Gitmo getaway, p.11
Gitmo Getaway, page 11
"Yeah, I know. John-Wesley, lend a hand."
Ryder nodded, pulled one of the bags to him, and started rummaging inside.
"I'll take a look around the area, make sure we're on our own," Nolan told them.
He felt bruised and exhausted, but they were inside Mexico illegally. The last thing they wanted was for some fisherman to stumble across them while he was trying to catch his supper.
The area was quiet, almost peaceful. When the breeze shifted, he could hear mariachi music coming from the direction of Cancun. A resort of luxury hotels and gleaming beaches, cocktails served by white-coated waiters. He felt a twinge of envy. Here they were, cold, wet, beaten up, bruised, and hungry, and hiding from the law. And without the normal backup they would expect from their own people back at Coronado. As situations went, it was shit. Total shit.
* * *
The journey was comfortable, for Señor Montez had provided everything they needed. They were traveling in the back of a stretch limo, driven by a scowling Mexican wearing a shoulder holster who told them his name was Enrico. There was another man in the shotgun seat, Ramon. The passenger was pockmarked, hard-faced, and he made no effort to conceal the MAC-10 he kept on his lap. His job would be to kill anyone who tried to stop them reaching their destination. They were negotiating the tarmac roads that ran from Cancun to Mexico City, Chihuahua, and on to their final destination before the border, Ciudad Juarez. They talked loudly. Harun Rashid had found the minibar and distributed alcohol to the men.
Strict Muslims decry alcohol as contrary to the laws of Allah. But these men had been locked up for a long time inside the harsh confines of Guantánamo Bay, and they'd grabbed the small bottles like kids in a candy store. Nasriri had been sleeping, and when he awoke, it was too late. He frowned and gave them dark looks, but even his number two, Abu Bakr, was imbibing, and already his face was flushed and his eyes dilated.
"Abu, how far have we come?" he snapped.
Bakr stared at him and couldn't prevent the guilt that sprayed over his face as he realized how they'd erred.
"We're a few kilometers outside Mexico City, Omar. We asked the driver to stop soon. We need to take a leak."
Nasriri grunted an acknowledgement. He thought for a moment and then said, "It would be a good idea to find a cafe and drink some strong coffee. We all need our heads clear for what is to come."
A pause. Then he nodded. "Of course, Omar, but we have not reached the cafe yet."
He passed more bottles out to the men, who looked at Nasriri defiantly before they cracked them open and swallowed the contents.
Ten minutes later, they stopped at a dusty roadside traffic stop, a couple of gas pumps and a cantina. It had two floors and a sign outside that said, 'Rooms'. Enrico pulled up to a pump and waited. Nothing happened. The attendant stayed inside the booth. They could see him clearly, nodding as he listened to music through his headphones. With a sigh, he climbed out and pumped the gas, then went to pay at the kiosk. When he came back, he was smiling.
"We're in luck. The cantina is open. They serve food and can supply..." he glanced at their faces and then looked at Ramon, "entertainment. I'm not hungry. I suggest we avail ourselves of what is on offer while these men eat."
"I like the sound of that. Let's go."
The climbed out of the limo and entered the cantina. Nasriri looked around, horrified. It was squalid, poorly lit, with a long battered bar. A couple of girls sat on high stools, looking at the new arrivals with interest.
A whorehouse!
He glared at Enrico.
"This is not a suitable place for us to stop. I'd prefer to..."
"Amigo, this is where we are, and this is where we'll stay. We'll be back in a half hour. You should help yourself to something hot. Me and Ramon intend to."
Both Latinos laughed out loud, strode to the two girls sitting on the stalls, and moments later were following them up the staircase.
Infidels!
He saw half his men watching them with hungry expressions, and the rest were eyeing the shelf behind the bar.
"What'll it be?"
The bar owner stood before him dressed in a dirty T-shirt that had once been white. The printing on his chest stated, 'Mexico, the jewel of South America'.
