“Better,” he said, surprised. “Thank you.”
After a short break, Armando eased the jacket back onto his shoulders and started off again. He was beginning to think they should have stayed in the deathwagon, or at least near the highway. Then they came to a fork in the tracks. Just beyond that, there was a little town. Benjamín Hill.
If he hadn’t been so dead on his feet, he might have noticed the sentry. There was a federal police officer standing beneath a palm tree less than thirty feet away. They’d strolled right into his view. The officer stood and walked toward them, gun raised.
Temoc and Tonio both froze and put their hands up. Armando followed suit.
When the officer got closer, he studied the trio without a flicker of recognition. “You boys are a long way from home, aren’t you?”
Armando was no boy at forty-one, but those words were music to his ears. This officer thought he was a Guatemalan immigrant, like Tonio and Temoc. Armando started speaking to him in their native language, claiming he’d lost his papers.
The officer holstered his weapon and removed a radio from his belt. “I’ve got three Guatemalans here on the north side of the tracks. Should I detain them?”
“Just sit them down. I’ll send someone over.”
Armando didn’t like the sound of that. He couldn’t afford to get apprehended. He waited until after the officer replied to strike. When the officer glanced down to reattach the radio to his belt, Armando stepped forward. He used the blade of his right hand to jab the man in the neck with swift ferocity. The officer made a choking sound and stumbled backward.
“Run,” Armando said to the brothers, advancing again. Although he wasn’t operating at full strength, his attack was vicious. He punched the officer in the stomach, causing him to double over. Then he brought his knee to the man’s face and crushed his nose. Blood streamed from his nostrils, but he didn’t go down. Armando jumped on his back and put him in a headlock.
The officer put up a pretty good fight. Armando wrapped his legs around the man’s torso to prevent him from reaching for his weapon. The officer bucked and kicked and tried to shake him off. Then he slammed him against the tree with shocking force. Pain exploded in Armando’s side, as if he’d been shot all over again. His grip loosened.
Chingado. He was going to pass out.
Bells sounded, tinkling merrily to celebrate his demise. It took him a few seconds to realize his phone was ringing.
Sarai was calling him.
Armando dug deep into his strength reserves. He rallied, tightening his chokehold. He applied pressure with his arms and legs like a boa constrictor until the officer weakened.
Finally, the officer fell down. Armando released him, completely spent. The officer was unconscious. Armando’s head was spinning. He collected the officer’s weapon and his radio. He didn’t see anyone else coming. Temoc and Tonio had fled. Armando stumbled west, away from the tracks. He pressed his fingertips to his side. They came away wet with blood.
Fuck.
After he’d gone several hundred yards, he ducked behind a boulder and flattened his back against the stone. If more officers came for him, he was done for. He took his phone out of his pocket. His heart pounded as he listened to Sarai’s voicemail.
“I’m still on the train. I’ll be at the border soon. I can meet you at the place you wrote about in your letter.”
He couldn’t remember writing about any specific place. He’d told her to stay in school. If she’d listened to him, he wouldn’t be in this godforsaken shithole. Gritting his teeth, he hit the reply button. The call wouldn’t go through. No service.
Armando slumped against the boulder, defeated. He didn’t know where to go. He needed a minute to catch his breath. While he rested there, sweating and bleeding, the train rumbled into town. Although he couldn’t see the faces of the passengers, he assumed Sarai was among them.
He was too late to warn her.
I can meet you at the place you wrote about in your letter.
It dawned on him that he’d mentioned Del Mar Crematorium. Shipping bodies was expensive, and he didn’t need to rest in peace, so he’d opted for cremation. He’d made the arrangements because he hadn’t wanted to dump the responsibility on her.
She’d meet him at the crematorium? Was that her sneaky way of telling him to burn in hell? Or did she mean that she’d meet him in the afterlife?
No. He rejected both possibilities. Vehemently.
He would not meet Sarai at the crematorium. He would not see her in the afterlife. Because she wasn’t going to die, and she wasn’t coming to Tijuana. She was going to a nice place where she would be safe, find happiness, and grow old. That was the reason he’d done all of this. He’d gone on a killing spree so that she could live, goddamn it.
Dragging himself upright, he put away his phone. He looked up and down the tracks. He couldn’t go into town. He couldn’t survive in the desert. He was between a rock and a hard place, literally.
Then a voice came over the radio he’d taken from the officer:
“She’s not on the train, General. We’ve checked every passenger.”
Armando perked up at this news. They were talking about Sarai. They were here to intercept her. He couldn’t believe the sentry hadn’t recognized him. Maybe he’d been keeping an eye out for another threat—some scumbags from Los Rojos, perhaps.
“We think she jumped off, sir.”
There was a flurry of exchanges and theories, interrupted by a notification that an officer had been attacked. The general barked out orders to search the entire area. They would start on the north side of town and comb their way south.
Armando staggered away from the boulder, leaving a bloody handprint on the surface.
This wasn’t over yet.
