TIJUANA
MONDAY, 12:20 P.M.
FAROE GRINNED DESPITE THE blood dripping down his right arm and pooling in his leather glove.
You tell him, amada. He’ll never underestimate you again.
And neither would Faroe.
He clamped the gloved fingers of his left hand over the deepest slash on his arm and kept running south. The airport runway lights glittered in the rain like a beacon. He sprinted across the cement between planes and ducked under the eaves of an anonymous building. Breathing deep and steady, he searched through the rain for sentries around the Grupo Calderon warehouse and hangar.
A black car was idling in front of the Grupo Calderon building, the same kind of SUV Mary had seen Jaime driving.
The lights flashed once.
I see you soon, gringo. Look for me.
Headlights flashed again.
Faroe pulled his pistol and ran toward the vehicle. The driver’s electric window slid down. There was a man in the passenger seat.
“So, you came alone,” Jaime said, ignoring the drawn gun.
“One riot, one ranger,” Faroe said. “How many men does Hector have with him?”
“None. He doesn’t want any witnesses. Even me.”
Faroe hoped Jaime wasn’t lying, but didn’t count on it.
The passenger leaned forward. It was Carlos Calderon. “I want that money!”
“Sue the U.S. government,” Faroe said. “All I promised you was Hector.”
“The hangar is open,” Jaime said. “The bathroom is-”
Faroe was already running. He knew where the tunnel entrance was.
He was inside the hangar before Jaime left the parking lot.
The wooden door of the lavatory stood ajar at the back of the hangar. The floor and the toilet were filthy. The cubicle stank. The mirror over the tiny sink was flyspecked and grimy. It reflected a man who looked like he’d been used to mop up a bloody murder scene.
Faroe shoved the stinking toilet to one side. The stool was connected to a concrete waste pipe by a section of flexible hosing that leaked and dripped. There was a puddle of raw sewage in the bottom of the hole that was the mouth of the tunnel. The metal rungs of a ladder were shiny with foul moisture.
No point in worrying about gangrene in a few days when I’m likely to be dead in a few minutes.
As soon as he dropped below floor level, he lost radio contact.