Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) (30 page)

Inside, the smell of oil couldn’t be more overwhelming if I were crawling through an engine. There’s ragged breathing coming from the back of the barn, a rhythmic, feral pant. I advance along the right-hand wall, keeping the carbine at hip level, holding the flashlight high and to the left in case it draws anyone’s fire. There’s a yellow combine or tractor to my left, and behind it a pegboard draped with greasy tools. A shop light hangs from a hook in the corner, casting a sterile white halo over the space. I can’t see around the tractor, but the sound is coming from here.

“You’ve seen what I’ll do,” a coaxing voice whispers. “Why make it so hard on yourself? This can end right now, if you’ll just tell me where to find him. Give me a name. Give me an address. Is that so hard to do?”

I click off the light near the back of the tractor.

“March,” the voice says. “We’re back here.”

I step into the halo, my finger on the trigger.

The first thing I see is Jeff’s hand, slick with blood. He stands beside a heavy wooden workbench, feet apart, with his M4 resting, muzzle up, against the bench leg. In his glistening hand he holds something flat and shiny. A sheaf of black zip-ties peeks out from his jeans pocket. He smiles at me with a smile I hope to never see again.

Brandon Ford kneels at his feet, his back against the bench and his arms extended along the table edge. His wrists are secured to the thick wood legs with plastic ties, and he looks like he’s been beaten badly, probably from jumping out of a moving car onto the highway. His black curls are matted with sweat, his face and throat and bare arms displaying the drained pallor of marble. His feverish eyes dart toward me an instant, then wander back to the site of trauma.

At the end of his outstretched left arm, on the back of his hand, a flap of skin hangs uselessly to one side to reveal the teeming redness beneath.

“He’s close,” Jeff says. “He can’t take much more.” He gives Ford’s cheek a gentle pat, almost affectionate. “Give me a second and we can get out of here.”

“
Are you insane?
”

Before he can answer, another volley of gunfire explodes against the gate outside. They must be advancing.

“I don’t need much more time, but if you don’t get out there . . .” He says the words slowly, like he’s instructing a child. The tip of his knife catches his attention and he turns it in the light. Just an everyday lockback knife with a clip on the side and a grooved nub on the back of the blade to make one-handed opening easier. It’s no different than the kind many people carry clipped inside their pockets, only the edge is honed razor sharp.

“You’re the one? You killed the man we found in the park?
Why?
”

“We don’t have time for this,” he says. “They’re coming.”

I raise the carbine. “
Why?
”

“At the time, I thought it was
him
.” He flicks the tip of the blade in Ford’s direction. “And they went through quite a bit of trouble to make it seem that way, too, don’t you think? After the fact. The thing with the
DNA
. That was for my benefit, wasn’t it?” The question is addressed to Ford and punctuated by a slice across the cheek. Ford winces and I take a step forward. “Never mind. Now we’re back where we started and it’s time for answers. He knows who Inferno is, and he knows where to find him. And if he doesn’t tell us, well”—Jeff’s smile widens—“he knows what to expect.”

Voices outside, then more gunfire, this time closer. They’re inside the gate and
it won’t take long to figure out where we are.

“And Macneil, that was you, too?”

He appears to be straining to remember. “You mean the guy in Argentina? That was a favor for Mr. Nesbitt’s new friend. The one who was supposed to help him bring Englewood down. Supposedly he’d stashed a lot of money somewhere, but he must have spent it all. Otherwise, by the end, I think he would’ve told me.”

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“There’s something wrong with the world. At least I’m honest enough to see it for what it really is. You, on the other hand, are a disappointment.”

“Nesbitt thought so, too.”

“I don’t know what he expected from you. I mean, look at you.”

“You have to understand, Jeff. Nesbitt unleashed something he couldn’t control. He thought I could finish it.”

“I’m the one who will finish it.”

“Your way isn’t what he had in mind. He was hoping to make amends.”

