Chapter 13
Armando was winded before he reached the bottom of the hill.
He stopped and bent forward, breathing hard, fingertips pressed to his aching side. His wound felt raw and open, torn anew by the strenuous activity, but the bandage looked okay. It wasn’t soaked with blood. He didn’t think he was going to lose consciousness or drop dead on the side of the street, less than a mile from Moreno’s hideaway.
He straightened, with some difficulty, and glanced over his shoulder. The road was deserted. He couldn’t believe they hadn’t come after him. That was an incredible stroke of luck, because they would have caught up with him easily. He was as weak as a goddamned baby. No shirt, no shoes, no money. Not a single person to call for help.
He hadn’t put much thought into what he’d do after he escaped. He hadn’t really expected to make it out the front gate. That hadn’t stopped him from trying, of course. Life had taught him that many improbable feats could be accomplished if a person was crazy enough to go for it. He was plenty crazy. Sometimesnotthinking was the key to survival. A blank mind held the fear and doubt at bay.
Now that he was free, he had to think ahead and anticipate his rivals’ next move. He couldn’t afford to get recaptured. He figured that Jorge hadn’t followed him because he had more important things to do. The mystery patient Domingo had spoken of had to be Moreno himself. Armando wondered what had befallen the drug lord. Maybe he’d been shot by Chuy Peña.
Armando had never liked Peña. His partner had been one of Moreno’s top earners, but he was reckless. He’d abused drugs and women. That was why Moreno had paired them up. Armando was supposed to keep an eye on Peña and report back. He’d been Moreno’s spy, ironically enough.
Armando hadn’t enjoyed the task, and he was glad Peña was dead. The problem was that Peña had caused a major clusterfuck on his way out. He might have blown Armando’s cover.
What was left of it, anyway. Armando had lost contact with the PFM years ago, after the director was assassinated. This assignment had become his reality. He’d stayed with Moreno out of necessity and self-preservation. Over time, Moreno had earned Armando’s loyalty. The drug boss didn’t target women or children. He didn’t kill indiscriminately. He was no angel, but neither were most cops. They were violent men who led violent lives. It no longer mattered which side Armando fought for.
Right, wrong, good, bad. It was all the same.
Now that Armando had fled Moreno’s crew, he didn’t know where to turn. He couldn’t trust anyone in the PFM to protect him, and he doubted they’d believe his story. He needed to contact Sarai. He also needed clothes, cash, and a vehicle.
The opportunity for all three awaited him around the next corner. A dapper young man in a suit and tie was walking toward a red Mazda by the curb.
Armando didn’t think. He just advanced and struck. One hard fist swung up, into the guy’s face. They both went down in the dirt, with Armando’s forearm crushing his windpipe. The guy dropped his keys, eyes wide with shock.
Armando applied more pressure to his throat, making sure it hurt. Then he let up a little. “Is there money in the car?”
“No.”
He grabbed the keys and scrambled to his feet. “Give me all your cash.”
The guy gaped at him, incredulous. He wasn’t an ideal target. Too young and fit. Blood trickled from his slender nose. He looked like someone who wouldn’t cooperate. At the very least, he’d call the police as soon as possible.
Armando didn’t have time to fuck around, so he punched the guy again, knocking him out. Then he went through his pockets. He had a lousy fifty pesos in his wallet. Armando was considering his fancy shoes and jacket when a pretty young woman ran outside, screaming loud enough to alert the whole neighborhood.
“¡Mi amor! ¿Qué haces?”
Chingado. He climbed behind the wheel and got the hell out of there. He drove as fast as he dared, desperate to reach a busy highway and disappear. His eyes darted from the road to his rearview mirror every few seconds. Downtown Tijuana was a traffic nightmare, as usual. He maneuvered through the city center, but he didn’t feel safe there, either. The red car was too noticeable.
He couldn’t sell it, because everyone he trusted was connected to Moreno. He’d have to ditch it and steal another one. His first priority was checking on Sarai, however. He hadn’t gone on the run to stay out of jail, or even to save his own life. He’d done it for Sarai.
She was the only person who mattered to him.
Those goatfuckers from Los Rojos had murdered his wife. Now that he was on their radar again, unprotected by his crew, they would go after his daughter.
He spotted an Internet café and drove around the block to park. There was a suit on a hanger in the backseat, but it looked too small for his shoulders. He got out to check the trunk for something else. Sure enough, he found a gym bag with workout clothes. He put on a wrinkled white T-shirt and a pair of ratty tennis shoes. Both fit well enough.
He bought a used baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses on the street for twenty pesos before he continued into the café. The only available computer was a dusty old dinosaur on a lopsided school desk next to the front counter.
He sat down and logged on, fingers drumming against the surface of the desk. Cyber-investigation wasn’t his area of expertise, so he had no idea how risky this was. He usually communicated with Sarai by cellphone. They weren’t allowed at her school, but she had one anyway. She replied to his texts with one-word responses, and rarely accepted his calls.
She hated him. She’d hated him forever. First she’d hated him for having a dangerous job and ruthless enemies. Then she’d hated him for sending her away to school and avenging her mother. Now she hated him for years of abandonment.
It was a fair response. He hated himself for all of the same things. But his love for her had never wavered. Somehow it stayed strong, even as his humanity dwindled. It was stronger than ever, actually. Most days, it was the only thing he could feel.
As he waited for the slow connection, he spared a thought for the woman he’d kidnapped. She’d done a fair job of doctoring him, for a hostage. He wouldn’t have survived without her. Would she try to escape at some point like he had? He tried to imagine a positive outcome for her, but couldn’t. His mind was blank and his heart was black.
The computer screen lit up with a bright welcome. He accessed his Facebook account, which he’d created under a fake name. The page was an alternate contact point between him and Sarai, in case of an emergency. He could have tried to contact her from a pay phone, but he doubted she’d pick up a call from an unknown number.
