Shadows Across America Page 32

  The young man observed him with a hunter’s air of superiority, smiling. He called out in a strong central European accent. “They have no idea, do they, old man? You almost got away. But we’re smarter than them, and I’m smarter than you.”

  Suarez sped up to get to the taxis and save his life. The Bloodhound, pleased with himself, turned to the restaurant, where the mercenaries were coming out, having heard the shot. He waved his Swiss 7.65-caliber Luger P-08, a collector’s item that had become his pride and joy. He used it only on special occasions. He pointed them in the direction the target had run off in. After seeing him push down the bar for the rear exit, he’d known that his prey was right handed, and with the wounded shoulder, it was increasingly unlikely he’d be a good shot.

  “What are you waiting for? Bring the cars! I’ve stung him, and now we have a runner. We need to truss his feet.”

  As was usual after midday at this latitude, the sky was filled with dark storm clouds. The light dimmed, as in an eclipse. Ethan was driving along, looking for flanelinhas, friendly if shady characters who charged car owners to “take care” of their vehicles while they were parked but who usually disappeared until the owners returned to pick them up so they could claim their tip and offer unnecessary and often counterproductive help pulling out. But now there were none to be found. The street was deserted, and Ethan couldn’t see anyone among the parked cars. Then he heard a voice behind him.

  “Is that your car?”

  One of a pair of barely pubescent girls with no tattoos or other sign of gang affiliation had spoken with poorly concealed malice. Ethan just answered with a curt yes before getting in quickly. They started to giggle. One ran to the corner while the other tried to keep the conversation going.

  “It’s very nice.”

  Ethan ignored her and pulled out, driving to the end of the street. As far as he knew, he was well outside the Doce’s zone of influence, much closer to their enemies, the Diecisiete, but these girls seemed more than suspicious. He pressed down on the gas when a Nissan appeared at the end of the street to block his way. He reversed, but a Hyundai was coming toward him from the other end. He knew that he had only a few seconds until they came alongside and that they were most likely carrying automatic weapons. The only reason they hadn’t already started firing was that they wanted to catch him alive, and that option was worse than a quick death. He made sure that his safety belt was fastened and did the only thing he could, pumping the gas, pushing the pistons and revving the engine as much as he could before releasing the brake. The engine roared like a furious animal. He rocketed toward the car that blocked his way, surprising its occupants, who tried to get out the other side. They were too slow. Ethan’s growling car smacked hard against the side, spinning the other car around like a top. Ethan felt himself thrown forward into the steering wheel before the momentum rocked him back again. Everything around him was a blur until he came to a halt. He’d lost track of where he was and which direction he was facing. He tried unsuccessfully to focus. The colors had begun to run into one another, creating a strange feeling of unreality. He couldn’t understand what he was looking at but pressed down on the gas again, and the car limped up onto the sidewalk. He slowly recovered his bearings and shook his head several times, praying that the radiator had survived the impact. In front of him he saw a large avenue and tried to head for it. In the rearview mirror he saw that the Nissan had tipped over onto one side. Two kids were walking around like zombies. He managed to get onto the main road and drive on with his crumpled hood, looking for a way out. He saw a line of waiting taxis 150 feet from a traffic circle; he parked illegally and ran to the first taxi, where he slumped into the back seat.

  “Airport, please.”

  The taxi driver, who’d seen him get out of the wrecked car, couldn’t understand what was going on.

  “Just like that, sir?”

  “I . . . I’ve been attacked. Quickly, please.”

  “Man . . . you don’t want to go to the police station?”

  “The airport. Airport, please.”

  Only now did Ethan realize that his forehead was wet. He was bleeding. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

  “Don’t you want to go to a hospital?” the driver said, looking very worried. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

  “They’re coming! To the airport!”

  When he heard these mysterious but threatening words, the driver forgot his concerns and headed straight for the freeway without asking any more questions. A couple of thunderclaps rumbled in the sky.

  Suarez made his way between backyards, his back to the main path and his shoulder throbbing, until he got to the taxi rank in the small square. There wasn’t a taxi to be seen. Clutching his wounded arm, he searched for something he could use as a sling. He went one way and then the other without seeing any sign of life. Given that he couldn’t escape, he took out his gun and crossed the empty traffic circle to hide in a copse next to the road. He soon found that he’d chosen well. The two black, military-style cars were driving down both sides of the road and turned around to wait for him to come out. His only option was to go farther into the woods to make them follow on foot and maybe, he thought, go back to the restaurant if he went right to pick up his car or at least seek safety in the crowd. He ran as best he could, swaying to balance his wounded arm. He did not look back, though he heard the engines stop. Six pursuers got out to track him, and the Bloodhound was quick to work out where he’d gone.

  “Point your headlights at the trees! At the trees, you idiots! Didn’t you hear me?”

  They turned the front of the car at the copse and lit up the undergrowth, exposing Suarez’s moving silhouette. When he realized he’d been discovered, he turned around to shoot with his left hand, hoping more to keep them at bay than to actually hit anything. With no particular target, the bullet screeched through the air a few feet above their heads, much to the delight of the Bloodhound. It confirmed that he’d been right. He stopped his men before they could respond.