"We'll take coffees, black, strong."
He counted the men. "All of you? All nine?"
"All of us."
He avoided their looks of disappointment and sat down at a table. His men clustered around and sipped their coffee when it arrived. The cantina was quiet. A couple of Latino truckers over in one corner eating their way through a plate of tacos, and a man on his own drinking from a bottle of beer on his table. He was white and looked like a North American. Nasriri wondered if he would suspect anything. But then again, why should he? They were wearing ordinary civilian clothes, and as far as he knew, their escaped from Gitmo had gone unreported. It would be a blow for American morale if they thought their Islamic prisoners could walk out of the supposedly impregnable prison.
They sat in silence. After half an hour he was concerned about the two men who'd gone with the whores. He was about to suggest Abu go find them when he heard sounds of a ruckus from the top of the staircase; shouting and then screaming, a girl in pain, and another screaming abuse. As he watched, Enrico and Ramon started to descend. They looked as if they'd dressed in a hurry, and their eyes were wide with feral excitement. They walked over to the table.
"We're leaving," Ramon barked.
"Yeah, we need to hurry," Enrico added.
Nasriri looked at both men and felt a growing concern.
Something’s wrong, badly wrong. And that could mean cops.
"What happened up there?"
They didn't get a chance to answer. One of the whores came racing down the staircase and ran over to them. She started beating her fists against Ramon.
"You fucker, you didn't need to do that. You nearly killed her."
He shrugged. "Too bad. Whores should do what their clients tell them. When they don't, they deserve everything they get."
The bar owner join them and looked at the girl. "What’s happened?"
She pointed at Ramon. "That fucker, he cut her. He wanted her to do vile things, and she refused, so he slashed her face. She's bleeding bad. We need to take her to the hospital."
The man thought for a moment, then nodded. He gave her a set of keys.
"Take my SUV. It's parked out back. Give me a call, and let me know what they say. Can she walk?"
She nodded. "She'll manage. I'll use the back staircase, thanks Juan."
She raced away, and he turned to Ramon. "Señor, this is a bad business. You'd better wait. I'm going to call the cops."
He turned away and started walking back to the bar. Ramon's hand dived under his coat and appeared clutching the MAC-10. He pointed it at the bar owner and squirted a short burst into his back. He fell to the floor, bleeding from his wounds, twitched for a few moments, and then he was still. It didn't need a medic to tell any of them he was dead. The other people in the bar, the two truck drivers and the American were frozen, staring at the gunmen and not daring to move.
"Let's go," Enrico urged. He looked at the three customers. "If the cops ask, you never saw anything. Comprendais?"
Three heads nodded. They went to the door and stepped out into the sunshine. The pump attendant was running toward them, his expression puzzled. Clearly, he wanted to know what was happening in the bar. Without thinking, Ramon pumped a half-dozen 9mm bullets into him. The man hit the ground, and he nodded to Enrico. "Lend a hand. We'll pull him inside, out of sight."
The other man shook his head. "No more killing, Ramon. You know what Señor Montez told us. We were supposed to keep this operation quiet."
He chuckled. "Exactly. They will never again utter a single sound. Let's do it."
They dragged the body inside, and the Islamists watched in silence. They came out a few moments later, boarded the limo, and they got on the road.
"That was stupid," Abu murmured, "There was no need for any killing. Now the cops may be looking for us."
Nasriri shrugged. "In this place our friends own the cops. I doubt there'll be any problems. Besides, they were running a brothel. Disgusting! Against all the laws of Allah, they deserved it. If men choose to live that life, they should expect anything they get."
Abu Bakr didn't reply. Perhaps Omar was right, perhaps not. Even so, the killings were unnecessary. There was now the increased risk of law enforcement coming after them. Montez or no Montez. Besides, the last man had done nothing wrong; he was employed to pump gas. Not pimp girls. Killing him served no tactical purpose. It was the act of a violent sociopath. He wondered if he ought to warn Nasriri but thought better of it. If his leader had worked it out, it was unnecessary. And if he hadn't, he may think Abu had gone soft on killing. It was the ultimate crime.
