CHAPTER 8
THE SUN WAS setting by the time Carlos finally arrived, the western horizon turning a pale shade of yellow. The pavement radiated heat from a day of relentless sun. In the distance, a pack of coyotes yipped and howled.
Zach had managed to make it through the past few hours without doing anything dangerously stupid—like kissing Natalie again.
Not that it had been easy. He could still feel her on his lips, the raw current that had arced between them unlike anything he’d felt before.
His body seemed to think that the only cure for this problem was another kiss, but he knew better.
He should never have touched her in the first place.
It’s sexual attraction, McBride.
And it had him by the balls.
He cleared his mind, focused on the present, watching as Carlos climbed out of a white VW Jetta Europa and walked toward him.
“Do you trust him?” The tone of Natalie’s voice told Zach she didn’t.
Smart woman.
“Carlos knows better than to double-cross me.” The two pistols Zach had tucked in the back of his jeans were his insurance in case Carlos had forgotten that fact.
Zach had saved the kid’s life a few years back when Carlos had gotten himself in over his head with a couple of drug smugglers.
Since then, Carlos had given up the narco trade and now ran a couple of chop shops.
At times, he also served as Zach’s eyes and ears on the streets, a fact that was known only to Zach.
Wearing a few more gold chains around his neck than the last time Zach had seen him in person, Carlos stopped a good six feet away, his gaze shifting from Zach to Natalie. “?Quién es la mamacita? ?Está a la venta, también?” Who’s the babe? Is she for sale, too?
It was a joke, but it wasn’t a funny one.
Clearly having understood, Natalie moved sideways to stand behind Zach, her anxious reaction at being discussed like merchandise sparking an almost violent protective response inside Zach. His voice took on a warning tone. “Cuidado, Carlos. Ella está conmigo.” Watch yourself, Carlos. She’s with me.
Carlos stood up straighter, his gaze snapping back to Zach again, a hint of fear in his eyes.
He’d fucked up, and he knew it. “Es exactamente lo que pidió. Las placas son legales. El tanque de gasolina está lleno. Déjeme ver las armas.” It’s exactly what you asked for.
The plates are legal. The gas tank is full. Show me the guns.
Carlos held up the car keys like bait, his gaze drifting to Natalie again.
Zach dropped the duffel bag of firearms at Carlos’s feet, knowing that if anything could take the bastard’s eyes off her it would be weapons. “Hay seis pistolas y cuatro cuernos de chivo, además de amuniciones.” There are six pistols and four goat horns, plus ammunition.
Carlos knelt down, opened the bag, then drew out an AK, admiring it and smiling like a kid on Christmas morning, a gold tooth catching what was left of the light. “Me encantan estos pequenos cuernos de chivo.” I just love these little goat horns.
“Goat horn” was a strange thing to call an assault rifle, but given the curved shape of the magazine, Zach could understand it. Mexican slang was nothing if not colorful.
“?Quieres decirme qué está pasando?” Want to tell me what’s going on?
“No.” Zach glanced at the black Chevy Silverado that idled in the distance, waiting to drive Carlos back to town. “Es tu hermano?” Is that your brother?
“Sí.” Carlos nodded, catching the strap of the duffel bag with his shoulder and starting to rise. “Puedes confiar en él.” You can trust him.
“No lo hago.” I don’t. Zach put his foot down on the duffel bag, holding it to the ground, almost pulling Carlos off balance in the process. “Las llaves. The keys. Give them to her. Natalie, take the keys, and start the engine.”
Natalie stepped out from behind him, took the keys from Carlos, whose gaze followed her as she ran to the car.
Zach lowered his voice and switched back to Spanish. “Get your eyes off her if you want to keep them, amigo.”
The car’s engine started with a roar.
Zach lifted his foot off the bag. “Muchísimas gracias.”
Carlos stood, a grin on his face. “Te debo una.” I owe you big-time.
Zach knew that the moment he and Natalie were gone, Carlos and his brother would take the Tsuru apart, salvaging everything they could and selling it at a handy profit. If the Zetas came back tomorrow, all they would find was an empty, unrecognizable shell.
“Gracias.” Zach shouldered the other duffel bag. “Hay te wacho.” See you later.
Carlos hoisted the bag of arms, turned, and hurried toward his brother’s truck, calling farewell over his shoulder. “Sale y vale.”
