Devils and Dust (27 page)

“Good,” the voice said. “Do not fail us. We will know if you do. But if you succeed, your debt will be wiped clean. If you can get to the street, we will protect you. And your family. We will know you can do important work. And Ramon?”

“Yes?”

“This must be done immediately. As soon as you get back. So finish your lunch.”

It was only then that he saw the black SUV across the street. The windows were so darkly tinted he couldn’t see inside but he could feel the eyes on him and knew they were watching.

“I won’t fail you,” he said, looking at the vehicle as he spoke. He closed the connection and put down the phone. His hands were shaking worse now.

He’d worked at the consulate for five years, filing and occasionally translating documents. He made a good living, but there was no honest living he could make that could keep up with even the interest on the money he owed Andreas Zavalo. One day a man had come to him with a gun and a proposition. They would defer the debt until such time as Ramon could do a job for them. They hadn’t specified what the job might be, but the gun they had given him had made it clear that it wasn’t going to be anything small. It had rested in the bottom drawer for three years now, and Ramon had dared to wonder if maybe they’d forgotten him. He saw now how foolish that idea was. These people did not forget. Nor did they forgive. He was trapped. He’d never killed anyone before, but now it was kill or be killed. Or worse. He stood up and shoved his lunch bag and empty water bottle into a nearby trash can. A thought occurred to him. He reached into the trash can and pulled the bag back out. The bag was brightly colored, emblazoned with the name of a local chicken restaurant. He looked down the street to where the consulate rose, gray and forbidding, above the surrounding buildings. Trudging like a man with a heavy load on his shoulders, he began his walk back, holding the empty bag in one hand. Lunch was over, and so was life as he knew it.

T
HE GUEST
quarters were on the third floor, down a long carpeted hallway that reminded Angela of a college dormitory. Huston led her toward one of the rooms on the end. As she passed one room with an open door, she looked inside and saw Esmeralda. The girl was lying on the bed, her eyes closed, breathing shallowly. There was an IV bag on a stand beside the bed, filled with what looked like blood. The red-haired medic she’d seen earlier was seated in the chair next to the bed. He held Esmeralda’s wrist in one hand, and he was looking at the watch on his other wrist. There was a cart next to him, piled high with bandages, syringes, and vials of unidentified medications.

“How is she?” Angela said, stepping into the room.

“She needs a real hospital,” the medic replied. “She’s a tough little gal, but she’s lost a lot of blood, and she’s gonna lose more. I can’t just keep pumping it into her.” He looked at Huston. “This ain’t my usual gig, sir,” he said. “I need that medevac. ASAP.”

“Working on it, Bentley,” Huston said.

“So work harder. Sir.”

Angela looked at Huston, who only grinned. “Understood, Sergeant.”

Bentley just grunted, then bent over to check his patient’s dressing.

“Come on,” Huston said. He led Angela back into the hallway and opened the door to a room across the hall. Angela stepped inside. It was small, but clean, with a bed, dresser, chairs, and a small desk. There was one window, with bars on it.

“Rest here,” Huston said. He indicated a door across the room. “Private bathroom, with a shower if you want it.”

She wanted one desperately, but she stopped Huston as he started to step out. “That Marine seems to think you’re a lot more than a cultural attaché,” she said. “He seems to know you pretty well, in fact.”

Huston gave her that inscrutable smile again. “Sergeant Bentley has an active imagination.”

“And a big mouth,” she said.

“He’s good at his job,” Huston said, “Several jobs, actually. So I indulge him.”

“So tell me. What’s really going on here?”

“Mrs. Sanchez,” Huston said, “I would like to be able to tell you. But I truly can’t.”

“Can you still at least find out if my husband’s alive?” she said. “And my friend?”

“I have people working on that right now,” he said. “I hope to be back to you within the hour. Now, just rest easy. You’re on American soil. You’re completely safe.”

“Thanks, Mr. Huston,” she said. “But I guess that’s not your real name.”

That smile again. “It’ll do as well as any other. See you in a bit.”

R
AY CASTLE
shook his head in disgust as he closed the web browser. He’d taken the time he’d normally have spent checking NCIC for the stolen weapons to do as Keller had suggested and check out this Church of Elohim. What he’d seen had amused him at first, then angered him, then made him almost physically ill. He recalled a quote his Uncle Leonard used to use, something from one of Unc’s favorite movies, “White folks get stranger all the time.”

The sound of a vehicle pulling up outside startled him out of his reverie. He got up and went to the door. The Sheriff’s white Escalade was parked at the curb. Castle frowned as he saw another, unfamiliar vehicle pull in and park behind. The frown deepened as he saw a man in what looked like military fatigues without insignia and a soft flat-topped patrol cap. He’d just been looking at the man’s picture online. It was Walker, the man who called himself “The Sword Arm of the Lord.” There were two men with him—both dressed in khaki pants and black T-shirts. One was long haired, with a bushy beard. The other was a blond man who wore his hair slicked back and gelled. Both men’s arms were dark with tattoos. They were carrying assault rifles. Castle felt tightness in the muscles of his back, along with a tingling along his spine. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt since he’d left the Army. He’d experienced it more times than he could count in Iraq. He called it the “creepy crawlies,” and it had never failed him as an indicator that serious shit was about to go down. The other guys in his squad had kidded him about it, but they’d learned to respect it on patrol.

