Georgia picked her way down to Raffi. His truck was where he’d left it, the engine softly running. Blood and bits of whitish matter were splattered over the seat, the steering wheel, the dash, even the windshield. The truck was infused with a coppery, still-warm smell. She turned off the engine and pocketed the keys. They’d dropped his body near the trees at the side of the road. They hadn’t bothered to conceal it; any passerby would see it.
She knelt beside his body. The bullet had entered his temple. She imagined the force knocking his head back. The bullet exited at an angle, which probably caused him to slump over the wheel. There wasn’t much left to his head. Georgia covered him with her blazer. She waited for a rush of sorrow to overwhelm her, but nothing came. The only thing she knew for certain was that she would never come to the mountains again.
She remembered Matt once telling her about the Jewish custom of placing stones on graves to symbolize the act of burial. She scrounged around, found a few small rocks, and laid them gently on Raffi’s chest. She bowed her head. Someone should mourn him.
After a while, she stood up and headed back to the pickup. She’d drive it back to Stevens, but exactly where, she wasn’t sure. She’d call the police when her cell kicked in, tell them about his body. She’d call the FBI and Customs, too, and tell them everything. It was time. Then, if they let her, she’d go to the hotel and get her things. Drive to the barrio to tell Carmelita what happened. Hopefully she or her brother could see to a proper burial.
She was breaking cover from the woods when she heard another vehicle chugging around the pass. Was the SUV coming back? Had they spotted her after all? Gone for reinforcements? She ducked into the woods. It sounded like another pickup. Raffi’s truck was in the middle of the road—whoever it was wouldn’t be able to pass without stopping. And when they did, they’d see his body. She hid behind a tree and pulled out her Sig.
The brakes screeched. The gears shifted; the pitch of the motor changed to an idle. A door squeaked open.
“What the fuck?” A male voice. High-pitched. Nervous. “Who is that?”
“Don’t get too close, Tate.” Another voice. Firm. Authoritative. “It could be a set-up.”
Then there was silence. Georgia felt jumpy. What were they doing? Drawing their weapons, getting a bead on her? The high-pitched voice again, ragged and scared. “Oh Christ! It’s Peña!”
He was only a few yards away. Blood shouted in her ears.
“Aw, shit!” He cried.
Footsteps crunched through the brush. They were close.
“Oh, fuck me! He was always so careful.”
Once more there was silence. Had they spotted her? She heard a rustle. Then the snap of a twig. She considered trying to flee through the brush, bullets be damned. But the reality was she wouldn’t get very far. To tell the truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to run. Something inside her had begun to rip, like a tiny tear in flimsy material. It could eventually split her apart. Better to face it head on.
She stepped away from the tree. One of the men was crouched in a shooter’s stance. The other was beside him. Both had guns aimed at her, and both racked their slides. The man with the voice of authority barked. “Drop your weapon and put your hands up.”
• • •
Propped up against the cab in the bed of their pickup, Georgia was only dimly aware of her surroundings. Chills alternated with sweat, and her brain was fogged with pain. They’d taken her Sig and the Glock, lifted her blazer from Raffi’s body and fished through the pockets for her Chicago blue card and license. They tied her arms and legs, then threw her in the back of the truck. Her broken wrist was pinned behind her back, caught in a vise of pain so sharp she could barely breathe. As they drove, she bounced around the bed of the pickup, drifting in and out of consciousness.
One of the men followed in Raffi’s pickup, the second drove the pickup she was in. Mercifully, it was a short ride. She couldn’t see out of the truck but she heard the crunch of gravel. The pickup stopped. The sudden cessation of motion made her roll over onto her broken wrist. A fresh stab of pain shot through her. She screamed. Then everything went loose, and a soft black curtain descended.
• • •
When she came to, she was lying on a ratty sofa that smelled of stale cigarettes and onions. Her legs were still bound, but her arms were free. Her casted arm rested on her chest. She opened her eyes to a colorless blur. She blinked. Things slowly swam into focus.
