Countdown to Zero Hour (15 page)

After an unknown amount of time passed, the partition dropped. Art drove them down a dirt road that carved a line through the desert. The landscape was almost featureless, like any minute, they’d drop right off the earth.

“You have your shopping list?” he asked as casually as if they’d just had brunch and were headed to weekend errands.

“Wish list. Who knows what we’ll find?”

“I just hope I can find La Bota. My map is a little crude.” He held up a piece of paper that had only a scribbled line connecting two circles.

“You’ll just have to put all that Marine training to use.”

“Aye, aye.”

She sat as far forward as she could and leaned her arms on the back of the front divider. “What rank did you get to?”

“Sergeant.” He patted his shoulder, where his insignia would be. “I wasn’t really political. Just a specialized grunt. Never thought about climbing the ladder into the brass.” He glanced back at her. “You have ranks in the kitchen, right?”

“Yeah, gotta work your way up.”

“What was your first gig?”

It was strange to think back, like trying to unlearn everything she’d fought for. “High school. I was a busboy and dishwasher at a semi-fancy Italian place.”

“Earning your stripes.” He patted his shoulder again.

“Learned a pretty good marinara there. Built on it since then.”

“You cook more than Russian?” His eyes were surprised in the rearview mirror.

“All kinds.” But right now, all the flavors she could think of were bitter. “The place I was supposed to open was going to have a few influences. It was a menu for traveling.”

His gaze grew sincere. “You’ll open that place.” And determined. “And I’m going to eat the first motherfucking chimichanga that comes out of that kitchen.”

Her laugh bounced along the rough road. “I wasn’t planning on chimichangas.”

“Well, you are now.” He scowled tough for a second, then broke into a smile.

“I suppose I owe you that much.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” His face was unreadable and distant.

She reached over the back of the seat and put her hand on his arm. “Not your decision to make.”

His fingers laced with hers. “Then just let me know when that chimichanga’s ready.”

She wanted to say, “Soon,” or, “Anytime,” or, “I’ll always have a table for you,” but none of that was certain. She couldn’t will it to be.

The road became choppier, and Art released her hand to steer over deep ruts. She stayed close, not wanting to recede into the darkness at the back of the SUV. The tires rumbled, and small rocks chattered along the bottom of the car.

Exhaustion pressed into her shoulders and burned her eyes. The farther they got from the house, the more pressure was released. She’d been revving high for too long and felt how tired she was once she spun down.

Art’s voice came from a great distance, snapping her to waking. “Yeah, shut it down for a bit. I’ll get us there.”

Sleep sounded like the sweetest dessert, but it wasn’t how she needed it. Gathering what energy was left in her muscles, she pulled herself over the divider and into the passenger seat next to Art. It would’ve been better if she could’ve leaned along him. She put her hand on his thigh and leaned back to let the fatigue take her.

The desert drifted in and out of darkness. The car thundered all around her and from hundreds of miles away. Art was always there. And when she woke, he smiled at her.

“Power nap.”

“How long was I out?” She groaned and stretched.

“A few miles.” He pointed down the road. “La Bota’s out there.”

The dirt road carved toward low buildings collected into a town a bit closer than the horizon.

“Have you been there?” The atmosphere of human life hung lower over the buildings, but she couldn’t get a sense of the mood of the place.

“Not yet.” Small bits of ready tension collected around Art. “But it’s got something for everyone if Garin left there with a smile on his face.”

That smug son of a bitch continued to needle her. “I wish he’d gotten mugged there.”

“If he keeps pushing, he’s going to get dead.” His fist was tight on the steering wheel.

“Can it...? Will it...?” She’d seen the deadly intent of the men with the knives outside the club. The smell of gunpowder remained in her clothes. “It’s inevitable.”

He remained focused ahead. “The trigger’s already been pulled.”

Their silence blasted into the desert when Art rolled down the windows. Hot, dry air scoured her. She removed her chef’s coat and tossed it in the back of the SUV, leaving her in a T-shirt. Art kept his jacket on. She’d seen all the weapons it hid.

Another dirt road intersected theirs. It brought power lines that then marched beside them on the way into town. A flatbed truck passed them going the opposite direction. Thicker dust rose around the road as other cars moved about the edges of town.

Various warehouses or small factories sucked trucks in and spit them back out, increasing traffic. Hayley saw faces. Men and women living lives completely apart from the pressure she’d been under.

