Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) Read online

  A driver’s license. Credit card. Family photo.

  Considering the amount of time that had passed, it was a long shot, sure.

  But it was the only shot he had.

  Still, as he sat there listening to the Corolla’s engine rattle and die, he realized he’d been running on pure impulse and had no real plan of attack.

  When he was a teenager, he and his brother, Manny, had spent a couple summers breaking into houses in their neighborhood to steal beer and cigarettes, which they sold to their friends at the local rec center. They got so good at it that most of their victims never even knew they’d been there at all.

  But that was a long time ago, and Vargas wasn’t sure if he still had the skill—or the guts—to pull off a B and E. Breaking into a neighbor’s house was one thing. If you got caught, they’d probably call your parents. But if Vargas were to get caught now, Ainsworth would likely blow his head off.

  So his only hope was that Big Papa and Junior had taken a detour to a Mexican whorehouse and hadn’t yet returned from Juárez.

  Locking his car, he glanced around to make sure he was alone and unobserved. The housing tract had the feel of a ghost town—which, he assumed, was a fairly accurate description. Thanks to the failing economy, construction sites all over the country had stalled or gone bankrupt, and he didn’t figure it was any different out here.

  Checking up and down the street, he saw no people, no traffic, no Town Cars…

  So he sucked in a breath and crossed toward Ainsworth’s property.

  36

  IF HE STAYED low, there was just enough brush to give him cover. Keeping about ten yards out from the access road, he moved parallel to it, working his way slowly toward the grouping of warehouses that sat a good distance from the main dwelling.

  He assumed that one of them was a chicken coop and had expected to hear clucking sounds coming from inside.

  But the place was still and silent. Another ghost town. Which might explain why Ainsworth and Junior were working for the bad guys.

  Reaching the first warehouse, Vargas pressed his back against the rusted aluminum siding. There was an open doorway about ten feet away and nothing but darkness inside.

  Vargas looked across the yard at the Ainsworth house.

  No lights. No sign of the F-150.

  Maybe he’d been blessed with a bit of luck for once.

  Still, it was wise to be cautious. His best approach, he decided, was from the rear of the place. If he continued to stay low and quiet, he could circle around with minimum risk, then put his burglary skills to the test on one of the rear windows.

  He was about to make his move when he heard it. On the road behind him.

  The sound of a truck approaching.

  Shit.

  So much for luck.

  Headlights flashed in his direction and he dropped down, scurrying—as best as he could—through the open warehouse door. He watched from the shadows as not one but two sets of headlights, one after the other, bounced along the road toward the house and two familiar vehicles came to a stop out front:

  Ainsworth’s F-150.

  And the Lincoln Town Car.

  Something cold and dead wrapped its fingers around Vargas’s heart.

  Check your trunk, Mr. Vargas.

  I think the message is clear.

  Doors flew open and Ainsworth and the burnt-faced man, Mr. Blister, emerged from their vehicles, Ainsworth looking a little less cocksure than normal.

  Vargas waited for Junior to climb out also, but it didn’t happen. Which was odd, considering that father and son seemed to be glued together at the hip.

  He thought of Sergio’s fate and wondered if Junior had joined him. That might explain Ainsworth’s change of demeanor.

  “Where is it?” Mr. Blister asked.

  Ainsworth gestured toward the side of the house. “Still in the shed. We just got the bikes unloaded when you called, and I figured it was best to get a move on. I know the boss man don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Show me,” Mr. Blister said.

  They walked toward the house, moving into the darkness along the right side. After a moment, a light came on, revealing a row of rabbit cages. The two men stepped past them to a small metal shed, its doors chained and padlocked.

  Vargas’s view was partially blocked by the vehicles. But that could work to his advantage. He needed a closer look and they’d give him cover.

  Sucking in a breath, he moved forward, running in a quick straight line to the rear of the Town Car and crouching behind it.

  Much better view.