She was inside a large room. It looked like the interior of one of the Lanedo cabins, maybe the one she couldn’t get into earlier. Now, though, a transformation had taken place, as if someone had waved a magic wand and brought the scene to life. Several men milled around, all of them dressed in camo gear or fatigues. One was spooning beans from a tinned can. Most of the men had heavy beards and short hair. Two were bald. Two women puttered around a primitive kitchen. One stirred something into a pot. They wore fatigues, too. Everyone had pistols strapped to their waists.
Where had they been earlier? Were they checking her out from some unseen hideout? Georgia tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness stopped her. She plopped back down. One of the women eyed her, then motioned to the man eating beans.
“Untie her legs, Rem. I don’t think she’s gonna run.”
The man put down his beans and came over to Georgia. He needed a bath. He untied the rope around her legs.
Georgia swallowed. Her throat felt like it was full of sand. “Water,” she croaked.
The woman filled a jelly jar with water from a barrel, brought it over, and held it against her lips. Georgia gulped it down.
“You want to sit up?” The woman asked.
When she nodded, the woman helped her wedge herself against the back of the couch. She was weak, but the dizziness had subsided. “Thank you.”
The woman nodded and called out. “She’s back, Whit.”
The man with the authority in his voice came out from a room in the back. He wore camo gear and work boots. A large 45 was holstered around his waist. He was a tall brawny man with a fair complexion and sandy hair. Earlier he’d had on shades, but now he was wearing clear glasses.
Georgia usually had a thing for men in glasses. Matt had worn them, and she thought they gentled him. Not this man. Behind his glasses were icy blue eyes that held no warmth. But there was no hostility, either. He studied Georgia as if she was not quite human—at best a minor complication.
The man called Tate followed behind Whit. Wiping his sleeve across his mouth, he said, “We should have done her back on the road.”
“Shut up, Tate,” Whit said.
“She offed Peña.”
“Why don’t you take a couple of guys and make sure we got everything from his truck.” When Tate didn’t move, he added, “That’s an order.”
Tate blinked. He reminded Georgia of a fish that doesn’t know it’s been hooked. Then he picked up a shotgun propped up against a wall and headed to the door.
Whit pulled up a chair, flipped it around backwards, and sat. “So, your name is Georgia Davis and you’re a PI from Chicago.”
“What are you going to do with his body?”
“Why do you care?” He was matching her, question for question.
“I was hoping his friends in Stevens could bury him.”
“And who might they be?”
She eyed him. “Who are you?”
“Did you shoot Peña?”
“No.”
“Prove it.” Tate called from the doorway.
Whit twisted around. “Tate, get the fuck out. You’re getting on my nerves.”
A flush crept up Tate’s neck, but he exited the cabin.
Georgia waited until the door closed. “My Sig isn’t powerful enough to do what they did to him.”
“You had a Glock, too.”
“It was Raffi’s. He loaned it to me.”
“Raffi?” He stroked his beard, as if pondering the fact they were on a first-name basis. Streaks of red ran through the blond. He dropped his hand. “Maybe you had an assault rifle but ditched it before we found you.”
“Sure. And I was just hanging around the crime scene for a good time.”
“What’s your tie to Peña?”
She shook her head again. Her temples throbbed. Her wrist was on fire. But this was her last shot. “No. First we deal.”
His eyebrows rose. “You’re in no position to deal.”
“Sure I am. I have nothing to lose.”
He didn’t say anything for a while. Then he smiled wearily, conceding the point. “Okay. What do you have?”
“The man who killed Raffi is missing part of his index finger. He kidnapped a little girl, then killed her mother and her mother’s boss in Chicago. He tried to kill me too.”
“Why?”
“Because I was getting too close to Geoff Delton’s secrets.”
“Which would be?”
She sensed his interest. “No. Nothing more till you tell me who you are. And how you know Raffi.”
Whit shook his head. “You haven’t given me anything useful.”