  “They want him alive! Alive! Be careful!”

  Armando emerged from the second SUV. Ever since sending for the Bloodhound in Colombia, he’d stayed with him as he tracked this man down.

  “Do we have him?”

  “We have him. It’s definitely him.”

  “I thought there were two of them.”

  “Not here. If he has a partner somewhere else, we’ll find him. We just need a few hours alone with this one. I don’t care how tough he might be—he’ll talk.”

  “I hope so. So far your work has lived up to your reputation. Long may that continue.”

  The Bloodhound glared at him. “So long as your clumsy oafs don’t get in the way.”

  Armando whistled to his men. “Take him alive!”

  Ethan’s vision finally cleared once the storm clouds had blocked out the buildings. He was beginning to calm down. He’d only just managed to escape. He was lucky that he still had his passport and credit card. The rain began to fall with the dense fury of the tropics, slowing them down and reducing visibility to a few feet. The bunched traffic drove on cautiously. They passed several accidents. He didn’t know what he’d do in the terminal, but for now he was relaxed, as though getting there was his only goal. Once inside, with airport security around him, he’d have time to sit and think. He could even sleep on it. He saw the transit halls as a sanctuary where time stood still.

  “It’s stopping.”

  The taxi driver said something. Ethan came out of his daze, wondering whether it had anything to do with what he had been thinking. “Huh?”

  “It’s all snarled up. Look.”

  In front of them all three lanes were blocked by rows of cars, apparently stopped by the aggressive downpour. People were wiping condensation from the windshields. The shortwave radio gurgled messages only the driver could understand.

  “Listen: it’s gridlock. I don’t know what kind of hurry you’re in, but there’s no fucking way. We’re not going t
o get there. I’m sorry, but there’s no way.”

  “What happened?”

  As they spoke, they were swallowed up by the traffic jam, surrounded by exhaust pipes busily belching out fumes.

  “The bastards! The girl on the radio says that a bus has been shot up ahead. Just over there. That’s why there’s a jam. See what it’s come to? Just the same as how they attacked you. It’s getting impossible to live in this country. They say to be careful because the gangsters have started to walk among the cars. Not even the army can deal with this, you know?”

  This news horrified Ethan. He knew what was happening. The Doce would think nothing of shooting up a bus; for them it was just a show of strength. They were reminding everyone who was in charge. They weren’t just going to let him go. The gangsters were searching the cars. It was just a matter of minutes before they found him.

  “I need to get out. I have to go.”

  “You can’t get out here, in the middle of a traffic jam. In this rain!”

  Ethan paid him double the fare. “If the gangsters ask, I wasn’t here.”

  This terrified the good man, who made no effort to stop Ethan. The sight of a passenger getting out in a downpour came as a surprise to the other drivers, who watched as he stepped onto the berm, jumped the wall, and disappeared into the curtain of rain. Farther on, he arrived at a smaller two-way road scattered with potholes with no sidewalks. People around here didn’t walk anywhere. He went on walking for twenty minutes, getting thoroughly soaked before the clouds started to clear and the rain stopped. It was as though a gigantic showerhead had been floating over the city. The dividing line between the sheet of water and the now-clear sky was very clearly defined: it seemed almost solid. You could hop in and out of it if you wanted. Surrounded by a cloud of mist as the water evaporated in the heat, he came to a shallow pit placed to one side, as though the asphalt had run out, with a metal post that had once borne a sign. A disheveled-looking woman was sitting next to it, eyeing him warily. Ethan approached her.

  “Is this the bus stop?”

  The woman nodded, still staring at him rudely, as though she’d never seen anything like him in her life.

  “Do you know if it’ll be long?”

  She shrugged. Ethan smiled, thanking her for her help, and sat down a few feet away. He didn’t know what to do next. Seek refuge at the embassy? He didn’t know what he was going to do, where the bus would take him, or how long it would take, but at least he’d be getting away. That was as far ahead as he could plan.

  Suarez saw his shadow cast ahead of him in the headlights, stretched out like an expressionist painting or a child’s drawing, and heard footsteps coming closer in the undergrowth. They were closing the net around him. He knew that his chances were growing slimmer every second. He saw a light flashing through the branches. The restaurant. If he made it there, they wouldn’t be able to kill him in public. The police might already be there to investigate the commotion. He leaned on a tree and started firing again to stop them, sow confusion, and attract attention. Firing in a semicircle, he achieved his objective, which was to get his pursuers to lie flat on the ground. The fact that they weren’t firing back gave him an advantage. He knew that that was all he could hope for with his left hand and switched hands. Although his right arm was wounded, he was still better with it at close range. He set out running as fast as he could with the gun pressed against his chest. He’d made a gap for himself, and his confidence grew. He could see the restaurant through the tree trunks.

