Osorio staggered to his feet and watched the others exit the barn. He looked at Hiyoki’s laptop, open on the table, and felt a little payback was in order. He closed the top and put it under his good arm, grabbed the keys to his Jeep and limped out the door. Pasqual tried to smile at the memory, but it hurt.
And then, late last night his one remaining friend told Pasqual that two sicarios were coming from Juarez, just for him. The two assassins were young, seventeen, maybe eighteen, from the Barrio Azteca group of Cartel enforcers, and they liked killing. His friend said this was the last information he could relay to Pasqual because Hiyoki, El Japonés, scared him. Hiyoki had been giving him special attention, and not in a good way since Pasqual left, so he and his family were going to live with his wife’s brother on a small ranch outside Hermosillo.
Pasqual scratched his unshaven chin with a fingernail as hunger gnawed at his stomach. He’d eaten the morning before the beating, but not since. The adobe didn’t have running water, or a bathroom. He rose, stifling a groan and walked out the door. Everything was outside; a single faucet, a wooden outhouse that leaned to one side, and a small wood-fire cooking area made of cinder blocks with a rusted metal grill resting on top. There was one aluminum pan and one pot. There were no plates. One spoon and one fork rested on a separate cinder block near the fire. Pasqual felt his eyes sting from the injustice of it all.
Hunger won out, and he shuffled away from the adobe to find some food. Walking became easier after the first block, and he found a vendor selling tacos, so he bought three with some of his last remaining money. He ate them as he walked into the more commercial area of town. A disguise might help, he thought, at least something to make it harder for them to recognize him.
He bought a straw hat, pre-formed, with the brim funneled down low over his eyes, and a plain, inexpensive long-sleeved western style shirt that made him look more like a vaquero than a businessman. His blue jeans were okay, he thought, as were the boots. His final purchase was a pair of mirrored sunglasses that hid a lot of the facial bruises and his swollen eye. He thought the glasses made him look like that rifle-carrying prison guard in the movie where American actor Paul Newman portrayed a prisoner on a chain gang.
So now he looked like a man in town for the day, not like nattily dressed Pasqual Osorio, but more like an Armando, or a Juan, someone with a cowboy name like that. He felt more relaxed, less worried that someone would recognize him, so he wandered into town, not wanting to return to that stuffy adobe. Checking his pockets, Pasqual counted six thousand pesos and some change, enough for a little outing, but not much else.
The El Amigo Bar was a short distance down the street, so Pasqual walked toward it. He was twenty yards from the front door when he spotted two young men in a black Lincoln Navigator slow-cruising the street in his direction and looking at every male on it. A trash-cluttered alley opened to Pasqual’s left, and he took it, stepping on old papers, half-eaten food, rotten trash, and dog droppings as he went deeper into the refuse. Two-thirds of the way down the alley, a rusty refrigerator with no doors stood upright and Pasqual thought it might provide someplace to hide behind.
He hung his boot on a hidden piece of wire and stumbled, but regained his footing after several flailing steps. The stumble made a lot of noise. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Navigator stop at the alley.
Pasqual hurried to the fridge and ducked behind it. Sweat rolled off his forehead and down his face in the hot, narrow passage reeking of spoiled food and stale urine. Peeking around the edge of the appliance, he saw two young men in expensive slacks and shirts walk to the mouth of the alley. They each held a .45 automatic.
Pasqual held his breath. Seconds later he heard the men walking down the alley, then they stopped and cursed, decide it wasn’t worth the trouble. They returned to the Navigator and drove away, much to Pasqual’s relief. So, these were the ones, the two killers looking for him in Ojinaga, and with their pistols ready. The fear of it made breathing difficult.
He watched the front of the alley for another minute, and then heard a “Psst!” from behind. He turned, and a beautiful woman wearing a western hat said, “Come on, they’ll be back.” She looked vaguely familiar.
“Who are you?”
She stepped away from the corner of the building so he could see her, “Looked a little different when I was a prisoner at your house, I bet.”
Knowledge and a thread of fear went through him, “Kincaid! But, what…why are you here?”
“I’m trying to save you.” She thought of the line from The Terminator and couldn’t resist, “Come with me if you want to live.”
Pasqual hurried out of the alley just as Hunter glimpsed the black Navigator idling past the front. The two killers saw Pasqual, and the driver floored it, squealing tires and accelerating out of sight. Hunter knew they would circle the block to this side, and she grabbed Osorio’s arm, pulling him so he would go faster.
He said, “There are men after me.”
“That’s why we’re hurrying.” Hunter pulled out her phone and made a call, which went through immediately. She said, “I have Pasqual Osorio with me and we’re being hunted. I’ll try and get us across the bridge, but somebody needs to be on the U.S. side when we get there.” She listened for a moment, and said, “Tell Art their guns are out and he needs to hurry.”
Pasqual said, “My Jeep is at the bus station parking lot.”
Hunter pointed across the street, “My truck’s right there.” She clicked the unlock button on her keys and hand-motioned him to get in the passenger’s side as the black Navigator squealed tires sliding around the corner, coming straight towards them.
“Get in!” Hunter yelled as she swung open the driver’s door and started the truck. The engine roared and she burned rubber leaving the area. The Navigator was a half-block behind.
Pasqual looked through the rear window, “They’re gaining.”
Hunter didn’t try to lose them, but instead floored it, going straight for the bridge. She made one quick swerve when they got there to put another car between them and the navigator, prompting an angry horn honk from the car they passed.
Once on the bridge, Hunter hoped Art was waiting, or this would be a messy situation. Having a Border Patrol Agent cross an international border with a notorious affiliate of the drug Cartels in the car with her, well, the thought made her palms sweat.
Pasqual said, “They aren’t doing anything, just following.”
“Good.” She thought for a moment, knowing she had her passport card with her, and asked, “You have any documents or something we can use to get you into the States?”
“I have a border crossing card.”
“Good.” You have your passport, too? You have to have both.”
“Yes.”
Hunter stopped the pickup as the cars in front of her stacked up to form a short line before getting to the Immigration inspection booth.