Castle eased his sidearm out of the holster and racked the slide. In the quiet town of Hearken, where the most violent thing he usually encountered was a noisy drunk, he didn’t often carry the weapon cocked and locked. But he was having a really bad feeling about this. He gently slid the weapon back into the holster, leaving the holster unsnapped, and stepped back from the door. He saw the Sheriff stop and confer with Walker for a moment. There was a brief discussion, apparently some disagreement, but eventually, Walker nodded. The Sheriff entered alone. Castle was standing at attention by the desk.

“Afternoon, sir,” he said.

“Afternoon, son,” the Sheriff said. The look on his face made Castle even more nervous. He looked ten years older than the last time they’d met. He was dressed in his brown uniform pants and Smokey Bear hat. Despite the heat, he wore his brown uniform jacket. Cosgrove stopped, looked around, spotted the metal door. “They back there?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Separate cells?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Give me the keys.”

Castle hesitated. “Are you okay, sir?”

Cosgrove’s face hardened with irritation. “I’m fine. Give me the keys.”

He didn’t want to do it. Everything was telling him that it was a bad idea. But it was a reasonable and lawful order. Castle took the keys from his belt and handed them over. Cosgrove went to the front door and opened it. The two gunmen came in, followed by Walker. The gunmen were grinning. Walker’s face looked as if it were made of stone. Cosgrove handed the keys to Walker, who went to the cellblock door and opened it.

“What’s going on, sir?” Castle asked.

“Mr. Sanchez is going with some friends of ours. We’ll be taking Keller.”

“Where, sir?”

“To the county courthouse for arraignment.”

Castle could hear yelling from inside the cellblock. He started toward the door. “That won’t be necessary,” Cosgrove said, but the nervousness in his face belied his calm words.

“All due respect, sir,” Castle said, “I can see transporting the prisoners separately. But why use these guys? Why not call another deputy?”

“Everyone else is tied up. I’ve…deputized these men as an emergency measure.”

The gunmen came out, leading the Latino prisoner, Sanchez, to the door. As they passed, the little guy looked at him. Castle would remember the calmness and dignity in that face for the rest of his days. “You know this is not right,” Sanchez said to him.

The blond gunman with his hair slicked back smacked him in the back of the head. “Shut the fuck up,” he growled. The other one laughed. Their smiles were the ugliest things he’d seen since Iraq.

Walker came out. “Enough,” he said to the blond. He ignored Castle.

“Sir…” Castle said helplessly. He knew he should be doing something, but it was three on one, and two of them had high caliber long guns. He watched as the three of them took Sanchez out the door. When they were out of Castle’s view, the Sheriff turned around.

“Now,” he said, “let’s go get Keller. But I’m going to need you to give me your sidearm before you go in.”

It was actually protocol. The officer who had actual physical contact with the prisoner didn’t carry his pistol, to discourage attempts to grab it from him. But after what he’d just seen, there was no way in hell Castle was going to turn his weapon over. He felt strangely lightheaded, but calm, the way he’d always felt when the apprehension of waiting for combat had given way to the adrenaline clarity of the real thing.

“No, sir,” he said as he drew his pistol and pointed it at the Sheriff.

T
HE RED-HAIRED
medic, Bentley, stood up and stretched. Angela heard a strange whirring and clicking sound as he did. She’d though she’d noticed it in the driveway, but hadn’t been able to figure what it was, and events had distracted her from considering it further.

“I need more blood,” Bentley said. “Can you watch her while I get it?”

Angela nodded. “Please,” she said, “help her. She saved my life.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bentley said. “I’ll do everything I can.”

“You said this wasn’t your regular job,” she said. “What do you usually do?”

He stopped and smiled at her. It was the first time she’d seen him smile, and it made him look slightly off-kilter. “I blow stuff up, ma’am.” He walked out, that strange sound following him. With a start, Angela realized that Bentley was walking on two artificial legs. She wondered where he’d lost them, and wondered how he’d managed to stay on active duty.
Not your average Marine
. She thought of Huston, then to the confrontation at the gate.
Talk to Mr. Huston
, he’d said.
He’ll back me up
.
Maybe not a Marine at all
, she thought. She really wished she knew what was going on here. She reached out and took Esmeralda’s small hand in hers.

“Hang on, Esme,” she said, “we’re safe.”

R
AMON WALKED
down the hall, hoping no one would see him and notice his shaking. He came to the door of the guest quarters, at the foot of a short flight of stairs. A Marine in fatigues stood by the door. Ramon recognized him. He was an easygoing Californian named Barbour who liked baseball. He and Ramon had had a few conversations about it.

“Hey, Ramon,” Barbour said. “What’s up?”

Ramon held up the bag. “I got lunch. They told me to bring some back for those two that just came in.”

Barbour looked dubious. “No one told me about this.”

Ramon shrugged. “Nobody tells us anything, huh?”

Barbour laughed. “Roger that. Go on up. But hurry.”

Ramon quickly mounted the stairs, his heart pounding with more than the exertion. The gun inside the bag seemed to weigh a ton. At the top of the stairs, he ran into another Marine, this one a short, pugnacious-looking redhead.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.

“My name’s Ramon. I work here. They asked me to bring the ladies something to eat.”

“It’s okay, Sergeant,” Barbour called from below. “I know Ramon. He’s good people.”

The redhead grunted. “Okay, but don’t be all fuckin’ day.”

“No, sir,” Ramon said. “This won’t take long.”