Doubleback: A Novel (37 page)

A moment later the back door opened, and Billed Cap stumbled out into the yard, cursing in Spanish. The door closed behind him. Georgia held her breath and peeked around. The man stopped just outside the door, tipped the bottle to his mouth, and took a long swig. Then he staggered in her direction. If he came around the corner he would spot her. To be this close and have it all fall apart... she quickly crept around another corner.

Billed Cap turned the corner to the side she’d been flattened against a few seconds earlier. She risked a look. He seemed to be wavering. Was he going back inside? Camp out here? She heard more cursing. He listed to one side, righted himself and took an unsteady step forward. Then another. Finally, he headed away from the bodega. Georgia waited until he was well away from the store then hurried back to the window.

Tall Guard had shoved Carmelita against a wall. His hands were groping, pushing, squeezing. She was laughing, resisting playfully. He pulled away long enough to unbuckle his belt. She gestured to one of the two closed doors. He shook his head. Carmelita gestured again. Georgia knew she was protesting. Telling him she wanted some privacy. The guard growled in response. His hands moved up her legs, bunching the material of her dress at her waist. As he humped her through his pants, Georgia was close to despair. It wasn’t going to work.

Then, without warning, Carmelita pushed hard against him. He pulled back. She darted across the room, went to one of the doors, and threw it open. Georgia could see a ladder going down. A shot of adrenaline shot down her spine. The tunnel entrance!

Carmelita went to the other door and threw it open. It looked like a small closet or storeroom crammed with boxes and crates. Carmelita spun around, smiled, and beckoned him in. He came towards her and pushed the tunnel door shut. She snaked her arms around his neck, drew him into the storeroom. The door closed.

Georgia immediately went to the bodega’s back door, which was unlocked, and slipped inside. In two steps she was at the door to the tunnel. She opened it, but paused before taking the steps down. She heard Carmelita’s moans of fake passion, the guard’s grunts in response.

She descended the ladder.

•   •   •

As she reached the bottom of the steps, she was accosted by the odor of human waste. She breathed through her mouth. It had to be twenty degrees cooler, and the chill contrasted with the sultry heat above. It was eerily quiet, except for an occasional plink of water, which meant the tunnel might well be a spur off the storm drain she and Whit had passed earlier.

Turning around, she tried to get her bearings. A wheelbarrow on its side blocked her way. She grabbed the handlebars and moved it to the side. She’d thought she’d need a flashlight, but bare bulbs were strung with wire every twenty or thirty feet. A slight draft told her it was ventilated, too. The tightly packed dirt floor was fairly flat, but it was pitted with stones. Which meant she’d have to tread with caution. The walls had been hewn from rock and were shored up at regular intervals with wood supports. The ceiling, about seven feet high, was a surprise. No need to bend over or crouch as she walked. Someone had spent a lot of time and effort engineering the tunnel.

She started forward. The tunnel curved, blocking her view, but once around the bend, it straightened out. Under normal circumstances, Georgia could walk a mile in about twenty minutes, but the tunnel had to be much shorter, less than a quarter of a mile, she guessed. Three to four football fields at most. Six minutes later, by her watch, the path curved again, and the floor seemed to rise. She must be nearing the U.S. end. Negotiating the curve, she saw an abrupt end to the tunnel. Another set of steps led to a ceiling hatch made of steel with two metal handles protruding. A wheeled dolly sat on the ground near the steps. She was underneath Grant Copper Works.

Backtracking about ten yards, she slid the backpack off her shoulders. She opened it, took out one of the bricks of C-4, and unwrapped it. It looked and felt like white putty. She threw the plastic into her backpack and fished out a pen. Remembering how Whit had done it, she carefully poked a hole in the brick. Then she pulled out a detonator and inserted it in the hole, setting the timer for thirty minutes. A green light on the tiny LCD display flashed red. It was armed. She placed the charge in an unobtrusive area behind a rock.

She jogged about a hundred yards back toward the Mexican side and repeated the process with another brick, this time setting the charge and timer for twenty-nine minutes. Loping another hundred yards she did it a third time, setting the timer for twenty-eight minutes.

Done. She tried to ignore the nagging thought that she was sealing the time of her own death.

