The Cartel Hit. Don Pendleton

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      He failed to see the bend in the otherwise straight road until he reached it. Escobedo tugged on the steering wheel, felt the 4x4 slide, dust streaming up from the tires. The front wheels cleared the edge of the pavement and the vehicle bounced, the hood seeming to rise in front of him. The vehicle hit the drainage ditch and dropped hard, coming to a jarring stop. Escobedo hung on to the wheel, managing to prevent himself from being thrown forward. The engine stalled and he sat in silence for a few seconds.

      Move, Hermano, he thought. Before they reach you. Because you will be a dead man if they do.

      He snapped out of his frozen state, pushed open the door and half fell from the car. He caught his balance and stared at his surroundings. A scrubby field swept away in front of him, and in the hazy distance he could see the edge of Broken Tree. Without a moment of hesitation, he cut across the field.

      When he reached the trash-strewn back lots, Escobedo eased between two stores, emerging on the main street.

      Get away from Broken Tree. The thought persisted. It was the sensible thing to do. If he remained in town, Jessup’s people would find him.

      He forced himself to walk calmly along the street, his mind creating and rejecting scenarios. He had to do something direct. Simple.

      He walked past a bank, then suddenly stopped. To get away he would need money. He took out his wallet and used his card to draw a few hundred dollars from the bank’s ATM; the money he had been saving for his future in America. With the cash in his pocket, he continued down the street.

      There was a small coffee shop along the way. Escobedo went inside and ordered a drink, sat down in the farthest booth from the door, where he could still watch the street.

      Had he evaded the men pursuing him?

      He couldn’t believe they had given up. With the realization that he had proof of Jessup’s crime, they would not let up. They would search Broken Tree end to end. Probably hand out money for information about him.

      He needed to do something to protect himself. He thought about going to the local police, but rejected the idea. He had heard about local law enforcement sometimes having connections with organized crime, and now that he understood Jessup’s involvement with human trafficking, he couldn’t fail to think along those lines. Whether it was true or not, he didn’t dare expose himself to it.

      Was he becoming paranoid?

      He argued with himself over that. He had not imagined the events in the barn. The scene had been real. Too real. He couldn’t afford to underestimate Seb Jessup.

      With local law enforcement off the table, that meant going further afield.

      His knowledge of the American justice system was limited. Escobedo had stayed well within the law, so had not come into contact with it, but he had heard of the FBI and Justice Department in Washington. Surely they were far enough away not to be affected by someone like Seb Jessup in a small town in Texas.

      Escobedo finished his coffee and left. It was late in the afternoon. He walked through town until he came to the municipal library. It took him some time to find what he was looking for, but when he finally left, he had a telephone number written on a piece of paper.

      He found a working pay phone on the edge of the park at the center of town. His hand trembled as he lifted the receiver, and he dropped a couple coins before he finally deposited the correct change.

      The line was clear and the voice on the other end calm and precise. The words spoken would change Escobedo’s whole life.

      “Justice Department. How can I help?”

      * * *

      IT WAS DARK by the time Escobedo reached the building where he rented his small apartment. He stayed in the shadows, waiting until he was sure no one was watching the place, then he climbed the stairs. He let himself in quietly and used the illumination from the street to guide him around. He was not expecting to stay very long. Just enough time to stuff a few belongings into a backpack.

      His instructions from the man he had spoken to in Washington had been clear: “Stay away from contact with anyone you know. Do not speak to anyone. Do exactly what the agents tell you, and cooperate. Try to behave normally, so that you do not arouse suspicions.” The man had described a location, and given a time when two agents would pick him up and take him somewhere secure.

      Escobedo left his apartment by the fire escape and strode quickly through the neighborhood to the rendezvous point. It was a long walk, and when he reached the spot and saw the parked SUV blink its lights, he moved faster, relieved that his pickup was waiting as promised.

      He was almost at the car when the squeal of tires behind him made him glance over his shoulder. He saw the shadowy bulk of the approaching vehicle as it accelerated.

      Everything moved so fast that Escobedo had no time to think of anything except staying alive.

      The passenger door of the waiting car opened and an armed figure stepped out. Someone yelled for him to keep coming.

      The unknown vehicle was still closing in. As it swerved across the street, automatic weapons began firing. The heavy bursts sent streams of slugs that peppered the waiting SUV and punctured the bodywork, shattering windows. The man who had stepped out of the car went down first; the driver was hit while he was still behind the wheel. Escobedo caught a brief glimpse of a bloodied face behind the windshield. The rattle of automatic fire followed him as he raced for the cover of the SUV. He had barely cleared it when a dull thud was followed by a burst of fire blossoming from the interior. He felt the heat as he swerved away from the vehicle, almost going down. The ball of flame swelled out from the car, flames curling from the bullet-shattered windows.

      Escobedo saw a dark alley between two buildings and dashed into it, hiding among the shadows as he negotiated the trash-strewn pavement. When he reached a turn, he followed it and simply kept running, clutching his backpack when it slid from his shoulder.

      His chest burning, Escobedo wove his way between buildings, not once looking back. He had no idea where he was going; he was just attempting to gain some distance from the shooters. He twisted around corners, ignoring the shouts of alarm as he pushed by the few people he encountered. He made no attempt to speak to them, because now he couldn’t be sure who to trust.

      So he trusted no one.

      He was in a race for his life.

      Until, exhausted, he was forced to halt. He leaned against a wall, staring around him. Struggling to breathe. Not even sure what part of town he was in. At the mouth of the alley he saw silent, dark storefronts. A deserted street. He heard distant traffic sounds. It took a few moments for him to figure out he was in a part of Broken Tree he seldom visited. Escobedo peered out from behind the building on his left and saw the lighted frontage of the bus depot a few blocks away.

      The bus depot.

      Could it be the answer to his problem?

      Contacting the Justice Department had not worked for him. Escobedo needed another option, and he needed time to think. To plan how he was going to make this thing work. And to do that, he needed to get away from Broken Tree.

      He couldn’t erase what he’d seen in Jessup’s barn. Despite the position he had put himself in, he knew СКАЧАТЬ