Lowering his head, Lock fell into a shallow dive, ass in the air, and keenly aware of his own vulnerability. His head cleared the gap under the fence. Then his shoulders. He stretched out his hands, fingers digging into the dirt to propel him forward.
Suddenly he felt Mendez’s foot stamp hard on his right hand, crushing his fingers and sending a sharp jab of pain up his arm. He tried to twist it free but the pressure was too great. The next thing he knew, his weapon was plucked from his holster.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Lock said.
‘Saving myself five million bucks,’ came the reply, as the pressure on his hand was released and Mendez took off.
Lock thrashed about, kicking against the ground on the other side of fence, trying to use his feet to thrust himself onwards. He wriggled forwards as hard as he could, a strand of fence wire raking his lower back as he pushed through.
As he cleared the fence, he raised his head in time to see Mendez’s heels flicking up from the ground ahead of him as he made his break for freedom.
Pushing himself up and on to his feet, he took off after Mendez at a sprint, oblivious to the growing clamour of voices from the marshalling yard as the beam of a flashlight snapped across the break in the fence and a single voice, shrill with excitement, called out in Spanish.
Lock focused on the crunch of footfalls ahead of him as he powered after Mendez, rage driving him. Rage at Mendez for jeopardizing their chances of survival. Rage at himself for believing that he was smarter than he was and Mendez dumber.
Behind him, the shouts from the marshalling yard were louder. He didn’t dare look back. Whatever happened next, happened. Knowing that death was on its way didn’t stop it, not that he’d ever seen. You could brace yourself for a punch but not for a bullet.
The sweat that had beaded on his forehead started to trickle into his eyes. He blinked them clear. He could see Mendez approaching a dip in the ground and hurtled after him.
Mendez was slowing, and Lock, more used to pacing a foot race, was gaining. The gap closed. He was within twenty feet. Then twelve. Then ten. But Mendez was almost at the dip now. He would reach it before Lock, that much was certain.
Lock raced to estimate the countdown but time had fractured and spun away. Was there a minute to go? More? Less?
As he planted his left foot on the ground ahead, the answer came in the form of a sky-splitting clap of thunder to the east.
Lock dove for the ground, making himself as flat as he could. High above him, the sky lit up like the Fourth of July as a blaze of white light from a parachute flare obliterated the moon. He began to count.
Fifteen seconds later — the precise amount of time it took for the flare to explode and burn down, like a dying star — he raised his head.
Seventy-five
The flare had been set to go off a half-mile to the east of the yard, the idea being that any pursuers or searchers would read it as a signal that this was where the American rescue party was, and that they were signalling this as the point at which to cross. The Mexican cops would be drawn swiftly towards it, while Lock crossed the border with Mendez almost directly opposite the marshalling yard.
That had been the plan, anyway. And, from the sounds of men tearing out of the marshalling yard and the colonia, it was working like a dream. The only problem was that Mendez was gone too.
Lifting his head clear of the ground, Lock watched the stream of excited men running hard in the direction of the flare. A couple of exploratory three-round bursts blew past him in the same direction, as a couple of trigger-happy cops let loose with automatic weapons.
Slowly he got to his feet as they moved off into the distance, his path ahead clear. He broke into a run, praying that Mendez hadn’t doubled back on him. Within no time, he could see the great span of the corrugated-steel plate barrier looming ahead. There was more gunfire to his left. Then shouts in Spanish. A regular cluster fuck, as they chased each other’s shadows.
He stopped and looked around, his eyes struggling to readjust to the gloom after the intense burst of light from the flare. Ahead, he heard something move in the darkness.
He dropped down, aware that Mendez had his weapon. Staying low, he moved forward, listening, his senses dialled up full. The sound came again. A person. Their movements slow and laboured.
He stayed quiet and inched forward. He was coming to the dip in the ground before the barrier. He radared in on the sound. The person was below him. Except now he could see that it wasn’t a natural hollow where the land fell away. It was a trench, ten feet deep and six feet wide — it had been dug out with heavy plant. A barrier before the barrier. An additional line of defence — perhaps to stop the people from the colonia taking a run at the border fence with a car.
Carefully, he leaned over the edge, his movement releasing a tumble of loose earth. There was a sudden break of movement to his right. Mendez was lying at the bottom of the trench, his left hand clasping a twisted right ankle. That was fine. It wasn’t his left hand Lock was worried about. It was the right, which was coming up fast, holding the gun.
Lock dove back from the edge, a round sailing past where his head had been a split second before. A lucky shot? Or did Mendez have some skill?
Rushing him was out of the question. He’d probably take a bullet before he was halfway down. And the shot was drawing some kind of chatter from the distracted posse running after the flare. Sooner or later they would come looking in this direction to check it out.
‘Charlie?’ Lock whispered into the darkness, being careful to stay out of sight. ‘Charlie, you can’t move and you can’t stay there either. If we’re both going to get out of this there has to be some trust on both sides.’
A voice came back from the darkness of the trench: ‘Why should I trust you?’
‘Because you don’t have any choice. If I wanted you dead all I have to do now is get out of here and leave our compadres over there to deal with you. I lose the money, but if I don’t care about the money it makes no difference to me. I should just get out of here.’
It was a hard sell and he didn’t have time to make a winning case.
‘So, go.’
He needed something else. A distraction. Something for Mendez to chew on, however briefly. Something to buy him the moment of doubt he needed. He patted down his jacket and something crinkled under the fabric. He reached inside and pulled out a wad of paper, waving it over the edge of the trench.
Mendez’s voice came from the void. ‘What’s that?’
‘Your mother gave it to me to give to you. It’s a note. You want it?’
‘What’s it say?’
‘How would I know? Look, do you want it or not?’
Lock edged forward until his head was back over the lip. He tensed, ready to spring back, but Mendez lowered the gun by a fraction.
‘Throw it down.’
‘Okay,’ he said, shuffling forwards on his elbows.
He swung his legs over the lip so that he was sitting on the edge of the trench. ‘I could bring it down to you,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Mendez. ‘I don’t trust you.’
‘Hey, you’re the one with the gun but, okay, I’ll throw it down.’
He folded it up, first into halves and then over again so there was a bit more weight to it. He reached down and tossed it towards Mendez. It fell about a foot from his reach. He looked up at Lock, eyes out on stalks, finger back on the trigger, waiting for him to try something. But Lock stayed perfectly still.
Mendez shuffled on his hands and knees towards the paper. Still Lock didn’t move. Not a muscle.
Withdrawing his left hand from his ankle, Mendez grabbed the note, struggling to unfold it with one hand.