David Corbett - Do They Know I'm Running

Lupe leaned forward in the backseat, gripped Melchior’s shoulder.- It can’t be as impossible as you say. Thousands get across every year, every month .

– Because the cartels have millions for bribes, they corrupt the border guards. Those guards leak word about when and where a spot will be clear. Yes, thousands get across. But thousands get caught, too. The cartels determine who gets lucky, who gets screwed. And the screwed will be back, paying over and over .

Lupe moved her hand from Melchior’s shoulder to Roque’s.

– Come on. We’ll walk. He says there’s a pass at the end of this road. It’s still light enough, we can find it. What good will sitting here do us? The longer we -

Glancing up into the rearview mirror, she saw Melchior’s eyes flare with dread. Spinning around, she saw the headlights in the twilight, the churning plume of dust.

Melchior turned to Roque and raised his hands.- Take my gun, hold it on me . When Roque just sat there baffled, Melchior shouted:- Take my fucking gun and hold it on me!

Roque did as he was told, glancing through the rear window at the approaching vehicle-a black Chevy Suburban with tinted glass, lurching as it hit the rocks and ditches along the unpaved road. Melchior reached around behind him, opened his door, stepped out of the car with his hands held high so everyone in the approaching Suburban could see.- There is a flashlight in the glove compartment. You’ll need it-but be careful not to use it too much, they’ll spot you from twenty miles away coming down the mountain. Now get behind the wheel, drive like hell to the end of this road, then run for the trees up the hill . He stumbled backward in the dusty gravel.- If you ever see Pingo again? Tell him to forget my name .

The crack of a pistol shot, then the bullet whistling overhead: Melchior dove for the ground, Roque lurched across the center console, got behind the wheel, turned the ignition, lodged the gearshift into drive and shoved the gas pedal to the floor just as a second shot pierced the back window. Lupe screamed. Roque ventured a quick over-the-shoulder glance and spotted blood as the car fishtailed up the soft rutted road.

– Are you all right? He palmed the wheel, righting the car.

She didn’t answer, crouched down on the seat. The back window was webbed with fissures spiraling out from the bullet hole. The Cutlass lurched into a rut, dug out again, chewing up rocks, veiled in clouds of dust as it continued up the impossible road. Roque glanced back again, saw her right hand grabbing her left shoulder, threads of blood between her fingers.- It’s all right , she hissed.- Hurry, go!

He considered some sort of evasive back and forth but, given the ruinous condition of the road, the vagueness of the path, he feared he might just as easily wander into a bullet’s path as out of one. Speed, he thought, get away from them, create distance so you have time to run.

He gunned the engine, steering around the worst craters and biggest rocks but otherwise barreling straight ahead, checking his mirror from time to time, trying to see if, through the shifting clouds of dust, he was managing any real separation. The sound of more gunshots but only one bullet landed, hitting the trunk with a pinging thoont . He soared over a sudden crest, a brief gut-fluttering weightlessness, then the chassis crashed down again, first the rear, then the front, tires biting into the rocky sand as he regained control, accelerated out of another fishtail and charged forward.

In the backseat Lupe was breathing fast and shallow but made no other sound, lying flat to keep from getting shot twice. Roque thought of his uncle, wondered what advice he’d give, thought about Godo too, Happy and Samir, vowing to himself he wouldn’t punk out now, wouldn’t shame them, then saw ahead the pine and oak trees marking the first ascent of the foothills. A low outcropping of marbled rock loomed a mere hundred yards ahead, he reached for the glove compartment, slapped it open, rummaged around for the flashlight, all the while gripping the wheel with his left hand, steering straight ahead at full speed. Over his shoulder, he shouted at Lupe: “¡Listo!”

As he approached the road’s end he fishtailed the car around so that it faced the way they’d just come. He shouted for Lupe to get out, waited for her to shove open the rear door and flee the car, then got out himself, found a rock the size of a melon, lodged it onto the gas pedal, threw the gearshift into drive. Following Lupe, he scrambled up the rocks toward the tree line. The Cutlass lumbered off, picking up speed as it lurched downhill, forcing the approaching Blazer to stop, turn, dodge the huge bouncing downhill missile until it slammed into a sprawling jut of scrub-nested saguaros with a dusty clanking thud.

Lupe faltered as Roque came up behind and he caught her sleeve, dragged her upright as still another shot rang out, the bullet whistling past them into the trees-a snapped branch, a shower of dry pine needles. He pulled her roughly after him, the rocks beneath their feet razor-edged in places, in others soft and flinty, powdered with dust, littered with pellet-shaped acorns. As they reached the edge of the forest he caught the welcoming tang of resin.

Below, the Blazer careened to a lurching stop, followed by three more gunshots, strangely wild, then a sudden silent impulse told him: Stop! He drew up in his tracks, used his body as a shield to keep Lupe behind him, just as he felt the rippling concussion of air, like an invisible current pulsing in front of him. The bullet missed by inches.

A clipped throaty voice called out:- Roque Montalvo! We’ve got your cousin .

He hurried beneath the tree canopy and pushed Lupe behind him before turning back, thinking: Spanish, clever, work on both our consciences, play one against the other. A tall spidery man with a shaved head leaned against the SUV, clutching his mid-section, his movements stitched with pain. A smaller man dressed in black with long flowing hair climbed out from behind the wheel, flourishing a pistol. A third man in a suit and cowboy boots dragged from the backseat a fourth and final man, this one with his hands tied behind his back: Happy. He staggered blindly, weak from a beating, his shirt dark with blood. The man in the suit pressed a pistol to his head and drove him to his knees, the spindly bald one calling out:- Come back down, you and the girl. Otherwise…

Roque still held Melchior’s pistol. From this distance, though, he doubted he’d hit anyone, no matter how carefully he aimed. He might be able to slow them down if they chose to climb up after them but that was the best he could hope for. The air felt cool in the tree shade. Another hour or so, the sun would set.

Happy threw back his head, a soulless voice, “Fuck them, chamaco . Run!”

Using his pistol, the one in the suit cracked down hard, the back of the skull. Happy crumpled, toppling onto his side in the dust.

– Is this what you want? The tall one bent over, coughed, waved a limp hand toward Happy.- Come on. Think. You won’t make it, you know that, right? I know just where that trail comes out .

All I gotta do, make one call, they’ll be there on the other side, waiting. Stop dicking around, give your cousin a chance here .

From behind, Lupe, her voice tight with pain:- I can’t ask you to do this .

He could smell the stale coppery odor on her breath.- Then don’t ask .

She tried to brush past.- I owe it to his father .

Roque stopped her with his arm, holding her back-he could feel her draining strength.- They’re going to kill you, if you’re lucky. Kill us all. Who’s that repay?