Border Crossings: A Catherine James Thriller (21 page)

Catherine didn’t know what to say.  “I’m sorry,” she offered after a long pause.

Ramirez sighed, long and sadly.  “Not as sorry as I am, Ms. James.”

“I can only imagine what that must feel like for you to know the men who did it are still out there, that they may never be brought to justice.  I guess you do understand how I feel.”

“Oh, yes,” he said.  “Even more than you know.”  Ramirez eyed her, trying to decide just how close he wanted their relationship to be.  Given what they were up against, he decided to go for broke.  “Those men didn’t exactly get away with what they did to my sister and my niece.”  He balled the napkin he’d been playing with up and flicked it to the side.  “The men that killed Juanita and Anna got drunk at a bar one night not too long ago, and when they got back in their car someone was waiting for them on the street.  Someone shot those men while they sat in their car.  All three were killed.”

“Who did it?”

“Well, that’s a mystery, isn’t it?” said Ramirez.  “The police don’t know.  The cartel doesn’t seem to know.  I suppose nobody does.”

Catherine began to understand.  “Do you know, Detective?”

Ramirez took the picture of Anna and returned it to his pocket.  “What I do know, Ms. James, is that someone decided if those men couldn’t be brought to justice, then justice should be brought to them.  Some crimes can’t go unpunished.”

“I agree,” said Catherine after a pause.

Ramirez shrugged.  “Who’s to say if it was right?”  Then he shook his head as though considering it.  “Who’s to say if it wasn’t revenge, not justice.”  He looked at Catherine wondering what she thought of this.  “Whoever killed those men broke the law.  They murdered three people.”

“Three people who were murdering rapists,” she added.  “Three people who probably would have killed young women and mothers and sisters if they hadn’t been stopped.  Whoever did it probably saved lives.  They did the right thing,” she told him, suddenly hearing Amy Woodall’s words echoing in her mind.

“Perhaps,” he said.  “Perhaps not.”  He looked at his watch.  “I should go now.  If you do decide to stay in Cancun, I hope you take care and are safe.  I would advise that you take special care to avoid men wearing the gold chains with medallions that Mr. Thomas here was wearing,” he tapped the file that held the photo of the gunman Catherine had killed.  “It bears a striking resemblance to the one the man in the sketch was wearing, doesn’t it?  I read a report that suggested the Barrio Boys have a way of identifying their hierarchy.  The report suggested tattoos or clothing, but I did some checking back on old mug shots and crime scenes and noticed something very interesting, Ms. James.  It seems the gang has a penchant for jewelry.  The low members of the gang often wear silver necklaces.  I saw a few pictures of boys wearing thin necklaces, but as they get older and more ruthless, the chains they wear seem to get thicker.  And a medallion?  My guess would be they get that when they commit their first murder.  It’s just a guess, of course.  But if I’m right, then it might explain who gets to wear the gold medallions.”

“The lieutenants?” she asked.

Ramirez nodded.  “It’s just a guess, as I said.  They’re mainly centered in Mexico City and up along the border, but it appears they’ve made their way here to Cancun, which is very troubling.  As an officer of the law, and as someone who doesn’t want to see you hurt, I advise you to return home, Ms. James.  But if you do stay, I recommend you keep your gun ready and your back to a wall at all times.  These guys don’t play fair.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Catherine, “and thank you, Detective.  I’m glad we talked.”

“Goodbye, Ms. James,” said Ramirez as he rose from his seat.  “I enjoyed our talk as well.  I hope we get to do it again someday.”

Catherine returned to the hotel that evening and told Matt what she’d learned.

“This is really something,” said Matt.  “I just left one cartel.  I didn’t figure to be getting wrapped up with another.”

“I know,” responded Catherine.  “I didn’t see this coming, either.  I’m still trying to figure out how Taylor crossed paths with these people.  You think they just singled her out in the bar for some reason?  Maybe this whole thing happened because that guy was mad Taylor turned him down.”

“People get killed for far less logical reasons,” he told her.

“Starting to look that way.” said Catherine.  “I can’t believe they would do this to her all because she wasn’t interested in the guy.”

“They’re used to getting what they want and doing what they want without consequence.  It’s quite possible this guy decided to kill her when she wouldn’t return his advances.  We’ll get him,” said Matt.  “Where do you want to start?”

