Seven cars before Erainya Manos reached the drop-off point.
Wil thought about the first time he’d met Soledad, in the burning fields.
It had been one of Dimebox Ortiz’s stupider ideas. He’d decided to let this group of il egals out of the truck just before the Border Patrol checkpoint, let them walk a few miles through the sugarcane fields, then pick them up on the other side. He forgot it was March—burning season.
Next thing, he was cal ing Wil in a panic. Dimebox was at the rendezvous point and the il egals weren’t there. He saw smoke—the whole area where the group was supposed to walk was on fire. Farmers were burning their crops as part of the yearly harvest.
Fortunately, Wil had been working a deal down in Harlingen, only a couple of miles away. He dropped what he was doing and got there in under ten minutes.
By that time, he could hear the screaming. And if he could hear it, he figured the farmers and the Border Patrol could, too.
He ran into the fields, toward the fire, and a young woman burst through the sugarcane. She was coughing, smoke rising from her clothes. She smel ed like burnt syrup.
She crashed right into his arms and said in Spanish, “There are two more! Right in there!”
Wil heard a megaphone in the distance. Border Patrol: instructions in Spanish, warning the il egals to get out of the fields.
“No tiempo,” Stirman told the woman. “La Migra.”
He started to pul her toward the truck, but she fought him. Her strength surprised him.
“You will get them!” she ordered.
Wil looked at her seriously for the first time. She could have been a special order. She was that beautiful.
Maybe seventeen. Mayan complexion, large eyes, long black hair. She wore a man’s denim work shirt and tattered jeans. She was barefoot. But Wil could imagine her cleaned up, in a nice dress. Getting her north would be enough to turn a profit from this disaster.
“Al right,” he said. “Wait here.”
He plunged into the fields. The Border Patrol megaphone was getting louder. If La Migra found Wil , or Dimebox Ortiz waiting in his truck up the road, they would start asking questions. Wil would be screwed.
He found two older women col apsed in the smoke, and managed to get them to stand. They leaned on him, coughing and stumbling, and together they got away from the fire. The younger woman helped him get them to the truck.
“What about al the others?” the girl asked.
Wil looked at her, ready to hit her, but he restrained himself. “They are dead, or taken. If we don’t leave now, you wil be, too.”
He could tel she didn’t like it, but she let him put her in the back of the truck. Wil got in back, too. He wasn’t sure why. He let Ortiz do the driving.
As they were heading north, the two older women col apsed in the corner, the girl asked him, “Are you real y going to let us go in San Antonio?”
Wil was about to give his standard lie, but her eyes stopped him. He wasn’t used to seeing such fight.
Usual y the young women were placid. They did what they were told. They were too terrified not to.
He said, “What’s your name?”
“Soledad.”
Loneliness. He liked that name.
She had a single piece of jewelry—a silver Saint Anthony charm hanging on a necklace between her breasts. Wil ’s cargo rarely wore jewelry. They rarely had any left to wear, after they’d paid him. The medal ion must have been important to her.
“You’re going to have to work in San Antonio,” he told her. “Work for men. Do you understand?”
Her eyes bored into him. He started to feel uncomfortable.
“No, I’m not,” she said. “You’re not going to let me.”
“Why is that?”
“Because of the fields,” she said. “You owe me a debt.”
“Sorry,” he said.
She slapped him across the face.
He was too surprised to react.
They sat there in silence, sweating in the heat and the smel of burnt sugar. Soledad ignored him, but Wil kept looking at her, and the more he looked, the more he couldn’t stop looking.
In San Antonio, he let Dimebox Ortiz take the women to get cleaned up. Dimebox agreed that Soledad would fetch a good price. Wil didn’t like the way Dimebox looked at her.
After three sleepless nights, Wil showed up at the auction and paid Soledad’s price himself. He outbid his own clients. Five thousand dol ars.
Something in her eyes told him that Soledad wasn’t surprised. She knew he would come. She grabbed his hand and started pul ing him toward the door, as if he was the one who had been purchased.
When he hesitated, she said, “Wel ? Are you scared of me?”
Wil had paid for a lifetime with her. Soledad had lived just over a year.
For that, someone owed Wil a debt.
There were now three cars in front of Erainya Manos.
Wil could step outside, calmly walk over to her Audi. He could get in the back seat, press his gun against the kid’s spine, tel Erainya Manos to pul out of line and drive. That would work—simple and clean.
Two cars in front of her.
Wil hated that Fred Barrow was dead. The fact this woman had shot Barrow didn’t make Wil fond of her.
On the contrary, she had cheated him. She had messed up his revenge.
The other PI, Sam Barrera—Wil knew how to handle him. Barrera was a dealmaker. He would’ve gotten the video by now. He would fol ow instructions. He’d think he could control the situation without going to the police, and his overconfidence would kil him.
But Fred Barrow’s widow—she was a wild card. Wil didn’t know her wel enough. He couldn’t kil her until he was sure he would get what he needed.
One car left in the drop-off line.