“The oil pressure is a little low,” the pilot said. “We’re okay. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“How low?” Hackberry said.
“It’s probably not a line, just a leaky gasket,” the pilot said. “I’ll check everything out after we get down. Hang on. We might bounce around a little bit.”
“You didn’t check everything out before we left?” Hackberry asked.
“It’s an old plane. What do you want? Shit happens,” the pilot said.
When the plane dipped down toward the river, Hackberry felt Pam place her hand on top of his shoulder, her breath coming hard against the back of his neck.
“We’re okay,” Hackberry said.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Toad just told me.”
“Tell him I’m going to shoot him after we land.”
Down below, Hackberry could see great squares of both cultivated and pasture land and bare hills that looked molded out of white clay that had hardened and cracked. The pilot made a wide turn, the wings buffeting, and came in low over the river, the islands sweeping by, then Hackberry saw a feeder lot and hog farm whose holding pens were churned a chocolate color and buildings with tin roofs and houses constructed of cinder block and then a short pale green landing strip that had been recently mowed out of a field, a red wind sock straining against its tether at the far end. They landed hard, rainwater splashing under the tires. A flatbed truck with two men lounging near it was parked by the side of the strip.
“You ever see them before?” Pam said.
“No,” Hackberry replied. “You okay?”
She didn’t reply until Toad had cut the engine and gotten out of the plane and lit a cigarette by the wing. “I’m backing your play, Hack, but the idea of getting involved with Jack Collins makes my stomach churn,” she said.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you stayed with Toad. I can handle it by myself.”
“That’s not going to happen,” she said.
“I have to get Miss Anton back, Pam. If I don’t, I’ll never rest.”
“We’re making a deal with the devil, and you know it.”
“That’s the breaks.”
“You mean after this is over, you’re going to let that bastard slide?”
“Jack Collins isn’t planning to leave Mexico,” he said.
Her eyes went back and forth. “How do you know that?”
“Collins brought us here as his executioners,” he said.
“Or maybe he plans on being ours,” she said.
Hackberry and Pam pulled a duffel bag and a backpack off the plane and walked toward the flatbed truck. The Mexicans standing next to it introduced themselves as Eladio and Jaime. They were unshaved and wore slouch-brim straw hats and unpressed long-sleeve cotton shirts buttoned at the wrists. Their eyes wandered over Pam’s body without seeming to see her, the laziness in their expressions as much mask as indicator of their thoughts.
“Where’s Collins?” Hackberry said.
“He ain’t here,” Jaime said.
“That’s why I asked you where he is,” Hackberry said.
“We’ll take you where he’s at,” Jaime said. “You two can ride in front with Eladio. I’ll ride in back.”
“Where are we going?” Pam asked.