Slinging the backpack over her shoulders, Georgia headed around the curve back towards the Mexican end. She froze when she heard a voice in front of her. Male. Spanish. Conversational. Another voice replied. Chatty. Relaxed. Her stomach flooded with fear. Carmelita should still be servicing the guard. Or interesting him in a do-over. These sounded like different voices, and their steps and shuffles indicated they were coming toward her. Fuck! Her mouth went dry. There was no place to hide. As soon as they rounded the bend, they’d see her.

With her good hand she drew out her Sig and began to sneak back to the U.S. side. The voices kept coming. She made sure to stay well in front of them. Even so, there was only a few seconds until they saw her. She darted a look at the ceiling and walls, hoping to spot a manhole cover or something. Some way out. But there was nothing. Just the two ends of the tunnel. Meanwhile, the first charge would explode in less than thirty minutes.

Georgia started to run towards the U.S. side, thinking she would upend the dolly and use it as a shield. But she wasn’t paying attention to the ground, and she tripped on a rock. As she fell, an arrow of pain shot up her broken wrist. Shaking herself off, she managed to struggle to her feet. The voices were loud. A moment later she heard gasps, and the voices racheted up to shouts.

“
Quieta!”
Their voices were shrill.
“Ahora!”

She kept going. She heard running steps behind her, the click of pistol slides being racked. Shots filled the tunnel with a deafening roar. Something whizzed by her ear.

“Alto, no te muevas!”

With her bad arm she didn’t have time to rack the slide on her Sig. She stopped, threw down her gun, and dropped to the floor.

•   •   •

Three men. She didn’t recognize them. One was pushing the wheelbarrow, which was now full of large burlap bags. The other two tied her hands behind her back and stuffed something in her mouth. A conversation in Spanish ensued. It seemed to last forever. Georgia was caught between anger and despair. Even if she could speak, she didn’t know how to say they had to get out before they were blown away.

Finally, one of the three men headed back to the Mexican side of the tunnel. Probably to tell whoever was in charge that there was an intruder, and an
Anglo
at that. Georgia tried to inch forward, but one of the men aimed his pistol at her. She halted. Her pulse was pounding. Shit! They didn’t have time to wait for directions from the boss. They had to get out.

She was acutely aware of time passing. Was it one minute? Two? She wanted to check her watch, but her hands were tied. Her skin felt sweaty and damp, and she choked back panic. She wondered how to disarm the charges. Whit hadn’t taught her that. Could she just pull out the detonators? Assuming she could even reach them.

Another minute passed. Her chest heaved. She started to whimper. One of the men raised his gun and aimed. She shook her head and whimpered again, louder. She yanked her head to the side. The other man gazed at her with curiosity, but the one with the gun snarled and spoke sharply. Probably told his buddy not to pay any attention. Regardless, Georgia kept groaning and yanking her head.

The second man frowned.
“Ella quiere decirnos algo.”
She’s trying to tell us something.

The first man shrugged. The second man came over to Georgia and took the gag out of her mouth.

“We have to get out of here!” She croaked. “Right now! We’re in terrible danger!”

He looked at her, not comprehending.

“Peligro!”
She yelled.
“Ahora. Vamos! Ahora!”

“Si, si, peligro...”
The first man cackled. He looked amused.

“No!” Georgia’s throat tightened.
“Aqui peligro!
There’s a fucking bomb in here!
Vamos rapido!”
She lifted her chin toward the ceiling of the tunnel.

“¿Qué pasa?”
The second man asked.

Christ, they had to move! Georgia didn’t know the Spanish word for bomb. “There’s a bomb in here, you assholes! Let’s go!”

Another conversation. The first man waved a dismissive hand. “
No, No puede ser verda.”
More conversation. Georgia heard the word “
bomba
.” The second man gestured vigorously.

“Okay.” The man with the gun sighed. “
Vamos
.” He threw Georgia a disgusted glance, as if he didn’t believe her but was reluctantly obliging his buddy.

They half pushed, half dragged her through the tunnel to the U.S. side, but the hatch on the ceiling was closed. Georgia guessed nearly twenty minutes had elapsed. The first charge would detonate in about five minutes.

One of the men banged on the hatch. Nothing happened. He pulled on the handles.