She sighed. She was tired of the games, the lies, the circles of suspicion. Becoming dependent on people, their contacts, even their weapons, was never a good idea. She’d thought—incorrectly, it turned out—Raffi was more or less a loner like her. Yet, whoever these people were, hiding out in the mountains, they weren’t Raffi’s enemies. And while she wasn’t at all sure they could—or would— help her, her options had dwindled. Like it or not she was at their mercy.
So she told him about Molly Messenger’s kidnapping, the bank accounts and cashiers’ checks, the deaths of Chris, Art Emerlich, and her efforts to protect Sandy Sechrest. She told him she suspected that Raffi, despite working for Delton, was involved in drug trafficking and murder. Enough to have warranted a million dollars in hush money. In a way, it felt good to finally lay it all out. When she finished, she motioned to Whit. “Your turn.”
Whit took off his glasses, polished them on his sleeve, put them back on. His face revealed nothing. Maybe that was why he was their leader. Finally he spoke.
“We are part of a movement to take back our country.”
“Are you Minutemen? Some border watch group?”
“No. We are the front lines—the infantry. We are committed to securing the borders. Saving our society from destruction.”
“Why are you hiding out up here?”
“Because we’re prepared to go further than anyone else. At least the ones who haven’t been corrupted by the cartels. And they— well, let’s just say the authorities don’t like our attitude.”
Georgia’s stomach knotted. Just her luck to be hooked up with some wacko right-wing group. But aloud she said, “So you’re allies with Delton Security and Lionel Grant—is that how Raffi got to you?”
Whit tilted his head. “Oddly enough, I doubt Lionel Grant— or Delton—knows we exist. Peña came to us on his own.”
Georgia frowned. “Raffi’s Mexican. Most likely working at cross purposes from you. What could you possibly have in common?”
“There are times that diverse people have mutual goals.”
Whit was obviously an educated man. He was also clever and charismatic enough to have fashioned a bunch of ragtag weirdos into some semblance of order. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t crazy. He could be a latter day Charles Manson. Or a Unabomber who was off the grid. She had to tread carefully.
“Those mutual goals—what would they be?”
“Raffi had had enough.”
“Of what?”
Whit looked around the room and waved his hand. Without a word, the two women and the man who’d been eating canned beans left the room. She and Whit were alone. “What I’m going to tell you,’ he said softly, “no one knows. No one. Except the players themselves.” He paused. “And me.”
Georgia nodded.
“Peña’s team was compromised.”
“How?”
“Delton started out doing what Lionel Grant wanted. Trying to stop the flow of drugs across the border. They were mostly backups to the border agents. After a while, they became more confident. They did some reconnaissance, intelligence gathering, even made some forays across the border.
“But cartels are powerful organizations. They effectively control the government of Mexico, and they’ve made inroads here as well. More people are killed along the border than in Iraq these days. The cartels are the biggest threat to the American way of life. To our survival. And no one’s doing anything about it.”
Georgia didn’t need a political rant. “What does that have to do with Delton? Or Raffi?”
Whit gazed at her. “It doesn’t take much to flip someone. You know that. No matter how strong or powerful they are, everyone is vulnerable somewhere. The cartels make an art out of discovering what those vulnerabilities are. Of course, if they can’t find any, they create them. Once they do, they own you.” Whit rocked forward. “It’s happening in U.S. border towns all over the Southwest. The cartels have infiltrated the police, civic organizations, even political groups. It’s the beginning of the Armageddon. But no one will admit it. The degree of denial is—”
Georgia cut him off. “How did the cartels infiltrate Delton?”
“Given their MO, I would imagine they bribed them. If that didn’t work, they probably planted drugs, weapons, or other evidence that was conveniently discovered by authorities.” He paused. “I heard rumors that the body of a murdered whore turned up in someone’s bed.”
“Jesus.” She winced. “Are the Stevens police involved?”
“This is a major border crossing for drugs. They have to be.”
She nodded, not surprised. There wouldn’t be much help from that quarter.