He leaned forward and called to Enrico, "Where are we headed now?"
"All the way to Ciudad Juarez, my friends. We will be driving through the night, so make yourselves comfortable."
"This Ciudad Juarez, it is on the border with the United States of America?"
He laughed. "It sure is. The town is under the control of the cartels, and our friends will have everything ready to get you across the border. Relax, everything's fine. Enjoy the journey."
Abu thanked him and sat back in the seat. However, he didn't relax. He knew they still had to make the crossing into America, and then travel almost the entire length of the country to reach New York City. Even then, their problems wouldn't be over. Not until the final act, an act that would send shockwaves across America, the Great Satan. Across the world, even. Yet they would not see the results of their sacrifice. Once again, he thought about the final blinding explosion that would end their lives. In the blink of an eye, they would become fragments of blood, tissue, and bone, unrecognizable to their own mothers.
Is there a Paradise? Is it really true? On the other hand, have the Imams and Mullahs invented it to persuade gullible young men to martyr themselves in desperate attacks on the enemies of Islam? How could anyone know? That's the real problem. How do they know?
Chapter Six
For the sixth time she looked around for the brutal face, but there was no sign of him.
Have I lost him? But he knows where I study and the address of my apartment, for sure. What should I do, call the cops? No, I know about police. Many of them are in the pay of the cartels. I have to find another way.
She walked around the corner and almost fell into his arms.
An ambush!
"Esperanza," he grinned. She hated that smile, so cocky, so arrogant in the knowledge of the power he possessed, backed by Montez, "It's good to see you again. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were avoiding me."
"What do you want?"
"Want? Why should I want anything?" He spread his hands wide, "Although, there is something you could do for me." She waited, "I don't get to New York City very often. Why don't you join me for dinner? I thought somewhere at modest, maybe MEGU? It's a Japanese restaurant," he added helpfully.
She knew of MEGU in the Trump Tower. They cooked sushi and other Japanese delicacies, and played host to many of the brokers and power elite in the city. Which was unsurprising, not many others could afford it.
"No, thank you."
"But, Señorita Flores, it would give us a chance to talk things over. We got off on the wrong foot, but who knows, it could be the start of a new relationship. I've always found you attractive. Why, back home in Colombia, I always thought we might get together, you know what I mean," he winked.
She controlled her stomach with an effort. If she ever got near him with a sharp knife in her hand, she'd want to push it into his guts, and to see him lying on the floor, bleeding out like so many of his victims.
"I'm sorry, I'm busy."
His eyes narrowed. "Esperanza, I'm trying to be friendly. You're not helping yourself with this hostility. Why don't you change your mind?"
She glared at him. "After what you've done, you dare to ask me out for a date? I'd sooner see you in hell, Hidalgo. Get out of my way before I call a cop."
His face was cold as he stared at her. "You're making a big mistake. I'll cut to the chase. Where is the USB data stick?"
Her stomach churned with fear, but she kept her gaze steady. "The what? I know nothing of this."
"Your father sent it to you, do you not remember?"
She shook her head. "If he did, it did not reach me. Why is it so important?"
"That is none of your business, but I must have it."
"I cannot help you."
His expression was pure malice. "I've tried to be friendly, but obviously, you don't want to help yourself. Perhaps next time we meet, it won't be so friendly. And you'd better search your memory about that USB stick."
"Is that a threat?"
"I am merely saying it would be good for your health if you gave it to me. And fatal if you do not."
He reached in his pocket, and she thought he was pulling a gun, but instead he came out with an envelope and handed it to her. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the milling crowds.
Trembling with fear, she opened the envelope. There were photos of her family laid out in open coffins. There were more photos of her, entering her apartment, chatting to a friend in the street, and the last image sent a chill through her. It had been taken inside her apartment. Somehow, he had a key. She resolved to change the lock, but she knew it wouldn't keep out a man like Hidalgo. She had to do something else.
