Suicide Mission (3 page)

Martin Chavez sipped his drink as he watched the nearly naked young woman contorting on the stage in time to the loud, pounding music.

Catalina was a better dancer and more graceful than any of the other women who worked here at the Paloma Azul. Her body was slim but curved where it should be, with enticing hips and firm, high breasts. Her long brown hair swirled around her shoulders as she moved, alternately concealing and revealing the dark brown nipples that crowned those breasts.

Pride filled Marty as he watched Catalina dance. It wasn't every man who could say he had a girlfriend so sensuous and so beautiful.

Especially when he was a little overweight, nearsighted, and spent most of his time hunched forward in a chair, staring at a computer screen.

His phone chimed. He couldn't actually hear it over the music, of course, but he felt it vibrate momentarily in his shirt pocket. He took it out and saw that he had a message from Guadalupe Cerna. Lupe lived across the hall from him, and Marty slipped him a little money each month to pay him for keeping an eye on his place.

“
Tres hombres
,” the message read. That was all, but it was enough. Three men were upstairs looking for him.

Marty tapped some keys on the phone and accessed the feed from the camera he had hidden in a light fixture at the end of the upstairs hall. He stiffened in his chair. The three rough-looking men were still standing there in the upstairs corridor, talking to each other. The feed didn't have audio, but Marty didn't have to hear what they were saying to know they were upset.

All three men reached under their jackets and took out guns. One of them lifted his foot and drove it against the door, splintering the jamb and making the door fly open.

Marty's eyes widened. Watching three men break into his apartment was bad enough to start with, but the fact that he recognized these men made it even worse.

They worked for Pablo Estancia, the same man Marty worked for.

Marty uttered a stunned curse under his breath. Pablo wouldn't have sent those men to look for him—and in such a violent fashion—unless he'd found out what Marty had been up to.

It had seemed so easy at first. Just hack into the cartel's network, shift a little money here, a little more there, never enough for anyone to miss it easily, and over time he had a substantial amount in an untraceable overseas account.

It was stealing, sure, but when it was just pixels on a screen it didn't really seem like a big deal.

It would be a big deal to Pablo, though. Anything that made him look bad in the eyes of the cartel was a big deal.

The three gunmen had disappeared into the apartment. Marty had cameras set up in there, too, but he didn't think there was any point in accessing them. He knew what the guys would be doing: tearing the place apart looking for him.

And when they didn't find him, they would come back down the outer stairs and enter the Paloma Azul, since Pablo knew that Catalina worked here.

He had to get out.

Now.

The music
boomp-boomp
ed to a halt as Catalina ducked back through the curtain at the back of the stage and vanished. The customers hooted and whistled and applauded, no doubt trying to coax her back out for an encore.

That effort was doomed to failure. Catalina performed precisely the number of sets she was supposed to, and she could time each set down to the second so that she never spent any extra moments on stage. She gave exactly what she was paid for, no more, no less.

Marty put the phone away and stood up. The room was crowded, with men lining the bar, sitting at all the tables, and perched on the stools around the stage. A mixture of tobacco and marijuana smoke filled the air and made the already dim lighting hazy. The spotlight was turned off at the moment and wouldn't come on again until the next dancer took her place in a few minutes. The customers concentrated on their drinks.

That gave Marty a little time to move without anybody paying attention to him. He circled the room, heading for the door that led backstage.

A bouncer named Ontiveros stood there, brawny arms folded over his massive chest. He was a bodybuilder, thick with muscle. He could pick up pale, soft Marty and tear him in half like a phone book.

But he wouldn't because he knew Marty, knew that Catalina was his girlfriend. That puzzled Ontiveros as much as it did everyone else who knew them—why would any woman as beautiful as Catalina have anything to do with someone like Marty?—but he accepted it, as did the others who worked here. He gave Marty a nod and moved aside from the door.

Marty's heart slugged heavily in his chest as he went down the short hallway to the dancers' dressing room. If Pablo wanted to talk to him about some work matter, he would just call and have Marty come to the villa.

The fact that he had sent three of his apes to
fetch
Marty spoke volumes. Pablo was mad about something, and it had to be the money Marty had skimmed from the cartel.