He went on. “As far as Delton is concerned, deals were made. Money changed hands. Lots of it. They are, after all, mercenaries. Up to the highest bidder. After that it was just a case of how far and how high Delton jumped.”
“And Raffi was one of the jumpers?”
Whit held up a hand. “I’m getting there.” He leaned back. “There are four major cartels. Their names don’t matter. What does matter is that they are always trying to expand their turf. Usually at the expense of each other. They’ve been at war for years.”
“What does that have to do with Delton?”
“Many illegals who want to cross the border don’t have enough money to bribe custom officials or pay coyotes. So they become mules. Ferrying drugs for one of the cartels in return for safe passage. When Cartel A wants to take down Cartel B, Cartel A’s soldiers target Cartel B’s mules. Round them up and execute them. As a warning.”
Like Diego’s parents, Georgia thought.
“Authorities have found mass graves on both sides of the border.”
“And you’re saying Delton was killing those mules?”
He nodded. “Once the cartels have infiltrated an organization, they can force it to do whatever they want.”
“But Raffi refused?”
“He discovered that some of the mules who were targeted were people from his village in the Sonora. He called Delton and threatened to expose him if he—Delton—didn’t do the right thing. Instead, twenty-four hours later, three million-dollar checks were sent to Raffi’s team.”
Why was Whit telling her all this, she wondered. What was his agenda? She wanted to ask but didn’t want to risk having him clam up.
“Wrobleski and Brewer deposited their money,” he went on, “but Raffi tore his check up. And told Delton he did. Two days later the other two were dead and their records were scrubbed.”
“The ‘training’ accidents.”
“It’s the cartels’ way. Assassinate the soldiers. Then go after the leader. So Raffi ran. To us.”
Georgia thought about it. “That’s why Chris manipulated the bank records.”
“What?”
She held up her hand, thinking it through. After Raffi refused his bribe, Delton must have told the cartel he had a mess on his hands. So they sent the man with the missing finger to clean it up. He kidnapped Molly Messenger and forced her mother to close Delton’s dummy account at the bank, thinking that would erase the evidence of the hush money. But Chris had to have warned Delton—maybe the man with the missing finger as well—that it wouldn’t work. That someone at the bank would discover what she was doing. They told her to go ahead anyway, and since they had Molly, she had no choice. Sure enough, when Sandy Sechrest found the discrepancies and reported them to Art Emerlich, the man with the missing finger was forced to cover their tracks by killing Emerlich and Chris. And try for Sechrest as well.
Georgia fixed her eyes on the floor. Usually she loved this part of a case, the part when the pieces resolved themselves into a pattern so clean and yet so obvious that it couldn’t have happened any other way. This time, though, she felt no satisfaction. For the cartels a rising body count was just a measure of progress. The cost of doing business. Killing men, women, even children, came easily. Even the mob in Chicago had more compassion. And Geoff Delton, too weak to control his own men, was complicit in the carnage. Lionel Grant, too, who’d underwritten Delton in the first place.
“Why didn’t Raffi expose Grant, too?”
Whit shook his head. “Lionel Grant was not a part of this.”
“But Grant hired Delton. It was his truck they used in the desert.”
“It wasn’t him,” Whit said firmly.
Georgia spread her hands. “Why should I believe you? You and Grant have similar missions. And you said yourself diverse people can work together.”
He stared at Georgia for a long minute. Then he said, “There is a tunnel under the border.”
“A tunnel?”
“Drugs flow in one direction, arms in the other. The collaborator you are looking for is not Lionel Grant. Your collaborator is the man who manages the flow of ‘traffic’ through this tunnel. Raffi decided the only way to stop him—and the traffic going through it—was to destroy it.”
“Where is this tunnel?”
“That I don’t know.”
Georgia didn’t believe him.
“There are more than seventy-five tunnels under the Mexico-Arizona border,” he explained. “More are built every day. Raffi didn’t tell us where this one was.”
“Why not? Was he protecting you?”
Whit nodded. “He was.”
“Why?”
“Because we were going to give him the supplies to blow it up.”