A gun? A boy who recently joined my course practices weekends on a range. Maybe he’ll help, but how can I persuade him? What am I thinking! He’s a loner, so if I can't get his attention, I may as well become a nun. What chance would I have against a skilled gunman like Hidalgo? Still, it would be better than nothing.
She briefly considered going into hiding, but that would mean the end of her life and her education, everything her parents had wanted for her.
No, I won't do it, not for anything. I will fight.
* * *
For the first time they'd had a stroke of luck. A pilot who flew cargoes for both Eva and Rafael was flying north with an empty aircraft, a Cessna 308 Caravan. She could carry nine passengers, maybe more when needed, together with their gear. But not out of any regular airfield, like Cancun International.
They were standing on a patch of ground twenty kilometers inland, where the aircraft was sitting at the end of a rough strip hacked out of the wilderness and scrub. There were heaps of boulders either side of the runway. They looked as if they'd been scraped up and moved aside when someone created the runway. There was even a heap of rusting iron nearby, a massive scrap pile, which looked to have once been a building before it was demolished. In front of them, the pilot carried out his pre-flight checks.
The storm had blown over for now, the rain had stopped, and stars lit up the sky. Enough for them to see the bulky Cessna they were about to fly in. It was immaculate, gleaming, obviously well looked after. It looked nothing like a smuggler aircraft.
Eva picked up the vibe and smiled.
"Adolpho looks after her like she's his baby. I've flown with him many times, and there's no aircraft I'd prefer to fly in."
Brad shook his head in disbelief. "It looks like it just came out of the showroom. Why does he bother, when he flies out of these lousy dirt strips?"
She shrugged. "I guess it's his hobby."
The pilot heard them talking. "You must understand, it's not easy when you can't fly into a proper airfield for repairs and routine maintenance. It means I have to take even more care of my aircraft than usual. Besides, on those occasions when weather forces a landing at a regular airfield, they don't ask too many questions about the paperwork. Not when you look just like a regular Delta or American airliner. Maybe a bit smaller," he grinned.
“You do have documentation for the aircraft?" Brad asked, "I mean; you have the annual checks, engine, airframe, that kind of stuff?"
He spread his hands wide and smiled ruefully. “Documentation? Checks? Not exactly, no, I manage it all myself. Much more reliable, and I save money. I get Felipe to help out when there's something I can't handle alone."
"He's a qualified aircraft engineer?" Will asked, getting interested in the aircraft they were intended to fly in.
Adolpho chuckled. "No, no. He fixes the trucks at the local quarry, but he's very clever with all things mechanical. He helps me keep it looking so smart."
"Shit." Brad muttered, "I always wanted to die in a clean aircraft."
The pilot shrugged. "It is time to board. Normally, I would carry cargo to the north, but the Federales seized my goods, and I still need to raise the bribe to get them back. That's why I'm empty, but I have a contract for the return journey, and they'll be waiting for me."
Nolan was tempted to ask who 'they' were, without doubt men who were on the run from US law enforcement. Why else would they fly in an undocumented smuggler's aircraft? Drug dealers, assassins, terrorists the scum of the earth, or maybe they were men like him, Will, Brad, and John-Wesley; except they were on the side of the angels, kind of.
He nodded at the open door. “Let’s get aboard.”
As Will climbed in, he asked the pilot, “Do you have any parachutes on board?”
He smiled. “No, I’m sorry. We had some, but they were stolen. Some of these people are no better than thieves.”
“You don’t say.”
* * *
The flight to Ciudad Juarez was a little less uncomfortable than flying in the belly of a C17 Globemaster, but only just. The pilot had stripped out every last piece of equipment designed to make the journey both safe and comfortable. The idea was to save weight and increase his cargo capacity. It also meant the normal gear carried in an aircraft was absent. That included the seats, lifejackets, oxygen masks; even the light fittings and floor coverings were missing.