“Ramirez said this is the first he’s known of them here in Cancun.  They’re mostly concentrated around the capital, but I think the first thing to do is to find the one that got away, the driver from the market.  We can start by trying to find that car.”

“What about Julio?” asked Matt.

Julio understood that whatever the two were talking about had something to do with him.  “My leg’s much better,” he offered.  And he flopped it around like a bad hokey pokey just to prove it.  “Are we going somewhere?”

“Yes,” Catherine told him, “but we’re going to have to find you another nice place to hang out for a while.”

Catherine was surprised to find Matt had a possible solution of what to do with Julio.  “I think I know of a place.  I can call an old amigo of mine who retired down in Playa del Carmen.  We can probably take him over there.”

“You think it’d be safe?”

“Safer than most anywhere else.”  Matt made a phone call and 30 minutes later was happy to report his old marine pal was willing to help out.  “He got put on government disability two years ago after an IED in Afghanistan.  He took a little R and R down in Playa del Carmen and ended up marrying some cute little
mamacita
down here and never left.  He’ll take good care of Julio for a bit.”

A knock came at the door.  Catherine looked at Matt, “You order room service?”

“No,” he said.

They both looked at Julio and Matt asked him in Spanish if he had.  “No.”

“Are you sure?” Catherine asked.

"
It wasn’t me,” Julio swore.

Matt
immediately grabbed his gun and Catherine did the same.

“Yes?” asked Catherine loudly.  There came no response.  Both he and Catherine stood with their guns raised.  She motioned to Julio to get on the other side of the bed and lay down.

Another knock came.

“Who is it!?” Catherine asked, louder this time.  No response.  She began silently walking towards the door as though to look out of the peephole, but was stopped by Matt’s arm.  He was shaking his head and moved Catherine behind him.  Then he picked up a tourist magazine from the little table and waved it in front of the peephole.  As the shadow moved across the little circle of glass, a bullet ripped through the glass eye, tearing through the magazine and disappearing into the sheetrock beyond.

Matt instantly answered by placing his own gun to the hole and firing.  They heard bumping noises outside and someone cursed.  “Kill the bitch!” someone yelled in Spanish.

The door reverberated with the sound of someone kicking it.  Then a barrage of gunfire splintered the lock and wood frame of the door.  Catherine and Matt were at the ready, though.  As the door flew inward, the invaders were met with lead bullets.  The first person through the door fell dead with two in the head.

Behind him two others were scrambling.  A fourth lay sprawled out in the hallway having received the bullet through the peephole.

One of the two remaining men yelled in fright and began shooting wildly while making a hasty retreat.  The other one, apparently not realizing his companion was fleeing, tried to rush the door solo.  Catherine and Matt had to get out of the line of fire
, so moved directly behind the door as the man tried to rush in again over his fallen comrade.  Catherine waited until he was halfway through, and then kicked it as hard as she could, keeping pressure applied.  The shooter was slammed in-between the door and its frame.  During the moment he was stuck there Matt darted out from behind the little desk.  He pushed the shooter’s hand up just as he fired, and then Matt placed his own gun near the man’s armpit and gave him a round of his own.  The bullet ripped between two ribs, exploded a lung, and tore through the heart.  The shooter managed a gasp then coughed up blood as he fell over dead, still caught in the door.

Catherine lowered her leg and the man slid to their feet.  Matt bolted out of the door yelling, “Stay here!” It happened so fast Catherine didn’t have time to respond.

She turned and dropped to her knees to check on Julio, who had taken refuge beneath the bed.  “Are you okay?”

He looked up and nodded quickly, too frightened to say anything.

Matt was running down the hall and pushed the door open into the stairway.  Below him, he could hear the footfalls of the last shooter running for his life.  Matt leaned out over the railing, aiming his gun carefully, but could get no shot.

The fleeing man was already a floor down and Matt knew he’d never run fast enough to catch him before the man reached the bottom floor and disappeared into the street.  He momentarily thought to give up the chase when another idea struck him. 
It’s a good day for a dip, remember?
He thought to himself. 
Ah, hell.  This is not a good idea,
thought another part of him.  He bolted back down the hallway and through the door of the room.  Catherine stared in shock as Matt flew past her with a very determined grimace on his face.  “Be right back,” he told her as he passed.  He opened the sliding glass door to the balcony in one quick motion, tucked his gun in his pants, slung himself over the railing, and then, like the
clavadistas
, or cliff divers, of Acapulco, he jumped outward from the balcony with all his strength.  “Matt!” Catherine cried in surprise, running to the balcony edge and watching Matt fall.