It had been a foolish thing to do. Marty had known all along that it would probably result in his death if he was ever found out, but the temptation had been too strong. He was like everyone else: he wondered what Catalina saw in him. He had to be worthy of her, and the only way he could do that was by being rich.

He stepped into the dressing room and found himself surrounded by nude or nearly nude female flesh. He was used to it, though, and was able to concentrate on Catalina, who sat at one of the dressing tables in only the G-string she had worn at the conclusion of her set. She was touching up her makeup, but she spared a glance for Marty in the mirror and smiled at him.

“Was I good?” she asked.

He didn't know how she could ever wonder about such a thing. She was more than good. She was spectacular.

“Wonderful,” he said, “but we have to go.”

Her smile turned into a frown.

“Go? I have two more sets to do.”

“Not tonight.” He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

Her brown eyes widened, and she said, “Oh, Marty, what have you done?”

“Nothing, I—” He couldn't explain it to her, not now. There wasn't time. “We just have to go, okay? You need to get dressed.”

Still she hesitated, and he thought that he should have gone out the back door of the club and left her here.

But he couldn't do that, and he knew it. Pablo's men knew who she was. They would grab her, take her back to the villa, try to force her to tell them what she knew about his little scheme . . . which was exactly nothing.

That lack of knowledge wouldn't stop them from putting her through hell and eventually killing her.

He never should have done it, never should have put her life at risk. But it was too late to think about that now. All that mattered now was living through the next few minutes.

“Please, Catalina,” he said.

“Oh, all right. But if I get in trouble, it's your fault.”

Truer words had never been spoken, he thought.

She pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She didn't need a bra. Her feet went into a pair of running shoes. She picked up her bag and asked, “Are we going upstairs?”

Marty shook his head.

“Out the back.” He didn't tell her they would never be able to go back to the apartment again. Everything there was lost.

But he had enough money to replace everything. He just needed to get to somewhere with a computer. There was a coffee shop a few blocks away . . .

What they really needed to do, he realized as they went down the hall, around a corner, and out a narrow door into an alley, was get across the border.

Not that the cartel couldn't still reach them there, but it might be a little more difficult on American soil.

He took hold of her arm as they left the alley and turned onto the sidewalk. She stiffened a little and said, “Marty, you're scaring me.”

“No need to be scared,” he lied. “Everything is going to be all right.”

“You act like we're running away from something.”

“No, just . . . I want to go over to Del Rio.”

“At this time of night?”

“I have to see somebody. It's business.”

He had never explained his business to her, but he was sure she suspected it had something to do with the cartel. Everything in Ciudad Acuña had some sort of connection to the cartel, no matter how slight.

His phone buzzed again. He kept his left hand on Catalina's arm and used his right to take out the phone. The screen displayed an unfamiliar number. It probably belonged to one of the three men who were looking for him. They had stepped into the dimly lit club and one of them had called his number, hoping to hear his phone ring or see it light up.

He ignored it. Keep them guessing. Every minute that went by, he and Catalina were closer to safety.

When he slipped the phone back in his pocket, his fingers brushed a card that was there. It was a business card, but nothing was printed on it except a phone number that someone had scrawled in ink. The card had passed through a number of hands before it came to Marty, along with a message that someone wanted him to call that number. He suspected that it belonged to an American narc or Border Patrol agent. They were always sniffing around, trying to hook up with people on the edges of the cartel in the hope that they could work their way closer to the men who ran it.

Marty had never had any interest in helping the Americans . . . but maybe now they could help him. If he and Catalina could get across the river, he could call that number, maybe set up a meet . . . He would have to be careful, of course, but he had something to trade.

He had a file of cartel financial and organizational information on a flash drive that never left his pocket, along with a lot of intel about the connection between his employers and certain terrorist organizations on the other side of the world. Most of it was encrypted and he didn't know what it meant, but there had been a lot of email traffic over the past few months. Something was in the works, no doubt about that. He could have broken the encryption if he'd taken the time, but he hadn't gotten around to it.

