Haunted

CHAPTER 14

IT’S AMAZING HOW PERSPECTIVE CHANGES WITH circumstance. A week ago, when I heard Culebra’s story for the first time, a threat from his past might have evoked a reaction of ambivalence. After all, you lay down with cartel dogs, you get up with cartel fleas.

Now, all I see is the look in Culebra’s eyes when he asked me to leave. I recognize what it was now. He wanted me out of harm’s way. He knew if he became combative or ordered me to leave, I’d dig in my heels and refuse to go. He chose the one way that guaranteed my cooperation.

He asked nicely.

Shit. I’m on my feet. “We need to get back to Culebra. Now.”

Max doesn’t argue. “Let me get my gun.”

He disappears into the bedroom and returns a moment later with a jacket and his weapon. The Glock is in a compact Blackhawk! slide holster with a pouch for an extra mag. A lot of firepower. Makes me realize he takes the situation seriously.

“Do you need a gun?” he asks me, clipping the Glock to his belt. He grabs a duffel bag from the corner as he talks.

I shake my head. The last time he provided me with a weapon it was a big 45 that I ended up getting shot with. No. Vampires come armed. Naturally.

“Let me drive,” he says, steering me toward the alley in back. “Ramon will know your car. He hasn’t seen mine.”

His vehicle is a big Ford Explorer, a couple of years and a lot of miles old. It’s covered with dirt on the outside, littered with fast-food containers and empty coffee cups on the inside. There’s a tarp pulled over the cargo section in back and even that’s littered with papers and old newspapers.

I scoop an armful of stuff out of the passenger seat and toss it into the back. I don’t have to say a word. My obvious disgust is evident in body language as I rub an old napkin over the seat and gingerly lower myself onto what I hope is not a sticky surface.

“Sorry,” Max mumbles, tossing the duffel into the back on top of the debris. “Been on surveillance most of the last two weeks. Wasn’t expecting company.”

“Obviously.”

He cranks the engine over and lead foots it into the street. He flips a switch and above the visor, red and blue LED lights start pulsing.

“Pretty slick. Didn’t even see them.”

He shoots me one of those disdainful looks that states the obvious. You aren’t supposed to.

We blaze our way toward the freeway. Max concentrates on the driving. I concentrate on what I can do to this Ramon to make him talk. Vampire stirs in anticipation.

Once we’re clear of city streets and on our way to the border, I ask Max about Ramon. Had Max come in contact with him in an official capacity?

Max keeps both hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road when he answers. “No. My focus has been primarily on the area here, near Tijuana. Ramon and Culebra operated out of the golden triangle—Chihuahua, Durango and Sinaloa.”

“But you recognized the name.”

“Culebra mentioned a Ramon as someone he grew up with, someone who came up with him through the ranks.” He shakes his head. “It’s a common enough name but from the way you describe Culebra’s reaction when he saw him, I’ll bet it’s his old cartel buddy.”

“How did he find Culebra? What’s he doing here after all these years?” The questions are more to give voice to thoughts twirling around my head than directed at Max.

Still, he answers. “There’s a lot of infighting going on between the cartels. Who knows what old vendettas are being stirred up? Culebra left a lot of enemies behind. Maybe not everyone believed he died in the car wreck. Culebra goes into Tijuana occasionally. Maybe someday recognized him. The guys he crossed don’t give up easily. They may have been trying to track him down for years.”

His tone suggests he knows more about Culebra’s past than what I learned on Christmas Eve. “There’s more? Tell me.”

“I don’t know all of it.” His eyes slide toward me. “I think it’s best if you ask Culebra.”

He shuts down. The set of his jaw tells me I’m not going to get anything more. I turn back in my seat and face the road. We’re approaching the border. I fish my passport out of the pocket of my jeans in preparation but Max pulls around the tourist lanes and into the law enforcement turnout lane. He exchanges a few words with an officer on duty, flashes his badge, and we’re once more on our way.

I slide my passport into the glove compartment with my wallet. No sense taking a chance of losing them.

This time when we head into Beso de la Muerte, the street is deserted. I get the gut-churning feeling that we may be too late, that something bad has already happened. Max slips his gun into his hand and we approach the bar’s swinging doors, noiselessly, both of us on alert.

I touch Max’s arm and he stops. I lift my face, sniffing for a scent of human, listening for a heartbeat, probing to pick up the stray thought of a vamp or shape-shifter inside.

Nothing. A shake of my head and Max and I push open the doors.

The bar is empty. The quiet presses in, an unnatural quiet. The tables are still littered with bottles and glasses, some half full.

Culebra sent everyone away.

The gut churning gets more intense. I’d found the bar abandoned like this once before. It was not a good omen then. Odds are, it’s not a good omen now.