Down at the pool a woman was trying to convince her husband she’d just heard gunshots.  “Honestly, honey, I think I heard gunshots,” she was saying worriedly.

“Probably just a car, dear,” her husband responded absent-mindedly, his eyes glued to the pages of a novel he was reading.

“Matt!” Catherine shouted in horror as she watched him crash into the
pool below in a cannonball position that became more of an awkward back flop when he landed. 
Jesus, he is crazy. 
It was not the graceful leap he had hoped for, but he luckily didn’t break his neck.  “Matt!” She called again.  Matt popped up in the water with a grimace of pain.  “Are you okay?” She yelled from above. 
Idiot.

He’d hit the water harder than he thought and struggled for breath.  His buttocks and tailbone had hit bottom and he wondered for a moment if he’d broken bones. 
Stupid shallow pool,
he cursed.  But when he kicked his legs they obeyed, albeit not without some protest.  He pulled himself up and gave Catherine a wave like a stuntman who’d just missed his mark but wanted the crowd to know he wasn’t dead. 
Man, that hurt,
he groaned to himself, holding the small of his back as though it might snap in two if he didn't. 
I told you it was a bad idea,
a tiny voice whispered in his ear, but he paid it no mind.

“Are you okay?” asked the woman who had told her husband she’d heard shots, who had gotten up and was now approaching Matt like an angry hen.  “That was a fool stunt . . . .” she began.  But when Matt pulled his gun out of his waistband she turned back the other way in a hurry, “Oh, my!” she cried, her husband finally raising his head from the book to spot Matt coming towards them with a gun in his hand.  He dropped his book and then scurried away with his wife.  “I told you!” she was screaming at her husband.  “I told you someone was shooting!”

“Just run!” her husband responded.

Matt took off around to the front of the hotel in an ugly, limping run, ignoring the pain throbbing through his chest and down his lower back.  He passed a few shocked tourists heading to the pool, sending them screaming out of his path, and he reached the front door of the hotel just as the fourth shooter came flying out.  The man was so concerned with speed and who might be behind him that he gave no notice to what was in front of him and Matt delivered a head-splitting strike to the man’s skull with a dull thwack, dropping the man to the floor like a wet burlap bag of sand, out cold.  Witnesses disappeared into the closest doorway they could find.  It was the Hutton all over again, many thought, screams being heard as people disappeared behind halls and doors.  He tucked his gun away and was at a loss what to do.  The police would be there any second.  How the hell was he going to get Catherine and Julio out of the hotel and manage to haul this guy with them before the cops got there?  He didn’t want to hand over the only lead they had to the police, but he was about to resign himself that he had no other choice.  Then he noticed it.  Idling outside of the front door of the hotel was a car with nobody inside, very unusual indeed.  Further inspection revealed it was an old red Pontiac with a fresh set of paint and a new back window.  It had some new seats in it as well but they had left a pitted and scarred metal plate behind the driver’s seat.  “Is that yours?” he asked the unconscious man.  “Yeah, that’s yours,” he smiled, grabbing the man’s arms and dragging him towards the car.  “You don’t mind if I borrow it, do you?”  He put the man in the car but not before borrowing his cell phone.  Then he drove off, still soaking wet, while he called Catherine’s pre-paid cell phone.  Memorizing her number was one of the first things he had done when he arrived in Cancun.  She didn’t answer the first time, but when he hung up and dialed again he heard a brisk, “Yes!?”

“Catherine, it’s me.”

“Matt!?  What the hell?  Where are you?  We have to get out of here!”

“I’m already gone,” he told her.  “Sorry, but I didn’t have much of a choice.  I got the last guy.  He was nice enough to loan me his car.  I think you know it, an old Pontiac?  Anyway, sorry to take off on you like that but our unconscious little friend made quite a scene downstairs.  You and Julio need to get out of there right now.  How fast can you grab our stuff and get out?’

“Fast,” she told him, hanging up and grabbing a bag.  “Come on, kiddo!”  She yelled to Julio.  “We gotta get out of here.”

Julio ran, hobbled, and skipped after Catherine just as fast as his little leg would let him.