  Ainsworth had opened the padlock and was pulling the chain from the door handles. Gesturing for Mr. Blister to stand back a bit, Ainsworth swung open the doors to reveal the two dusty red dirt bikes sitting inside.

  Moving to the closest one, he grabbed hold of the seat and pried it upward, then reached beneath it and brought out a tightly wrapped Hefty bag.

  He handed it across to Mr. Blister. “Seis burritos, amigo.”

  He wasn’t talking about dinner.

  Vargas had heard the term “burrito” before. It referred to a rolled-up sheet of Ecstasy tablets. A thousand tabs, with a wholesale value of about five grand. Which meant that the bundle Mr. Blister had in his hand was worth thirty thousand dollars, with a street value of at least double that.

  But Ainsworth wasn’t done yet. He moved to another part of the bike—a piece of plastic molding just above the rear wheel—and pried it apart, revealing another hidden compartment, and another tightly wrapped Hefty bag.

  Mr. Blister, in the meantime, brought out a switchblade, flicked it open, then sliced through the first bag, checking its contents.

  After tucking the new bundle under his arm, Ainsworth moved to the second bike and went to work. By the time he was done, he had two more bundles.

  Vargas did some quick math and came up with a total street value of about $240,000. Not bad, but not an earth-shattering figure in the world of drug smugglers.

  Ainsworth and Junior were obviously small-run couriers, but Vargas figured that whoever they were working for had a variety of transport methods.

  So much for the War on Drugs.

  But what did all this have to do with a house full of dead nuns?

  Could they have been couriers, too?

  “Where’s Monday’s run?” Mr. Blister asked.

  Ainsworth gestured with a thumb. “Up in the house.”

  “Show me,” Mr. Blister said again, then added, “and I’ll need something to carry it all in.”

  Ainsworth nodded and the two men turned, taking the Hefty bags with them to the front of the house.

  Vargas crouched low, peeking around the bumper of the Town Car as they headed up a set of creaky porch steps and disappeared inside.

  A light went on, illuminating the front room, which was clearly visible though the windows. Ainsworth handed his Hefty bag bundles to Mr. Blister, then crossed to a door and opened it, revealing a closet full of coats. Bending down, Ainsworth disappeared from view for a moment, then reappeared holding a black duffel bag.

  Returning to Mr. Blister, he held the bag open while the burnt-faced man started stuffing the bundles inside.

  Vargas glanced down at the Town Car’s license plate. Alabama, of all places. Which didn’t quite fit.

  So was the car stolen?

  It didn’t hurt to check. Taking his cell phone from his pocket, he quickly snapped a photo of the plate.

  Figuring he had a few moments before they came outside again, he moved to the open driver’s door and leaned in across the seat, reaching for the glove compartment, hoping to find the registration.

  But as he grabbed hold of the latch, something cold and hard touched the back of his head.

  Then a quiet voice said:

  “You’re a dead man.”

  37

  VARGAS FROZE. Felt his heart leap into his throat.

  “Back out of there. Real slow.”

  Despi
te the near whisper, he knew exactly who it was. Doing as he was told, he said, “Easy, Junior. Take it easy.”

  The barrel of a shotgun nudged his cheek.

  “Big Papa said you’d be here. Said you and the other ones want to hurt us.”

  “You got it wrong. I’m not here to hurt anybody.”

  “You think I’m stupid? That why you called me a retard?”

  “I’m not the one who called you that, remember? That was Sergio.”

  Junior was silent a moment, working it through.

  “Yeah? Well, Sergio’s just like you. That’s what Big Papa said. You’re one of the dead men. And he told me I shouldn’t trust none of you guys. He said you’d be comin’ after us. That’s why he told me to hide.”

  “Big Papa’s a smart man. But you’re wrong about me. I’m here to help.”

  “Then why are you sneakin’ around in the dark?”

  “Same reason you are. Big Papa warned me, too.”

  Junior hesitated. “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true,” Vargas said. “He called me on my cell phone. Told me to come out here and help you.”

