Two fences ran parallel across the land, separated by a space of about twenty feet. The first was made of steel H-beams that ranged in height from about four feet to well over her head. The second was shorter and made of steel posts and cables. Between them was a no-man’s-land devoid of plant life. It looked like a road.
“Once we cross that border, we’re safe, right?” She scanned the area around them, amazed at what she could see—including a large, hairy tarantula crawling across the ground, moving in the other direction. “Oh, yuck!”
“A scorpion?”
“A hairy, disgusting tarantula.”
“Yeah, they’re out in force tonight.”
She took the goggles down, the world going black again, her eyes just able to make out the features of Zach’s face. “How many have you seen?”
“Probably six or seven.”
Her skin crawled. She handed the goggles back to him. “I think it’s best if I’m kept in the dark.”
He chuckled, and fixed the goggles back into his headgear. “Oh, yeah, I see her. She’s a big one. As for being safe again—we won’t be safe until you’re out of the desert and in the hands of border patrol agents. Forget eight-legged creatures. It’s the ones who walk on two legs that are dangerous out here. I’ve tried to steer us far enough to the west of the main Sasabe smuggling routes that we’ll miss most of the cartel traffic, but make no mistake—there are plenty of dangers onbothsides of the border.”
With those words in her mind, she followed Zach, the darkness pressing in on her.
They reached the first fence fifteen minutes later.
Zach climbed it with no problem, then turned back to her, his gaze searching the landscape behind her. “Give me your pack.”
Natalie unbuckled the hip band, slipped out of the shoulder harness, and handed it to him. He dropped it onto the sandy ground and reached for her, helping her over.
His hands lingered at her waist. “That’s it. That’s the U.S. border. You’re back in the States now, angel.”
And some part of Natalie wanted to cry.
“YOU SHALL HAVE a First Communion worthy of a true princess,sí?” Arturo gave his granddaughter a good-night kiss, her sweet smile taking the edge off his nerves at least for a moment. He switched off her bedside lamp. “Sleep with the angels, Isabella.”
“Good night, Grandpa.”
He left the child to his daughter’s care, then walked to the other wing of the house, to his private study, where no one, not even his wife, would dare to bother him. He poured himself a shot of tequila. It would hurt his stomach, but he needed it.
He tossed it back, grimaced at the razor-sharp pain in his gut, poured another.
The news today had not been good. The men José-Luis had set to watch the U.S. consulate had opened fire on a car in which they thought Natalie Benoit was riding, only to learn later that they had wounded the wife of a U.S. official. Then several of his men had been killed when the roadblock they’d set up at Altar was attacked by those goat-fucking Sinaloa bastards.
Arturo didn’t give a horse’s ass for the American woman who’d been shot or for the men he’d lost at Altar. He didn’t even care about the shipment of cocaine. All he cared about now was getting his hands on that bitch of a reporter and killing her.
If he failed . . . If she survived . . .
He hadn’t built an empire out of nothing only to lose it now. La Santa Muerte wouldn’t allow it. Then again it had been a long time since the Bony Lady had been fed. He had promised her Natalie, but both he and the Lady had been denied.
Perhaps that was the problem—or part of it. Bad things happened in threes. Everyone knew that. But now the count was full. The bitch and the gringo who’d stolen Arturo’s cocaine had disappeared. Next, his men had shot the wife of a U.S. diplomat. And then they’d been attacked at Altar. Three pieces of bad luck.
Could the tide be turned with blood?
He drew his mobile phone out of his pocket and dialed José-Luis. His nephew had failed him miserably, so perhaps it ought to behisblood Arturo spilled. But La Santa Muerte would want nothing to do with his ugly, scarred face. She preferred sweeter-tasting blood.
José-Luis answered after the third ring.
He started to speak, but Arturo cut him off. “I want you to find that bitch Gisella. I want to know everything she knows about the American who stole our cocaine. Perhaps she knows more about him than she told us before. Perhaps she can lead us to him again.”
CHAPTER 16
A WANING HALF moon peeked out from behind banks of fast-moving clouds, providing at least some light, but the wind had picked up, a sign that a monsoon was brewing. Getting caught in a downpour was not high on Zach’s list of things to do tonight. Not only would it put them at risk for hypothermia, but it would make walking more dangerous and difficult—and leave a trail of prints that anyone could follow.