Ryder nodded, pulled one of the bags to him, and started rummaging inside.
"I'll take a look around the area, make sure we're on our own," Nolan told them.
He felt bruised and exhausted, but they were inside Mexico illegally. The last thing they wanted was for some fisherman to stumble across them while he was trying to catch his supper.
The area was quiet, almost peaceful. When the breeze shifted, he could hear mariachi music coming from the direction of Cancun. A resort of luxury hotels and gleaming beaches, cocktails served by white-coated waiters. He felt a twinge of envy. Here they were, cold, wet, beaten up, bruised, and hungry, and hiding from the law. And without the normal backup they would expect from their own people back at Coronado. As situations went, it was shit. Total shit.
* * *
The journey was comfortable, for Señor Montez had provided everything they needed. They were traveling in the back of a stretch limo, driven by a scowling Mexican wearing a shoulder holster who told them his name was Enrico. There was another man in the shotgun seat, Ramon. The passenger was pockmarked, hard-faced, and he made no effort to conceal the MAC-10 he kept on his lap. His job would be to kill anyone who tried to stop them reaching their destination. They were negotiating the tarmac roads that ran from Cancun to Mexico City, Chihuahua, and on to their final destination before the border, Ciudad Juarez. They talked loudly. Harun Rashid had found the minibar and distributed alcohol to the men.
Strict Muslims decry alcohol as contrary to the laws of Allah. But these men had been locked up for a long time inside the harsh confines of Guantánamo Bay, and they'd grabbed the small bottles like kids in a candy store. Nasriri had been sleeping, and when he awoke, it was too late. He frowned and gave them dark looks, but even his number two, Abu Bakr, was imbibing, and already his face was flushed and his eyes dilated.
"Abu, how far have we come?" he snapped.
Bakr stared at him and couldn't prevent the guilt that sprayed over his face as he realized how they'd erred.
"We're a few kilometers outside Mexico City, Omar. We asked the driver to stop soon. We need to take a leak."
Nasriri grunted an acknowledgement. He thought for a moment and then said, "It would be a good idea to find a cafe and drink some strong coffee. We all need our heads clear for what is to come."
A pause. Then he nodded. "Of course, Omar, but we have not reached the cafe yet."
He passed more bottles out to the men, who looked at Nasriri defiantly before they cracked them open and swallowed the contents.
Ten minutes later, they stopped at a dusty roadside traffic stop, a couple of gas pumps and a cantina. It had two floors and a sign outside that said, 'Rooms'. Enrico pulled up to a pump and waited. Nothing happened. The attendant stayed inside the booth. They could see him clearly, nodding as he listened to music through his headphones. With a sigh, he climbed out and pumped the gas, then went to pay at the kiosk. When he came back, he was smiling.
"We're in luck. The cantina is open. They serve food and can supply..." he glanced at their faces and then looked at Ramon, "entertainment. I'm not hungry. I suggest we avail ourselves of what is on offer while these men eat."
"I like the sound of that. Let's go."
The climbed out of the limo and entered the cantina. Nasriri looked around, horrified. It was squalid, poorly lit, with a long battered bar. A couple of girls sat on high stools, looking at the new arrivals with interest.
A whorehouse!
He glared at Enrico.
"This is not a suitable place for us to stop. I'd prefer to..."
"Amigo, this is where we are, and this is where we'll stay. We'll be back in a half hour. You should help yourself to something hot. Me and Ramon intend to."
Both Latinos laughed out loud, strode to the two girls sitting on the stalls, and moments later were following them up the staircase.
Infidels!
He saw half his men watching them with hungry expressions, and the rest were eyeing the shelf behind the bar.
"What'll it be?"
The bar owner stood before him dressed in a dirty T-shirt that had once been white. The printing on his chest stated, 'Mexico, the jewel of South America'.
"We'll take coffees, black, strong."
He counted the men. "All of you? All nine?"
