He didn’t bother with the tape across his mouth. That could be taken care of later.
Instead, he shifted his body again and and let his hands roam the trunk, searching for an emergency lever or cable or anything that might pop the lid.
Then he found one, near the rear of the trunk, next to the panel behind the backseat, where the rear speakers were supposed to be mounted.
A small knob.
He had no idea if this was the emergency trunk release or simply a lever that allowed the backseats to be lowered. But it didn’t matter. Either way, it was his ticket out. Escaping through the backseat might be more problematic with Sergio up there, but it was a chance Vargas would have to take.
Grabbing hold of the knob with his good hand, he pulled on it as hard as he could.
Nothing happened.
What the hell?
Muttering into the duct tape, he tried again, and this time got something in return for his efforts:
With a sharp, snapping sound-snapping cable, that is-the knob came loose in his fingers.
Broken. Useless.
Sonofabitch.
Vargas dropped the knob and lay still for a moment, feeling the hump of that goddamned tire beneath him and wondering what his next move should be. He could search for another knob, another lever, but he had a feeling he’d pretty much shot his wad on that front.
So what now, genius?
Time isn’t exactly on your side.
He was searching desperately for a Plan B when a sudden thought occurred to him.
The tire.
The goddamned tire.
Where there’s a spare, there’s bound to be a tire iron, right?
Why hadn’t he thought of that before?
Every car came equipped with one. And it might be true that he was a pitiful excuse for a car owner, but the previous owner, good old Harry, would be the last person in the world to leave his trunk without the proper emergency gear.
At least Vargas hoped so.
Harry hadn’t been too diligent about cable replacement, had he?
Still, Vargas had a feeling that somewhere down in that tire well there was a jack, some flares, and a tire iron, which, like the manual in his glove box, had lain untouched for at least a year and a half.
Finding the edge of the carpet, he peeled it back and reached down into the well, rooting around down there until he found a bulky cloth sack with a drawstring on top. The tools inside clanked as he picked it up.
Bingo.
Pulling it out, he loosened the string, opened the sack, and found the tire iron-at least what felt like a tire iron-nestled up against the jack. He grabbed it, set the sack aside, then ran his fingers along the rim of the trunk lid until he found the latch.
Shifting his weight for leverage, he shoved the sharp side of the tire iron between the latch and the lid and levered it back with a quick, hard jerk.
The latch snapped and the lid flew open, Vargas scrabbling up to the edge, looking down at the road passing beneath him. His only choice was to jump, but he knew he’d do some damage in the process.
Then the Corolla began to slow, Sergio apparently aware that something was up, and Vargas started over the side — only to hear the loud, long honk of a horn.
Snapping his head up, he saw a familiar F-150 headed straight for him. Fast.
Shit.
Ainsworth.
He’d forgotten about him.
Vargas pulled back just as the F-150 smashed into the rear of the Corolla, the impact throwing him forward again. Grabbing onto the lip of the trunk, he held tight, trying to avoid becoming part of the truck’s grille, just as Sergio put on the brakes.
Ainsworth braked, too, getting some distance between them, then sped up again, about to ram the Corolla a second time.
Knowing it was now or never, Vargas scrambled over the edge, then dove sideways toward the road, tucking his head as he went.
He hit the pavement hard, tumbling like a cat caught in a dryer, feeling his shoulder give, another stab of pain. The world swirled around him, quick flashes of color, as he rolled into the dirt at the side of the road and lay still.
Hearing the screech of tires, he willed himself to sit up, saw Ainsworth and Junior and a squat, muscular Mexican guy-Sergio-emerging from their vehicles, shouting at him, and he knew he had to get to his feet, fast.
Glancing around, he saw that he was on a main drag, a cluster of buildings in the distance. And beyond that — the border station — the fucking border station — where several rows of cars were lined up for passage into El Paso.
Vargas jumped to his feet, his body protesting, then turned toward the station and ran, not looking back, not thinking about how close the others might be.
Someone shouted his name again-Sergio this time-and Vargas picked up speed, forcing his legs to move faster than they’d ever moved before, feeling as if they could give out on him at any moment.
Approaching the line of cars, he began to weave through them, not slowing down, doing his best to make himself a difficult target. Grabbing hold of the duct tape plastered over his mouth, he yanked it free.
“Help me!” he shouted. “Somebody help me!”
All around him drivers rolled down their windows and craned their necks, trying to get a look at what was going on. Trying to get a glimpse of the shouting madman.
Up ahead, a guard came scrambling out of his booth, drawing his sidearm as he went.
He pointed it directly at Vargas. “Alto! Manos arriba!”
Chancing a look behind him, Vargas saw that Ainsworth and crew had stopped short at the sight of the guard, their gazes unwavering. And none of them looked happy.
“Alto o disparo!” the guard shouted, and Vargas snapped his head around. There were two more of them now, guns trained on Vargas.
Coming to an abrupt halt, he dropped to his knees and threw his hands into the air as the guards ran toward him.
“I’m an American!” he shouted. “Soy americano!”
And a moment later, as they pulled him to his feet, he repeated the words, much softer this time.
“Soy americano…”
19
Beth
Beth didn’t have much of an appetite, but she went to breakfast anyway. After tossing and turning all night, she awoke early, only to find that Jen hadn’t returned and her bunk was empty.
But Beth wasn’t surprised. Why should she be?
This was typical Jen behavior. A symptom, Beth believed, of her sister’s unending restlessness. And the unhappiness that had plagued her since the death of their parents.
Beth chose the dining room rather than fight the crowd at the food court. It was a risky choice, considering what had happened there last night, but she decided to take her chances.
Heading to Deck Five, she made her way inside and went straight to her assigned table, which was, thankfully, as empty as Jen’s bunk. Maybe she could eat in peace.
As she sat, their waiter, Timothy-who, according to his name badge, hailed from Germany-came over and put a menu in front of her.
“And how are we this morning?”
His English was very good, with only a trace of an accent.
“We,” Beth said, “are seriously considering retiring to a convent.”
Timothy smiled. “And what fun would that be?”
“Apparently I’m not allowed to have fun.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Long story,” she said, then gave the menu a quick scan and closed it. “I’ll have the lox and bagel with extra cream cheese and a cup of coffee. Black.”
“Would you like capers with that?”
“Sure. Why not live a little.” She handed him the menu. “My sister didn’t happen to drop by this morning, did she?”
“Sister?”
“The girl I was sitting with last night. The one who thought she was at a rock concert?”