Texas Sicario (Arlo Baines Book 2) Page 18

  He yelped and dropped the gun, hands going to his face as he collapsed to the floor.

  Before I could do anything else, a blast of fire erupted against the small of my back.

  I fell, too, dropping my stick, disoriented. I looked up from the floor to see the second hood holding another pool cue.

  He cocked the stick over one shoulder like it was a baseball bat and he was Babe Ruth, the ball in this instance being my head.

  No debate this time.

  I fumbled for my gun, moving much too slowly. I wasn’t going to reach the weapon in time.

  Everything moved in slow motion.

  The hood’s mouth twisted into a frown. His nostrils flared; the muscles in his shoulders bunched. The wood circled from behind his back, headed toward my skull.

  I raised an arm to stop the blow, risking a broken bone rather than another head trauma.

  But the blow never came.

  The hood stopped swinging.

  The stick slid from his grasp, clattered on the floor.

  He struggled to reach behind his back, to a point between his shoulder blades.

  After a couple of seconds, he dropped to his knees. Then he fell forward, propping himself up by one hand, the other grasping for the red-handled knife sticking in his back.

  Miguel stood behind him, staring at the dying man with the same cold eyes I’d last seen when he’d shot Fito.

  I got to my feet, back throbbing, gun finally in my hand.

  Javier was still in the booth, mouth hanging open.

  The bartender dashed behind the bar, heading toward the landline by the cash register.

  I aimed at the phone, a cordless unit mounted on the wall, maybe twenty feet away. I squeezed the trigger. The gun fired, the noise loud in the low-ceilinged room. The bullet hit the handset somewhere in the bottom half. Bits of plastic scattered.

  The bartender raised his hands, face white, arms trembling.

  I shifted my aim to the man’s head. “Put your keys on the bar.”

  He didn’t respond, his breathing shallow and rapid.

  “The keys to your vehicle,” I said. “Do it.”

  He reached into his pocket and tossed a key ring on the bar.

  “Now get out,” I said. “Start running down Singleton. If I see you when I leave, I’ll shoot you in both knees.”

  The man gulped, eyes wide. After a moment, he dashed out of the bar.

  Javier slid from the booth, limbs shaking. He stared at Miguel.

  “Where’s Frank Vega?” I asked.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  I didn’t speak, unsure of the answer.

  “What have you done to the boy? He just stabbed someone.”

  “I took care of him,” I said. “While you were off getting drunk.”

  Words have power—at least those did. He blinked several times, staggered back like a strong wind was blowing against him.

  I felt sorry for what I had said as soon as the words left my mouth. But I wasn’t going to say so, suddenly aware of the anger and resentment that had built up because of his actions.

  “You have to leave town,” he said. “They’re not giving up until they find you.”

  “Do I look like the running kind?” I stuck the gun back in my waistband.

  “Take Miguel with you. I’ll send money. Just get out of Dallas.”

  The hood with the damaged eye crawled to a corner of the room, one hand held to his face.

  Miguel grabbed the hood’s gun from the floor and checked the chamber for a live round. He handled the weapon like a seasoned veteran, his movements assured, no wasted effort. Satisfied the pistol was ready to fire, he flicked on the safety and stuck it in his waistband.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” Javier asked.

  No answer.

  Javier turned to me. “Stay away from Frank Vega. You don’t want to be involved.”

  “Involved in what?”

  “Promise me, Arlo. Promise me you will leave town.”

  I headed toward the door where Miguel waited for me. I was done making promises.

  - CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN -

  I walked toward the old pickup, my back throbbing, sweat trickling down my face.

  The bartender was nowhere to be seen, but the passed-out drunk was still in the Pontiac. Overhead, a jet streaked across a chrome-colored sky, headed to parts unknown.

  The thought of driving down some dirt road with no destination filled my mind, just the boy and me.

  Miguel ran ahead of me. He opened the passenger door and jumped in. A moment later, I slid behind the wheel.