"All of us."
He avoided their looks of disappointment and sat down at a table. His men clustered around and sipped their coffee when it arrived. The cantina was quiet. A couple of Latino truckers over in one corner eating their way through a plate of tacos, and a man on his own drinking from a bottle of beer on his table. He was white and looked like a North American. Nasriri wondered if he would suspect anything. But then again, why should he? They were wearing ordinary civilian clothes, and as far as he knew, their escaped from Gitmo had gone unreported. It would be a blow for American morale if they thought their Islamic prisoners could walk out of the supposedly impregnable prison.
They sat in silence. After half an hour he was concerned about the two men who'd gone with the whores. He was about to suggest Abu go find them when he heard sounds of a ruckus from the top of the staircase; shouting and then screaming, a girl in pain, and another screaming abuse. As he watched, Enrico and Ramon started to descend. They looked as if they'd dressed in a hurry, and their eyes were wide with feral excitement. They walked over to the table.
"We're leaving," Ramon barked.
"Yeah, we need to hurry," Enrico added.
Nasriri looked at both men and felt a growing concern.
Something’s wrong, badly wrong. And that could mean cops.
"What happened up there?"
They didn't get a chance to answer. One of the whores came racing down the staircase and ran over to them. She started beating her fists against Ramon.
"You fucker, you didn't need to do that. You nearly killed her."
He shrugged. "Too bad. Whores should do what their clients tell them. When they don't, they deserve everything they get."
The bar owner join them and looked at the girl. "What’s happened?"
She pointed at Ramon. "That fucker, he cut her. He wanted her to do vile things, and she refused, so he slashed her face. She's bleeding bad. We need to take her to the hospital."
The man thought for a moment, then nodded. He gave her a set of keys.
"Take my SUV. It's parked out back. Give me a call, and let me know what they say. Can she walk?"
She nodded. "She'll manage. I'll use the back staircase, thanks Juan."
She raced away, and he turned to Ramon. "Señor, this is a bad business. You'd better wait. I'm going to call the cops."
He turned away and started walking back to the bar. Ramon's hand dived under his coat and appeared clutching the MAC-10. He pointed it at the bar owner and squirted a short burst into his back. He fell to the floor, bleeding from his wounds, twitched for a few moments, and then he was still. It didn't need a medic to tell any of them he was dead. The other people in the bar, the two truck drivers and the American were frozen, staring at the gunmen and not daring to move.
"Let's go," Enrico urged. He looked at the three customers. "If the cops ask, you never saw anything. Comprendais?"
Three heads nodded. They went to the door and stepped out into the sunshine. The pump attendant was running toward them, his expression puzzled. Clearly, he wanted to know what was happening in the bar. Without thinking, Ramon pumped a half-dozen 9mm bullets into him. The man hit the ground, and he nodded to Enrico. "Lend a hand. We'll pull him inside, out of sight."
The other man shook his head. "No more killing, Ramon. You know what Señor Montez told us. We were supposed to keep this operation quiet."
He chuckled. "Exactly. They will never again utter a single sound. Let's do it."
They dragged the body inside, and the Islamists watched in silence. They came out a few moments later, boarded the limo, and they got on the road.
"That was stupid," Abu murmured, "There was no need for any killing. Now the cops may be looking for us."
Nasriri shrugged. "In this place our friends own the cops. I doubt there'll be any problems. Besides, they were running a brothel. Disgusting! Against all the laws of Allah, they deserved it. If men choose to live that life, they should expect anything they get."
Abu Bakr didn't reply. Perhaps Omar was right, perhaps not. Even so, the killings were unnecessary. There was now the increased risk of law enforcement coming after them. Montez or no Montez. Besides, the last man had done nothing wrong; he was employed to pump gas. Not pimp girls. Killing him served no tactical purpose. It was the act of a violent sociopath. He wondered if he ought to warn Nasriri but thought better of it. If his leader had worked it out, it was unnecessary. And if he hadn't, he may think Abu had gone soft on killing. It was the ultimate crime.