The noise built. More intersections. More cars. The road was now asphalt.

“This is Mexico, right?” she asked. It was unsettling to be in a foreign country without a passport or any legal safety net. To the outside world, she was riding with the Russian mob, and didn’t cross borders like normal people.

Art nodded, staying alert while he drove them into the thick of the town.

She could’ve guessed the answer anyway. All the shop signs were in Spanish. It was a medium-sized place, a few thousand people. Satellite dishes bloomed on the sides of buildings. Small construction crews kicked up clouds of plaster. A school struggled to contain the boisterous children in its yard.

Art took them farther into the center of town. They passed a couple of carts lined with produce, and she turned in her seat to try to see what they offered. When she brought her view back around to the front of the car, they were in the town square.

A church and three government buildings held down the corners of the square. Inside was a small park with fountains and benches. And the market, with tables and carts full of produce. Hayley could already smell the onions and the moist bitterness of the greens.

Skirting the edge of the activity, Art took them onto a side street and parked the SUV.

“I spotted a hardware store just off the square.” He shut down the car and gave her a questioning look, asking if she was ready.

“Let’s go.”

Free from the oppressive pressure in the house, she felt alive again. And to be out, under the sun with Art in a new town, discovering the local produce, felt like a fantasy.

Reality cut in when she felt Art’s caution in the street. He was next to her, moving with purpose and scanning the surroundings. She tried to learn his awareness. Rooftops and sunken doorways were noted. She tracked the flow of traffic and found herself easily moving through it.

“Can we run?” She imagined disappearing into the town, cloaking herself with the ordinary life and commotion.

“They’d find us.” His voice was steady and grim. “Or we’d be running forever. And anyone left behind...family...would suffer. We need to end them before they end us.”

The hope of escape choked off, and she tried to resign herself to a prolonged struggle.

Art stopped at the edge of the market and carried his steady gaze over the place.

She restrained herself from sprinting to the nearby tables. “Those beets are calling to me.”

He smiled warmly and clasped her hand. The food became less interesting as she absorbed the care of their connection. He turned her palm up and pressed a wad of folded peso bills into it. “I’m going to the hardware store.” His gaze flicked to a stall at the middle of a row. “Start with the tomatoes.”

“Tomatoes?” His instruction was too specific. A cloud passed over the glow of freedom. There was some kind of business here.

“Tomatoes,” he confirmed. “Meet you back here. Happy hunting.” He gave her hand a squeeze and headed off to the edge of the square.

Was she walking on a minefield? She tracked her slow steps while she passed tables of carrots and peaches and unknown greens, on her way to the tomatoes.

Maybe Art just had a great eye for produce. The piled tomatoes were beautiful. Deep color. Perfectly odd shapes. She picked one up, feeling how thin the skin was, delicate and not overengineered.

“¿Bueno, si?”
A woman with dark hair tied up into a bandana stood behind the table of tomatoes. She nodded knowingly, looking at the tomato in Hayley’s hand. There was something else in her eyes, a steely glint.

Hayley had seen the same edge in Art.

“Si,”
she replied, cautious.

“You’re the chef.” Surprisingly, the woman’s English had no accent. She casually scanned around them; no one was within earshot. Then she busied herself prepping a shopping bag.

“Hayley.” Mimicking the everyday activity, Hayley went through the business of selecting the best tomatoes.

“Mary.” The woman was around Hayley’s age, but built like an athlete. “Friend of Art’s.”

“I was glad to find out he had friends.”

Mary laughed. “I’m sure.” She took the tomatoes and put them in the bag. “That wall around the compound, is it reinforced cinder block?”

Hayley tried to remember any detail she could about it. “I don’t know. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, sister.” Mary winked at her. “Is there a little mound on the top of the wall, or is it flat?”

“Flat.” That much she knew.

Mary nodded to herself. “They rushed it. Doubt they had time to reinforce. A fifty will do it.”

“Fifty dollars?” Hayley was lost again.

“Fifty caliber.” This time, when Mary winked, she kept her eye closed, as if sighting down a rifle. “You ever shoot a gun?”

“Couple of times, at a range.” If they could just talk about the produce, then she’d be in control.

“Stay with Art.” Mary watched Hayley’s face when she said this.

Hayley felt a slight blush betray her. She tried to keep the heat down, but all the need and attraction always pushed so close to the surface.