  The hooker who’d been inside walked around the corner of the building.

  She stared at me as I cranked the ignition. She knew what kind of vehicle we were in, meaning the Vaqueros would too in the not-too-distant future. The police would as well, probably, a BOLO going out for the elderly pickup and the young Latino male who was a suspect in a bar stabbing.

  I slid the transmission into gear, jammed on the gas, and raced out of the lot. As I drove, I unlocked the bartender’s phone and handed it to Miguel, telling him to Google Frank Vega’s office address.

  Twenty minutes later, I parked in front of a Victorian-style house in a gentrified neighborhood north of downtown. The home was wood sided, with ornate trim above a wide front porch, the exterior walls turquoise with light-gold accents. A sign in the front yard read LAW OFFICES OF FRANK VEGA.

  The structure was at least a century old but in immaculate condition, similar to the other places on the street, at one point homes but now converted into offices.

  I asked Miguel to give me the gun he’d taken from the gangbanger back at the bar.

  After what he’d been through, I figured it wasn’t the smartest move to leave him with a weapon. He handed over the pistol without hesitating. I stuck the gun in the other side of my waistband and told him to stay in the truck; I wouldn’t be long.

  He nodded but didn’t speak, his expression trusting.

  I took the steps leading to the porch two at a time.

  The front door was made from heavy glass and wrought iron, offering a view of an entryway with polished hardwood floors and stark-white walls.

  I rang the bell.

  No movement from within, so I tried the knob.

  The door opened, so I stepped inside.

  The place seemed empty. To the left was what appeared to be the old living room, now a reception area. A desk with a computer and a phone facing a leather sofa and a coffee table.

  Across from the reception area was the old dining room, partially obscured by a large sliding door halfway open.

  From my vantage point, I could see a desk covered with files as well as several diplomas on the far wall.

  Frank’s office.

  I stepped inside.

  The room was empty.

  I searched the rest of the building, another two offices that had furniture but appeared to be unoccupied, and a kitchen at the rear that looked out over a backyard and an empty garage.

  A coffee maker sat by the sink, the carafe half-full of hot coffee.

  I found a mug in the cabinet, poured myself a cup, and headed back to the front office.

  Maybe Frank was grabbing a late lunch somewhere, his receptionist having stepped out for a moment.

  I sat behind his desk, took a sip of coffee, and pulled the bartender’s cell phone from my pocket.

  The last number dialed had a local area code.

  As soon as I pressed “Redial,” I heard the back door open, followed by footsteps on the old hardwood. The footsteps grew louder as a phone rang in two places—my ear from the bartender’s cell and down the hall in the direction of whoever was approaching.

  I yanked the cell away from my head and stared at the number. The ringing down the hall continued. I ended the call.

  The ringing down the hall stopped.

  I stood, grabbed my pistol.

  Frank Vega appeared in the doorway, a phone
in his hand.

  “The bartender was reaching out to you,” I said.

  He nodded. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

  “You’re working for the Vaqueros?” I dropped the phone on his desk like it was hot. Nothing made sense.

  “I thought you were smart,” he said. “To be real honest, I’m not seeing that right now.”

  I tried to fathom what was unfolding in front of me. Frank Vega was part of the organization?

  “Put the gun down,” he said.

  I didn’t move.

  “We’ve got the kid.” He stepped into the room.

  I looked out the window. My pickup was empty, Miguel nowhere to be seen.

  Another figure appeared in the doorway, a Latino man in a navy-blue polo shirt, a wine-colored birthmark on one cheek.

  Pax Larson-Ibarra.

  “So this is the great Arlo Baines,” he said.

  “Where’s Miguel?” I asked.

  Frank Vega smiled. “He’s with us now. And so are you.”

  - CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT -

  My fingers hurt from gripping the pistol so hard.

  I aimed at Frank’s chest, my breathing shallow.

