It was ill-advised. Hell, it was downright idiotic. Galvan knew that. He just didn’t care.
“Yeah, motherfucker, we’ve met.”
He slid across the backseat, knocking the box to the floor; grabbed Pescador by the lapels; and pinned him against the window. The stench rising from Galvan’s own body assaulted him as he stared down the cop turned Federale, the rapist who would be king; the confines of the car and the heat of the confrontation had turned his rankness overpowering.
Too bad it was the only power Galvan had.
“You took my life away from me,” he intoned, low and fierce. “And before this is over, you’re gonna answer for every goddamn hour.”
The car swerved onto the shoulder of the road as Gustavo twisted in his seat, trying to make sense of what was happening.
And Gustavo, it was obvious, was the sort of man who made sense of things with a gun.
Pescador didn’t look particularly frightened, or even especially surprised. He scrutinized the face three inches from his own, knotted with adrenaline and anger, for a long moment. Finally, he shook his head.
“Sorry, Mensajero, you’re gonna have to be more specific.” The corners of his mouth twitched in self-satisfaction.
Galvan clenched the fabric of Pescador’s suit more tightly in his shackled fists.
“Eleven months ago,” he growled. “Juárez. Bearer’s bonds. A girl.”
Pescador’s face brightened in recognition and delight. “Holy shit—the fucking Boy Scout. I don’t believe it.”
His chuckle turned quickly into a smoker’s hack. Galvan let him go, disgusted with them both.
Best-case scenario, Jess: what the fuck do you hope to accomplish here? You’re outnumbered fifteen to one, forty guns to zero, and the only reason you’re still alive—
He broke off, the train of thought barreling into something he hadn’t quite articulated to himself yet.
Something that made all the heat rush out of him.
The only reason you’re still alive is that they still need you.
To do something even these soulless desperado zealots can’t. Or won’t.
Galvan slumped back in his seat, his stare gone vacant.
Pescador was still strolling down memory lane. Tickled pink by the coincidence, as if Galvan were an old high school buddy he’d happened to run into.
“How ’bout it, cabrón?” he asked. “Was that little puta worth rotting in Ojos for, or what? She was one sweet piece of ass, I can tell you that.” He grinned even bigger. “You always appreciate it more when you gotta fight for it, know what I mean?”
Galvan didn’t answer. His head was pounding, hard and insistently. He needed water. That bottle he’d guzzled was a drop in an empty bucket.
The thought threaded its way beneath the pounding: I’m gonna kill you.
I don’t know how.
I don’t know when.
But sooner or later, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.
Not until the car came screeching to a halt did Galvan realize he’d said it out loud.
Gustavo threw open the door, dragged Galvan from the car, and threw him headlong into the dusty nothingness, like a bouncer ejecting a rowdy patron from a bar.
Pescador followed at his leisure, removing his suit jacket and tossing it across the seat. He unbuttoned his cuffs, folded his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. All the while, the hint of a smile never left his lips. Motherfucker looked like he was getting ready to carve up a Thanksgiving turkey.
“Why wait?” he asked, spreading his legs and clasping his hands behind his back. “You been waiting long enough already, right, cabrón? Thinking about me every single day, while you do your push-ups and eat your slop and get your shit pushed in by pinche cholos, verdad? Let’s see whatchu got.”
Galvan pulled himself up to his knees, tried to spit and found out he couldn’t summon the saliva. He glared up at Pescador, the Federale backlit, framed against the falling sun.
“Untie me, if you wanna find out.”
The True Natives had swung back around when they saw the brake lights, and now the bikers were dismounting and crowding around. The biggest of them—a ruddy-skinned mountain of a man whose leather cut read FOUNDER & PRESIDENT on a patch stitched over the heart—parted the throng, strode up to Pescador, and crossed his arms over his chest.
“We’re on a schedule. And this ain’t on it.”
Pescador looked past him. “There’s plenty of time, Nobles. Have a cerveza or something, eh?”
“The name’s Knowles. And like hell there is.” He jammed a finger at the horizon. “Sun’s already going down, and we’re a good hour from the Rock of Tezcatlipoca. So why don’t the both of y’all put away your dicks, and let’s get a move on, ’fore Seth throws us all to the dogs.”
Pescador didn’t seem daunted—by Knowles’s size or his backup. “This won’t take long at all,” he said, almost to himself. Then, louder: “And nobody’s throwing me to any pinche dogs.”
Knowles spun away, fuming and shaking his head at the ground. He trudged back toward his boys, hands hipped.
Galvan lifted his wrists. Pescador threw a nod at Gustavo, and the bodyguard strode over, hefted Galvan to his feet with one arm. He flicked a switchblade, squatted, sawed through the ankle ropes. Rose, and flicked at the ones tying Galvan’s wrists. They fell to the ground like a pair of dead baby snakes.