Zach opened the passenger side door, shoved his gear into the back, and climbed into the car. “Turn the car around and head into town.”
She did as he asked, Carlos and his brother craning to get a look at her as she drove past. “That was illegal. You gave guns to a man who is almost certainly a criminal. How do you know he won’t use them against—”
Zach didn’t have the energy for this. “I traded weapons for this car because driving around in that one would’ve eventually gotten us both killed. Do you know why the Zetas are called Zetas?”
“No.”
“The license plates on all their vehicles start with the letter Z.” He gave that a moment to sink in.
“Yes, we could have ditched the plates, but driving around with stolen plates or no plates at all will get you pulled over in Mexico just like it will in the U.S. You might not like my methods, but now we can drive on the highway without getting shot. Any more questions?”
She shook her head.
“Good. Drive.”
“WHEN WE GET to the junction of 45 and Carretera Federal 10, take the exit and turn west—that’s left.”
“But that will take us away from Juárez.”
“We’re not going to Juárez. We’re going to Nuevos Casas Grandes.”
“Why aren’t we going to Juárez?”
“Do you ever stop with the questions? We’re not going there because your photograph will have been all over the news. Because the Zetas control much of the city. And because Cárdenas expects us to go there. Anything else you’d like to ask?”
“Can we stop at the next Pemex? I need to use the ladies’ room.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
ZACH DROPPED THE duffel bag, unlocked the door to their hotel suite, and drew out a handgun, motioning for Natalie to stay put.
He’d said the Zetas wouldn’t look for them in an upscale place like this, but clearly he wasn’t taking any chances.
He disappeared inside, and she caught a glimpse of him moving quickly through the rooms, gun ready.
After a minute or two, he called to her. “It’s okay.”
She shut the door behind her, locked it, then slipped the door guard into place. Then she walked a few steps to an armchair and sank into it, too tired even to think.
Zach tucked the gun into his jeans and walked over to her. “Hey, there’s a shower in the next room with your name on it—hot water, soap, towels.”
A shower.
Hadn’t she been longing for a shower all day?
Natalie willed herself to stand, the appeal of being clean barely enough to break through the exhaustion and numbness that had taken hold of her. For the past twelve hours all she’d done was run. Now she could barely move.
She walked into the bathroom, flicked on the light, then locked the door behind her and began to undress, letting her filthy clothes fall to the tile floor.
She never wanted to wear them again; though, of course, she had no choice.
Then she turned toward the shower, stopping short when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
She barely recognized herself. Her hair was a tangled mess, her face smudged with dirt.
A tender goose egg stood out on her scalp where she’d been struck by the butt of the gun.
A big, dark bruise marred her left cheek, and there were fainter bruises on her breasts, an unwelcome reminder of Sr. Scar Face’s rough hands.
But her eyes were what she noticed most—they were a stranger’s eyes.
Shadowed by dark circles, they stared back at her, haunted by her own panic and the dying screams of others.
Feeling like she was made of wood, she turned away from her reflection and turned on the shower, then stepped beneath the spray, letting it carry away two days’ worth of sweat, dirt, and fear.
She shampooed her hair three times, massaged in conditioner, then scrubbed her body with a soapy washcloth till her skin glowed pink.
She wanted to be clean again, needed to feel clean again.
Then she rinsed her hair and her body, watching the bubbles swirl down the drain.
It’s over. I’m alive. I’m going home.
The thought hit her, putting a lump in her throat—but close on its heels came another. So many people weren’t going home.
Joaquin.
Tears spilled down her face. How many had died on that bus? A dozen? Fifteen? All of them journalists, all of them there because they wanted to make the world a better place. Killed without mercy. Shot down.
Screams. Flying glass. Blood.
I am sorry, Miss Benoit.
The bathroom seemed to dissolve, and she was on the bus again. She didn’t hear Zach’s knock at the door, didn’t hear him call her name, didn’t know he was there until he turned off the water, wrapped a towel around her, and lifted her into his arms.
IGNORING HIS OWN exhaustion and the sharp pain in his ribs, Zach carried Natalie toward the bed, her body shaking, her heart beating so hard he could feel it against his chest. He sat, held her, stroking her wet hair, wishing to God he knew how to help her.
He couldn’t tell her everything was okay, because it wasn’t.
Her friend was dead, along with so many others.
She was still in danger—and she had enough bad memories to feed a lifetime of nightmares.
“I’m sorry, Natalie.”