of motor oil hangs in the air.
Hayward says, “Don’t you know who I fucking am?”
None of the federales answer. The older man with the mustache approaches me. He holds out his hand, and speaks in English.
“I am Lieutenant Nicolás Pichardo. President Cortez ordered me and my men to be here tonight.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Did President Cortez tell you anything else?”
“President Cortez simply ordered us to come here. He said he recently learned that there is a tunnel entrance in this garage. He had us arrest the people who own this garage, and told us to take anybody who comes through this tunnel into custody.”
Hayward takes one look at me, and shouts, “Yes! Take me into custody!”
Lieutenant Pichardo ignores him.
“So far tonight nobody has come through the tunnel.”
I nod, thank the man, and turn to Oliver Hayward.
He flinches away from me, shouts at the federales.
“What the fuck are you waiting for? Arrest me!”
Again, none of the men move.
I step up close to Hayward.
“President Cortez and I agreed you should be prosecuted on our side of the border. If you’re prosecuted here, there’s a good chance the cartel would orchestrate your escape. Or your murder.”
Hayward looks past me, crazed, his eyes wide.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Oliver. These men have been ordered not to kill you. Besides, I don’t think you have it in you to do anything stupid. You know how I know? You’re not a special person. I mean, you’re the kind of person who imprisons and tortures women and children, but not the kind strong enough to attempt suicide by cop.”
He glares at me.
“Fine. Take me back.”
I smile at him, and shake my head.
“Not yet.”
I reach into my back pocket, pull out the collar I had worn the past two days. I toss it on the
