Ten minutes later Peña peeled out of the lot in a battered Dodge Ram with Georgia in the passenger seat, rigid and tense. They’d crept down an unmarked staircase she’d cased when she first checked in. By the time they got to the ground floor, a storm had blown in, and the pounding rain made it impossible to see in any direction. There was no hail of bullets when they ran from the building, and they sprinted safely to his pickup.
While Peña sped through the streets of Stevens, Georgia twisted around looking for a tail. She couldn’t spot anything. “I think we’re clear.”
“The monsoon helps.”
The feeble beam of the truck’s headlights dissipated in the dark, but Peña drove confidently. It was only through brief flashes of lightning that Georgia could see where they were. Once they reached the outskirts of town, Peña drove toward Bisbee, and a moment later climbed into the hills. As they ascended, the storm grew more violent. Rain drenched the pickup, lightning crackled, thunder exploded. Peña hunched over the wheel and squinted through the windshield. Georgia gripped the edge of her seat.
After what seemed like an hour but was probably just ten minutes, Peña turned off the paved road. The truck jounced down a dirt path, made several turns, and finally slid to a stop in a muddy clearing.
Except for the exchange about the tail, they hadn’t spoken. Now he said, “We’re here.”
When Georgia climbed out of the pickup, her feet promptly sank into mud. She tried to slog through it, but the muck sucked her down so deep her shoes disappeared. Over the thud of rain she heard a rushing, flowing sound. “What’s that?”
“Water filling the gulleys. It’ll dry up after the rain stops.”
Peña trudged to a small cabin with a corrugated metal roof. Georgia followed, her steps plodding and heavy. Rain soaked her clothes. A makeshift window near the door trickled light from inside.
“Where are we?”
“An abandoned mining cabin. Kick off your shoes.”
Georgia did and followed him inside, shaking herself off.
The cabin was even smaller than Carmelita’s place: two rooms separated by a primitive bathroom. In the main room was a table, two chairs, a hot plate, a sink with a couple of cabinets underneath, and a five gallon gas can. An M4 assault rifle was propped up against the table, and a small arsenal of hand guns, along with accessories for the M4, lay in a duffel on the floor. Another duffel contained a Mag Lite, a grenade launcher, a knapsack, night vision goggles, binoculars, and a video camera with a Mini DV label.
Peña walked past the gear into the other room. Georgia thought about helping herself to a couple of guns while he was gone, but he returned with a towel before she could. He dried his face and arms, then tossed the towel to Georgia. She caught it with her good hand and waved it in the direction of the gear. “Christmas presents for the family?”
He glanced over. “Things are not always what they seem.”
“Why are you hiding out here?”
“My mission isn’t finished.” A sudden crash of thunder seemed to emphasize the point.
Georgia faced him. “Did Lionel Grant pay you to kill illegal immigrants in the desert?”
He seemed to sense her mood. A strange light came into his eyes. “Yeah, it’s time. You deserve some answers.”
She hung the towel around her neck and waited.
“I am Mexican. My family is from the Sonora. That is where many who cross come from. Do you think I could kill my own people?”
He seemed sincere. Still. “Why should I believe you?”
“Who do you think teaches them to take a brush to erase their footprints? To make sure they bring plenty of water? To sleep during the hottest hours and walk at night?”
“I thought you were working for Delton Security to stop illegals from crossing the border.”
He smiled at her confusion. “I was a migra. After Delton got the contract from Grant, they recruited me from Border Patrol.”
“To do what?”
“To interrupt the supply of drugs.”
“Because what’s being done isn’t enough?”
He nodded and gestured to the window. “Drugs flow just like water in those gullies, if you know what to look for.”
“So you weren’t there to kidnap and kill illegals.”
He shook his head.
“Then why did Carmelita say you were the one who made them get into Grant’s truck?”
His face turned grave, even a bit sad. “It was not me. Perhaps someone who looks like me. Who has the uniform, the equipment.”
“Wroblewski or Brewer?”
He ran his tongue around his lips, looking uncomfortable. Was he hanging on to some remnant of loyalty toward his fellow mercenaries? Was he unwilling to call them out, especially since they were dead? She’d seen that time and again in Chicago with the mob. And the cops. Whenever teams worked together against a common enemy.
“You expect me to believe Lionel Grant, a right-wing racist who’s made a career of hating illegals, underwrites a contract with Delton to stop the drug trade, but not illegals?” she went on. “And then someone else—some rogue group—impersonates you and exterminates them?”
“It’s the truth.”
She wasn’t buying it. “Why did three million dollars make its way to you and your men?”
Apparently he’d had enough of being challenged. “No more. Not now.”
Georgia tried a different tactic. “Is Lionel Grant as crazy as they say?”
“No.”
“No, he’s not or no, you’re not going to—”
“Stop!” He bellowed. “This conversation is over.”
Georgia exploded. “No, goddammit, it’s not! I’ve come over a thousand miles to figure this out. Risked my life. More than once.” She held up her cast. “Someone tampered with my brakes in Chicago. That’s how this happened. Now someone’s shooting through my hotel room. And you’ve got me pinned like a bug under a microscope. Until I know what’s going on, this fucking conversation is definitely not over!”
“No more!” He raised his hands in the air and advanced toward her. Startled, she stepped back, but he kept coming. She braced herself. Less than a foot away, he suddenly stopped, as if he’d just become aware of his behavior and was surprised by the depth of his rage. He took a breath and aimed a finger at her. “Go dry off.”
He turned away, opened the cabinet under the sink, and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. He looked around for a glass, found one, and poured a few fingers full.
Georgia stood her ground. “I need to know why Delton sent you a million dollars.”
