‘No talking. Now get on your knees.’
As being killed went, you wouldn’t know too much about a single shot to the back of the head. There was only one problem, as far as Lock was concerned. He’d come here for a reason.
He turned and faced the woman. His eyes had adjusted to the glare and this time he could pick out her features. She was the woman he had seen in the shopping mall.
‘Turn back around,’ she said.
‘You’re a cop?’ he asked her.
She didn’t answer.
‘Was this how they got Brady?’ Lock went on.
She took a step back. Her body language didn’t suggest she was hesitant as much as irritated. ‘I’m not going to shoot you, I’m going to take the cuffs off, and I’m not going to do that unless you’re kneeling. And, for the record, I had nothing to do with what happened to Joe Brady. If he’d listened to me he’d still be alive.’
‘Is that so?’ Lock said.
Still clutching her weapon in her right hand, her left hand fell to her hip. ‘Okay, then, don’t turn around. I’ll just leave you two out here in the desert.’
‘Maybe we should do what she’s asked,’ said Ty.
Lock stood beside Ty and rubbed at his wrists as the woman threw them each a bottle of water. When they had finished slaking their thirst, Lock said, ‘Now what?’
She nodded to a dip in the terrain. ‘You walk. It’s about two miles to the border. Border Patrol will pick you up near the fence. Two miles should give you time to come up with a story about why you’re breaking back into your own country.’
‘And if we don’t want to leave?’
‘Then it’s about fifty miles back into town and the next cop who picks you up might just turn you over to the cartel. Or throw you into jail for bringing firearms into the country. Your choice.’
‘I’m liking the first option,’ offered Ty.
‘You should listen to your friend,’ the female cop said. She bent down and picked up two plastic bags. She threw one to each man. ‘Your cell phones and wallets. Your weapons are illegal.’
They stooped and gathered their belongings.
Lock scraped at the ground with the toe of his boot. He looked up at her. She had big brown eyes and long, unruly black hair tied into a ponytail. She was carrying a little extra weight around the hips, but so was he. There was an intensity about her that he admired. But something didn’t square.
‘I came here for Charlie Mendez. Why are you protecting him?’ Lock asked.
She holstered her weapon. Judging by her expression, Lock’s question demonstrated such a degree of naivety that she no longer considered him a credible threat to her safety. But her hand stayed on the butt just in case.
‘You Americans. You’re so arrogant.’
‘You’ve done it now,’ Ty said, under his breath.
‘You know how many young women’s funerals I’ve been to this year?’
Lock shrugged.
‘Dozens. All of them young women taken off the streets on the way back from the maquiladoras. Raped. Tortured. Mutilated. Their breasts cut off. Left out in the open. On display. And for what? For pleasure. And yet you stand there, Mr Tough Guy Bounty Hunter, and you tell me I’m protecting a rapist?’
‘Then let me go get him.’
‘Go home, Mr Lock. Take your friend and go home before you end up like Brady. Which was what was going to happen to you if I hadn’t offered to bring you out here. Sooner or later Mendez will be caught, but right now, someone like you only makes my job more difficult. We have enough crazy men out for revenge around here. We don’t need any more.’
Lock considered his options. It didn’t take long. He wasn’t going to try to overpower her. They couldn’t walk back into town. The only real option was to do as she said, then come back and try again.
‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘We’ll go. But will you do me one favour?’
‘What?’
Lock switched on his cell phone and pulled up the picture he had of Mendez’s bodyguard. ‘Mendez is supposed to have picked up an American girl in a bar. I’m concerned for her safety. Could you at least look into it? I can tell you where he was last seen.’
He stepped forward and angled the cell-phone screen towards her. ‘He was with this man,’ he said, showing her the picture of the bodyguard.
She took the phone from him, looked at the picture and back at Lock. ‘Where?’
Lock didn’t follow her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Where was this taken?’ she asked.
‘A bar out near…’ He stopped himself. Now he had something she wanted.
She had her gun out again. It was a Browning. ‘Where? Where was that taken?’
‘We’ll show you.’
‘Tell me.’
Finally he had some traction. ‘You help us and we’ll help you. No games. No tricks. I give you my word.’
She started for the wagon. She opened the driver’s door. ‘You’ll have to ride in back.’
With the cage door at the back of the wagon wedged open, Lock sat with Ty as the woman, who had finally introduced herself as Detective Rafaela Carcharon of the Policia Federal, drove them back towards the highway. A hatch opened from the mobile holding area into the cab. A grille covered it but Rafaela kept the windows open so that they got some breeze. Lock didn’t blame her for having them ride in the back. She had taken a risk helping them in the first place. It was clear from what she’d said that, as soon as they’d been arrested, they had been marked for death.
It had been the picture of the bodyguard and the mention of the girl. He had asked her who the man was but she had said she didn’t know. She was lying to him. She knew exactly who he was and, tough cop or not, she was frightened of him. It had shown in her eyes and her fear told him that for someone like her, who lived every day in a war-zone filled with atrocity and horror, he must be a very bad man indeed. And he was the man who stood between Lock and Charlie Mendez. At least now he was beginning to understand why Mendez had stayed untouched for so long. But it still didn’t explain why these people were protecting him.
That was the real mystery that lay at the heart of this business. What was in it for them?
Thirty-five
Turning away from the windows that looked over the swimming pool, Hector walked out of the room and down the corridor to the kitchen where he fixed the girl something to eat. He put it all on a tray and walked it down to the room.
At the door, he set the tray on the floor, unlocked the door and stepped inside. She was where he had left her. She eyed him with a mixture of fear and relief. Fear of what he would do. Relief at not having been abandoned. He didn’t speak to her. It was better that way. He might still have to kill her and he felt badly enough for her without getting to know her more than he had.
People on the outside might laugh at that, but it was true. He was a killer many times over. On more than one occasion his hands and arms, all the way up to his elbows, had been immersed in blood. He was an executioner. A sicario. But he still felt pain, and grief, and sympathy, and fear, and every emotion that others did.
He propped the door open with a case of beer, one of many stacked in the narrow corridor outside the room, brought the tray in and set it down next to her. There was bread and eggs, juice and coffee. An American breakfast. Bland but filling. ‘The coffee is hot,’ he said to her. ‘But don’t get any ideas about throwing it at me. I am used to pain.’
She didn’t react but she seemed to take in what he was saying. He took the keys from his pocket and released her from the restraints. He retreated to the door as she ate. She had an appetite, which was good.
