CHAPTER 2
Allan Leverone
“Problem? What kind of fucking problem could we have? Aren’t you stationed in the middle of nowhere?”
Santino cursed. Quietly, so the man on the other end of the call could not hear him. He was frustrated, not suicidal. “Yup. I’m on the outskirts of Fort Huachuca.”
“Right. So, you’re in the middle of the desert. What the hell could have gone wrong way out there?”
“Garcia wrecked his truck.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I’m serious as a heart attack. But that’s not the worst part. The fucking Huachuca MPs pulled Garcia out of the truck and they’re going to load him into their own vehicle. They’re going to take him away.”
“We can’t allow that to happen.”
No shit, Sherlock, Santino wanted to say. But of course he didn’t, because he was still not suicidal. Instead, he said, “Uh, it gets worse.”
“What could be worse than this?”
“The truck’s on fire and nobody’s paying the least bit of attention to it.”
“Holy shit, that means…”
Santino nodded. “That’s right. The drugs and cash are going to burn. That’s one serious car fire.”
A string of expletives floated through the phone as Perez lost his shit on the other end of the line. Santino used the short timeout productively, raising the glasses to his face and scanning the desert floor below.
As he feared, the MPs were forcing Garcia into their Jeep. Any moment now, they would speed away and Garcia would disappear, probably for good.
It was time to refocus the boss. Hell, it was past time. But Santino knew he would have to tread lightly. Perez didn’t take well to any suggestion that wasn’t his own. He went with, “Uh, sir?”
“What?” Perez’s voice came through harsh and jagged. He was furious, but at least he’d stopped swearing. For now.
“They’re getting ready to move. What do you want me to do?”
Perez grunted as he considered the alternatives. “Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath.
It took all of Santino’s self-control not to answer, “No, thanks.” But he didn’t. Still not suicidal.
“Can you cut the MPs off before they get Garcia back to the base?”
Santino’s heart sank. He’d known exactly what Perez was going to say, but hearing the question out loud suddenly made it all too real. “I can if I haul ass,” he said reluctantly. “But what about…”
“The money and the merch?”
“Yeah.”
“If the truck’s already on fire, you’ll never get there in time to save any of it. We have to salvage what we can out of this disaster, and to do that, we need to get that fucking mule back.”
“Yes, sir,” Santino answered, ending the call, hoping the sudden onset of terror wasn’t discernable in his voice.
There were two MPs and only one of him. He suddenly hated this assignment.
* * *
Sand, gravel and a few loose stones flew from under the truck as Santino jammed the accelerator to the floor. The mesa from which he’d been conducting his surveillance was located roughly halfway between Fort Huachuca proper and the spot in the desert that idiot Garcia had wrecked his truck.
He knew that with a little bit of luck he could cut off the MPs, but something was bothering him, a question lingering in the back of his mind. The answer to that question would likely determine whether or not Santino survived the upcoming encounter: why were the military police on top of Garcia almost from the second he wrecked his truck?
If it was sheer coincidence, a patrol that happened to be cruising the isolated trail at the exact moment of the crash, Santino liked his odds. He would be down two men to one, but he’d done more with less in the past. As long as he had the element of surprise on his side.
If, on the other hand, the MPs had been shadowing Garcia because somehow they knew about the drugs – they’d been tipped off or whatever – Santino knew he was likely fucked, and not in the good way. The MPs would be prepared for an ambush.
There would be no element of surprise.
Santino spent the entire short, hectic cross-desert drive mulling over that question. He knew he would not get his answer until he either lived or died, but could not push the question away, despite having to concentrate on making it across the uneven terrain.
As he approached the road, he realized he’d been successful in cutting off the MPs’ Jeep. A moving trail of dust hanging in the air off his left provided ample evidence, even though the vehicle remained out of sight. Of course, his own truck would be kicking up a similar cloud, so if the MPs were paying attention, they already knew they had company.
Santino hit the breaks and skidded to a stop at the side of the road. He grabbed his semi-auto rifle and scrambled out of the vehicle, almost out of time.
The Jeep carrying the two military policemen and the one Uruguayan drug runner rounded the corner and came into view just as Santino was settling behind the cover of his truck.
His heart thudded heavily in his chest. The Jeep’s driver hit his brakes, clearly sensing trouble, and Santino knew it was now or never.
He sprayed the front of the Jeep with slugs.
#