Without Warning (39 page)

Pieraro invoked the name of the Golden Arches with reverence and awe. Jules eased back a little, giving him some room. He was a proud man and very obviously cut from finer cloth than his comrades. The chorus of sexual taunts and whistles from the makeshift barricade had died away completely. All of Pieraro’s men watched him closely, straining to hear what had passed between
el jefe
and the white slut.

“I will take you in myself,” he declared. “We will discuss your proposal. You will have a proposal, yes?”

“I will,” she agreed.

He nodded and called out to another man who was sitting on the hood of an old ‘79 Camaro, reclining against the dirty windshield. The car was a dinosaur, with faded red racing stripes to match a thick coating of rust and dust.

“Roberto, you are in charge here! I will take our new friends through to the Fairmont. Call me on the radio if you need to. The phones are useless.”

Jules noted that like Miguel, Roberto was notable for being clean-shaven and sober. Where his boss was a tightly wrapped bundle of steel cord and knotted muscle, Roberto slid from the hood of the car in one fluid movement. He reminded her of a snake, uncoiling in the sun. In Miguel’s position, she wouldn’t have trusted him to sit the right way around on a toilet seat. Oh well, not her problem.

A few hand gestures from the two men saw their followers hurrying to turn over engines and reverse the cars out of their herringbone arrangement. Pieraro indicated that Jules should follow him, and she signaled Fifi to hurry back to the jeep. With the tension evaporating she allowed herself a few moments to check out the locale as she followed the former cowboy through the gauntlet of leering street toughs. They’d set up their
barricada
across an avenue most of them would formerly never have seen. Fab little fashion shops, jewelry stores, and cafés lined both sides of a street that had only recently been a well-manicured boulevard. She noted a Givenchy, a Prada, and an Armani boutique, all looted and burned out. Rubbish choked the gutters and sidewalks, and a couple of spent brass shell casings twinkled in the late-morning sun. Pieraro stopped at his car, forcing Jules to suppress a snigger. It was a micro, some sort of courtesy vehicle from the Fairmont resort according to the livery, not much more than two doors and four dinky little wheels. Pieraro caught her skeptical expression.

“It is new,” he said. “And environ
… environmentally
sustainable.”

“Does it run on tanning butter or something?” She smirked. She would have taken him for a muscle-car tragic. But then she’d taken him for a crooked cop, too, hadn’t she?

“It is just for running about… with work,” he emphasized.

She made sure the safety was engaged on the shotgun before climbing in. A misfire would probably peel off the entire roof.

“My name is Julianne, by the way. Jules, if you like,” she told him as he climbed in and fastened his seat belt. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Will you mind if I don’t answer … should the question be none of your
business?” he said. “I was an honest person … Not like you,
señorita, sí?”
he added pointedly.

“Really,” said Jules. “Your little shakedown racket back there, you’re earning an honest peso with that, are you?”

He started the car but didn’t drive off.

“I have a family. Three children. I am providing for them. Those men back there,
my
men now, they have their own to look out for, too. Unlike these people—” He waved a hand to take in all of the Diamante district. — “they have nothing to fall back with.
La Desaparición,
it will hurt the poorest the most.”

Pieraro pressed on the accelerator and they pulled away.

“Your question,
señorita
?”

Jules shrugged. “I was just wondering how you ended up on that roadblock. But I guess you answered it. Three children. You were what? Holidaying? Visiting relatives?”

Pieraro snorted at the first suggestion.

“My wages, they would not have allowed me to clean the streets
of el Diamante.
I could not holiday here. We were visiting my wife’s cousins farther south for a wedding when everyone disappeared. I came as far north as I dared to find work to support them. We have lost everything but our lives.”

Jules glanced in the side mirror to check that the others were still with her. The jeep was only a few meters behind. She couldn’t get a read on Pieraro at all. He looked like a hard case, and she could detect none of the primitive fear in his eyes that was such a part of the makeup of almost all street thugs, the knowledge that there was always someone harder and meaner than you just around the corner. She could sense anxiety leaking out of him, at the edges, where he couldn’t keep his emotions completely nailed down, but it didn’t seem personalized. If he was telling the truth about his family that might well explain it. She would have to play him very carefully. In many ways it would be a lot easier if he were a simple gang boss.

“I suppose I should ask how you ended up running that operation. Not a lot of call for herringbone roadblocks, snipers, and intersecting fields of fire in the cattle business, is there? Not even working for Mickey D?”

An arid smile cracked open the dark, sunburned rock of the cowboy’s face.

“The catering manager of the resort, an American, once worked for McDonald’s in Houston. I met him on business many years ago. We drank a lot of tequila and he embarrassed himself. Eating the worm like a college boy. Well, he
was
a college boy, I suppose. I looked after him. I knew he had taken the job here so I came looking for work. Any work.”

“I see.” Jules nodded. “But security work. That’s not your business.”

“Men are my business. Running cattle and running men. You have never bossed twenty vaquero, no? I have bossed many more. Hard men. Not to be crossed. Much harder than those pissants.”

Pieraro threw a contemptuous look back over his shoulder.

“Yeah, I get that. But let me take a shot in the dark. That Roberto guy? He really is ex-military or something, right? He handles the tactical side. Where to place your good shooters. How to set up the roadblock.”

The cowboy remained quiet for a moment before finally muttering.

“He is Colombian. AUC. Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia.”

“What’s that, some sort of fascist coke-smuggling outfit?”

“Paramilitaries,” said Pieraro before hurrying on. “So, you have a proposal, Julianne?” He pronounced her name “Chooley.”