  “That don’t make no sense. Big Papa put you in the trunk and you ran away.”

  Vargas started to turn, but Junior stopped him with the barrel of the shotgun.

  “Careful,” Vargas said. “That thing goes off, the man who owns this car will shoot us both.”

  “Why would he shoot you? You’re a friend of his.”

  Vargas shook his head. “If I were, wouldn’t I be in there with them? Would I be digging around in his glove compartment? I promised Big Papa I’d make sure you did what you were told.”

  A pause. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you want, then, but if we aren’t careful, sooner or later they’re gonna hear us and then we’ll both be in a world of—”

  Junior suddenly grabbed Vargas’s collar and yanked him backward. As his legs flew out from under him, Vargas glanced up to see Ainsworth and Mr. Blister stepping onto the front porch.

  Junior quickly dragged Vargas across the yard, through the warehouse door, and into the darkness. Breathing hard, he released his grip, then planted the barrel of the shotgun against Vargas’s chest.

  “Don’t fuckin’ move.”

  Junior was silhouetted against the moonlight and Vargas could barely see him, but he could tell that the kid was confused and scared shitless, a hair trigger away from doing something foolish.

  “It’s okay, son. Everything’s gonna be okay. Just be calm.”

  But Junior said nothing, started pacing anxiously as Ainsworth and Mr. Blister continued their conversation out on the porch.

  Vargas sensed that Junior was about to blow. He needed to distract the kid, keep him from getting them both killed.

  He kept his voice low. “Tell me about the American girl.”

  “Shut up,” Junior said. “I gotta think.”

  “You said she was still alive when you found her. That her name was Angie.”

  Junior swiveled his head, looking at Vargas. “I don’t know nothin’ about that. ‘Shut your tamale trap.’ That’s what Big Papa said.”

  “So you’re a liar, then? Did Big Papa raise you to be a liar?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “The whole thing was bullshit. There never was an American girl.”

  “You’re just trying to trick me, mister. You think I’m stupid and you can trick me. But I seen her plain as day. And I can prove it.”

  “Oh? How?”

  Vargas glanced toward the porch. The two men were coming down the steps now, moving out toward their vehicles.

  “I got her necklace,” Junior said. “I’m wearin’ it right now.”

  “Let me see it, then.”

  “Why? So you can steal it? Why you so interested in her anyway?”

  It was a good question.

  “Because somebody shot her. Somebody killed all those people and I want to find out who.”

  “I told you already. The dead men. They done it. Left ’em to rot in that spooky old house. But Big Papa says we gotta do what they tell us or they’re gonna hurt us, too.”

  Vargas glanced toward the Town Car. The two men were standing at the trunk now, Mr. Blister popping the lid, dumping the duffel bag inside. They were still out of range, but that didn’t make Vargas feel any better.

  “Easy, Junior, keep your voice down. They’re gonna hear us.”

  “You still think I’m lying, don’t you? But I got her picture, too. I keep it in my drawer. I found it stuffed in her—”

  A gunshot cracked the air, cutting him off.

  Vargas jerked his head up just in time to see Ainsworth fall to the ground, his body quaking and quivering, as Mr. Blister stepped over him and fired another shot, straight into his skull.

  Then Mr. Blister looked up, peering into the darkened warehouse doorway, his scarred face shining in the moonlight, the cold, black look of death in his eyes.

  That was when Junior went ballistic.

  38

  THE SOUND THAT rose from Junior’s throat was more animal than human. A wounded, tortured cry that echoed through the still night air, full of palpable, untethered pain.

  “You hurt Big Papa!” he sobbed, then lurched forward toward the yard.

  Toward Mr. Blister.

  Vargas jumped up, grabbing hold of his shoulder, but Junior spun around, jamming the stock of the shotgun into Vargas’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. Vargas stumbled, landing on his ass, as Junior barreled through the doorway, his shotgun raised and ready to fire.