Galvan bounced on his tiptoes, trying to jump-start his circulation. Pescador watched him, motionless, impassive. Only the bikers seemed enthusiastic at the prospect of bloodshed. They had, indeed, popped cans of beer. Were leaning back against the bikes, ready to enjoy the show. Knowles stood apart, still muttering.
“Whenever you’re ready, gringo,” the Federale said, a note of indulgence in his voice.
Galvan cracked his neck, his knuckles. “Let’s make it knives,” he said, issuing the challenge loud, trying to force Pescador into a face-saving situation. “Raise the fuckin’ stakes. Only one of us leaves here alive.”
The bikers turned toward one another, raised their eyebrows. Knowles’s face darkened, and he swiveled to stare down Pescador, a warning in his eyes.
The Federale hesitated a fraction of a second, and Galvan leapt into the void. “What’s the matter, pendejo?” he called. “Too chickenshit?” He looked over at the Natives, hoping to rally their support, but Knowles’s mounting ire had turned them noncommittal.
“No can do, Boy Scout,” Pescador replied at last with an apologetic smile. “I’m not allowed to kill you, or you’d be dead already. But I can fuck you up, so let’s go.”
“Oh yeah?” Galvan asked, chin raised, hands fisted at his sides. “Why’s that?”
“You still got work to do.” He bent his knees and beckoned with two fingers. “Enough chitchat. Let’s go, hijo de puta. We ain’t got all day.”
Galvan’s eyes darted from Pescador to Knowles, Knowles to Gustavo, back to Pescador. There was a play here. He could sense it. The math, for once, added up to a chance. If only he could get his fucking brain to kick into gear and run the numbers.
Come on, man. Think.
Okay. Nobody here will kill me.
Only one of these guys, at most, is loyal to Pescador.
Dunno how many would jump in to keep him from getting beat to death, though. Maybe all of them.
Think, motherfucker, think.
You gotta be quick.
And deadly.
Catch him by surprise.
All at once, it clicked. Galvan loosed a war whoop and ran straight at the Federale.
Pescador responded by dropping into a ready stance; Galvan could tell from the posture that he’d been trained to fight, that his body knew how to redirect an attacker’s force against him. Especially an attacker coming in hot, halfway out of control already.
Good. Galvan wanted to look like a madman.
Eyes wide and wild. Pump the arms fast and hard. And whatever you do, don’t telegraph the play.
Midway between Galvan and Pescador stood Gustavo, his languorous shuffle to his boss’s side aborted by Galvan’s manic charge. At the last possible moment, Galvan veered off course, slid into the bodyguard like he was stealing second base, and knocked the big man ass over teakettle.
They tumbled together for a moment, a frenzied tangle of arms and legs, Galvan reaching for the shoulder holster concealed beneath the suit, the sub-nosed .38 with Britannica’s body on it, and Gustavo throwing backward elbows, trying to catch Galvan in the solar plexus, put him down.
The bikers edged forward—not yet ready to intervene, but who knew how many milliseconds before they figured out the play, too, and decided to kill the drama before the drama killed them?
Gustavo wasn’t built for the ground game. What Galvan gave up in size he made back in speed, agility, sheer will. He scrambled away from the bodyguard’s clutch, rolled across his broad back, and chopped the heel of his hand at Gustavo’s carotid artery pulse with all his strength—the point where neck met shoulder in a lump of sinew and tendon, and where the correct combination of power and precision could knock anybody, from King Kong on down, right the fuck out.
Galvan knew he’d found his mark the instant he connected, and so did everybody else. Gustavo slumped onto his side, great white shark turned beached whale. The noise around him crested, but Galvan’s head was throbbing so hard that all he could hear was a loud muddle of sound.
He reached.
And came up empty.
Nothing in the holster.
Which could only mean that the gun had found its way back into Pescador’s hand.
The Federale’s voice cut through the air like a dart and found its bull’s-eye.
“Pussy move, gringo. I expected more.” He waved a hand, dismissive, and pulled a pack of smokes from his pocket. “Somebody knock his ass back out.”
The True Natives broke ranks and started toward Galvan from the invisible arena’s sidelines. Pescador cupped his hands around the lighter, put fire to his cancer stick.
“Gave you your shot, cabrón. Sweet dreams.”
They were five yards away from him.
Three.
That was when Galvan remembered the knife.
He slipped his hand into the bodyguard’s pants pocket.
Bingo.
In one smooth motion, Galvan grabbed the switchblade and stood, backing away from the charging Natives like a quarterback taking a snap and retreating deep into the pocket.
He flicked the spring-release button, felt the four-inch blade shoot forth.
Cocked back his arm, and sent the knife flying through the air, hilt over steel, a silver blur.