My bad! Was hurrying to get out the door this a.m. and neglected to post. Here's today's!
16. The Lunch Run
Our drive back to Culiacan is almost silent. By now, it's almost midnight. I drive carefully. I don't push the old car past forty-five - it's an uphill track, and I don't want to strain the ancient tranny. I don't particularly care about how fast I can get to where we're going, and I'm in no mood to sing. Sands is quiet in the back seat - it's impossible to tell whether he's even awake - and George and I aren't looking at each other. He doesn't try to comfort me. He keeps his hands to himself. I concentrate on the road, like a conscientious driver should.
When we rattle into the warehouse and the bay door rolls down behind us, I'm all business. I shrug off RC's questions about the hole in my arm as "just a scratch". When Sands introduces the man I've been calling "George" as "El", I don't say a word. I briskly relate the events of the last thirty-six hours without betraying the soft center that threatens to melt me from the inside out.
Sands chimes in with details about the Gomez organization; that gives me some breathing room. The compound that he and RC fried isn't far from the old Barillo estate, which Gomez has taken over. George/El knows his way around that place; he was briefly a captive there during the events surrounding the failed coup. I ask questions about their surveillance systems; I'm supposed to be technical, I'll act technical. The bull session goes on for several hours, until RC decrees a rest.
We camp out in stray corners; I use my overnight bag as a pillow (after changing into fresh clothes, whew!). We're far enough above sea level that it's fairly cool, even in late June. I'm chilled and shivering, my arm hurts and I'm pissed off and horny and the last twenty-four hours have been a goddam emotional rollercoaster.
A tall figure moves gracefully across the darkened room. George drapes his jacket across me. "Buenas noches, Catherine," he whispers, and moves on. The black linen still holds the warmth of his body. The scent it carries is him...sage and gunpowder and his own personal brand of testosterone.
I stop shivering. My arm still hurts, but I'm not quite so pissed any more. I should've expected my boss to show up hot on my heels...after all, it wasn't me Sands wanted in the first place. The whole business with me and George...I can still work with him, can't I? Unresolved sexual tension not withstanding, he's a professional, I'm a professional, we're all professionals, with the exception of Manolo, who'll probably be getting a job offer from Millennium as soon as he's of age. Apparently, when RC got to Sands's place, there was the kid, stuffing bodies into the car they'd arrived in, preparing to go ditch it somewhere. That shows the right kind of initiative, my employer claims. Forty-eight hours and two thousand miles ago, I was yawning and stretching and sallying forth to shop. What a weekend it's been...
Monday officially starts with RC leaning on the horn of the jeep, urging us all to rise and shine. It's ten a.m., which means I've had maybe five hours sleep...but there's a coffee pot in the space set up as our conference room, and I stagger over and pour a cup. Sugar...yeech. More sugar. RC's coffee always tastes like lighter fluid.
When George joins me, reaching for a mug, I pass his jacket back with a nod of thanks. Our eyes meet. Professionals. At least for now.
The two ex-agents are wrangling about how to get the cartel to make the first move. Since my job isn't that end of it, I go over to the workbench and start putting together the tracker Sands requested. This isn't rocket science; I know I've hit the jackpot when the light goes on and Sands stops in mid-sentence, shaking his head.
That didn't take me long. It's only about eleven-thirty, and RC announces that food would be a good idea. "Kate, you mind making a lunch run?" I know a command when I hear it.
"I could go for some pibil," Sands agrees. "Hey, honeybunch, wanna stop by El Tarantula Azul and get me some puerco pibil?" Sounds like the truce is over. I've been demoted to twink and Sands is using sexist nicknames again.
"Sure," I seethe with artificial perkiness. "What does everybody want?" I get orders, and George offers to help carry things for me, but RC cuts him short.
"Stick around, I've got more questions about that compound you were in." My thirty-pound purse is slung over my shoulder, my keys are in my hand, and as I'm walking through the door from the office/workroom out to the garage bay, my boss adds, "Oh, and Kate? Take the jeep."
It's the tone that gets me. It says I'm not a responsible adult anymore, I'm not a valued employee, I'm a brainless gofer with no more important function than to get lunch for the people who matter. I punch the panel to raise the door at the end of the bay hard enough to make my sutures throb. Striding across the concrete, I stomp past the jeep without a sideways glance. As the Batmobile roars to life, I peel rubber out of there. Take the Jeep? You can take the Jeep and drive it where the sun don't shine!
The cantina Sands mentioned is the place where we first met. I have a little trouble finding it - I've never come at it from this direction before - but soon enough, I'm giving the orders to the gal at the counter and staring into space.
My first inkling of trouble comes when I see a couple guys outside, giving the Studebaker the eye. Aw, shit. I should've known better; it's an eye-catching car to begin with, and with a destroyed back window and bullet holes in the trunk, it's even more conspicuous. They'd never have given the Jeep a second glance. One of them looks toward the cantina and says something to the other one. They start moving in my direction.
Moving on instinct, the first thing I do is dive into my purse. Cell phone-speed dial RC, leave the line open. There are three guns in my bag - and all of them are buried beneath my dirty Dixie Chicks tee shirt. I grope for any one of them. By then, the cartelistas have the drop on me. Double shit. "I don't want any trouble," I say, playing it American. I raise my hands. "I'm just here to get some lunch."
They both have guns trained on me, and I'd really rather not get shot again. "Okay, guys, you win," I say, loudly enough to be heard over the phone, I hope. "I'll go quietly."
Dawnie-7: Yeah, but I'd still rather be a gal, hormones and all. Guys' shoes are so boring!
Mojave Dragonfly: Just 19.95 at 'Metaphors R Us' while supplies last.
mssparrington: You're looking forward to RC? Kate sure ain't !