He leaned forward and called to Enrico, "Where are we headed now?"
"All the way to Ciudad Juarez, my friends. We will be driving through the night, so make yourselves comfortable."
"This Ciudad Juarez, it is on the border with the United States of America?"
He laughed. "It sure is. The town is under the control of the cartels, and our friends will have everything ready to get you across the border. Relax, everything's fine. Enjoy the journey."
Abu thanked him and sat back in the seat. However, he didn't relax. He knew they still had to make the crossing into America, and then travel almost the entire length of the country to reach New York City. Even then, their problems wouldn't be over. Not until the final act, an act that would send shockwaves across America, the Great Satan. Across the world, even. Yet they would not see the results of their sacrifice. Once again, he thought about the final blinding explosion that would end their lives. In the blink of an eye, they would become fragments of blood, tissue, and bone, unrecognizable to their own mothers.
Is there a Paradise? Is it really true? On the other hand, have the Imams and Mullahs invented it to persuade gullible young men to martyr themselves in desperate attacks on the enemies of Islam? How could anyone know? That's the real problem. How do they know?
Chapter Six
For the sixth time she looked around for the brutal face, but there was no sign of him.
Have I lost him? But he knows where I study and the address of my apartment, for sure. What should I do, call the cops? No, I know about police. Many of them are in the pay of the cartels. I have to find another way.
She walked around the corner and almost fell into his arms.
An ambush!
"Esperanza," he grinned. She hated that smile, so cocky, so arrogant in the knowledge of the power he possessed, backed by Montez, "It's good to see you again. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were avoiding me."
"What do you want?"
"Want? Why should I want anything?" He spread his hands wide, "Although, there is something you could do for me." She waited, "I don't get to New York City very often. Why don't you join me for dinner? I thought somewhere at modest, maybe MEGU? It's a Japanese restaurant," he added helpfully.
She knew of MEGU in the Trump Tower. They cooked sushi and other Japanese delicacies, and played host to many of the brokers and power elite in the city. Which was unsurprising, not many others could afford it.
"No, thank you."
"But, Señorita Flores, it would give us a chance to talk things over. We got off on the wrong foot, but who knows, it could be the start of a new relationship. I've always found you attractive. Why, back home in Colombia, I always thought we might get together, you know what I mean," he winked.
She controlled her stomach with an effort. If she ever got near him with a sharp knife in her hand, she'd want to push it into his guts, and to see him lying on the floor, bleeding out like so many of his victims.
"I'm sorry, I'm busy."
His eyes narrowed. "Esperanza, I'm trying to be friendly. You're not helping yourself with this hostility. Why don't you change your mind?"
She glared at him. "After what you've done, you dare to ask me out for a date? I'd sooner see you in hell, Hidalgo. Get out of my way before I call a cop."
His face was cold as he stared at her. "You're making a big mistake. I'll cut to the chase. Where is the USB data stick?"
Her stomach churned with fear, but she kept her gaze steady. "The what? I know nothing of this."
"Your father sent it to you, do you not remember?"
She shook her head. "If he did, it did not reach me. Why is it so important?"
"That is none of your business, but I must have it."
"I cannot help you."
His expression was pure malice. "I've tried to be friendly, but obviously, you don't want to help yourself. Perhaps next time we meet, it won't be so friendly. And you'd better search your memory about that USB stick."
"Is that a threat?"
"I am merely saying it would be good for your health if you gave it to me. And fatal if you do not."
He reached in his pocket, and she thought he was pulling a gun, but instead he came out with an envelope and handed it to her. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the milling crowds.
Trembling with fear, she opened the envelope. There were photos of her family laid out in open coffins. There were more photos of her, entering her apartment, chatting to a friend in the street, and the last image sent a chill through her. It had been taken inside her apartment. Somehow, he had a key. She resolved to change the lock, but she knew it wouldn't keep out a man like Hidalgo. She had to do something else.
