He fell in behind the Mercury and picked up Highway 1 south. Cortazar had explained that Bonnett would talk to him because the men in the Mercury had vouched for him. The men were not cops. They were marijuana businessmen from Nayarit. “Friends” of Bonnett. Actually, they were cops, it was just that Bonnett didn’t know this. The purpose of this meeting was for Cortazar to present himself to Bonnett as an agreeable Ensenada policeman eager to discuss a private airstrip owned by business-minded friends. Marcello was with him to establish Cortazar’s “seriousness.” Cortazar said that the six cops would control the situation and return to Nick and Lobdell with a handcuffed Señor Bonnett. Simple.
When Nick had asked him how many people were inside Bonnett’s compound, Cortazar had shrugged and frowned as if Nick had missed a crucial point.
Cortazar’s Chevy pulled off the highway at a signal, followed by the black Merc. Nick fell in behind and the caravan headed east. The road was dirt and wide and Nick clipped along at forty in a traveling cloud of dust. Saw a rock-pile memorial with plastic flowers faded by the sun. Then the road turned to washboard and Nick saw the camp gear jump into the air in the rearview and heard the shudder of shocks and the chatter of the dashboard like every nut and bolt was coming loose.
“Knock the fillings out of your teeth,” said Lobdell. “But they got good dentists down here. Cheap.”
Nick couldn’t see much through the dust. Just scrub and brown grass hills. Some skinny cattle behind a fence of barbed wire and twisted branches. A post with a hubcap nailed on top to mark someone’s driveway. A heavy old woman with her hair in a bun squinting at them as they went past.
The road got worse. A steep rocky rise. Then a long downslope carved by ruts left and right where the rain had funneled down over the years. Nick pulled down into first gear, had to get the wagon’s tires to straddle some of the ruts but fit between others. Hit the brakes too hard and you slid and ended up in a ditch. He could barely see the red hood through the brown dust.
“Funny that Cortazar’s boy ended up in the car wash business,” said Lobdell. “Must have had good training, growing up down here.”
A mile. Then two. Cortazar had told them they would stop three kilometers in. There, Nick was to turn left onto another dirt road and proceed five hundred meters, then turn around, pull off to the side, and wait. Turn off the engine. Nobody from Bonnett’s compound would be able to see them. If someone did, they’d figure lost surfers. Nick and Lobdell were to stay in the car.
Another ten minutes and the taillights of the Mercury appeared like red eyes in a mist. Nick slowed and turned left. Saw Cortazar wave, then his tires lift a fresh cloud as he accelerated toward Bonnett’s compound. The driver of the Mercury looked back at Nick with sleepy disinterest, then the back end of the black car jerked and threw a rooster tail of dust back at them.
“Prick,” said Lobdell.
Nick drove a few hundred yards, made a four-point U-turn, pulled to the right, killed the engine. Let the dust settle, then rolled down the windows. The plan was to wait for Cortazar to come back with Bonnett. Then follow them north to La Fonda. There, they would transfer the prisoner to a green and white Ensenada PM cruiser with a good safety screen and head for the border crossing in TJ. They would use the commercial vehicle gate, where Cortazar had friends who were expecting them. It would go smoothly. They’d actually push Bonnett through a chain-link gate, into the waiting arms of Orange and San Diego County sheriff’s deputies.
Happy ending, Cortazar had said.
Nick sat staring out at the dry hills. Warmer now, away from the beach. Lobdell smoked, flicked his butt into the middle of the road.
Then they heard the distant pop of gunfire. Fast and lots of it.
“What’s your call, Nick?”
“I want Bonnett.”
“You can get hurt or killed,” said Lobdell. “I can, too.”
“I can’t just sit here, Luck.”
“Me, neither. Cortazar’s a friend. Let’s dig our guns out of the back.”
THEY FOLLOWED the tire tracks for a bouncing, swerving mile. A sliding right, a left, then another fishtail of a right. Nick hoped they were following the right ones.
The compound lurched into view. A sprawling low casa. Two casitas toward the back. Three smaller outbuildings, all adobe. A big wooden barn behind. The wall around them was adobe, too, not high but lined on top with broken bottles. A practice bullring stood outside the wall to the east. On the west side was a strip of weed-sprouted asphalt and a faded wind sock. A shining Cessna prop plane waited at the far end, pointed south for takeoff, tie lines swaying in the breeze.
Fifty yards out Nick could see the compound gate was open. Saw Cortazar’s Chevy and the black Mercury parked end to end, the Merc just inside the gate, doors open. Someone slumped from the driver’s-side door. Someone lay on the ground near him. Another body in the dirt on the other side of the car.
He slid to a dusty stop and cut the engine. Heard the pop of it under the hood but no shots. Nothing else but his own heart beating in his chest.
Then, a man groaned. Pure pain. Like something from a distant hell.
Again. One long syllable, like he was trying to say something.
“Ahhhhhhh…”
“Let’s get to the wall,” said Lobdell.
Nick threw open the door. Zigzagged a crazy pattern like they did at football workouts in high school. Breathing hard by the time he shouldered down against the adobe. Watched Lobdell lumbering across the brown earth with breathtaking slowness.
They lay in the hot dirt under the wall. Guns out, panting like dogs.
“Ahhhhhhh…”
“It’s coming from behind the house,” said Nick.
“We can use the cars for cover going in,” said Lobdell. “You first.”
Nick crawled along the wall. Bull thorns and broken glass. Came to the open gate and the back end of the black Mercury. Looked around the corner at the driver spilled half out of the car. Faceup, arms out, blood dripping from his mouth. The windshield was shot out. Safety glass glittering on the hood and in the dirt like tossed handfuls of diamonds. The man beside him was facedown, a revolver near one hand, patch of dark blood under his chest. Nick put his face to the ground and looked past the Merc’s rear tires to the body on the other side. A big man, on his back, face toward Nick and the breeze moving his hair.
That left one from the Merc maybe still alive, thought Nick. And maybe Cortazar and Marcello. And maybe this is just a bad dream.
He heard Lobdell brake. Came up and braced his piece on the adobe gate stanchion. The stanchion crumbled and his weapon slipped but Nick saw nothing over the sights and heard nothing but Lobdell heaving to a stop beside him.
“Ahhhhhhh…”
Out of his mind with pain, Nick thought.
“Get the door open but wait for me,” said Lobdell. “Wait a second, get your wind.”
Nick took a deep breath. Got a good grip on the sweaty handle of the automatic. Hustled onto the driveway, jumped the dead man, and weaved his way to the shaded front porch of the casa. Made the portico steps in one leap, flattened himself against the cool adobe. Reached out and turned the knob and pushed it open.
Nick looked back toward Lucky. Lobdell charged up the driveway, stepped around the dead man and onto the porch.
“Ahhhhhhh…”
Nick swung his gun toward the nearest casita. Held steady on the front door but nothing moved. A bullet hole in the window glass, halo of blood around it. A curtain lilting.
Lobdell burst into the main house with his weapon up in both hands. Nick followed close behind him, scanning the dark interior. Big room. Big house. Smell of blood and gunpowder. Marcello dead on the tile floor right under them, gun out. Looked like he’d been shot eight or ten times. Two guys dead across from him Nick didn’t recognize. In the far end of the room Cortazar slouched dead on a big steerhide couch. Hands at his sides and no weapon out. Like he’d come in, sat on the couch, and been slaughtered. Another man on the kitchen floor Nick didn’t recognize. Marcello had taken down three but not enough.