Tom considers what happened at the bar, figures heading out to see his father in New Mexico isn’t such a bad idea. “What’s going on?”
“It’s your brother.”
Tom’s spine stiffens. “What about him?”
“He’s got himself into some trouble.”
“What kinda trouble?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
Tom grits his teeth. “What about Alejandra? Is she all right?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here,” Jeffrey repeats, betraying nothing.
“I’m gonna set off right now, but I ain’t gonna get there ’til tomorrow.”
“Where you at?”
“Arizona.”
“All right. Be careful when you arrive – folks are jumpy.”
Before Tom can ask why, Jeffrey has hung up.
Tom stares down at the phone in his hand. He thinks about Anthony, but mostly he thinks about Alejandra. Absently, he reaches to his pocket. To the Santa Muerte pendant there. He presses down on it so hard it digs into his thigh, like he’s trying to bruise himself, to be certain of its presence.
He has a bad feeling. His stomach is knotting; there is bile at the back of his throat.
But it’s no good standing here fretting over it. He won’t know anything until he reaches his father. He shoves the phone into his rucksack, zips it up, slings it over his shoulder, and leaves the hotel.
4
The blacked-out van cruises through the roads in the warehouse district. This time of night it’s quiet for the most part. They’ve passed a couple of lit-up forklifts driven in and out under the harsh glow of floodlights attached high to the front of the buildings, but they’re nowhere near where the van is going.
There are four men inside. Chuck Benton sits up front, in the passenger seat. Driving is Al. In the back are Jimmy and Pat. Dix hasn’t come with them. Dix is back at the safe house, holding down the fort. They never leave it unattended, not if they can help it.
This is Chuck’s team. When he was approached with this job, he insisted he pick his own men. A job like this, stakes this big, he needed guys he could trust, people he had past experience with, had performed jobs and missions with before.
The guy didn’t care. Said it was his mission, his choice. He could do it how he wanted, so long as by the end of it they’d accomplished everything they were being paid to do.
“It’s this one,” Al says, “down here, on the left.”
He’s come by the last few days, in daylight, in a different vehicle. Checked the place out. Al is a good wheelman. It’s one of his many talents. He doesn’t mess around, doesn’t take risks. Scopes the job out ahead of time, checks for multiple escape routes, just in case. Makes a note of anything that could prove problematic, and how to avoid it. Tonight is a simple task, straightforward, but they’re not going to take any chances. This is just the first hurdle, and the last thing they want to do is trip up here. They’re not amateurs, they’re professionals. That’s why they can demand the big bucks.
Al pulls the van around the back of the building, pulls it slowly down the road until they’re at the rear of the chain-link fence that runs along the back of the warehouse, topped with barbed wire. “Cameras don’t point this way,” Al says, stopping.
Chuck nods. He looks down the road. It’s lined with intermittent streetlights, some of which don’t work. They look like they’ve been smashed. The road, however, is clear. There are only two more warehouses on this side. “That our escape route?”
“One of them.”
Chuck grins. He motions to Jimmy and Pat in the back. “Mask up and tool up, boys. Let’s keep this quick and quiet.”
They pull on their balaclavas, Chuck included. Al does not. Al stays in the van, behind the wheel. If a car passes by, the worst thing for him to be doing is sitting here at the side of the road wearing a mask.
Jimmy and Pat go out the back doors. They carry M16s, though they’re mostly for show. Too noisy to use. Chuck strolls around the back of the van, finds Jimmy already halfway through snipping the links in the fence at the rear of the warehouse. Chuck doesn’t have an M16. He has a Sig Sauer, holds it down low at his side. Pat pulls on the fence, shines a flashlight for Jimmy to see what he’s doing.
Once it’s wide enough, Chuck slips through first, leading the way. He steps lightly down the narrow alleyway at the side of the warehouse, his men following behind, equally as quiet. He reaches the corner, peers around. Watches for the night security guard. Knows there’s one on duty. Al isn’t the only one who did his research.
When the guard doesn’t materialize, Chuck figures he must be inside. He turns to Jimmy and Pat, motions for Pat to stay in place, for Jimmy to follow. With hand signals, he details what he wants Jimmy to do.
The main door is to the left of the roller. A camera is pointed at it. Chuck puts a silencer onto the Sig Sauer. It will dull the shot, but it will not lower it to the quiet thwip of a Hollywood movie. There is enough noise coming from the other buildings, the distant noise of the men they earlier passed working through the night, to disguise it. He nods at Jimmy. They go to the door, into view of the camera. If the night guard hears their movements, he will check the CCTV. They need to move fast. Chuck shoots out the lock. Jimmy kicks the door open, charges in with the M16 raised.
Chuck follows him in. Jimmy has gone straight to the office, rifle pointed at the night watchman’s head. His arms are raised, hands empty. His eyes and mouth are all wide, in the shape of an O.
“He hit any alarms?” Chuck says.
“Didn’t get the chance,” Jimmy says.
“Deal with him.”
“Sieg Heil, motherfucker.” Jimmy slams the butt of the rifle across the guard’s