  “Drop the gun,” he said. “Last thing you want to do is shoot me.”

  I didn’t move.

  “This boy you’re so fond of,” Pax said. “Miguel. Do you want us to hurt him?”

  Fear clawed at my belly, my skin clammy.

  “You think he’s bluffing?” Frank asked. “I promise you, he’s not.”

  I lowered the pistol. After a moment, I placed it on the desk.

  “A wise decision.” Frank pulled out his mouse gun, pointed the muzzle at me.

  Pax removed the other gun from my waistband and zip-tied my hands behind my back. Then he led me out the rear to the navy-blue Suburban with Mexican license plates. He put me in the cargo area next to a bound and gagged Miguel, the boy’s eyes fearful. Pax slid a black hood over my head, and everything disappeared.

  I tried not to panic, not to second-guess my decision to take the gun from Miguel.

  A moment later, the hatch slammed closed. A couple of seconds after that, I heard the passenger doors shut, felt movement as the SUV backed out of the driveway.

  Then there was nothing but the hum of tires on asphalt.

  I tried to keep track of the turns and the time elapsed, but that works only in the movies.

  After a short period, a phone rang, and a muffled conversation ensued.

  I could hear Frank’s voice, angry, but I couldn’t understand the words, except for the last few: Hire some more people, then.

  He swore, and the SUV made an abrupt turn, throwing my body into Miguel’s. The vehicle sped up, pushing us both toward the rear of the cargo area.

  I wondered what had happened. What new bit of information arrived in that phone call? What kind of people did he need to hire?

  No more talking from the front. As the SUV continued its journey, I whispered to Miguel that everything would be OK, telling him we’d get out of this somehow. He didn’t respond.

  A while later—maybe fifteen minutes, maybe thirty—the SUV stopped, and the cargo hatch opened.

  Somebody grabbed my arms, pulled me out.

  Wherever we were, it was hot, sun beating down on the black cloth over my head.

  “Miguel?” I said, straining to hear.

  No answer. Just the muffled stuffiness of the hood.

  “Walk.” Pax’s voice in my ear.

  Hands guided me.

  The whoosh of a door, the air cooler.

  Even through the hood, I recognized the smell.

  El Corazón Roto.

  Someone pushed me over, and I fell on my side with a thud. The footsteps departed, and there was only silence.

  “Miguel?” I whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  No response.

  I maneuvered myself to my knees, harder than it sounds with bound hands and unseeing eyes. I tried unsuccessfully to shake off the hood.

  After a moment, I sat down cross-legged and waited.

  A period of time passed. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe more.

  Another set of footsteps approached, different from before. Lighter, more clipped.

  Everything turned white as someone yanked away the hood.

  I blinked, vision slowly returning.

  Quinn Vega stood in front of me. She wore a pair of jeans, a silk blouse, and the boots she’d bought weeks before at the Aztec Bazaar.

  I looked around.

  The place was empty except for the two of us.

  No bartender, no customers, no Frank or Pax.

  And no Miguel.

  “Are you OK?” she asked.

  The tables and chairs were gone, as were the bottles of liquor behind the bar. The booths along the wall, attached to the floor, remained. A pile of construction equipment lay stacked in the back of the room—ladders and drop cloths, buckets of paint, sawhorses.

  “We’re remodeling,” she said. “Place needs freshening.”

  That answered the question of who was buying the businesses.

  “Where’s the boy?” I asked.

  “Get up so I can cut you loose.” She pulled a folding knife from her back pocket.

  I stared at her but didn’t move.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said.

  I stood, turned my back to her. A moment later, my hands were free. I rubbed my wrists, trying to get the circulation flowing again.

  She pointed to a booth. “Let’s sit down.”

  “Miguel. Where is he?”

  “He’s safe. I promise you that.”

  I eyed the knife still in her hand, debating my chances.

  “Don’t.” She folded the blade, slid it into her pocket. “Guards are just outside.”

