The crack of a pistol shot, then the bullet whistling overhead: Melchior dove for the ground, Roque lurched across the center console, got behind the wheel, turned the ignition, lodged the gearshift into drive and shoved the gas pedal to the floor just as a second shot pierced the back window. Lupe screamed. Roque ventured a quick over-the-shoulder glance and spotted blood as the car fishtailed up the soft rutted road.
– Are you all right? He palmed the wheel, righting the car.
She didn’t answer, crouched down on the seat. The back window was webbed with fissures spiraling out from the bullet hole. The Cutlass lurched into a rut, dug out again, chewing up rocks, veiled in clouds of dust as it continued up the impossible road. Roque glanced back again, saw her right hand grabbing her left shoulder, threads of blood between her fingers.-It’s all right, she hissed.-Hurry, go!
He considered some sort of evasive back and forth but, given the ruinous condition of the road, the vagueness of the path, he feared he might just as easily wander into a bullet’s path as out of one. Speed, he thought, get away from them, create distance so you have time to run.
He gunned the engine, steering around the worst craters and biggest rocks but otherwise barreling straight ahead, checking his mirror from time to time, trying to see if, through the shifting clouds of dust, he was managing any real separation. The sound of more gunshots but only one bullet landed, hitting the trunk with a pinging thoont. He soared over a sudden crest, a brief gut-fluttering weightlessness, then the chassis crashed down again, first the rear, then the front, tires biting into the rocky sand as he regained control, accelerated out of another fishtail and charged forward.
In the backseat Lupe was breathing fast and shallow but made no other sound, lying flat to keep from getting shot twice. Roque thought of his uncle, wondered what advice he’d give, thought about Godo too, Happy and Samir, vowing to himself he wouldn’t punk out now, wouldn’t shame them, then saw ahead the pine and oak trees marking the first ascent of the foothills. A low outcropping of marbled rock loomed a mere hundred yards ahead, he reached for the glove compartment, slapped it open, rummaged around for the flashlight, all the while gripping the wheel with his left hand, steering straight ahead at full speed. Over his shoulder, he shouted at Lupe: “¡Listo!”
As he approached the road’s end he fishtailed the car around so that it faced the way they’d just come. He shouted for Lupe to get out, waited for her to shove open the rear door and flee the car, then got out himself, found a rock the size of a melon, lodged it onto the gas pedal, threw the gearshift into drive. Following Lupe, he scrambled up the rocks toward the tree line. The Cutlass lumbered off, picking up speed as it lurched downhill, forcing the approaching Blazer to stop, turn, dodge the huge bouncing downhill missile until it slammed into a sprawling jut of scrub-nested saguaros with a dusty clanking thud.
Lupe faltered as Roque came up behind and he caught her sleeve, dragged her upright as still another shot rang out, the bullet whistling past them into the trees-a snapped branch, a shower of dry pine needles. He pulled her roughly after him, the rocks beneath their feet razor-edged in places, in others soft and flinty, powdered with dust, littered with pellet-shaped acorns. As they reached the edge of the forest he caught the welcoming tang of resin.
Below, the Blazer careened to a lurching stop, followed by three more gunshots, strangely wild, then a sudden silent impulse told him: Stop! He drew up in his tracks, used his body as a shield to keep Lupe behind him, just as he felt the rippling concussion of air, like an invisible current pulsing in front of him. The bullet missed by inches.
A clipped throaty voice called out:-Roque Montalvo! We’ve got your cousin.
He hurried beneath the tree canopy and pushed Lupe behind him before turning back, thinking: Spanish, clever, work on both our consciences, play one against the other. A tall spidery man with a shaved head leaned against the SUV, clutching his mid-section, his movements stitched with pain. A smaller man dressed in black with long flowing hair climbed out from behind the wheel, flourishing a pistol. A third man in a suit and cowboy boots dragged from the backseat a fourth and final man, this one with his hands tied behind his back: Happy. He staggered blindly, weak from a beating, his shirt dark with blood. The man in the suit pressed a pistol to his head and drove him to his knees, the spindly bald one calling out:-Come back down, you and the girl. Otherwise…
Roque still held Melchior’s pistol. From this distance, though, he doubted he’d hit anyone, no matter how carefully he aimed. He might be able to slow them down if they chose to climb up after them but that was the best he could hope for. The air felt cool in the tree shade. Another hour or so, the sun would set.
Happy threw back his head, a soulless voice, “Fuck them, chamaco. Run!”
Using his pistol, the one in the suit cracked down hard, the back of the skull. Happy crumpled, toppling onto his side in the dust.
– Is this what you want? The tall one bent over, coughed, waved a limp hand toward Happy.-Come on. Think. You won’t make it, you know that, right? I know just where that trail comes out.
All I gotta do, make one call, they’ll be there on the other side, waiting. Stop dicking around, give your cousin a chance here.
From behind, Lupe, her voice tight with pain:-I can’t ask you to do this.
He could smell the stale coppery odor on her breath.-Then don’t ask.
She tried to brush past.-I owe it to his father.
Roque stopped her with his arm, holding her back-he could feel her draining strength.-They’re going to kill you, if you’re lucky. Kill us all. Who’s that repay?
Her eyes met his and yet he couldn’t feel himself within their gaze.-I’ve brought nothing but sorrow to your family.
– What’s happened, we brought on ourselves. Happy knows that better than anybody.
– It’s asking too much.
– You’re not asking anything. Now trust me.
He braced himself against one of the trees, lifted Melchior’s gun and steadied it, closing one eye, squinting to aim with the other. For the merest instant he revisited the day that Tío Faustino moved in, bringing his fourteen-year-old son along with him. He wasn’t known as Happy yet, that would come later, but even then he was cool and watchful and defiantly sullen. Godo hated him at first glance but that was Godo. Roque wondered if he’d bother to laugh if somebody told a joke. Tía Lucha made pozole for dinner, a hominy stew with chunks of pork, and no one spoke during the meal, spoons traveling from bowl to mouth uninterrupted except for Tío Faustino’s increasingly hopeless stabs at chat. At one point, Roque’s eyes rose from the table and he caught the taciturn newcomer, the boy named Pablo, staring. The eyes were black and deep and hard. Roque couldn’t help himself, maybe it was fear, maybe it was daring, maybe the simple human need to connect, but he smiled. And for a fleeting second he saw a softening in that unavailing gaze, the slightest lifting of the mask.
If I can just hit one of them, he thought, Happy will know I didn’t simply abandon him. The one in the suit presented the best target. If he missed, he might hit Happy, but he doubted whatever agony he caused would add much to what was sure to follow. He drew a bead, fixing the middle of the man’s chest in the V-shaped notch of the sight. He took in a breath, held it, pulling gently, slowly, three times in succession. As always, he was amazed at how loud it was. Even more astonishing, the one in the suit flinched and staggered and clutched at his neck, tripping over his own feet and toppling clumsily to the rocky ground as though suddenly butted by an invisible goat. The other two scattered, searching for cover.