“Look,” he says, desperation in his voice, “there’s a back door here. We can slip outside and disappear into the night. But not until Brandon here tells me where to find his friend. So what do you say, Brandon? Do I have to ask the question again?”

He extends the knife toward Ford’s maimed hand, the blade gleaming.

“Jeff—”

The barn’s metal hull amplifies the gunshot. Then there’s the ding of my spent casing bouncing against the wall. Jeff bends at the waist, letting the knife fall, twisting as he tips toward the ground. My round struck his hip, probably shattering it. I had no choice but to shoot, but I couldn’t bring myself to aim for center mass.

“
You shot me
,” he wails.

I pick up the knife and cut Ford’s torn hand free. Then I loose the other one. Hands are pulling at the barn’s roll-up door, looking for a way in. As I cross to the shop light and rip the plug from the outlet, a shot rings out from the open side door. They’re in the barn. I take Ford by the scruff and start pushing toward the back exit.

“March,” Jeff moans.

I pause over him. “I
trusted
you.” This has no effect on him in his state, and there’s no time for speeches anyway. “Listen, your rifle is where you left it. They’re coming for you. What you do about it is your choice.”

Then I’m pulling the door open, pushing Ford through, and closing it behind us.

Outside, he starts to mumble his gratitude, which I don’t want, then says he’s able to walk if I’ll steady him a little. We stumble toward the concrete perimeter wall, with Ford’s good arm slung over my shoulder and his injured hand clutched to his chest. He sucks in breath through his teeth with every step. As I mount the wall and reach back to help him over, the barn turns into a live firing range. The explosion of gunfire, the projectiles punching through steel—it’s like a roll of quarters tossed into a clothing dryer, clattering free as the dryer spins.

“
Don’t leave me! March! You can’t leave me alone with them!
”

The sound draws more fire.

I don’t stop to think about the men advancing through the dark on either side of the tractor. I don’t stop to think about the dwindling number of bullets in the M4’s magazine.

I drop to the far side of the wall, reaching up to cushion Ford’s landing.

Then we head off into the darkness, pushing forward, ignoring injury and fatigue, ignoring the all-too-real possibility of a bullet in the back.

“What are you even doing here?” Ford mutters, barely loud enough to hear.

“I came for you. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“You took the van—you and
him
?”

“Don’t talk. Just keep running.”

“What happened to your partner, that’s not on me. He got the jump on us coming out. Drew down. Lodge started shooting before I even knew what was going on.”

I stop in my tracks. Try to catch my breath. I hear gunshots, distant and intermittent, engines revving.

“Keep moving,” I say.

“We couldn’t trust the cops,” Ford says, “not after what happened to Nesbitt. For all I knew, you guys were out to punch my ticket.” He starts coughing. “Tonight you almost did.”

“Shut up,” I tell him. “Just shut up and keep moving.”

We run, holding each other, kicking our way past underbrush, stumbling and rushing on, until Jeff’s voice is gone and the sound of gunfire is gone and everything’s gone but the scrape of our feet through the scrub. That and the tortured breathing of the man beside me, Bea’s lover, with his flayed hand.

It takes me a while
to remember the crossroads where the cantina is situated, the street where I left my car, and I have to repeat the names several times before the Mexican in the pickup nods with comprehension and tells me to sit back. He’s a small man with a contented smile who shows no qualms about having stopped for us, despite our condition, and waves away the wad of cash offered in compensation for the ride, as if assisting gringos in distress comes so naturally to him that he wouldn’t dream of taking a dollar.

Ford slumps between us, his hand in a hastily improvised wrap, slick with sweat, eyes closed, murmuring under his breath. Before we reached the road, he went through a phase of feverish delirium. When I wouldn’t agree to getting in touch with his men, he said there was one other person in Matamoros who could help, one other person who’d have the incentive since tonight’s escapade would put his own life in danger.

“Inferno,” I say. “It’s not César, is it?”