  I didn’t speak. I tried to keep my face blank, my intentions hidden. I was close enough that I could throat-punch her and take the weapon, but that wouldn’t help me find Miguel.

  Still, the idea of Quinn Vega lying on the floor, struggling to breathe through her ruined trachea, had a certain appeal.

  “I’m sorry it’s come to this,” she said. “Really, I am.”

  “The story Frank told.” I shook my head. “Pax and his nephew, all that was bullshit.”

  “Funny how people believe what they want to, isn’t it?”

  A few seconds passed as we both stared at each other.

  “You were so oblivious.” She chuckled. “High school all over again. I was the girl who needed protecting.”

  I didn’t understand what she meant, and it must have showed on my face.

  “You don’t remember, do you? How you looked out for me.” She sounded wistful, almost nostalgic. “It was a long time ago. Still, it makes me just a little bit sad that you forgot.”

  “Who spray-painted your garage?”

  “Frank, of course. I told him not to shoot out the lock, but he never listens to me.” She sat in a booth by the front door. “He has a flair for theatrics, being a trial lawyer and all.”

  She motioned for me to take the place across from her.

  I didn’t move.

  “You’re wondering why, aren’t you?” she asked. “How come we picked you.”

  I took several deep breaths. Tried to stop the rage building in the pit of my stomach while the sequence of everything replayed in my head.

  They had chosen me; that much was obvious. Frank asking if I would escort his wife through the Aztec Bazaar. Quinn telling me that Frank was in danger from the same people who had killed Sandoval. The made-up story about Pax. Quinn not wanting to be left alone.

  “Why does anybody do anything?” I said. “Control.”

  “Very good.” She nodded approvingly.

  “You needed someone who could keep you informed about the murder investigations,” I said. “You wanted to know if the police were getting close.”

  She nodded again. “We kept tabs on what Ross knew through you.”

  I r
emembered the stuff I’d told her, never dreaming she and her husband were working for the cartel and that the killings were internal.

  “Were the murders at Mendoza’s part of your plan, too?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “There weren’t supposed to be any witnesses to Pecky’s killing, obviously. But we . . . Oh, let’s just say there was some sloppiness on our end.”

  The money courier and singer, gunned down with two of his bandmates and a nightclub manager. Sloppiness indeed.

  I forced myself not to react to her admission that an error, the first I was aware of, had occurred.

  Everybody eventually made a mistake, especially in the nerve-racking business of killing people. But Quinn and Frank Vega had been extraordinarily lucky.

  Until they weren’t. Until there were witnesses. In this case the people on Pecky Ruibal’s tour bus, the roadies and supporting musicians getting ready for Los Tres Reyes’s gig at El Club de la Paloma.

  Frank Vega had been using the black Prelude as transportation to and from the hits. A smart idea, using a nearly untraceable vehicle, storing the car at Gusano’s chop shop.

  But the people on the band’s bus saw the Honda, which meant that Frank had to get rid of the car. And Gusano knew about the vehicle, which meant he was a loose end who had to die. Which led to the deaths of Gusano’s associates. The snowball effect.

  One error meant there would be more. A way to take them down.

  I slid into the booth across from where she sat. It wouldn’t be too hard to lean over the table and strangle the life out of her with my bare hands.

  “Don’t feel bad.” She smiled. “You always were a sucker for the damsel-in-distress routine.”

  I debated how to respond, what to say that would keep the conversation going. The more she talked, the greater the odds that I could find out where Miguel was being held. Then I could kill her, get the boy, and leave.

  Even as I thought about the series of events that needed to happen, I realized how futile that plan was.

  One step at a time. Just keep her talking.

  “How long have you and Frank been working for the Vaqueros?” I asked.

  The anger returned to her eyes, along with a flash of irrationality, a mind coming unmoored from the banks of sanity.

  She leaned across the table. “We’re not working for the Vaqueros. We are the Vaqueros.”