Sharon Sala - Rider on Fire & When You Call My Name

She scurried away, glad to be leaving in one piece.

“Come in,” Miguel said.

Jorge nodded quickly, looked over his shoulder, then stepped inside. He didn’t waste time or words. “You wanted the name of the agent who killed your brother.”

Miguel’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes.”

“Her name is Sonora Jordan. She lives in Phoenix, Arizona.”

Miguel stifled the urge to clap his hands. This was the best news he’d had in days. “You are sure.”

“Sí, Patron.”

Miguel put a hand on Jorge’s shoulder to explain why he couldn’t pay him yet. “They are watching my home and my bank.”

Jorge nodded again. No further explanation was needed. “I know,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a roll of hundred dollar bills, which he handed to Miguel. “For you, Patron, and if you’re ready, I can get you across the border tonight.”

Miguel was not only surprised, he was shocked. He had greatly underestimated this man’s loyalty. “When this is over, you will be greatly rewarded.”

Jorge shrugged. “I expect nothing, Patron. It is my honor to help. At eleven o’clock, there will be one knock on your door. The man who comes will take you to a hacienda outside of Juarez where a private plane will be waiting. The pilot has already gotten clearance for his trip, but it does not include landing in Juarez, so the timing will be crucial. You must not be late because he will not wait. Once across the border, he will touch down briefly at a small airstrip outside of Houston. More money and a car will be waiting for you there. The man who brought it has been instructed to stay until he sees that you’re safely on the ground.”

Miguel threw his arms around Jorge. “Gracias, Jorge…gracias. I will never forget this.”

Jorge nodded and smiled. “Vaya con Dios, Patron.” And then he was gone.

Miguel glanced at his watch. It was just after nine. Within two hours, he would be gone from this place and on his way to fulfilling the promise he’d made at his mother’s grave.

As soon as Jorge reached the street, he took out his cell phone and made a call. “Tony, this is Jorge Diaz. I need you to do something for me.”

Tony Freely was one of Jorge’s mules. He traveled back and forth regularly from his ranch outside of Houston to Juarez, doing his part to make sure that the drug market continued to thrive and being nicely reimbursed for his troubles.

“Yeah, sure, Jorge. Just name it.”

“You remember the old runway where I had you pick up a load about three months back?”

“Yeah, but I thought you didn’t want to use it anymore.”

“I don’t. It’s something else,” Jorge said. “What I want you to do is go to that runway at an hour before midnight tonight and wait for a small plane to land there. A man will get off. You let him see you. Let him see your face, but don’t talk to him. Just get in your car and drive away.”

Tony frowned. This didn’t sound right, but he knew better than to question Jorge.

“Sure. No problem.”

“Thank you,” Jorge said. “I’ll make it worth your while.” Tony’s frown disappeared. Money talked loud and clear to him. “Consider it done,” he said, and hung up the phone.

Jorge did the same, smiling as he disconnected. Before he was through, the Garcia brothers’ reign of power would be over and he would be the one in charge.

* * *

As promised, Miguel’s ride appeared on time. He didn’t recognize the short, fat man who came to get him, and the man didn’t offer a name. They got to the airstrip without incident. Soon the lights of Juarez were swiftly disappearing below them. Miguel was already making plans as to how to find Sonora Jordan and make her pay for the death of his brother.

In about an hour, the plane began to lose altitude and Miguel’s heartbeat accelerated. He leaned over and peered out the window to the sea of lights that was Houston.

The pilot banked suddenly to the west and began descending. Minutes later, the small plane landed, taking a couple of hard bounces before rolling to an easy stop.

Miguel saw a small hangar and a man standing beneath a single light mounted above the door. In the shadows nearby, he could see the outline of a car.

He owed Jorge big-time.

“You get out now,” the pilot said shortly.

Miguel frowned. It was the most the man had said to him since they took off. Still, he grabbed his bag and jumped out of the plane. Even as he was walking away, the plane turned around and took off the same way it had landed.

Caught in the back draft, Miguel ducked his head and closed his eyes while dust and grit swirled around him. When he opened his eyes, the plane was off the ground and the man he’d seen under the lights was gone.

The unexpected solitude and quiet made him a little uneasy, and when a chorus of coyotes suddenly tuned up from somewhere beyond the hangar, he headed for the car in a run.

Only after he was inside with the doors locked and his hand on the keys dangling from the ignition did he relax. He started the engine and checked the gauges. The car was full of gas, and two maps were on the seat beside him—one of Texas and one of Arizona. After a quick check of the briefcase in the passenger seat, he knew he would have plenty of money to do what had to be done. He backed away from the hangar and followed the dirt road until he hit blacktop. Gauging his directions by the digital compass on the rearview mirror, he turned north and drove until daylight. The first town he came to, he stopped and ate breakfast, then got a room at the local motel. It was ten minutes after nine in the morning when he crawled between the sheets. Within seconds, he was out.

* * *

Even though Sonora had started out with an indefinite direction in mind, the farther she went, the more certain she became that, whatever her future held, she would find it somewhere east.

Near the Arizona border, it started to rain. Sonora stopped and took a room at a chain motel. She tossed her bag onto the bed before heading to the restaurant on-site.

Once she finished her meal, she started back to her room on the second floor. She was halfway up the stairs when she pulled an Alice and, once again, fell down the rabbit hole.

* * *

It was raining. The kind of rain that some people called a toad strangler—a hard, pounding downpour with little to no wind. She’d never stood in the rain and not been wet before. It was an eerie sensation. And it was night again. Why did insanity keep yanking her around in the dark? It was bad enough she was hallucinating.

She didn’t have to look twice to know that she was back at the Native American man’s house. Water was running off the roof and down between her feet, following the slope of the ground. All of a sudden, lightning struck with a loud, frightening crack. She flinched, then relaxed. There was no need to panic. She wasn’t really here. This was just a dream.

She looked toward the house, then felt herself moving closer, although she knew for a fact that her feet never shifted. Now she was standing beneath the porch and looking into the window. At first, she saw nothing. Then she saw the Native American man lying on the floor near a doorway.

She gasped and started toward the door when she realized that, again, she had no power here. She was nothing but a witness. Dread hit her belly high. Why was she seeing this if she could do nothing about it?

Then, as she was watching through the window, she realized there was a light in the window that hadn’t been there before. It took a few moments before she could tell it was a reflection from a vehicle coming down the driveway behind her.

She turned, wanting to call out—willing herself to scream out “please hurry,” but as before, she was nothing but an observer.