Maybe the Americans would not only protect him but would also pay him to decipher those emails. He might come out of this all right after all, because there was the bridge, less than a block away, and both he and Catalina had work permits that would allow them to cross over into Texas . . .

Behind them, someone shouted, “Chavez!”

Catalina Ramos had been making her own way in the world since she was eleven years old. At first that had meant becoming highly skilled as a thief. Later, it meant becoming highly skilled at . . . other things.

But regardless of what it took, she prided herself on her ability to survive.

It looked like that ability might be about to run out.

Beside her, Marty jerked around and let out an exclamation that was half angry curse and half terrified squeal. He still had hold of her arm. He used that grip to shove her toward the well-lighted bridge over the Rio Grande.

“Run!” he told her. “Get over the river and don't look back!”

He didn't have to tell her twice. Whatever trouble was behind them, she wanted no part of it.

It was pretty obvious that trouble had something to do with the man Marty worked for, Pablo Estancia, and the men Estancia worked for, the leaders of the cartel that moved drugs through this part of the world.

It had always seemed odd that Marty worked for such men. In a different world—across the border, say—his skills with a computer probably would have landed him a good job. But here in Mexico he worked for the cartel, which had its fingers in just about every aspect of day-to-day life.

Catalina stumbled a little from the push he had given her, then caught her balance and broke into a run toward the bridge. Her legs flashed back and forth, moving effortlessly and with sleek grace. She had learned to run during her days as a thief, and she still did as part of her daily workout.

Marty pounded along the pavement behind her, but there was no way he could keep up. His days spent sitting in front of a screen meant that he was in poor shape, easily winded. Catalina heard him huffing and puffing for breath.

Despite what he had told her, she slowed down and looked back. She didn't love Marty Chavez, but he had always treated her decently and she was very fond of him. She didn't want to see him hurt.

That seemed to be what the men pursuing him were bent on doing, though.

There were three of them, and they were closing in fast.

Without thinking about what she was doing, Catalina stopped and turned back.

The street was busy, even at this hour, but no one was going to help Marty. Catalina knew that. In fact, all the pedestrians and the people in the cars going slowly past as they approached the border crossing were making a point of looking away. They didn't know what was going on, and they certainly weren't going to get involved.

So Marty's only chance to get away lay with her.

Catalina never wasted a lot of time pondering a situation. When she had a thought, she acted on it.

Now, as one of the cartel thugs reached for Marty, she left her feet in a leaping kick that sent the heel of her running shoe smashing into the man's jaw.

Since both of them were moving, a lot of momentum was involved. The man's head snapped back sharply. His feet ran out from under him and he crashed to the pavement on his back.

Catalina fell, too, but she caught herself on her hands and rolled, coming back up smoothly on her feet.

“Catalina, no!” Marty cried. “Get out of here!”

He turned and swung an awkward punch at one of the other men. The cartel man ducked and grabbed Marty's arm, forcing it up behind his back. Marty cried out in pain.

“We don't need the whore!” the man holding him said. “Kill her!”

The other man reached behind his back, no doubt for a gun tucked behind his belt and concealed by the tail of his shirt.

Catalina didn't give him time to draw the weapon. Her hand darted into her bag, which was still slung over her shoulder despite her exertions, and came out with a small, needle-pointed stiletto. A flick of her wrist sent it flying at the gunman, who staggered back and screamed as the steel pierced his right eye and buried itself to dig into his brain.

He wasn't the first man Catalina had killed. A pimp in Matamoros who accused her of holding out on him, a client in Piedras Negras who would have killed her, who had probably killed many other prostitutes . . . she had taken those lives to save her own and never lost any sleep over them.

This man's death wouldn't trouble her, either, except for the fact that he worked for the cartel.
That
would come back to haunt her, she suspected, unless she got across the border and ran a long way. She might never stop running.

And even then she might not be able to put enough distance between herself and the cartel's thirst for vengeance.

That was something to worry about in the future. For now she had to stay alive. The stiletto was the only weapon she carried, so she would have to deal with the third man with just her hands and feet.

As she wheeled toward him, she saw that he already had a gun in his hand. He chopped at Marty's head with it, the blow driving Marty to the street as blood spurted from a gash above his ear.

