J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

“I think he recognized me.”

“Who, Ford?”

I ignore the question. “They were supposed to pick up the guns. But you took them instead. And now Ford’s got some explaining to do.”

“So it’s my fault?” he asks. But he’s not angry. He’s laughing.

While Jeff struggles to keep up in the traffic, I feel my way around in back, opening bags, digging through their far recesses in search of ammunition. Water, water everywhere . And not a round to fire. I have to empty each of the duffels, patting down every empty magazine pouch. There must be a hundred rifles in total, maybe more, some of them rattling around loose in the canvas bags, but most tucked inside the soon-to-be-discarded Cordura cases.

At the bottom of the second to last bag I find an odd-looking case. It’s similar to the others, only longer, like it was made for a full-size rifle, and it’s olive drab with stained leather tabs on the corners, the surfaces scuffed from use. There are no magazine pouches on the outside, but when I unzip the case, I find not a brand-new flattop M4 but an old-style CAR-15 with the carry handle on top, the bluing around the sharp edges all but worn away. Nestled in the space between the grip and the bottom of the case are four stubby plastic 20-round magazines. I grab one, pleased with the weight. Running my finger along the top of the mag, I feel the sharp point of a full-metal-jacket round.

“We have ammo,” I call out. “But not much.”

In all those straw purchases, one of Ford’s middlemen must have bought this off a private seller who’d delivered up the goods already in a case, with his loaded magazines forgotten inside. I like the well-used look of the CAR, so I slap one of the mags inside and tuck a second into my front pocket. Then I load one of the M4s for Jeff, sliding it between the seats with the last of the four magazines alongside.

When I crawl back into the passenger seat, we are no longer driving down city streets. The lights are all behind us and a dark stretch of highway looms ahead, the running lights of several cars just visible about a mile in front of us, the cone of their headlights casting shadows on the swaying palms. Jeff’s face, illuminated by the console, is grimly set.

“I’m trying to catch up,” he says.

They could stop anywhere, I realize, dragging Ford out into the dust, leaving nothing behind for us but a bullet-riddled corpse. We’d have his body and nothing else. The end of the road and not a thing to show for it. No answers and no explanations.

“How many guys did you count?” I ask. “Are we about to do something stupid here?”

He shrugs. “Maybe five or six? There’s a woman, too. And the old man.”

Nesbitt said he would go far and he certainly has. Nesbitt said he would take care of it, that César was his problem, not mine. But Nesbitt is dead and César isn’t. What did he expect me to do? What was in that packet he gave Jeff for me? An apology? A confession? An entreaty urging me to finish the job he barely started?

“César,” I say. “He’s the boss. He’s the reason Nesbitt dragged me into this. Don’t let them get away.”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

Jeff is exasperated, but I don’t care. I watch the red lights on the horizon, willing them closer. Not for Ford’s sake, not anymore. The generalissimo with silver hair, the old man, the big boss. The one who plucked the cigar from his lips, his once-handsome face, and smiled. César, he’s the one I want. He’s always been the one. But he was untouchable until now.

There are two cars up ahead. Our headlights flash on the trunk of the rearmost car, gilding random bits of trim, casting a glow into the cabin. In the backseat, a round-faced man with black hair and an old scar down his cheek turns to squint at us, and makes a rude gesture with his hand. The figures up front are only silhouettes obstructed by the headrests. I can see the driver fiddling with his rearview mirror, trying to cut the glare.

“He’s in that one,” Jeff says.

The car in front, a sleek Teutonic sedan, contains César, the blonde, and a couple more of the foot soldiers.

We’re racing down a divided highway, two lanes heading south and two north, with scraggly palms swaying in the median. Just beyond the grass shoulder on our right a metal fence runs parallel to the road, backed by a screen of lush, shadowy scrub, while on the left the bare prairie is interrupted every mile or two by modest signs of habitation-a garish motel, a lonely Pemex gas station, a walled courtyard hiding a cluster of squat houses. I hold the CAR-15 in my lap, the barrel pointing toward the floor between my feet, my hand resting on the cocking handle. My window is rolled down, the wind thundering in my ear.

In the backseat of the car, the scarred man is yelling to his companions, jerking his thumb in our direction. He twists himself around and starts waving a chromed semiautomatic in the air, warning us off.

I glance down at my untrembling hand, feeling disassociated from my physical self, a hovering watcher, calm and detached. As my options pare down, so does my indecision, leaving behind the hard but simple equation of survival: kill or be killed.

The man lowers the chrome gun, his expression transforming from one of menace to wide-eyed surprise. And he’s not paying attention to us anymore. His eyes are cast down. I lean across the dash, trying to see what he’s seeing.

The trunk lid bounces as the car hits rough pavement, rising a foot in the air, opening up a gap for our headlights to shine through. Under the lid I glimpse a section of forearm before the trunk settles down.

“It’s Ford! He’s opened the trunk-”

The driver hits the brakes, bathing us in red, and the back end starts to slide. The trunk lid rips free of Ford’s grasp, flapping wide open, revealing his hunched body like Botticelli’s goddess on an oyster shell. His skin is washed out by the shine from our high beams, but the rictus of fear is unmistakable.

Jeff has to brake, too, swerving into the next lane to avoid a collision. The car’s brakes let up and it gains speed on us. Jeff hits the gas, pitching me back. In the trunk, Ford is writhing, afraid to jump out and afraid of missing his chance, too. I can almost read the thoughts running across his face.

“He’s gonna jump,” I say.

The van veers again, just as Ford makes his move. He rises on his haunches and rolls forward, more of a fall than a dive. I lose sight of him as he hits the road. Jeff mashes down the brake, hurtling past the spot where Ford landed. We shudder to a halt with the screeching of wheels. Ahead of us, the car stops, too. They’re about thirty yards away, cocked sideways on the periphery of our headlight cone, the open trunk screening their movement.

I open the door and slip onto the pavement just as the first shot is fired. There’s a loud pop, a muzzle flash from the side of the car, and a thunk near my left ear. A bloom of broken glass. Then silence. I hear voices, then footsteps scraping across the pocked asphalt.

By the time they start shooting again I’m already on the move, circling behind the van for cover, drawing back the charging handle and letting it slap a round into the chamber. Hunched at the rear bumper, I wheel around and bring the muzzle up. There are three of them crossing the gap between their car and the van, the scarred one in front with his chromed gun at the ready. Our headlights throw enough light on them to make a sight picture easy. I line up the post on the lead man, lowering my finger onto the trigger.

Jeff scuttles around beside me, breathing hard, the M4 in his hand.

“Was there another mag?” he whispers. “I felt around but I couldn’t find it.”