  They’d all thrown themselves to the ground at the first sound of gunfire, like cowardly little girls. Gunfire from a cripple. It took only the most basic training to see that the bullets weren’t being aimed; he was more likely to hit a cow than them. The Bloodhound despised these men. He despised their ignorance, their idiocy, their cowardice. But he appreciated the courage of his prey. He was surprised at how skillfully he’d managed to get out of a tight situation, his determination not to give up and to keep them at bay. He admired the inoffensive guise he’d assumed. It was a matter of respect. In fact, he said to himself, if it was only the others chasing him, he’d have a real chance of getting away. But the Bloodhound was with them. He felt sorry for the man. The Bloodhound didn’t let his prey get away.

  He rearranged some leaves to protect his pants and knelt on the ground in a stylized pose, looking for a forty-five-degree angle on Suarez, his left arm hovering just above his left knee. He held his breath for a few seconds and focused on his target, a target that was running with one arm across his chest to ease the pain, waving the other around unconvincingly, as though to scare them. He fixed the man in his sights and calculated the length of his stride. Instead of aiming at the legs, he opted for the neck. This was the beauty of small-caliber guns that the goons behind him would never understand. He assessed the speed, distance, and momentum; fell into rhythm with his target’s strides; noted the heavy breathing; anticipated the next step; and pulled the trigger. The others were butchers: all they knew was brute force dealt out at point-blank range, while he was a surgeon who made precise incisions with a scalpel. He extracted organs, then disinfected and sealed the wound. His seven millimeter was all he needed.

  The bullet hit Suarez in the neck and went straight through, clean as a whistle, cutting his spinal cord without touching his trachea so he could keep breathing and thus still distribute oxygen across his agitated body.

  Suarez suddenly lost control and felt himself float forward on momentum. He could no longer feel his feet; it was as though they’d ceased to exist. He fell forward like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut.

  Contrary to Ethan’s expectations, the bus didn’t head into the center of the city. On the way, it went through two more showers, and the sky remained cloudy. It approached the far south, where the neighborhoods were extremely poor and always under the control of one gang or another. He went to the bus driver and asked where the end of the line was, but the address didn’t mean anything to him. Then he tried to decide whether to get out immediately or stay and wait for the bus to go through a safer area. He grew more paranoid as he saw passengers getting off and on, exchanging glances that may or may not have been casual. All their conversations seemed to be about him. Eventually he decided to ask about a taxi stand and was informed that there was one at the end of the line.

  To his surprise, a rotund woman in thick glasses and a floral dress joined him for the last part of the journey. He returned her warm smile out of politeness; she was sitting so close that he was a little uncomfortable. He could feel her sweaty flank touching him, and then she leaned in even closer and took his arm.

  “Good afternoon, m’hijo. Were you looking for a taxi?”

  Ethan stammered a confused reply. She smiled, but he thought that she was signaling something to him with her eyes. They flickered forward at the driver, who was tapping into his phone at the red lights. In his bewildered state, he didn’t know whether she was trying to tell him something in code or was just a bored housewife. When he saw the square in the distance, she crossed his forehead as she murmured a prayer and got up, pulling on his arm.

  “May God bless you and keep you.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Come.”

  She headed for the exit, trying to drag him with her. He resisted uncertainly.

  “But . . . this isn’t my stop.”

  Maintaining a smile that seemed increasingly forced, she tugged harder, glancing up at the driver, who was watching them closely in the rearview mirror. Ethan decided to go along with her, and they got out together. The bus pulled away behind them, the wheels covering them in dust. Amid the cloud she looked at him grave faced and pointed to a side alley.

  “Take that street; the taxis are at the end. Sometimes there are even a couple of cops. Don’t take the square, m’hijo—they’ll catch you before you’re halfway across.”

  She crossed his forehead again and bade him farewell with a blessing. Ethan didn’t have any id
ea where she’d come from or why she was helping him, if she was, but decided to take her advice and ran down the alley she’d pointed to. At the end of the street, the bus got to its final stop, and he noticed agitated movement around it. He ran over brush and rubble until he crossed another street leading out from the square. Then he saw a dozen or more armed and tattooed young men running toward him. He ran as fast as he could, until his lungs were bursting, and came out onto a wider, firmer street where he saw three taxis parked to the side. They were all empty, with drivers nowhere to be seen. He kept going, forcing himself to the limits of his endurance, leaving the wasteland behind him. There was nowhere for him to go—he had no plan or hope of finding somewhere to hide. His only remaining option was rapid flight. He ran on, his lungs burning, his throat gasping down air while another rain shower fell, making him skid on the slippery surface, the steam billowing off his body. Now he looked like a pale comet, not unlike his pursuers, who were getting closer with every step. Ethan wasn’t thinking. He just kept running, grateful for the refreshing shower. He didn’t care if he fell—he was alive with effort and survival instinct, alive for as long as his feet would carry him. At the end of the street he saw a figure next to a barrier, a dark-blue blur in a cap. He couldn’t believe it: the man was holding a gun. In front of him was a policeman with a gun that was pointed at him. In the unrelenting rain, which dripped down from his visor like a miniature waterfall, his eyes peering through the screen of water, the blur called out to him.