Peña tossed back the bourbon. He looked like he was going to start talking when a cell phone trilled. He fished it out of his pocket.
“Yeah?” He paused. “You got the package? Good. Keep it safe.” Silence. “I’m still working on it. It’ll be wrapped up soon. Okay.” He disconnected and glared at Georgia, as if daring her to ask him about it.
She did. “What package?”
He didn’t reply.
“Look...” She started over, trying to suppress her own anger. Trying to be reasonable. “I’m grateful you decided not to kill me. For the moment. But this cat and mouse shit—this drama— has to stop. I won’t be played. Talk to me straight.”
He tossed back more booze. Then, “Did you ever think I might be trying to protect your ass, which happens to be quite fine-looking, by the way?”
But Georgia was in no mood for come-ons. “Fuck you, Peña. I can handle my ass myself.” She snapped. “Either you talk to me now, or—”
“Or what?”
“I’ll leave. Head back into town.”
His eyes flashed. “You won’t get far.”
“You want to stop me, you’ll have to shoot me in the back.” She threw the towel down.
He shrugged, a wry smile on his face.
Georgia grabbed her shoes and put them on, caked mud and all. Then she pulled open the door, half-expecting a slew of bullets to mow her down. Nothing happened. She exited the cabin. The wind shoved her across the clearing. Jagged forks of lightning sizzled the sky. The rain was now sheeting sideways. The storm had grown fiercer. There was no way she could hike ten yards, much less the ten miles she guessed they’d driven. She flattened herself against the side of the cabin, but there were no eaves or overhangs to protect her. She crept back to the window, now steamy with condensation, and peeked in. Peña was at the table refilling his glass.
She let out a breath, opened the door, and skulked back inside. She was sopping wet, humiliated, and angry. She refused to look at him. She watched puddles form at her feet instead. He didn’t say anything. Finally, she glanced up.
His eyes held the same wry look as before. Amusement or arrogance? He rose and went into the other room. She heard drawers slide open. He came back out carrying dry clothes and dropped them on the floor next to her.
Georgia picked them up and walked into the room from which he’d come. Barely furnished, it had a double bed, a three-drawer chest, side table, and lamp. A small window was cut high into the wall.
She tossed the clothes on the mattress, kicked off her shoes, and started to take off her jeans. She tried to unfasten the button at her waist, but she was working with only one hand, and her jeans, soaked through, were rigid. After struggling unsuccessfully with the button, she gave up. She managed to shrug off her blazer and tried to lift her t-shirt over her head, but it, too, was water-logged and stuck to her skin. When she tried to use the casted arm to take off the t-shirt, she yelped in pain. It had been less than a week since her wrist was broken.
She struggled a few more seconds, then collapsed on the bed. It was all getting to her. The accident. The past four days in Stevens. The lack of progress. The shots through the window. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this alone, this isolated. She covered her eyes with her hand but refused to cry. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
She’d lost track of time when she felt his presence behind her. How had he snuck into the room so silently? Was this the moment he’d decide to kill her? She waited for him to wrap his hands around her neck and snap it. He’d know how. She should move out of range. Put up a semblance of a fight. But she was too tired.
He rolled his fingertips over her neck. A chill shot through her. Was this it? Then his palms settled on her shoulders and he started to knead them. Tender at first, then firm. She bowed her head and gave him more of her neck. If this was the prelude to death, maybe it wasn’t so bad.
Suddenly he stopped. She arched her back, fearing the worst. A moment later, a gentle massage moved down her good arm. He was drying her with the towel. His movements were languid and soft. She felt hot and cold at the same time. When his hands reached the cast on the other arm, he slid the towel carefully over the plaster.
The stroking stopped. “You should put on dry clothes.” His voice was husky.
She tried to speak but her voice cracked.
“Stand up,” he whispered.
Wordlessly she obeyed. Part of her was surprised by how submissive she was acting. Another part of her was way past that.
“Turn around.”
She did. He stood in front of her, breathing fast. His eyes glittered. She smelled liquor on his breath. Without a word, he put the towel down and caught the tail of her t-shirt with both hands. Carefully he lifted it over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra. He gazed at her breasts. Her pulse started to race. He caressed her cheeks and pulled her toward him. She didn’t resist. When his lips found hers, she responded, first tentative, then eager. Heat welled up from someplace inside her. She wrapped her good arm around his neck.
He cupped her breasts in his hands, bent his head, and ran his tongue around her nipples. She shivered with pleasure and pushed against him. He fumbled with the button on her jeans, unfastened it, and pushed them down to her ankles. She lay down on the bed, letting him pull off one pant leg, then the other. He did the same with her briefs.
He stared as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She smiled. He tore off his clothes and got down on the bed. Again he cupped her face with his hands. She kissed him, tracing her fingertips along his cheekbone. He moved hard against her. Then he was inside. As he thrusted, she rose up to meet him, wanting him deep. She needed him deep. His hands went around her hips and pulled her close. She cried out. The storm closed in around them.
• • •
Maybe it was the silence that woke her. Or maybe it was that she was sleeping next to a man she didn’t know. Or maybe it was because she’d been with a man in the first place. It had been too long. His touch, his smell, her blond hairs tangled with his black on the pillow; it was all good and right.
Pale bars of moonlight bathed the room in silver. Raffi was sleeping, snoring lightly. She remembered the call that came in on his cell. The package. She crept out of bed, taking care not to wake him. She wasn’t too worried. Men always slept well after sex.
His jeans were crumpled on the floor. She picked them up, rummaged in his pockets, found the cell. She pressed the menu key for “Calls Received” and memorized the number at the top of the list. Then she went back to bed.