Mary didn’t judge, but she nodded with understanding. There was even a slow small secret darkness, far away in her eyes. “He’ll get you out.” Mary leaned forward, dead serious. “But watch your six. If you pick up a gun, don’t point it at anything you don’t want dead. And if you have to pull the trigger, do it.” She took the tomato from Hayley’s hand. “Stay alive to say your Hail Marys to me later.”

“I will.” Though Hayley couldn’t imagine herself with a gun in her hand. “Thanks, Mary.”

“But I ain’t full of grace.” She handed over the bag of tomatoes. “Gratis.”

The produce wasn’t nearly as heavy as the advice.

But knowing that Mary was part of Art’s team, and there were others like her out there, gave Hayley a touch of extra confidence she might make it through whatever was coming.

She paused before moving on to the next stall. “What’s your comfort food?”

“Lebanese.”

“I can work with that.”

“No backing down now that you owe me.” Mary extended her fist, and Hayley bumped it. “Stay awake out there.”

Hayley smiled a thanks and headed into the market. She was out of the house but still in the action. By the time she made it one stall over, Mary was gone, replaced by an older woman at the tomato table. The market was Hayley’s territory, but stable footing was hard to find. Art could only lead her so much. No one was what they seemed. Not even Hayley.

Chapter Thirteen

Automatik was ready. All Art had to do was call the shot. He didn’t see any of his team in the hardware store but knew they’d been there. The tools he needed to fix the propane line had been supplemented by them, stashed in a spot high on a shelf. It would’ve taken an employee a year to find the secret gear in the crowded aisles of the hot, cramped shop. And even if they did, it would’ve just looked like oily thin cardboard used for packing machine parts.

Art knew what it could do, though, and carefully tucked the sheets in the paper bag with the rest of his supplies. He chatted in Spanish for a bit with the older man behind the counter, thanking him for the hardware, commiserating about the heat and taking in other details about the town.

Back in the square, Art stalked through the market. Hayley wasn’t hard to spot under the makeshift umbrellas and awnings. She could not be rushed and stopped at each table to pick up the food, test it and think about it. Some she bought, some stayed behind. Among her bags were the tomatoes. Mary was gone from the market and was probably in the field, zeroing in the scope of her rifle.

Hayley turned to see Art before he reached her. Good, she was aware and her radar was up. But her open smile was bright, nothing like a hardened merc or shell-shocked private.

He stood close enough to take a couple of her bags, smelling the aroma of greens fresh from the dirt, and lean into her a bit. She shifted her weight, pushing back. “You met ‘Bolt Action’ Mary.” He kept a casual appearance. No one was close enough to hear them.

“She has great tomatoes.” Hayley started to turn in the direction of the tomato table but stopped herself. “Glad to know she’s out there.”

“Me, too.” He quickly negotiated the price of bell peppers and paid the person at the stall. Just by putting them in the bag, he could tell how sweet and spicy the bright red peppers would be. As he and Hayley walked to the next table, he told her, “She’s a sniper.”

Hayley acknowledged him with her eyes and turned her attention to piles of carrots. For a few minutes, they were normal. People out shopping. He was just a guy hanging out with a woman who was a chef who found inspiration in a red onion.

She was confident and comfortable in the square, even though she’d never been to this town before. And if she didn’t speak all the Spanish, she spoke food, and everyone else there understood her.

At the end of a row, she sorted what she’d collected in the bags. “The last time we were at a farmer’s market, you kidnapped me into this job.”

“It’s going to look great on your résumé.” He held open the bags he carried so she could inspect them.

“Do you have a résumé?” She appeared satisfied with her haul and peered up at him.

He barely moved his lips to speak, deepening his voice. “Graveyards are my résumé.”

Her eyes went wide, and he saw doubt tremor through her.

“I’m kidding,” he reassured, laughing at her slow realization.

“Jesus Christ.” She sighed a relieved breath, then burned him with her eyes. “You sounded like a fucking killing machine.”

He admitted, “I did shake down the hardware store owner for the most important intel.”

Her jaw set, anticipating trouble, but he quickly reached forward to give her arm a reassuring squeeze.

“Lunch.” He turned her so she could see a tiny restaurant tucked under a taller building. “Best
machaca
in town. At least, that’s what the shop owner’s last words were.”

“If it’s a final confession, it must be true.” She hefted her bags, and the two of them walked away from the market.

