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inspection card and tissue paper put in by the original manufacturer to make the duffel look solid.
“This bag is really new,” Hunter said.
Jase scooped up everything but the tissue paper, pulled clean plastic bags from his wind jacket, and folded all the paper towels away. Everything disappeared into his pockets.
“I’d really like to talk to LeRoy Landry,” Jase said.
“I’d like to help.”
Hunter stuffed the tissue paper back in the seven compartments, zipped everything, and shoved the bag back under the bed. Together he and Jase did a fast, discreet search of the apartment. No cell phone, no regular phone. Nothing in plain sight, and no place to hide anything in the empty cupboards. The refrigerator held two beers and a few moldy lumps of something organic. There was a piece of paper halfway under the trash can. The top of the paper had an ICE logo. The rest was blank.
“Short of pulling up the floor, tearing apart the mattress, and axing the walls, we’re done,” Jase said. “Let’s haul—”
Squeaky brakes came to an ear-ringing stop in front of the apartment.
Hunter eased over to the side of the window in the main room, looked out carefully at the street, and held up two fingers.
“We’re outta here,” Jase said. “I don’t like jail food.”
Hunter followed Jase out the apartment door, pulling it almost closed, just the way they had found it. They shucked the exam gloves and crossed the concrete balcony to the top of the stairs just before company appeared.
Two well-dressed men, relaxed and hard-eyed, stepped through the useless security door and headed up to the second floor. In the sun, their long black hair was shiny, straight, their features more Maya than Mexican, and their cowboy boots blindingly expensive. Though neither man was above medium height, they carried themselves like they were ten feet tall.
One of the men showed a flash of recognition when he saw Hunter. Then the man’s face became expressionless again. Silently the two men climbed the stairs and stepped past Jase and Hunter, going single file.
Jase started down the stairs in a hurry.
Hunter swore loudly in Tex-Mex Spanish and grabbed the rail. “Damn cramp is back,” he said in the same dialect. He clung to the railing and flexed his left leg violently. His face was a grimace of pain.
Jase started to say something, then thought better of it.
The two strangers hesitated outside Landry’s door. They spoke in a language that sounded like one of the many native dialects that pocked Mexico, words from a time before Spanish sails had ever been seen in the New World.
Hunter couldn’t figure out a damn word.
“You okay, man?” Jase asked clearly in the same kind of border Spanish Hunter had used.
“Yeah, I’ll live,” Hunter answered in the same language, kneading his left calf and knee. “I’m too old to get beaten up in soccer scrums.”
Jase understood Hunter’s game immediately. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump you on your ass.”
“Yeah, yeah. Help me down. If we’re late to pick up your sister, she’ll kick my other leg.”
Both he and Jase were careful to keep their back to Landry’s door, but Hunter had unusually good peripheral vision.
One of the men knocked hard on Landry’s broken door.
“You want to lean on me?” Jase asked.
“I’ll walk. You get ready to catch me.” Hunter took a tentative first step and then hobbled very slowly down the steps, toward the busted street door.
Behind them Landry’s apartment door scraped open.
As soon as Hunter and Jase got out of sight of the building, they walked quickly to his Jeep.
“Let’s keep an eye on this place,” Hunter said softly in English. “The liquor-store parking lot down and across the way should work.”
“You like those dudes for something? They sure were too expensive for around here.”
“No crime to be a dude. But if their business is with Landry, then hell yeah, I like them.”
Hunter waited in the parking
“This bag is really new,” Hunter said.
Jase scooped up everything but the tissue paper, pulled clean plastic bags from his wind jacket, and folded all the paper towels away. Everything disappeared into his pockets.
“I’d really like to talk to LeRoy Landry,” Jase said.
“I’d like to help.”
Hunter stuffed the tissue paper back in the seven compartments, zipped everything, and shoved the bag back under the bed. Together he and Jase did a fast, discreet search of the apartment. No cell phone, no regular phone. Nothing in plain sight, and no place to hide anything in the empty cupboards. The refrigerator held two beers and a few moldy lumps of something organic. There was a piece of paper halfway under the trash can. The top of the paper had an ICE logo. The rest was blank.
“Short of pulling up the floor, tearing apart the mattress, and axing the walls, we’re done,” Jase said. “Let’s haul—”
Squeaky brakes came to an ear-ringing stop in front of the apartment.
Hunter eased over to the side of the window in the main room, looked out carefully at the street, and held up two fingers.
“We’re outta here,” Jase said. “I don’t like jail food.”
Hunter followed Jase out the apartment door, pulling it almost closed, just the way they had found it. They shucked the exam gloves and crossed the concrete balcony to the top of the stairs just before company appeared.
Two well-dressed men, relaxed and hard-eyed, stepped through the useless security door and headed up to the second floor. In the sun, their long black hair was shiny, straight, their features more Maya than Mexican, and their cowboy boots blindingly expensive. Though neither man was above medium height, they carried themselves like they were ten feet tall.
One of the men showed a flash of recognition when he saw Hunter. Then the man’s face became expressionless again. Silently the two men climbed the stairs and stepped past Jase and Hunter, going single file.
Jase started down the stairs in a hurry.
Hunter swore loudly in Tex-Mex Spanish and grabbed the rail. “Damn cramp is back,” he said in the same dialect. He clung to the railing and flexed his left leg violently. His face was a grimace of pain.
Jase started to say something, then thought better of it.
The two strangers hesitated outside Landry’s door. They spoke in a language that sounded like one of the many native dialects that pocked Mexico, words from a time before Spanish sails had ever been seen in the New World.
Hunter couldn’t figure out a damn word.
“You okay, man?” Jase asked clearly in the same kind of border Spanish Hunter had used.
“Yeah, I’ll live,” Hunter answered in the same language, kneading his left calf and knee. “I’m too old to get beaten up in soccer scrums.”
Jase understood Hunter’s game immediately. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump you on your ass.”
“Yeah, yeah. Help me down. If we’re late to pick up your sister, she’ll kick my other leg.”
Both he and Jase were careful to keep their back to Landry’s door, but Hunter had unusually good peripheral vision.
One of the men knocked hard on Landry’s broken door.
“You want to lean on me?” Jase asked.
“I’ll walk. You get ready to catch me.” Hunter took a tentative first step and then hobbled very slowly down the steps, toward the busted street door.
Behind them Landry’s apartment door scraped open.
As soon as Hunter and Jase got out of sight of the building, they walked quickly to his Jeep.
“Let’s keep an eye on this place,” Hunter said softly in English. “The liquor-store parking lot down and across the way should work.”
“You like those dudes for something? They sure were too expensive for around here.”
“No crime to be a dude. But if their business is with Landry, then hell yeah, I like them.”
Hunter waited in the parking
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