of the bikes hadn’t so much as disturbed a pigeon. He gestured to the others to kill their engines and huddle.
“Something’s not right.” The hairs rose on the back of his neck, but he kept his voice calm. “I can feel it.”
Pitbull nodded. “Shakespeare’s right. It’s never this dead around here. I got a bad feeling.”
Fuck. He texted Prez. Truck on its way? Pitbull already had his hand on his gun. They exchanged glances. “I’m holding the truck.”
Affirmative , came the immediate buzz from Prez.
“You think he bailed on us?” Crapper asked.
Alejandro’s fingers flew over the keys. Pause it. Trouble. I’ll call in a few .
Pitbull’s voice was quiet. “I think there’s someone else here,” he murmured.
The six men spread across the drive in formation and headed toward the self-storage units, weapons drawn. They were halfway there when gunshots sprayed the gravel in front of them.
“Motherfucker!” Popeye cursed, turning and firing a series of shots in the direction of the open fire. Alejandro watched as Motormouth staggered, seizing his side. He raced to the older man’s side and dragged him as best as he could manage around the corner of the building. One by one the others followed.
“What the fuck was that?” Pitbull panted. “Who knew about this besides us and Haji?”
“No fucking idea.” Alejandro swore as he looked at the bullet hole in Motormouth’s vest and the blood that seeped from between the man’s shaking fingers. “Must have something to do with the coyotes. Maybe Border Patrol followed them out here.”
Popeye peered tentatively around the corner and quickly ducked his head back. “Fuck. They’re out there,” he whispered. “Three giant motherfuckers packing plenty of heat. Not Border Patrol.”
“What are they doing?” Alejandro asked. They didn’t have much time before they Motormouth had lost enough blood that they’d have to get him to the hospital. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was supposed to be an easy handoff. He peered around the corner himself and saw the men in question. He didn’t recognize a single face, and Popeye was right. All three men were far more heavily armed than the six of his crew put together. Suddenly he wished he hadn’t canceled the truck.
Just then a fourth man appeared, with two men tied together and stumbling as he dragged them down the driveway. His voice rang out in their direction. “I found some rodents in this place,” he called in a thick Eastern European accent Alejandro couldn’t quite place. “Some rats. Or perhaps little mice.” He paused and lit a cigarette.
Shit. The prisoners were clearly two of the men they were supposed to be transporting to Dallas. He heard the soft pleas from one and said a silent prayer that the others were still alive. Where the fuck were the coyotes?
“I wonder what price is for little mice?” the man wondered aloud.
Alejandro realized it was time to make his move. “Cover me,” he whispered to Popeye and then ran behind the next bank of storage units, popping out of the next aisle with his hands raised.
“You started the party without us,” he called to the men, swaggering toward them. “Those are my mice you have there. What happened to the men who brought them?”
The tallest of the men, a giant with a sloping forehead and exaggerated iron jaw, raised his weapon. The blond man next to him spoke softly and the giant lowered it, but only halfway.
The other man forced the illegals to their knees and put a gun to the closest temple. “They didn’t want to talk,” he said. “We made sure they won't have to talk anymore.”
Alejandro swallowed hard. If that was true, they had just lost their most valuable coyotes. Shit . He tried not to think about Oscar, who had showed Alejandro a picture of his newborn son when they’d had the last handoff. He tried not to think of Oscar’s wife, at
“Something’s not right.” The hairs rose on the back of his neck, but he kept his voice calm. “I can feel it.”
Pitbull nodded. “Shakespeare’s right. It’s never this dead around here. I got a bad feeling.”
Fuck. He texted Prez. Truck on its way? Pitbull already had his hand on his gun. They exchanged glances. “I’m holding the truck.”
Affirmative , came the immediate buzz from Prez.
“You think he bailed on us?” Crapper asked.
Alejandro’s fingers flew over the keys. Pause it. Trouble. I’ll call in a few .
Pitbull’s voice was quiet. “I think there’s someone else here,” he murmured.
The six men spread across the drive in formation and headed toward the self-storage units, weapons drawn. They were halfway there when gunshots sprayed the gravel in front of them.
“Motherfucker!” Popeye cursed, turning and firing a series of shots in the direction of the open fire. Alejandro watched as Motormouth staggered, seizing his side. He raced to the older man’s side and dragged him as best as he could manage around the corner of the building. One by one the others followed.
“What the fuck was that?” Pitbull panted. “Who knew about this besides us and Haji?”
“No fucking idea.” Alejandro swore as he looked at the bullet hole in Motormouth’s vest and the blood that seeped from between the man’s shaking fingers. “Must have something to do with the coyotes. Maybe Border Patrol followed them out here.”
Popeye peered tentatively around the corner and quickly ducked his head back. “Fuck. They’re out there,” he whispered. “Three giant motherfuckers packing plenty of heat. Not Border Patrol.”
“What are they doing?” Alejandro asked. They didn’t have much time before they Motormouth had lost enough blood that they’d have to get him to the hospital. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was supposed to be an easy handoff. He peered around the corner himself and saw the men in question. He didn’t recognize a single face, and Popeye was right. All three men were far more heavily armed than the six of his crew put together. Suddenly he wished he hadn’t canceled the truck.
Just then a fourth man appeared, with two men tied together and stumbling as he dragged them down the driveway. His voice rang out in their direction. “I found some rodents in this place,” he called in a thick Eastern European accent Alejandro couldn’t quite place. “Some rats. Or perhaps little mice.” He paused and lit a cigarette.
Shit. The prisoners were clearly two of the men they were supposed to be transporting to Dallas. He heard the soft pleas from one and said a silent prayer that the others were still alive. Where the fuck were the coyotes?
“I wonder what price is for little mice?” the man wondered aloud.
Alejandro realized it was time to make his move. “Cover me,” he whispered to Popeye and then ran behind the next bank of storage units, popping out of the next aisle with his hands raised.
“You started the party without us,” he called to the men, swaggering toward them. “Those are my mice you have there. What happened to the men who brought them?”
The tallest of the men, a giant with a sloping forehead and exaggerated iron jaw, raised his weapon. The blond man next to him spoke softly and the giant lowered it, but only halfway.
The other man forced the illegals to their knees and put a gun to the closest temple. “They didn’t want to talk,” he said. “We made sure they won't have to talk anymore.”
Alejandro swallowed hard. If that was true, they had just lost their most valuable coyotes. Shit . He tried not to think about Oscar, who had showed Alejandro a picture of his newborn son when they’d had the last handoff. He tried not to think of Oscar’s wife, at
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