Rick Riordan: Southtown

The pilot waited in the drizzle on the tarmac at Stinson Field. He checked his watch. His client was late.

It was a crummy night to fly, but anticipating his payment made him feel better. He imagined the money in his bank account. He would make separate cash deposits, space them out carefully, keep them under the mandatory reporting limit.

He was deep in thought about a comfortable retirement when somebody put a gun to his back.

Long after the police took Erainya Manos away, Pablo had waited in the ventilation shaft.

He expected the woman to sell him out. Any second, the muzzle of an assault rifle would poke its way into his hiding place.

But Pablo kept waiting.

When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he crawled out. No one was waiting in the storage room to ambush him. His gun was still lying on the floor by the window. They hadn’t even bothered bagging it for evidence.

Why would the police leave the scene so fast?

He checked the magazine. Still loaded, minus the bullet Erainya Manos had fired to rattle the police.

Dangerous, he had told her.

It’ll throw them off balance, she said. When they find out I fired the gun, they’ll relax their guard about everything. They’ll believe I’m alone.

He hadn’t trusted her, but he’d gone along. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t surrender. He couldn’t bring himself to kill her.

He crept down the stairs, spotted two uniformed cops at the front entrance. They looked bored, like they’d been put there to keep people out. They weren’t paying any attention to the inside of the building.

Pablo slipped out the back, onto the loading docks.

The rain felt good on his face, but he told himself he would never make it across open ground. There were probably still snipers on the surrounding rooftops. His shoulder blades tensed for the bullet he expected in his back.

He jogged down a dark alley. Nothing happened. He made it three blocks away, came out next to St. Paul Square. A bunch of tourist rental cars were parked on the street. He strolled down the line, glancing casually through windows. A Dodge Neon had the driver’s keys just sitting there on the front seat.

Too easy. Had to be a trap.

The police would surround him as soon as he turned the ignition. The engine would explode. Something.

But he got in, started the Neon, and pulled away from the curb.

By the time he got to the highway, he was crying like a child.

He had come that close to killing Erainya Manos, and she’d been telling him the truth.

The pilot found himself facing a young Latino with cobwebs in his hair, ragged clothes, dirt and scratches on his arms like he’d crawled out of a collapsed building.

The pilot tried for calm. He raised his hands. “I got nothing you can rob, partner. Unless you want an airplane.”

“Actually,” the Latino said, “that is exactly what I want.”

The pilot blinked. “ You’re Will Stirman?”

“You know the Calabras airstrip, south of Juarez?”

“Sure.” The pilot didn’t feel the need to mention he’d flown heroin from that airstrip a dozen times. “You have my hundred grand?”

The Latino smiled. He nudged the pilot’s nose affectionately with his gun. “Actually, senor, there’s been a slight change of plans.”

Will Stirman found his money, right where Navarre said it would be.

The black duffel bag was lighter than when Will had packed it, eight years ago, but that was to be expected. Fred Barrow must’ve used a good half million.

Will stuffed a couple of hundred-dollar bills in his pocket, rezipped the bag.

He had one last score to settle.

He climbed the wooden stairs out of the basement, the knife wound in his shoulder throbbing so badly he could hardly think. He found an intact section of roof to stand under. Rain was blowing through the skeletal remains of the house. The dark hills around him smelled of wet juniper.

Will called the SAPD. He was pleasantly surprised to get a connection so far from the city. He told the dispatcher he was the outside accomplice who’d helped Will Stirman escape, and now he had a guilty conscience. He gave her enough details about the jailbreak to be sure she was taking him seriously. Then he told her where they could find one of the missing Floresville Five. A hunting cabin in the woods of Wisconsin. He gave her directions.

Will hung up, feeling satisfied.

With any luck, his guess would be right. The Guide might be stupid enough to lay low there. He might have thought Will had forgotten about the Wisconsin property, which the Guide had shown him once, years ago-his little retirement dream house. But Will never forgot a good hiding place.

He walked back to the main road in the dark-a good half mile, through mosquitoes and mud and brambles. Down toward the river, the only visible light was a kerosene lamp glowing in a curtained window. A caretaker’s cabin, maybe. Will avoided it.

He hadn’t seen another human being for thirty miles, since he exited the main highway. Every farmhouse had been dark, every road abandoned. Anybody crazy enough to ignore the evacuation orders, Will wanted to stay clear of.

He climbed into the truck and stared at the empty seat next to him.

You failed Soledad, Navarre had said. You let the past stay buried.

The words weighed on Will’s heart.

Eight years ago, he had taken the coward’s way out. He’d never tried to find out what really happened to Soledad’s baby- his baby.

He’d assumed the worst, nursed his anger, promised himself that he would get revenge in the long run. But he’d stayed silent. In his most secret thoughts, he’d been relieved not to be a father anymore. Relieved the child was gone. And his guilt had fueled his anger.

Now… what had he accomplished?

He’d left hardly a ripple on the lives of his old enemies. He’d had a chance to settle his debts, salvage something from the past. But here he was again, doing the only thing he was good at-running away. He never had Soledad’s courage for staying put.

Would she forgive him?

Maybe if she’d seen Jem Manos’ face…

Will started the truck’s engine. He set the duffel bag next to him. All his pleasure at finding the money had drained away.

He realized bitterly that Navarre was wrong on one count. He would not die on the outside. Will Stirman was too good at hiding and running. Nothing could catch the Ghost.

He would make it across the border, then eventually down into Central America. He would get the shoulder wound treated and live to a ripe old age on some tropical beach, alone, dreaming every night about the people he had killed, waking up every morning with no one, remembering the face of Jem Manos, and wishing he was not a coward.

A distant rumble rattled the truck’s windows. Will thought at first it was thunder, but the rumble didn’t die. It grew louder, building toward a crescendo. Thunder didn’t do that.

Will put the truck in drive and eased forward, toward the bridge.

In his headlights, the Medina River was doing strange things. It was churning with foam, waves sloshing over the road. The ground was shaking.

Will looked upriver. He could see nothing but that single yellow light on the hillside.

He turned on the radio. Static.

It occurred to him then what might be happening-what they’d said on the news.

But that was impossible.

The roar filled his ears.

He looked north again, and this time his heart nearly stopped. The horizon was curling toward him, the earth lifting up like the edge of a carpet.

For a moment, his hand drifted toward the stick shift. He could punch the gas. He could run for higher ground.

Then a sense of calm came over him. He realized Navarre had been right on every count. So much for the uncatchable Will Stirman.