“What? No. Inferno was Nesbitt’s secret weapon, the guy who made sure César rose to the top. Only César used him to wipe Nesbitt off the board.”

“If you know that, why are you doing business with him?”

“I’m trying to stay alive,” he says, gesturing with his mangled hand. “And I don’t
know
anything. You never do with these people. Look, it’s Inferno you want anyway, not me. We can make a trade. Just let me walk out of here and he’s yours.”

On our way into the city, we come across a column of police vehicles advancing in the opposite lane. If it weren’t for the flashing lights, it could pass for a military detachment. They seem to be heading to the location of the gunfight. Hopefully they’ll arrive in time to take possession of the van and its contents.

The streets of Matamoros have gone quiet in the intervening hours, apart from a lonely drunk here and there, or a couple on a late-night stroll. There are also ominous trucks full of young men crisscrossing the intersections, prompting the Mexican to shake his head and release a spew of words under his breath. What he’s saying is all a jumble to me, but the gist seems clear. The cartel has turned out in force. Probably looking for us.

Before hitching a ride, I had to dump the carbine—I stripped it down and threw the parts in different directions, keeping the bolt with me until I found a soft bit of ground in which to bury it—so we’d be defenseless in the event of a confrontation. It’s not uncommon out on the highways for the cartels to set up roadblocks, but here in town they seem to content themselves with cruising around at high speed with a menacing air. The cops are out and so are the gangs, and I don’t want to run into either of them.

The pedestrian alley in front of the cantina is empty when we pass by, most of the neon signs now doused. If I were being extra cautious, I’d have the man drop us a couple of blocks away from my car, but the injuries from his fall, the cut on his hand, and our breakneck run have all taken a toll on Ford. I doubt I could hustle him two blocks without prompting a collapse.

“
¡Gracias!
” I say.

The Mexican wards off my thanks just as he did my money.

Once the truck drives off, I settle him in the passenger seat, buckling him in. Then I check the street to make sure nobody’s watching, then duck under the car. Feeling around, I locate the Browning and the nylon bag, slicing the zip-ties with my knife. The rifle I leave in place—it’s too big to conceal. I clip the holstered pistol onto my belt, adjusting my untucked shirt to keep it covered, and then get behind the wheel.

When I start the engine, a blast of cool air-conditioning envelops me. I’d almost forgotten what it’s like. It feels too good. I’m exhausted. My limbs are heavy, my joints on fire, and I could close my eyes right now and sleep for ages.

Here’s what I should do: I should leave Ford at the nearest hospital, then get out of here. Get back across the border, get a hotel room somewhere, go home first thing in the morning and forget any of this ever happened. I’ve dug myself into a deep hole, but apart from that message I left for Bea, there’s nothing that can’t be undone if I leave right now. That would mean giving up on Ford, giving up on bringing César to justice. It would mean forgetting about Inferno, too. That’s what I should do. I’m out of my depth and have been for a while. It’s a miracle I’m still alive.

Ford stirs next to me. His eyes open. He starts to look around.

“I recognize this,” he whispers. “We’re not far away.”

I put the car in gear and pull onto the street. “Tell me where to turn.”

I’m not going back, not now. Whether it’s from the top down or the bottom up, whether it’s my genes or my destiny, I’m determined to take this path as far as it goes. The line was crossed long ago, and now that I’m on the other side of it, there’s nowhere to go but forward, no matter what awaits me there.

———

The place Ford takes me is a second-floor apartment behind a shop. I walk down the alley to a narrow set of metal stairs bolted into the brick, ascending to a landing that wraps around the building’s corner, hiding the apartment from the street, and onto a veranda shaded by a vine-wrapped pergola, the deck full of colored metal outdoor furniture. Across the veranda, the apartment’s front door is made of louvered glass—a jalousie window, I think it’s called. The apartment windows are louvered, too, the glass panels frosted for privacy.

