they were to the border fence. At most he believed that a hundred yards out from their current position, they would likely be spotted. Fifty yards further they would probably begin to take fire. Keeping Mendez close to him would present the cops with double the regular body mass and double the target area.
It was possible that he and Mendez would get lucky. Shooting a man at range, or two men, was more difficult than it looked, especially given that the people shooting were cops rather than military. The ability to shoot to kill, more so than killing someone up close, was as much about switching off certain parts of the subconscious as it was about technical skill. Up close with a knife or your bare hands, millennia’s worth of survival instincts kicked in, overwhelming your mind. Killing another human being from a distance took training, repetition and a readjustment of your mindset to get to the point where you could accurately and coolly shoot someone in the back.
So, some things were in their favour, but Lock figured it was a seventy-thirty split against. A thirty per cent chance that they would make it in one piece, and a seventy per cent chance that they would be shot, and those were odds he didn’t like very much.
There was one other major barrier. A bad one. Bad because it didn’t conform to logic. It was a political consideration. Even if a battalion of US Marines was standing on the other side of the border, they wouldn’t be allowed to cross over to help him. They would have to stand and watch while he was killed. All kinds of US government agencies and operatives worked in Mexico with the tacit approval of the Mexican government. That wasn’t the case here.
Here, the local authorities with the supposed approval of the Federal authorities, were engaged in the hunt for a convicted rapist, and the man they were probably by now claiming was his accomplice. In all likelihood, that was how it was being spun, and if it wasn’t, it would be a variation on that theme. Whatever had changed behind the scenes, and the shots from the helicopter told Lock that something definitely had, they wanted Mendez dead — himself too, probably. It was classic spin-control for the cartels. If a situation gets out of hand, let the bodies pile up, shut things down and limit the number of those who can relate to the rest of the world what has gone down.
The land ahead was flat. No points of cover: it was exposed to the east, west and south. Not the kind of terrain you’d want to make a break over if your life depended upon it. Yet they would have to. But not now. They would need an edge and there was no better edge than the one he had in mind. The only snag was that his edge lay another sixty minutes in the future.
Seventy-four
Fifty-seven Minutes Later
Torch beams slashed their way across the darkness of the marshalling yard. A soundtrack of clanging metal accompanied the light show as containers were prised open, checked and slammed shut. Lock sat in the darkness next to Mendez and listened as the searchers worked their way methodically towards them. He rolled back the sleeve of his jacket to take another look at his watch, the seconds creeping slowly forward.
They still had a full three minutes before he’d planned on breaking cover. But in less than three minutes he could be staring down the beam of a flashlight, with a bullet slamming towards him on the exact same trajectory.
He surveyed the route to the barrier and reconfigured his plan. Crunching footsteps echoed through the narrow gap where he was hunkered down with Mendez. He needed at least another two minutes but he wasn’t going to get them.
Shit happens. Deal with it, he told himself.
He brought the index finger of his right hand up to his mouth, a final caution to Mendez. He picked out his features in the gloom and saw that the gesture had been needless. The blood had drained totally from his face.
He tapped Mendez’s shoulder then pointed forwards six feet to where he had already rolled up a section of chain-link fence, ready for them to crawl under. He started to duck-walk towards it, motioning for Mendez to follow him.
The back of his thighs burned. His every shuffled step sounded like an explosion as he inched his way to the perimeter. A babble of excited Spanish seemed to erupt almost directly behind them, but he kept the same careful pace. If they’d been seen, they were already dead. If they hadn’t, a panicked burst of speed would seal their fate.
At the fence, he moved to the side, dipping his hand to indicate that he wanted Mendez to go first. He was treating Mendez as a principal now, a person whose life he was charged with protecting. It was the only way to make this work. His feelings were sealed away, as they always were when he was carrying out close-protection work.
He lifted the sheared strands of wire. Mendez snaked his way under, crawling on his belly, using his elbows and knees for forward momentum. The voices behind them grew louder. Close by, the boom of a container door being slammed made the hairs on the back of his neck shoot to attention.
The soles of Mendez’s shoes cleared the last tendril of wire. He pulled himself clear of the fence, sat up, and turned to Lock, staring at him for a long beat, one side of his face bathed in light, the other lost to the darkness. He reached forward and held up the bottom of the fence so that Lock had room to crawl under it.
Lowering his head, Lock fell into a shallow dive, ass in the air, and keenly aware of his own vulnerability. His head cleared the gap under the fence. Then his shoulders. He stretched out his hands, fingers digging into the dirt to propel him forward.
Suddenly he felt Mendez’s foot stamp hard on his right hand, crushing his fingers and sending a sharp jab of pain up his arm. He tried to twist it free but the pressure was too great. The next thing he knew, his weapon was plucked from his holster.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Lock said.
‘Saving myself five million bucks,’ came the reply, as the pressure on his hand was released and Mendez took off.
Lock thrashed about, kicking against the ground on the other side of fence, trying to use his feet to thrust himself onwards. He wriggled forwards as hard as he could, a strand of fence wire raking his lower back as he pushed through.
As he cleared the fence, he raised his head in time to see Mendez’s heels flicking up from the ground ahead of him as he made his break for freedom.
Pushing himself up and on to his feet, he took off after Mendez at a sprint, oblivious to the growing clamour of voices from the marshalling yard as the beam of a flashlight snapped across the break in the fence and a single voice, shrill with excitement, called out in Spanish.
Lock focused on the crunch of footfalls ahead of him as he powered after Mendez, rage driving him. Rage at Mendez for jeopardizing their chances of survival. Rage at himself for believing that he was smarter than he was and Mendez dumber.
Behind him, the shouts from the marshalling yard were louder. He didn’t dare look back. Whatever happened next, happened. Knowing that death was on its way didn’t stop it, not that he’d ever seen. You could brace yourself for a punch but not for a bullet.
The sweat that had beaded on his forehead started to trickle into his eyes. He blinked them clear. He could see Mendez approaching a dip in the ground and hurtled after him.
Mendez was slowing, and Lock, more used to pacing a foot race, was gaining. The gap closed. He was within twenty feet. Then twelve. Then ten. But Mendez was almost at the dip now. He would reach it before Lock, that much was certain.
Lock raced to estimate the countdown but time had fractured and spun away. Was there a minute to go? More? Less?
As he planted his left foot on the ground ahead, the answer came in the form of a sky-splitting clap of thunder to the east.
Lock dove for the ground, making himself as flat as he could. High above him, the sky lit up like the Fourth of July as a blaze of white light from a parachute flare obliterated the moon. He began to count.
