Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

Bag in hand, Coldmoon walked the quarter mile into the center of town. A small plaza was flanked by an old blue-washed adobe church on one side and the hotel on the other. He was glad to see a taxi sitting in front of the hotel, windows rolled down, the driver napping inside.

He went into the hotel, booked a room, and carried his bag upstairs. It wasn’t a bad room, spacious and sunny, with a bed, desk, and (thank God) A/C, which he turned on. The place also had a sluggish, intermittent semblance of Wi-Fi. He removed his iPad from the bag and loaded Google Maps, zeroing in on La Gloria. Fortunately, it was a village with not many roads radiating from it. There was a main road, Route 190, which passed by about five kilometers to the west. A dozen other roads led out from the town’s small grid of streets. They were all dirt and almost all seemed to go to outlying farms or ranch houses.

Using an online tool, Coldmoon measured 9.2 kilometers from the Del Charro out each of those roads.

Bingo. There was one, and only one, that matched within half a kilometer, and that ended at a farmhouse precisely 9.2 kilometers from Del Charro.

No suspicious-looking convoy of armed men had passed through the square headed for the bar while he made these calculations. Apparently, El Monito was going to wait for trouble to come to him.

He went downstairs and exited through the lobby to the street. He tapped on the cab’s window, rousing the driver.

“Are you available?”

“Of course, of course! Where do you want to go, señor?” asked the driver, sitting up and starting his car, astonished to have business.

“I’ll tell you where to turn.”

“All right.”

“Start by taking a right at the end of the plaza.”

He directed the cabdriver out of town, following the route he had identified. It led westward into a range of low hills, past tiny farm plots and small cattle ranches.

“Where are we going, señor?” the driver asked, becoming nervous.

“I’m looking to buy land.”

At one kilometer from the farmhouse in question, Coldmoon said, “I’ll get out here.”

“There’s nothing here.”

“There’s land here.”

By this time the driver was extremely nervous and trying not to show it. Coldmoon tipped him generously, got his business card, and arranged to be picked up at the same place in two hours’ time. He wasn’t sure if the driver would show up, but the man was probably frightened enough to do what he asked.

The cab pulled a U-turn and drove off. Coldmoon watched it go, and then he walked ahead and inspected the dusty road. There they were: fresh, almost bald tire prints with the faint zigzag.

Other than those prints — one set coming, another set going — there were no recent tire tracks visible.

He paused to think about how he was going to handle El Monito. He would certainly be armed. The man was a coyote, and they had a reputation for brutality equal to drug smugglers and gang members. And there might be — in fact probably were — several friends in the farmhouse. On top of all that, they’d be warned and on high alert. In short, he realized, he was about to do a completely stupid and dangerous thing.

He pondered this. He’d come a long way, the answers he wanted were in that farmhouse, and he was goddamned if he was going to walk away.

Locating his position on the iPad using Google Maps, he climbed a fence into a cornfield of dry stalks and began circling around to approach the house from an unexpected direction. The field offered excellent cover, and he was able to get within a hundred yards. He settled down to watch for a while, try to get a sense of how many people he would have to deal with. The farm was a small whitewashed building with a tin roof painted red, next to a sagging barn with holes in the roof and walls. An old Ford sat in the dirt parking area outside.

A half hour passed, and Coldmoon saw no sign of life. The house looked deserted, but with the car and the lack of recent tire tracks he was pretty sure at least one person was inside. He needed to view the house from another angle, preferably closer, where he could see into the windows.

Circling further, he came up behind the barn, which would provide cover for a closer approach. He emerged from the corn and sprinted to the back side of the barn, pressing himself against the wall and removing his Browning. Edging along, he came to a dirty window and peered inside. The barn was dark, flecks of sunlight dappling the interior through the holes in the roof and walls, and it appeared to be empty. Coldmoon edged farther around to the door and slipped inside. He crossed the length of the barn and paused next to a sliding door that opened toward the house.

The door was open and he peered around the corner. The house remained silent — but watchful. There was an open dirt expanse he would have to cross to get inside. Did he dare make a run for it? The odds were good he hadn’t been seen. And even if he had, he would make a fast-moving target.

He broke cover and ran, dodging this way and that. The firing began almost immediately, wild shots kicking up dust on both sides of him. In a few seconds he had reached the back wall of the house and flattened himself against it. The firing had come from a window not five feet to his right.

Son of a bitch, now he was really screwed. He was probably outnumbered. All he had was his Browning versus their probable arsenal. Maybe he would get lucky and only the shooter would be inside.

“ Hola , El Monito!” he called out.

Silence.

“I just want to talk!”

A voice came from the window — quavering and high. “I did everything you asked! For God’s sake, leave me alone!”

This was unexpected. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

“ ¡Mira qué cabrón! Hurt me? You want to kill me!”

While he was yelling, Coldmoon took the opportunity to slip around the edge of the house to the door.

“You can keep the money,” the man shouted. “I don’t want it! Just leave me alone!”

Coldmoon braced himself, then rammed his shoulder into the door. It burst open with a splintering noise and he rushed the man, who was crouching below the window. The man whipped the gun around, but he was in such a panic that he started firing even before he had aimed and Coldmoon body-slammed him, sending the gun flying. He kicked it aside and swung his Browning on the man, who was now sprawled on the floor.

“Don’t!” the man cried, covering his head with his hands and drawing up his knees. “Please! Just tell me what you want me to do!”

Instead of the brutal coyote he expected to find, Coldmoon saw a small, skinny man with a wispy goatee, blubbering in fear.

“Are you El Monito?”

“Don’t do it!”

“Pull yourself together. Is there anyone else in the house?”

The man shook his head.

“You’re El Monito?”

A tentative nod.

“Okay, now do as I say. Stand up slowly, hands in view.”

The man stood up, his thin arms held out. Coldmoon quickly searched him and removed a knife. “Okay, let’s go into the kitchen. You first.”

The man turned and they walked into the kitchen.

“Have a seat,” said Coldmoon. He could smell burnt coffee. There was a pot on a woodstove. Damn, he could sure use a cup.

The man sat down, shaking in terror.

“Look. First of all, I’m not going to kill you.”

The man said nothing.

“Second, we’re going to need coffee. Two cups, please, and pour them nice and slow, keeping your hands in view. Okay?”

The man rose, took down two mugs from a wooden shelf, and poured out the coffee.

“Slide mine over here.”

Coldmoon hoisted the mug, enjoyed the burnt aroma, and took a sip. He took another, bigger gulp, almost burning his mouth in his enthusiasm.