CRISTINA SAW FLIP LEAVE THE WAREHOUSE in his girlfriend’s car and one by one the other employees headed on their way. Alfredo Rodriguez was the last to go, pausing at his truck for a long time, casting his gaze back toward the building as if he was considering going back inside. Cristina wished him away. “Come on,” she said under her breath. “Don’t be stupid.”
“There he goes,” Robinson said.
Space was at premium on the road outside the warehouse gate and the car Cristina and Robinson rode in was one of only three lined up along the face of a vacant lot facing the building. One held a quartet of DEA agents, the other a like number of El Paso police. Any more and they risked tipping off the Aztecas when they came for their truck. The truck that idled on the west side of the warehouse, the driver still behind the wheel. Cristina tried to imagine how much they were paying the man to take this risk. Probably not much.
More police waited a block away in the parking lot of a closed-down fast-food restaurant. They would swing into place once Cristina, Robinson and the others moved. No one knew how many Aztecas to expect, but they were ready to handle the situation however it played out.
They waited nearly an hour before another vehicle came up the road. Cristina spotted them in the side mirror coming closer: a dark blue pick-up truck with a cherry shine, followed by a green sedan. The pick-up passed them and left-handed through the gates. There were at least three in the king cab. The sedan was full.
Cristina drew her weapon, checked it. Beside her, Robinson did the same. “Five or six guys,” Cristina said. “Easy.”
“Just watch yourself,” Robinson said.
“I’m always careful.”
The pick-up and sedan pulled alongside the Mexican truck and disgorged their passengers. There were eight Aztecas altogether and they fanned out in the empty yard, forming a loose perimeter around the trucks. At this distance Cristina could not see if they were armed. She had to assume they would be.
The Mexican driver got down from his seat and came around the back to unlock the cargo area. The truck had an extendable ramp. He put that down and walked up inside with one of the Aztecas.
The radio beside Cristina squawked. “Salas, we’re waiting on your go.” That was Hanning, one of the DEA agents.
Cristina took up the radio. “Give it a minute. I want to see the stuff coming out.”
As if on command the Mexican truck driver and the Azteca reappeared, carrying square bundles that looked heavy. An Azteca put down the tailgate of the pick-up and lifted the plastic shell that covered the bed. The men moved toward it.
“Okay, let’s go. Everybody go,” Cristina said.
Cristina hit the siren and peeled away from the curb, leaving rubber trails behind. The car jounced as it crossed the threshold of the warehouse gate. Behind her the other cars had their lights and sirens going. They came up alongside quickly and all three screeched to a halt a dozen yards from the pick-up.
She bailed out of the driver’s seat with the engine still running, vaguely aware of Robinson doing the same. Cristina saw Aztecas breaking for the far end of the warehouse, but others stood where they were as if frozen. The nearest Azteca had his back to her and did not move.
“Police! Everybody get down on the ground!” Robinson bellowed.
Cristina came out from behind the shield of the driver’s side door, weapon out and leveled on the closest Azteca. He still had not moved. “Get down on the ground now!” she shouted.
He turned. The movement was so casual that Cristina could only look at him as he faced her. She saw him clearly: a young man in his early twenties, a tattoo on his neck, a t-shirt worn beneath an open short-sleeved shirt. His jeans rode too low on his hips.
The gun in his fist caught the angled sunlight. It was a ridiculous weapon, one of the heavy, oversized .44 automatics that looked good being carried around. A gun to be seen. Cristina saw the barrel pointed directly at her and then the flash.
Robinson was yelling, the DEA agents were yelling. A crippling blow crashed into her chest, crushing the wind out of her lungs, spiking pain. She was hurled back against the open car door and the side mirror struck her on the back of the head. Cristina saw bright light. Then she was down and she could not breathe.
Weapons fired on both sides of her, but Cristina did not see the Azteca go down. She could only picture it as she stared up into the sky, struggling to take a breath. There was the dimmest awareness of her pistol resting in her right hand, but she couldn’t move her limbs. The asphalt beneath her was flat and hot.
Suddenly Robinson was above her, filling her vision and blocking out the sky. Her head was buzzing from lack of oxygen. Robinson touched her cheek and called her name. His words filtered through to her slowly. Breathe, goddamn it. Breathe!
Cristina struggled to fill her lungs and then at all once she was able to suck down air. Her whole chest was on fire, as if her ribs were cracked. Robinson supported her head, still telling her to breathe, breathe.
“Freddie…” she managed to say.
“You’re all right,” Robinson said. “It didn’t go through. Your vest stopped it. You’re all right.”
She reached for Robinson’s arm and gripped it. Now she felt heady, on the verge of passing out. There were still sparkling flecks in her vision. “Freddie,” she said again.
“You’re going to see Freddie,” Robinson said.
Mom is going to be all right and she’ll always come home to you. I promise.
“I promise,” Cristina said.