The police on duty at the bridge must have seen and heard the commotion by now, but they weren't budging from their posts. They were paid to check the papers of people crossing the border, and that was all they were going to do.

Catalina threw herself into a rolling dive as the gunman leveled his weapon at her and fired. The shot went over her head. As she came up she kicked him in the belly. She hoped that would knock the gun loose from his hand, but he managed to hold on to it as he stumbled backward.

The shot made people scream and run to clear the street. Up at the bridge, one of the police yelled into a walkie-talkie, no doubt calling for help. It might arrive eventually, but not anytime soon.

Catalina had landed with her toes and fingertips on the ground, like a runner in a starting stance. She lifted her head, saw the man aiming at her again. She knew all she could do was try to dive to the side, out of the line of fire . . .

Marty surged up from the street just as the gunman pulled the trigger. The bullet struck him in the chest at close range and knocked him backward. His arms flew out to the sides as he fell in an awkward sprawl.

“Marty!” Catalina screamed.

The gunman swung the weapon toward her and fired again, missing wide. She vaulted the body of the man she had killed, and as she did, she snatched the stiletto from his eye. The gunman sent another round at her, but he hurried his shot and the bullet ricocheted off the pavement.

Catalina knocked the man's gun arm aside and buried the stiletto in his throat. She felt the blade grate against his spine as she shoved it as deep as she could.

His eyes were only inches from hers. They widened in pain and disbelief that she had killed him. A mere woman, and a stripper at that. Those were probably the thoughts going through his head as he died.

Catalina jerked the gun from his hand and shoved his collapsing body away, pulling the stiletto from his throat as she did so. The street was empty now, except for her and the four men lying on the pavement. The man she had kicked in the jaw was still alive, moaning softly because she had broken his face.

She shut him up by bending swiftly and cutting his throat.

Then she ran to Marty and dropped to the ground beside him, pulling his bloody figure into her lap and cradling him against her.

“Cat . . . Catalina . . .” he said in a raspy whisper.

“I'm here, Marty. You'll be all right.”

“N . . . no. I won't.” With a wildly trembling hand, he caught hold of her right hand and pressed something into her palm. Two somethings: a crumpled card and a small plastic oblong that she recognized as a flash drive.

“Take this,” Marty said. “Call . . . call the number. Tell whoever answers . . . you have information about . . . El Nuevo Sol.”

The New Sun?
That made no sense to Catalina. What was it, and how could it help her?

“Be careful,” Marty went on. He stopped to cough, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Don't trust . . . anybody. At least . . . not in Mexico. You need to get . . . across the border.”

“No, I need to get help for you—”

“Too late . . . remember this . . .”

He rattled off a long number and made her repeat it back to him. She said it a couple of times and knew that it was etched into her brain. She'd always had a good memory, almost a photographic memory, and he knew that. He had seen her do mental tricks with it many times.

“Don't forget . . .” he told her, and amazingly, he managed to smile. “It's important . . . One of these days . . . you'll thank me.”

He coughed again, wrackingly. Catalina clutched him tighter to her, aware that she was getting his blood on her shirt and not caring.

“Marty, please—”

The sound of several sirens approaching cut her off.

“
Go!
” he whispered urgently. “No time—”

His head fell against her.

She didn't want to believe he was dead. Something unaccustomed welled up inside her. Maybe she had loved him just a little bit after all.

But the danger represented by those sirens crowded out everything else. She eased him off her lap and laid his head gently on the pavement, then stood up. She still had the stiletto in one hand, the gun she had taken from the cartel man in the other. It was an American gun, a .45 caliber semi-automatic, she thought, heavy and ugly. Holding it felt surprisingly good to her, though.

She grabbed her bag off the street where she had dropped it, shoved the gun and the knife into it, and trotted toward the mouth of the nearest alley.

She broke into a run as flashing lights rounded a corner a few blocks away.

By the time the police cars got there and screeched to a stop with their headlights washing over the four bodies in the street, the darkness had swallowed up Catalina Ramos and she was gone just as surely as if she had vanished into the jungles of the Yucatán.