Francis Waters walked the perimeter of the church, feet moving from gravel to sand as he left the driveway and headed around to the back, shoes kicking up clouds of dust that swirled around his ankles. A rattlesnake lay stretched across a boulder jutting from the earth some ten yards to his right. Brown shrubs dotted the landscape between here and the tar-papered border fences. If Danielle Preston found the tunnel and made it stateside, he was fucked. He might be able to convince whoever she talked to that she was a lying junkie bitch but what he needed to do was make sure she was incapable of talking at all.
The stained-glass windows were out of reach. The back door rattled it in its frame but refused to open. When he reached the front of the building again, he walked up the stairs and banged on the front door.
“Let me in, you stupid bitch, or I’ll fucking kill you twice.”
No answer.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his disposable cell phone. He called Diego, put the phone to his ear, and listened to it ring. The call went to voice mail. Francis waited for the beep, and when it came he said:
“Danielle’s at the fucking church and she’s locked me out. If she finds her way down, we’re fucked. Get over here.”
He thumbed the red button, slid the phone into the right hip pocket of his slacks.
He banged on the door with the side of his fist, slammed his shoulder against it.
* * *
George Rankin was walking a handcuffed Diego Blanco to his car when the cell phone in Blanco’s pocket began to ring. George yanked back on the other man’s shirt collar like a horse’s reins, stopping him, and retrieved the phone. He looked at the display: an El Paso number but no name. He shoved the phone into his own pocket and continued to guide Blanco toward the street where his car was parked. By the time they reached it, the cell phone chimed with a new voice mail. George pulled open the back door of the car and shoved Diego into it.
“I hope you like prison food.”
He slammed the car door shut, pulled the cell phone from his pocket, and listened to the voice mail. “Danielle’s at the fucking church and she’s locked me out. If she finds her way down, we’re fucked. Get over here.”
George looked toward Gael Castillo Jimenez. He’d followed them down toward the street and stood now, smoking a cigarette, watching them from the department store driveway.
George held up the cell phone. “You need to hear this.”
* * *
Francis Waters heard the car approaching and looked over his shoulder. A black sedan came tearing down the street toward the church and for a brief moment Francis felt relief. Diego was on the way. They’d get inside and kill this bitch and …
But the car coming toward him wasn’t Diego’s.
The car coming toward him looked like …
It tore into the gravel parking lot and he saw the faces behind the windshield, George Rankin driving, Gael Castillo Jimenez in the front passenger seat. The car came to a locked-brake stop, the tires kicking up gravel as it slid across the blanket of stones.
Francis jumped off the stairs and began running around the side of the church even as car doors opened and men stepped out. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he couldn’t let George Rankin take him in. He might end up in prison with people he’d put there, and if he did, he wouldn’t last a week.
He ran to the back of the church, and gun in hand, waited with his back to the wall. His hearted thudded against his rib cage. Scattered thoughts swirled through his head like hurricane debris. He was fucked.
“Come out, Francis,” George Rankin shouted. “There’s nowhere to run.”
Francis was silent for a long time, trying to think of a way out of this. George was right that there was nowhere to run, and if it turned into a shootout, he was likely to get himself killed. There were two of them. They could easily pinch him, circling the church from both sides, and the church was his only shield. Open desert surrounded it.
Francis holstered his weapon and stepped out from behind the building. He walked toward the parking lot. George and Gael were both standing in the gravel with guns gripped in their fists. He smiled at them and said:
“I didn’t realize it was you, George. What are you guys doing here?”
“Cut the shit, Francis.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know I shouldn’t have been working the case independently, but I tracked one of the bitches who works for Alejandro to the church here. I think there’s an underground tunnel somewhere on the premises that leads across the border. She’s still in there unless she made it out the other side already.”
George raised his weapon. “Walk on over here, Francis.”
“I don’t like that you’ve got your weapon trained on me.”
“I don’t like that you’re in Alejandro Rocha’s pocket.”
“Now hold on, there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I’ll admit I shouldn’t have been working the case, but I was trying to help out. I’m not in any motherfucker’s pocket.”
“I need you to start walking toward me.”
“I’m not gonna do that if you have a gun on me, George. I’m not one of the fucking bad guys and I won’t be treated like one.”
“If you don’t wanna be treated like a bad guy, you shouldn’t work for bad men.”
“How many times do I have to say—”
“You need to shut the fuck up, Francis.”
“This is a misunderstanding, George.”
“Yeah—it’s you misunderstanding the situation. Shut your mouth and walk toward me.”
“I’m not gonna do that.”
George looked at Gael and said, “I’ve got another set of cuffs in the glove box. Mind grabbing them and taking care of this?”
Gael nodded, walked to the sedan, and pulled open the front passenger door. He leaned into the car a moment. Francis watched him and considered his options. He could either continue with his story—which wasn’t working—or cop to what he’d been doing and agree to talk. If he did the latter, he might at least be able to make a deal, get a reduced sentence served on a protective wing. All time was hard time, but at least he’d have a chance.
After three years of working for Rocha, he had plenty of information to trade. Like the fact that he wasn’t working for Rocha at all. Mulligan Shoibli was the true head of the cartel, and though that wasn’t the man’s real name, Francis thought he knew what his real name was. He’d done some digging on his own just so he’d be able to cover his ass. It looked like that digging might pay off, allow him to push someone else into the hole to keep himself out of it.
Gael walked toward him with handcuffs gripped in one fist and a pistol in the other.
Francis swallowed, but his mouth was dry, his throat only clicking. He didn’t want to go to prison, reduced sentence or not. He wouldn’t be able to handle prison, and even if he ended up on a protective wing, there’d still be ways to get to him. He knew of other people being protected in prison who’d still ended up dead. Sharpened toothbrushes in their carotids. There was no such thing as complete safety in prison.
Gael tucked the pistol into the back of his Levi’s while he walked. Francis watched him as he reached up for his raised right hand, moving to slap a cuff around the wrist.
There still might be a way out of this.
He’d have to disappear afterward, but that would be better than prison.
As Gael reached for him, Francis grabbed the man’s arm and twisted, turning him around, and with his other hand, reached down and pulled the weapon from the back of his Levi’s. He put it to Gael’s head and said:
“You’re not taking me in, George.”
“You let him go, Francis. You’re crossing a line you can’t step back from.”
“I crossed that line a long time ago, George.”