  But Mr. Blister was waiting for him, his own weapon raised. And the moment Junior stepped into view, Mr. Blister pulled the trigger, putting a bullet between the younger man’s eyes.

  Junior flew backward, as if he’d been struck by a baseball bat, landing in the dirt just a few yards from Vargas’s feet.

  Vargas, meanwhile, was holding his chest, still trying to breathe—

  —as Mr. Blister stopped where he stood and stared into the darkness, looking for movement. Looking for any sign that Junior hadn’t been alone.

  Did he know that Vargas was in there?

  Had he heard them talking?

  Vargas didn’t dare move. Not even a centimeter. For that moment in time, he ceased to exist, willing himself invisible as Mr. Blister stared straight at him with those dark, dead eyes, suspicion on his disfigured face.

  “You may as well come out,” he said.

  Vargas felt his throat go dry. His heart kicked into high gear, pounding against his chest.

  There was no way that Mr. Blister could see him. Not from that distance.

  It was a bluff. It had to be.

  But that didn’t keep Vargas from feeling as if he had a bright white spotlight shining down on him.

  “Come out now and I will be kind,” Mr. Blister said. “It is better to die quickly, no?”

  No, Vargas thought. It’s better not to die at all.

  And if he’d stayed on the goddamn interstate, headed for California, the question would be moot. But no, he had to suddenly decide to grow some balls.

  Mr. Blister stood there for a long moment, waiting. Watching. Listening.

  Then, keeping his gaze on the warehouse doorway, he moved to the trunk of the Town Car, leaned in, and brought out a flashlight—one of those big industrial jobs, used for roadside emergencies.

  Oh, Holy Christ.

  Vargas didn’t want to move, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to stay put. The moment that flashlight was flicked on and its beam swept toward him, he’d be as dead as poor Junior.

  Rolling onto his hands and knees, he quickly backed away, moving deeper into the darkness of the warehouse, trying to be as quiet about it as possible. He had no idea what was back here, and hoped to hell he didn’t bump into something solid.

  He kept his gaze on the doorway, waiting for Mr. Blister to turn in his direction.

  But then, out on the ac
cess road, a pair of headlights appeared.

  Mr. Blister swiveled around, his body stiffening slightly as he watched them approach. When the car drew closer, Vargas saw a light bar across the roof.

  Law enforcement.

  Some kind of police car.

  Mr. Blister relaxed, however, lowering his pistol as the car rolled up and parked behind the Lincoln.

  A Border Patrol cruiser.

  Then the door opened and Agent Harmon got out, and Vargas suddenly understood how his car had gotten across the border.

  Harmon was one of them.

  He looked at Ainsworth, then Junior. Slowly shook his head. “Was this really necessary?”

  Mr. Blister shrugged. “Qué diferencia? I was told to clean up, so I’m cleaning up.”

  Harmon nodded to Junior, a sadness in his voice. “I watched that boy go through puberty, and he never hurt a soul in his life. Hell, he could’ve been mine for all I know. His mom and I had our moments.”

  “I had no choice,” Mr. Blister said. “He came at me with that shotgun. But do not worry. El Santo will bless him.”

  “Will he now. He gonna bless us, too?”

  “Of course. He blesses us all.”

  Harmon gave Mr. Blister a look, then crouched next to Junior, putting a hand over the kid’s eyes, closing them. “What about the reporter? You clean him up?”

  Mr. Blister shook his head. “He was nothing. A scared little bunny. And he is less of a threat to us alive than dead.”

  “Oh? How you figure?”

  “Better he run away than someone come looking for him. Someone who knows what he was after. So El Santo showed him mercy, and like a good little boy, he went home.”

  “Uh-huh,” Harmon said. “So what happens now?”

  “We have decided to suspend operations up here for a while. A cooling-off period. We will be rerouting our mules through New Mexico and Arizona.”

  Harmon raised his eyebrows. “And where does that leave me?”

  “Nowhere,” Mr. Blister said.

  Then he raised the pistol again and shot him.