A gun? A boy who recently joined my course practices weekends on a range. Maybe he’ll help, but how can I persuade him? What am I thinking! He’s a loner, so if I can't get his attention, I may as well become a nun. What chance would I have against a skilled gunman like Hidalgo? Still, it would be better than nothing.
She briefly considered going into hiding, but that would mean the end of her life and her education, everything her parents had wanted for her.
No, I won't do it, not for anything. I will fight.
* * *
For the first time they'd had a stroke of luck. A pilot who flew cargoes for both Eva and Rafael was flying north with an empty aircraft, a Cessna 308 Caravan. She could carry nine passengers, maybe more when needed, together with their gear. But not out of any regular airfield, like Cancun International.
They were standing on a patch of ground twenty kilometers inland, where the aircraft was sitting at the end of a rough strip hacked out of the wilderness and scrub. There were heaps of boulders either side of the runway. They looked as if they'd been scraped up and moved aside when someone created the runway. There was even a heap of rusting iron nearby, a massive scrap pile, which looked to have once been a building before it was demolished. In front of them, the pilot carried out his pre-flight checks.
The storm had blown over for now, the rain had stopped, and stars lit up the sky. Enough for them to see the bulky Cessna they were about to fly in. It was immaculate, gleaming, obviously well looked after. It looked nothing like a smuggler aircraft.
Eva picked up the vibe and smiled.
"Adolpho looks after her like she's his baby. I've flown with him many times, and there's no aircraft I'd prefer to fly in."
Brad shook his head in disbelief. "It looks like it just came out of the showroom. Why does he bother, when he flies out of these lousy dirt strips?"
She shrugged. "I guess it's his hobby."
The pilot heard them talking. "You must understand, it's not easy when you can't fly into a proper airfield for repairs and routine maintenance. It means I have to take even more care of my aircraft than usual. Besides, on those occasions when weather forces a landing at a regular airfield, they don't ask too many questions about the paperwork. Not when you look just like a regular Delta or American airliner. Maybe a bit smaller," he grinned.
“You do have documentation for the aircraft?" Brad asked, "I mean; you have the annual checks, engine, airframe, that kind of stuff?"
He spread his hands wide and smiled ruefully. “Documentation? Checks? Not exactly, no, I manage it all myself. Much more reliable, and I save money. I get Felipe to help out when there's something I can't handle alone."
"He's a qualified aircraft engineer?" Will asked, getting interested in the aircraft they were intended to fly in.
Adolpho chuckled. "No, no. He fixes the trucks at the local quarry, but he's very clever with all things mechanical. He helps me keep it looking so smart."
"Shit." Brad muttered, "I always wanted to die in a clean aircraft."
The pilot shrugged. "It is time to board. Normally, I would carry cargo to the north, but the Federales seized my goods, and I still need to raise the bribe to get them back. That's why I'm empty, but I have a contract for the return journey, and they'll be waiting for me."
Nolan was tempted to ask who 'they' were, without doubt men who were on the run from US law enforcement. Why else would they fly in an undocumented smuggler's aircraft? Drug dealers, assassins, terrorists the scum of the earth, or maybe they were men like him, Will, Brad, and John-Wesley; except they were on the side of the angels, kind of.
He nodded at the open door. “Let’s get aboard.”
As Will climbed in, he asked the pilot, “Do you have any parachutes on board?”
He smiled. “No, I’m sorry. We had some, but they were stolen. Some of these people are no better than thieves.”
“You don’t say.”
* * *
The flight to Ciudad Juarez was a little less uncomfortable than flying in the belly of a C17 Globemaster, but only just. The pilot had stripped out every last piece of equipment designed to make the journey both safe and comfortable. The idea was to save weight and increase his cargo capacity. It also meant the normal gear carried in an aircraft was absent. That included the seats, lifejackets, oxygen masks; even the light fittings and floor coverings were missing.
