He cursed his own stupidity. If the cartel and their buddies had guessed that he wasn’t going to risk the border crossing, where they could easily be detained in Mexico on a pretext, and instead head straight for the the consulate, they wouldn’t have cops on show to scare them off. They would be watching from the shadows. A spider didn’t sit in the middle of a web waiting for the fly: he clung to the edges.
Ty studied the storefronts. ‘Here,’ he said, guiding her towards a nail salon as one of the men swivelled around to watch them.
Inside, the salon was quiet. The owner bustled over and, without asking, got Julia to sit down. Ty pulled out his cell phone and motioned towards the back of the salon. ‘Okay if I make a call back there?’
‘What’s wrong?’ Julia asked, as the owner shrugged in agreement.
‘Just be cool.’
Ty stepped away and pulled up the number Lock had given him. A few seconds later a woman answered, speaking in English but with an accent: ‘American Citizen Services Unit.’
Without explaining who he was or why he was calling, Ty asked to be put through to a member of the consular staff. He was put on hold. The phone pressed to his ear, he walked to the front of the store and peered out. The two men he had spotted were standing next to each other now. One was nodding towards Ty, who was only partially obscured by the gaudy stencilled advertising plastered across the window.
Finally there was a click, and for a second he thought he had been cut off or placed in some kind of automated queue. A second later there was a voice, a real live human being. ‘How may I help you?’
He stepped away from the window, and started to speak. He gave the man at the end of the line Julia’s name and explained that they were across the street but that two men were positioned outside the consulate who, he believed, had been placed there by people who wished to prevent Julia’s safe return to her family.
‘Mr Johnson, please stay on the line, and I’ll be right back to you.’
Before he had a chance to protest he was put on hold. He walked back to the window and took a peek. The two men were still in heated discussion. One was on a radio. Not a cell phone but a walkie-talkie. From the corner of his eye, Ty caught a flash of red light as a patrol car sped down the avenue. The two men watched it pull up not far from them. Walkie-talkie Man keyed his radio again. At the same time the consular official came back on the line.
‘Mr Johnson, I want you and Julia to stay exactly where you are. If you have a weapon please do not draw it. Do you understand me?’
‘Yeah, got it.’
The patrol car was joined by another. One of the two men, the one without the radio, broke off to go and speak to the cops as the one with the radio started towards the salon. The owner, completely oblivious to the scene unfolding outside, remonstrated with Julia, who was fidgeting in her seat.
Walkie-talkie Man was walking at a clip now, his right hand dropping into his jacket and under his left shoulder. Not wishing to be overheard, Ty killed the call. He didn’t know what kind of bullshit was going down and he wasn’t about to stick around to find out. Sit tight, my ass.
He crossed to Julia. ‘We gotta go,’ he said, tossing twenty bucks in the direction of the protesting salon owner, for whom a half-finished manicure was clearly some severe breach of beauty-shop etiquette.
Walkie-talkie Man was no more than ten seconds from the door. His partner’s discussion with a cop who had got out of the patrol car was proving animated.
Ty turned to the salon owner as he pulled Julia to the back of the store. ‘You have a way out back here?’
She stared at him, uncomprehending. Julia tried to translate her few words of stitched-together Spanish, earning a shake of the head and a finger pointed at the front door, which was now opening as Walkie-talkie Man shouldered his way through. Beyond him the Federales were making their move too, running not walking towards the salon.
Ty’s right hand came up, with the gun, finger on the trigger.
Walkie-talkie Man froze. ‘Dude, chill out,’ he said, his accent pure California surfer. ‘I’m from the consulate. We’ve been waiting for you. If you hadn’t stopped to get your goddamn nails filed we would have had you inside by now.’
Ty lowered the gun. The guy flashed his State Department identification to prove his point and apologized in fluent Spanish to the salon lady. He motioned Julia towards him. ‘Stay close. They’re going to give us some static but they touch you and I have four men across the street ready to turn this place into the goddamn Alamo.’
Julia managed a smile, which soon dissolved into tears of relief. The State Department official, whose ID had him down as Armando Hernandez, turned to Ty. ‘You too. Stay close to me. You’re not exactly flavour of the month with some of these assholes.’
He walked them to the door, shielding Julia with his stocky frame as Ty brought up the rear. Halfway across the street, he glanced back at Ty. ‘Kind of disappointed in you, Mr Johnson. All us Hispanics look alike to you or something?’
Sixty-five
Rafaela walked back into her apartment, threw her bag and keys on to the kitchen counter and took off her jacket, but kept on her holster with her loaded service weapon. She had been relieved of her duties pending an official inquiry into the ‘unauthorized release of the two Americans’: her boss wanted her out of the way while he assured the consul general that everything was being done to find Charlie Mendez. That part was true enough. For once they weren’t just putting on a show. They did want Mendez — and Lock — just not alive and talking.
She filled a plastic jug from the kitchen tap and watered the plants out on her little terrace balcony. After the death of her husband and everything that had followed, she had clung to work, though in her darker moments she told herself that she was more social worker than cop. Cops found the bad guys, gathered evidence and made sure they were put behind bars. Rafaela picked up the rag-doll bodies of young women from the streets and comforted their heartbroken parents as best she could. What good was that? What good was she? The bodies piled up anyway and she made no difference. The streets weren’t any safer. Worst of all, the dead girls weren’t even the main event: they were a sideshow. Sure, the media got excited as they speculated on the serial killer or killers but really they were nothing. There was a war on drugs. There would never be a war on the rape and torture of young women.
She put the jug away in a kitchen cupboard, walked into the bathroom, took off her clothes, dumping them in a small wicker laundry basket, and turned on the shower. She hung the holster with her service weapon on a hook at the back of the door, stepped into the shower and closed her eyes as the hot water pounded her face.
Sixty-six
Hector parked around the corner and made a final check of the address. He should have been happy. For one, he was alive, not chopped into pieces in the bathtub of a rent-by-the-hour motel at the edge of town. For another he was back to his regular job, working as a sicario. He had been granted something rarely afforded by his boss: a chance to redeem himself. Two weeks ago, he would have welcomed it, and in some way he still did. A man doing a job he felt ill-suited to couldn’t be happy and Hector was a man who had defined himself, like so many men, by his work. He enjoyed the fact that he was useful and that his work was valued. But ever since the American girl’s kidnap something in him had changed.