Through the glass I can make out a table lamp inside, the shadowy outline of a chair back. The faint drum of music filters through the slitted windows. I pause to listen. It’s a crackly recording of some melancholy chanteuse, maybe Billie Holiday, I don’t know. That sort of thing, anyway. Maudlin stuff.

Ford volunteered to stay in the car, not wanting to climb the stairs, and put up only verbal resistance when I reached into my briefcase and produced a pair of handcuffs. He’s beat, as far as I can tell.

I rap a few times on the glass. I hear weight shifting in a chair, then footsteps approaching. A man’s silhouette against the fronted louvers. The handle turns and the door swings open.

Standing on the threshold, his shaved head silhouetted by the lamp inside, Reg Keller blinks twice and then smiles coldly. He holds a big-bore Smith & Wesson revolver at hip level, the hammer cocked back. When he glances down at my Browning, aimed at his gut, the smile broadens a hair.

“It would be funny if it wasn’t so serious,” he says. “A Mexican standoff.”

“Hello, Reg. I had a feeling it might be you.”

“Congratulations, then. You’re the last person I expected to come gunning for me. You’re supposed to be one of the good guys, March, not some cold-blooded assassin.”

“People change,” I say. “Mind if I come in?”

He steps back carefully, keeping the revolver between us. I enter the apartment, taking a moment to glance around. It’s a nicely appointed pad, with luxe furniture, a flat-screen television, and a gleaming wood-cased stereo. But there’s something sterile about the place, like a pre-furnished executive rental whose occupant changes every other week. Beside the chair near the stereo, there’s a cocktail pitcher beaded with condensation. As I circle around, the melting ice shifts inside. The highball next to it is packed with ice and topped with fresh mint. Reg goes to some trouble when it comes to his drinking.

The only thing in the living room that seems out of place is the standing birdcage in the corner behind him. My arrival must have agitated the sleek white bird inside. Its yellow Mohawk of feathers stands upright, and it flaps its wings helplessly.

“My companion in captivity,” Reg says.

“You’re the contact inside the cartel? That doesn’t seem possible.”

“I made the wrong kind of friends and this is what happened to me.”

“You went to work for Nesbitt.”

“It’s a long story, March, and if you’re going to pull that trigger, I’m in no mood to tell it. Why don’t we get this over with. It’s been a long time coming. I just don’t care anymore.”

“I didn’t come here to kill you. I didn’t know it would be you.”

“I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Believe what you want. Just put the gun down.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“I’m a cop,” I say, “not an executioner. Some of us still know the difference. Now put the gun down so we can talk. The next knock at your door won’t be so accommodating.”

He thinks this over, then points the revolver at the floor. When I don’t react, he lowers the hammer and waits to see what I’ll do.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll play.”

He walks to the built-in unit housing the
TV
and sets the revolver down, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“So tell me what you’re doing here,” I say.

This brings a bitter smile to his lips. He spreads his arms to encompass the room, the street, the city. “March, can’t you see? I’m in hell.”

He was always a lithe, muscular man. Even when he left the streets and donned a coat and tie, he retained that tough beat-cop vibe. Now he seems gaunt, the creases on his face have deepened, and his reptilian eyes are deeper sunk than before.

“Are you working for Englewood,” I ask, “or Nesbitt?”

“You know about Englewood, huh? It kind of surprised me that you never cottoned on back in the day. I’d known him a long time, so when I got the idea of putting my company together, he was a natural source to turn to. But then Macneil disappeared and I quickly discovered I’d made a bargain with Satan himself. These guys, when they get their hooks in you, they don’t let go. Englewood turned the thumbscrews and, little by little, I found myself turning with them. I couldn’t even recognize the man in the mirror. When things got too hot for me in H-Town, he whisked me away. But after that, he owned me.”

“And the only way to get free was to betray him to Nesbitt?”