As the little car wound its way down toward Playa Revolcadero, the signs of breakdown and chaos in the social order became much less evident. The streets remained free of rubbish or indications of conflict. Huge villas and gated resorts sat quietly underneath palms and soaring canopies of transplanted tropicals. Few people moved about, apparently preferring to hunker down behind their high walls, but those who did didn’t seem especially fearful or concerned. Jules scanned for any obvious signs of things beginning to fray, but found none. Perhaps Miguel was holding it back for now. She decided to take a punt on his honesty.

“You have three children, Miguel, right?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Two girls, and a little boy.”

“Would you like to get them away from here? From Mexico, I mean.”

There was a slight delay before he answered.

“Very much so. What you said before, it was not all true. But some was. About how things will soon turn for worse. I have seen the worst of people. I know what to expect.”

They began to travel downhill through a neighborhood of large modern houses, some of them set back within vast grounds. Jules caught the first sparkles of sunlight on water as glimpses of the bay showed through verdant greenery.

“Okay. Here’s your deal. Passage out of Mexico for you and your family if you can help me put together a passenger list. A short one. High-value customers. People who can pay up front, right away, in euros, British pounds, or trade goods. Stones and jewelry, high-end stuff only. Gold, platinum, diamonds, and so on. I have a yacht that can accommodate two dozen passengers and the same number of crew … Well, I can accommodate a hell of a lot more, but I’m not interested in more. I’m not running a budget operation.”

It was Pieraro’s turn to fix her with a measured, vaguely contemptuous look.

“You have misread me today, Julianne. Taken me for something I am not. You, however, I can read very well. I have met your type before. You are not an honest person. You are not good. Good, honest people do not carry themselves with weapons into danger, real danger, like you did before, with such … composure, no? You are familiar with men such as that.” He jerked his head back in the direction from which they had come. “You have used weapons such as this.” A nod toward the SPAS-12. “You have killed people before. Yes?”

“When I had to,” she said tightly. “When it was them or me.”

“This I understand,” he conceded. “But you must understand me now. If I help you, if I entrust to you the lives of my wife and children, your own life, it is entrusted to me then. It is held within my hands. Do you understand? If you give me reason. I will close my hands and take that life from you.”

“I understand,” said Jules.

Pieraro slowed down and stared into her eyes.

“Good. Then we have a deal.”

Monique grunted and dropped to the ground like a puppet cut loose from its strings. A single round had felled her. Caitlin went down on the dirt under the angry buzz of bullets zipping overhead.

“Son of a bitch!” She rolled Monique over and grabbed her by the backpack. Strap in hand, Caitlin hauled the young woman toward the door of the nearest apartment block. She didn’t pause to think, to examine her surroundings, to question the choices she was already making. Her largest handgun, the Glock 19, had quickly appeared, and it roared, biting huge chunks of wood and masonry from the solid timber apartment door.

Rather than screaming, Monique was gasping and grinding out an arrhythmic series of grunts, like somebody punched in the stomach trying and failing to draw air into their lungs.

Glass shattered, rounds zipped and cracked past her head to chew up the brick façade of the old, run-down tenement. The gunfire echoed against the brick-and-mortar apartment buildings. Caitlin logged the direction and volume of fire, and part of her mind calculated that they faced maybe three or four attackers.

Three?
She looked out of the corner of her eye.
No, four attackers.
They
emerged from a white van that had turned down her street just a minute ago. Four she could be certain of. But were there more? A second vehicle? A lookout who’d been scoping the street for hours?

Her boot slammed into the door, which flew open and crashed into the wall, and they were suddenly through, into a darkened passage that smelled of boiled cabbage and dog hair. She dropped Monique on the threadbare carpet running down a long, poorly lit hall and spun back toward the street.

Caitlin holstered her Glock and hauled out both of her Steyr TMPs from the shoulder rigs under her jacket. Safeties flicked off, she held the weapons out around the corner of the door and unloaded both of them into the free fire zone of the rue d’Asnières in the direction of the van. The outgoing fire sounded like canvas sheets ripping in the high wind.

After three bursts, she took a quick peek to her left around the doorway to see what she’d caught.

A civilian, on a bicycle, lying in the center of the road, probably dead. Head shot.

(Shit.)

A small Fiat, faded blue paint, up on the sidewalk down near the rail tracks, smoke or steam pouring from under the hood. One flat tire.

Birds. Dead and dying birds everywhere.

A woman in a bright floral head scarf, cowering in the doorway of an empty boarded-up shop, shielding what looked like a child with her body.

Across the street from her, a dirty white van, parked at a slight angle in the gutter about fifty meters away, sliding cabin door open. One leg hanging out of the interior, twitching. Windshield smashed, horn blaring.

Three identified shooters there. All white males, dressed casually. Armed with FAMAS G2 assault rifles. One behind the van, possible leg wound. One crouched behind another vehicle, a gray, aged Volvo. The last one, aiming from a deeply recessed doorway fifty yards away across the street.

She snapped off two quick bursts at the man in the doorway.

The G2 rounds crashed around her, pulverizing the ancient red brickwork and forcing her to fire blind again. Caitlin emptied the rest of the Steyr magazines with much greater accuracy, however, having sighted her targets; then she turned back into the building and shoulder-charged the first door on the right. It gave way with a crack of splintered wood, and she tumbled into the small sitting room, taking cover below the window ledge, crunching broken glass underfoot.

In one quicksilver motion she slipped off her backpack and poured half a magazine of 9-mm hollow point from the Glock through the smashed win-dowpane into the street outside, mostly aimed at the shooter behind the
Volvo, the closest, easiest target. Chances of nailing him were low, but she could at least keep the fucker bottled up. Monique moaned loudly just outside the room, and glancing back over her shoulder Caitlin saw her legs begin to scythe and kick in reaction to the burning pain that would now be making itself felt. Gut-shot by a military assault rifle. There was gore and leakage everywhere.