letting loose a volley of covering fire towards the advancing search party.
Looking towards him, Lock saw the access door, three feet wide and a little over six feet tall, swing open. He ran for it as Ty moved in front of him, still firing. A round pinged off the steel barrier.
Barely through the door, he crouched and dumped Mendez unceremoniously on the bare ground. Mendez sprawled on his back, legs and arms flailing in the air, like a turtle’s. Lock drew his leg back and kicked him hard in the side for good measure. ‘Welcome home, asshole.’
Seventy-six
Ty drove the vehicle in which he had arrived at the RV point, the white Ford Ranger, as Lock sat in the back with a cuffed, shackled and subdued Charlie Mendez. Ahead of them lay a mile and a half of rutted farm track, not that anyone farmed cattle so close to the border. From here they would pick up a secondary road that would lead them eventually to the freeway. By Lock’s calculations if they made it that far they would have slipped, at least temporarily, from the cartel’s grasp. A set of headlights behind them, though, and they were done.
‘I think you broke one of my ribs,’ Mendez whined.
Lock glanced at him. ‘If that’s all that’s broken you can count yourself lucky.’
‘So, what now? What are you going to do with me?’
The question prompted Lock to trade a glance with Ty. Lock took a deep breath. ‘That’s down to you. And your family.’
Ty twisted around in his seat. ‘Say what? We’re handing him over. Or have you forgot about that promise you made to the girl’s momma?’
Lock checked the surprise that registered on Mendez’s face. ‘There’s five million if we don’t versus a couple of hundred grand if we do.’
Ty didn’t seem appeased. ‘And you think we can trust this piece of shit?’
Mendez seemed to forget his bruised ribs. He bounced forward in the seat. ‘You can. I promise you.’
‘Like your word counts?’ growled Ty. ‘Naw, Ryan. Hell, naw. We know the government will pay out, but this guy? Dude could peel a banana in his pocket and we wouldn’t know about it.’
Lock eased back in the seat. ‘That’s why we’re going to see the first three million in an offshore account by midnight tonight. Isn’t that right, Charlie?’
Mendez’s cheeks filled with air and he exhaled slowly. ‘That’s a lot of money to move all at once.’
Lock smiled, thinking back to their previous conversation about how the cartel had been paying to protect him. ‘But someone in your family must know how to get it done, right?’
Ty turned round to stare at him — badder cop to Lock’s bad cop. ‘Course, we could just drop you off with the Feds.’
‘I’ll make the call,’ said Mendez.
They kept moving, at first tacking north to put more distance between them and any pursuing cartel members, then heading west.
Forty miles further along Interstate 10, they passed an Arizona State trooper parked on a crossway. His head swivelled as they passed. He pulled out, tucking in behind them for a few miles. It was no great surprise. This was a well-known drug route, and three males in the same vehicle were bound to attract attention. Ty stayed cool, keeping to the speed limit. After a few more miles the trooper grew bored and passed them, giving them a final sideways glance as he roared off into the distance.
‘Here,’ said Lock, handing Mendez his cell phone. ‘Time you spoke to Mommy.’
They drove through the rest of the day. After some tense early calls, Mendez made the final arrangements for the initial transfer of funds. The money was scheduled to move at midnight. Ty would call the bank to confirm it had been lodged.
In the meantime, exhausted, they decided to take a break. They pulled into a motel parking lot a few miles shy of Phoenix. Lock got out first, leaving Ty in the car with Mendez, who had already fallen asleep, like he had in the shack: Lock had noticed then how he slept like a baby — not a care in a world. He guessed that was what money bought you: the knowledge that, no matter how bad things got or how far you screwed over other people or destroyed their lives, it would always get you out of a corner.
Lock pushed open the door of the motel office and walked inside. The carpet stuck to his feet. There was a Coke vending machine to one side and a long desk, behind which sat a young Hispanic man wearing blue jeans and a bowling shirt.
He smiled at Lock. ‘How can I help you, sir?’
‘I’d like two rooms. Adjoining if you have them.’
The hotel clerk rose from the stool he was perched on and walked over to check an old-fashioned ledger. His fingers traced over the paper. He looked up. ‘I think we can accommodate you. Just the one night?’
‘Yeah. One night,’ said Lock. ‘What time’s check-out?’
‘Eleven o’clock on the button. Not a moment later,’ said the clerk. ‘We like our guests to be punctual when it comes to checking out.’
‘Got it,’ said Lock, reaching over to take the single key fob.
With Ty babysitting Mendez in the room, Lock headed out to grab some food and supplies. In the parking lot of a nearby Wal-Mart, he dug out his cell phone, powered it up and checked his messages. There was one from a man whose name he didn’t recognize, but who obviously worked for Miriam Mendez, saying that matters had been taken care of and the money would be transferred at the designated time. Lock smiled to himself and punched in a Santa Maria number. He got a switchboard operator and asked to be transferred to Police Chief Gabriel Zapatero. He was informed that the chief was a busy man. Lock gave his name, asked to be put through to his secretary, if the chief wasn’t available, and waited.
Less than twenty seconds later, Zapatero came on the line. Lock didn’t waste time. He told him what he required for the return of the fugitive they were looking for.
‘Of course, I could hand him straight to the US authorities myself, but it might look better coming from you,’ he added, knowing that Charlie Mendez wouldn’t make it back across the border, once he was handed over to the cartel. He gave a time at which he would call back and give a general area for the person collecting Mendez to wait in. Finally, he specified that the person had to be the chief and that he had to be accompanied by Detective Rafaela Carcharon, no one else.
‘If I see anyone else with you, the deal’s off and Mendez gets handed to the FBI,’ Lock added.
After a few seconds’ deliberation, Zapatero agreed to his terms with a grunt. Lock felt relieved. That meant Rafaela was probably still alive. He took down a cell-phone number where he could reach the chief the next morning and hung up.
He powered down the cell phone, removed the battery and walked into Wal-Mart. With his three-day stubble and a dead-eyed expression, he blended nicely with the local clientele as he cruised the aisles, scooping up what he needed and dumping it into his cart. He stopped off in the sports section to load up on fresh ammo.
Back in the motel room, Mendez was in the shower when Lock got back with dinner. After a few minutes, he came out with a towel wrapped around his waist. Ty and Lock did their best to ignore him. As he dressed, they ate. They watched some TV, then Mendez turned in for the night. Ty took first watch. The cartel would be out in force, checking motels like this one, which was why Lock had told Zapatero they were nearer Tucson than Phoenix. Still, they weren’t about to take any chances.
Lock got into the bed opposite and, relying on a habit acquired with years of practice, and knowing tomorrow was a busy day, he was asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow.
Ty woke him a little after midnight. The transfer had been made by the Mendez family. Three million dollars into an offshore account. They were millionaires. Lock told him to enjoy the feeling, rolled over and went back to sleep.
Lock slept until three in the morning, then took over guard duty while Ty got some rest. Mendez woke around eight, the sun already up outside, the day threatening to be unseasonably pleasant. Outside, a couple of cars came and went. Lock watched them through a slit in the curtains.
At nine o’clock he announced they were going out for breakfast. Mendez seemed spooked by the idea.