“Very good,” he says. “That was the idea, anyway. I needed money more than anything, so I called Nesbitt and made a deal. If he’d find Macneil and shake him down, I could give him the blueprint to Englewood’s operations.”

“You could deliver on that promise?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I exaggerated the extent of my knowledge. He failed with Macneil. The kid he sent to do the job is some kind of psycho. He got nothing, and left a body behind that people naturally assumed was my handiwork. To make it up to me, Nesbitt offered this job, and I was stupid enough to take it. Between the two of them, they sucked me in.”

As he talks, he makes a cautious move toward the chair, easing himself down and pouring a cocktail. I circle away, keeping him at gunpoint.

“Mojitos,” he says. “I don’t suppose you want one? No, you’ve sworn off the sauce on account of your little girl. Good for you. In my case, it’s the least of my worries. Englewood. Nesbitt. Two years off the grid. All the brutality. They’ve hollowed me out, March.”

“How did you penetrate the cartel?”

“That was simple. The new
Jefe
was a protégé of Nesbitt’s from the old days. César Soto-Andrade, that’s his name. If you can believe it, this guy used to be high up in the Mexican military establishment, and now he’s a drug lord. Go figure. That’s how it works down here. So what happened was, he reached out to Nesbitt. He knew what the American intelligence capability looked like and what he wanted was a countermeasure. Somebody who knew the way the
DEA
and the
FBI
operate and could help him outwit them.”

“And that was you?”

“That was me. The secret weapon, Nesbitt said. I coached him through the process of getting the old boss arrested, then helped make sure that when the new leader was chosen, it was César. While I was advising the
Jefe
, I’d be funneling back information to Nesbitt, who’d make a killing selling all that intel back to the Feds.”

“But César was finished with Nesbitt by then.”

“The crazy thing is, it all made sense to me at the time. Nesbitt held this out like it was a path to redemption. Once they were hooked on the intel, the government would be all too obliging when it came to making my legal problems back home disappear. Instead of a pariah, a wanted man, a cop-killer. Anyway, I went along with it. And for a while it was working. César set me up with this place, I had a chauffeur to drive me around, and whenever I wanted anything—money, women, booze—all I had to do was ask. Nesbitt’s man Ford would come around every so often, and I’d give him something new. Life was good.”

“So what changed?”

“What didn’t? First of all, Ford got ambitious. He shows up one day and says all these reports of mine aren’t earning me any credit back home. The people getting them don’t even know it’s me doing the work. And Nesbitt has no intention of letting me leave. He’s gonna use me until I’m all used up. But Ford would help me out, he said, if I was willing to help him, too.”

“And you believed him.”

“I didn’t have to trust Ford to know I could count on his ambition to serve my purpose. If I could raise the scare back in Houston, make Nesbitt think he was in real danger, then he’d have an incentive to get himself clear and hand the business over to the
FBI
. Then I could deal with them direct. I explained to Ford how the hook would need to be baited, and he did the rest.”

“You had Nesbitt killed? César put you up to it.”

The question surprises him as he’s taking a sip. He spits his drink back into the glass. “Is that what you think? Then you really have drunk the Kool-Aid, March. Nesbitt got himself shellacked because the fear got to him. If I had people back home willing to assassinate on my orders, you really think
you’d
be walking around today? But I’ll admit,” he says with a mirthless laugh, “things couldn’t have worked out any better for me. César was happy being a drug lord and wasn’t interested in helping Nesbitt dismantle the cartel. He wanted Nesbitt out, and Nesbitt got out. So what if I took the credit? Then the Bureau stepped in and Ford tells me all they want is one last favor.”

“The arms trade?”

“You got it. Are you familiar with Operation Gunrunner, the
ATF
’s attempt at stopping the flow of guns to Mexico? Huge failure. They didn’t bag any of the big fish, for all their posturing. This would be different, though, because César is a hands-on kind of guy. He’d want to do the deal himself. I knew him well enough at that point to make it happen.”