People watched them. The town was small enough that strangers were noticed. Garin’s trip in had probably caused a stir, and now here were Art and Hayley marketing like locals. But they weren’t local. Curious gazes followed them across the street to the restaurant. Women talked, unashamed to stare. Men were wary, protective of their space. Open hostility blazed out of a few of them. Art marked them in his memory: worn boots with an exposed steel toe. T-shirt with a soda logo on it. Rust-red car.

The owner of the restaurant, who was also the waiter, lit up like family when Art and Hayley came in. When he spotted the bags of produce and found out that Hayley was a chef, the holiday started. The owner refused to bring menus and said he would serve the best.

To show Hayley and Art how authentic food was cooked, he escorted them from the dining area, with only about five tables and a TV in the corner, into the kitchen. The man’s wife abandoned her post at the cash register to join them, crowding the already small space.

Every surface was dangerous. Boiling water, open flames on the stove, searing-hot griddles. Hayley was at home, grinning and taking it all in with an expert gaze.

He asked over the sound of sizzling meat, “Are all kitchens like this?”

“Some are bigger.” She stepped around the owner to get beside the hurried young cook. “But this has everything you need.”

The cook continued with his business but took extra time to show her the process. She nodded appreciatively, asking a couple of questions in decent Spanish and getting terse answers. Art watched her bank the information. She was so alive, in the moment. And he could see that she was itching to jump into the dance.

When the cook expertly spun two huge tortillas on the griddle, she turned to Art, eyes wide and drawing him into her enthusiasm.

He braved all the burning surfaces around them to step closer and whisper in her ear, “You’re so beautiful,
mi reina
.”

She reached forward and caressed her hand down his forearm. Her gaze stirred his blood. But there was a touch of sadness in her eyes, and he understood. Feeling good only made the inevitable battle that much more terrible. He should’ve stayed away from her. The way he’d avoided too much close contact during his military career. And during his work with Automatik. But there was no escaping Hayley.

Licking her lips, her words were for him alone. “I’m starving.”

“Let’s eat.” He repeated the idea to the owner, this time in Spanish.

Plates clattered while the owner and his wife collected lunch. Art and Hayley were swept out of the kitchen and back to their table.
Machaca
burritos. Roast chicken. Cactus and corn salad. Art had seen most of it being cooked and knew how fresh it was.

He sat with his back to the kitchen so he could watch the front door and sidewalk outside.

Hayley hadn’t even picked up her fork. She stared at the food, turned the plates for different views. Her analysis was far from unemotional. She breathed in the aromas, closed her eyes for a moment, then came back to his world with a smile.

The owner and his wife monitored them from the edge of the small dining room. Even the other people at their tables watched and waited for Hayley to eat.

Her fork continued the discovery. Pieces of the food were lifted, exposing the layers below. How could she not dig in? Art was starving, poised to attack his food, and she took the smallest bites of everything on the plates.

Watching her experience the taste made him hungry for other satisfaction that tortillas and chicken couldn’t bring. She closed her eyes, chewed slowly. Her shoulders swayed, like she danced to a slow song. He’d felt her rhythms through him and wanted her again. More and more.

His cock tightened in his jeans and he wasn’t even touching her.

She opened her eyes after savoring a bite and looked at him. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Aren’t
you
?” The fork almost bent in his clenched fist.

“I am.” To prove it, she took a large bite of the roast chicken and salsa. When she groaned with pleasure, he wanted to smash the table to splinters so he could reach her. “It’s so good,” she said after finally swallowing. “You’re missing out.”

“I’m just...making plans.”

That slowed her. Her wicked, knowing smile licked a new frenzy into his blood.

“There’s got to be a room to rent in this town.” She tapped his shin with her toe.

“I’ll break us into a house if I have to.” His head spun with the idea of her and him in a cool, quiet living room with the shades drawn.

“I thought you were one of the good guys.” She resumed eating and gave the restaurant owner an appreciative nod.

“I’ll be bad for you.”

She shook her head, sober. “Be good for me.”

Could he? He’d protected her, but only because he’d put her in this terrible situation in the first place. “Until I’ve got nothing left.”

* * *

No one had ever dedicated that much sacrifice to her. Hayley saw that he meant it. Burton had bailed when things were just getting real and she’d needed him the most. But Art didn’t run. Every time the crisis tightened, he came closer.

She couldn’t let him die. Not for her or any other cause. Art had to survive.

He must’ve seen her concern and smiled to lighten the mood, then attacked his food.