“Please,” she prayed to herself. “Be there. Even if it’s Ken Grant. We need to get out of here.”

They banged again. No response.

The men looked back at her. She couldn’t remember the Spanish word for “again,” but she nodded. They banged once more. Nothing. She was about to give up when the cover finally slid back, and a face peered down. Dark. Hispanic. She imagined him with wraparound shades. She knew him. The man with the missing finger.

•   •   •

She was on the floor of the cavernous warehouse, propped up against a wall. The air was warm and close, but the floor was cool. Most of the warehouse was in shadow, but she could see large pieces of equipment in the corners. A couple of them had giant arcing pipes that swept across the ceiling and hung over her head. The walls were cinderblock, and crates and boxes were stacked against them.

In front of her was another set of walls. Shorter and painted white, they were the walls surrounding the remodeled office suites of Ken Grant. The entrance to the tunnel was a few feet away. The hatch was open, but the two Mexicans who had brought her here had left. Had they gone back to the Mexican side?

Suddenly a bright light shone on her face, blinding her. She squeezed her eyes shut. The light bobbed to one side. She opened her eyes. The man with the missing finger held a mag light and was staring at her with hard eyes.

From the darkness behind him Ken Grant stepped forward. He looked the same as the first time they’d met: a gray ponytail, high cheekbones, lantern jaw. Dressed in denim. He gazed at her with mild curiosity, in contrast to the other man’s ferocity. “Who sent you?”

“No one.”

His eyes narrowed, obviously not believing her, but he kept his mouth shut.

Where was the fucking explosion?

“I was hoping you would give up and go back to Chicago,” Grant finally said. “You’ve become a problem.”

Georgia forced herself to control her body language and voice. She didn’t know whether the Mexicans had told Grant she’d been babbling about a bomb, but in case they didn’t, she didn’t want to alert them to the C-4. “Why did you arrange for Delton to use your father’s trucks in the desert?”

Grant smiled. “I am a businessman. I was simply taking advantage of an opportunity.”

She inched away from the hatch. “You’re a murderer.”

“Semantics.” His smile faded. “Actually, my father would understand. He’d have done the same thing, if he thought he could get away with it.”

“Are you sure?” Georgia wanted desperately to look toward the open hatch. It was agony not to.

Grant studied her. For an instant, she thought he could read her mind. She waited for him to whip around and gaze at the tunnel, but he didn’t. Instead he sighed. “It’s unfortunate it’s come to this.”

He turned to the man with the missing finger, who ran his tongue around his lips, as if impatient to get to the killing.

“Suppose you start from the beginning. How did you locate the tunnel?”

Georgia squirmed. Did that mean Carmelita got away? Wouldn’t Grant have mentioned they had her if she hadn’t? There couldn’t be more than a minute or two until the first blast. With any luck, the two of them would descend into the tunnel to investigate. A few seconds afterwards... she inched further away from the hatch.

The man with the missing finger squinted at her, then launched into a hurried conversation with Grant. When Grant nodded, Missing Finger turned back to Georgia.

“Why were you in such a hurry to get out of the tunnel?” He said in perfect, unaccented English.

She sank lower against the wall. She just had to hang on a little longer.

“Answer me. You don’t want me to force you.”

As if on cue, he crouched beside her, pulling out a knife with a six inch blade. It glinted in the light. Georgia looked at the knife, then back to him. How much longer?

The man lifted his chin. “Believe it or not, I don’t like to see anyone suffer, especially a woman. But if you won’t cooperate...” He laughed then, a cruel raspy sound that contradicted his words.

She didn’t reply.

“Well, now,” he said. “In that case, I think I’ll start with your arm. Since your wrist is already broken, we may as well make it permanent.”

She was under no illusions. The cartel was known for torturing their victims before burning, decapitating, or otherwise killing them. He cut through her cast and dug his fingers into her wrist. The pain was excruciating. Incoherent thoughts tumbled through her mind. An image of Molly Messenger. Then Ellie Foreman. Raffi. Pete. Even Matt.

He raised the knife. She felt hot breath on her face. It would only take seconds to saw off her arm. Her eyes darted to the tunnel entrance. Still no explosion. Had she set the charges incorrectly? They should have gone off by now.