Every taste and texture was excellent. Rustic and refined. The chaos of the small kitchen was tuned like a race car engine, and the cook was a driver. She tried to identify unknown herbs and suspected they grew only in someone’s backyard in this very town.

Art appreciated the food, too. He nodded with each bite and rapped his knuckles on the table. The owner and his wife watched, satisfied, then returned to their duties in the restaurant.

The food disappeared from the plate. Hayley grew full. But she wanted to order the food she hadn’t tried. Anything to keep her and Art there. Their time was stolen. They were outside the crisis, and she didn’t know if she could handle going back into that pressure cooker of a house.

The restaurant owner returned to the table, oblivious to Hayley’s dark thoughts. He was all smiles while he cleared the empty plates to the back. When he returned, he was joined by his wife and the cook. Art helped translate the parts of the lively conversation that whirled around them. Many compliments were given, and a couple of the cook’s secrets. She thanked him twice for the technique of smoking avocado leaves before seasoning the chicken with them. He credited his mother and smiled warmly.

Plans were made to visit her kitchen, but she had to explain that her restaurant was a distant possibility. She understood the Spanish when Art told them that it wouldn’t be long. Was he saying it to make her seem important in their eyes? Or did he believe in her that much?

After many handshakes, Art paid the bill, they collected their produce and stepped back into the heat of the day. The car was somewhere off the square to their left, but Art started walking right.

He’d been navigating her through a twisted maze ever since they’d met. She had no choice but to follow again.

But she could still school him. “Do you know how hard it is to start a restaurant?”

“No.” He shrugged, keeping his gaze moving along the street and checking any intersection.

“There’s permits and insurance and cash, cash, cash. And that’s just above the table.” Merely operating a steam cart outside Rolan’s club had gotten her into this situation. “A lot of palms need to be greased to make it all come together. And that’s before publicity, word of mouth, exposure.”

“You had a plan for all that.” He wasn’t daunted. “You had a plan for the place you almost opened.”

“Burton and I had come up with it. He was better at PR, front-of-the-house stuff.” Son of a bitch. “He had more contacts than I did. That’s why it all fell apart so fast.”

“I don’t know how hard it is to open a restaurant, but I do know how hard it is to walk into a house full of Russian mobsters and hold your head up and excel at your job.” He stopped at a corner and turned to her. “That’s what you’ve done.”

“With your help.” Yes, he was partially responsible for pulling her into this world, but how terrible would things have turned if he hadn’t been watching out for her since then?

“That’s my job.” An undercover secret soldier with a gun under his jacket, and he managed to look badass holding bags of produce from a farmer’s market. “You’re doing yours.”

His confidence always found its way through her doubt.

“Thank you.” She brushed her free hand down his chest.

He took a long breath with the touch. “Thank me in private.”

Impossible. Luxuries like privacy and safety were unobtainable.

With all his experience, he must’ve known what she was thinking. A secret glittered in his eyes, and he purposefully scanned up a side street. She followed his gaze to see a small four-story brick hotel tucked between apartment buildings.

“But first,” he said, holding the bags of produce, “I need you to reach into my right front pocket and pull out the pesos.”

She started for his jacket.

He redirected her. “Pants pocket.”

“Oh.” She stood close, rubbing her thigh on his, and slipped her hand into his jeans pocket. “Nasty boy.”

He feigned innocence. “I’m just trying to get some cash to buy sodas from that cart.” The street vendor was between them and the hotel.

“Is this the cash?” Her fingers moved along his pelvis, over the top of his thigh. “Or this?” She did feel the money but passed it so she could brush the side of his hardening cock. “I think I found it.”

“Yeah. That’s it.” He swiveled to press his length into her touch.

Before they made a scene on the corner, she retrieved the money and stood back to catch her breath.

He angled his pelvis to adjust.

“You hard?” she teased quietly.

“You wet?”

Just watching his mouth saying the word pushed a tremble down between her legs.

She couldn’t answer his question without moaning.

Nodding slowly, he walked up the side street toward the hotel. He paused at the street vendor to get four sweating bottles of cold fruit soda, and she paid the man from the wad of pesos that were still hot from Art’s pocket.

The man kept throwing them curious looks from beneath the brim of his straw hat until they moved off to the hotel.

Limp air-conditioning in the dark lobby helped Hayley breathe again. Art did all the talking at the front desk, where the middle-aged woman pulled a key and waited for payment. Art told Hayley what they owed, and she handed it over.