Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) by Robert Gregory Browne Page A
Authors: Robert Gregory Browne
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front.
So what now, genius?
Time isn’t exactly on your side.
He was searching desperately for a Plan B when a sudden thought occurred to him.
The tire.
The goddamned tire.
Where there’s a spare, there’s bound to be a tire iron, right?
Why hadn’t he thought of that before?
Every car came equipped with one. And it might be true that he was a pitiful excuse for a car owner, but the previous owner, good old Harry, would be the last person in the world to leave his trunk without the proper emergency gear.
At least Vargas hoped so.
Harry hadn’t been too diligent about cable replacement, had he?
Still, Vargas had a feeling that somewhere down in that tire well there was a jack, some flares, and a tire iron, which, like the manual in his glove box, had lain untouched for at least a year and a half.
Finding the edge of the carpet, he peeled it back and reached down into the well, rooting around down there until he found a bulky cloth sack with a drawstring on top. The tools inside clanked as he picked it up.
Bingo.
Pulling it out, he loosened the string, opened the sack, and found the tire iron—at least what felt like a tire iron—nestled up against the jack. He grabbed it, set the sack aside, then ran his fingers along the rim of the trunk lid until he found the latch.
Shifting his weight for leverage, he shoved the sharp side of the tire iron between the latch and the lid and levered it back with a quick, hard jerk.
The latch snapped and the lid flew open, Vargas scrabbling up to the edge, looking down at the road passing beneath him. His only choice was to jump, but he knew he’d do some damage in the process.
Then the Corolla began to slow, Sergio apparently aware that something was up, and Vargas started over the side—
—only to hear the loud, long honk of a horn.
Snapping his head up, he saw a familiar F-150 headed straight for him. Fast.
Shit.
Ainsworth.
He’d forgotten about him.
Vargas pulled back just as the F-150 smashed into the rear of the Corolla, the impact throwing him forward again. Grabbing onto the lip of the trunk, he held tight, trying to avoid becoming part of the truck’s grille, just as Sergio put on the brakes.
Ainsworth braked, too, getting some distance between them, then sped up again, about to ram the Corolla a second time.
Knowing it was now or never, Vargas scrambled over the edge, then dove sideways toward the road, tucking his head as he went.
He hit the pavement hard, tumbling like a cat caught in a dryer, feeling his shoulder give, another stab of pain. The world swirled around him, quick flashes of color, as he rolled into the dirt at the side of the road and lay still.
Hearing the screech of tires, he willed himself to sit up, saw Ainsworth and Junior and a squat, muscular Mexican guy—Sergio—emerging from their vehicles, shouting at him, and he knew he had to get to his feet, fast.
Glancing around, he saw that he was on a main drag, a cluster of buildings in the distance. And beyond that—
—the border station—
—the fucking border station—
—where several rows of cars were lined up for passage into El Paso.
Vargas jumped to his feet, his body protesting, then turned toward the station and ran, not looking back, not thinking about how close the others might be.
Someone shouted his name again—Sergio this time—and Vargas picked up speed, forcing his legs to move faster than they’d ever moved before, feeling as if they could give out on him at any moment.
Approaching the line of cars, he began to weave through them, not slowing down, doing his best to make himself a difficult target. Grabbing hold of the duct tape plastered over his mouth, he yanked it free.
“Help me!” he shouted. “Somebody help me!”
All around him drivers rolled down their windows and craned their necks, trying to get a look at what was going on. Trying to get a glimpse of the shouting madman.
Up ahead, a guard came scrambling out of his booth, drawing
So what now, genius?
Time isn’t exactly on your side.
He was searching desperately for a Plan B when a sudden thought occurred to him.
The tire.
The goddamned tire.
Where there’s a spare, there’s bound to be a tire iron, right?
Why hadn’t he thought of that before?
Every car came equipped with one. And it might be true that he was a pitiful excuse for a car owner, but the previous owner, good old Harry, would be the last person in the world to leave his trunk without the proper emergency gear.
At least Vargas hoped so.
Harry hadn’t been too diligent about cable replacement, had he?
Still, Vargas had a feeling that somewhere down in that tire well there was a jack, some flares, and a tire iron, which, like the manual in his glove box, had lain untouched for at least a year and a half.
Finding the edge of the carpet, he peeled it back and reached down into the well, rooting around down there until he found a bulky cloth sack with a drawstring on top. The tools inside clanked as he picked it up.
Bingo.
Pulling it out, he loosened the string, opened the sack, and found the tire iron—at least what felt like a tire iron—nestled up against the jack. He grabbed it, set the sack aside, then ran his fingers along the rim of the trunk lid until he found the latch.
Shifting his weight for leverage, he shoved the sharp side of the tire iron between the latch and the lid and levered it back with a quick, hard jerk.
The latch snapped and the lid flew open, Vargas scrabbling up to the edge, looking down at the road passing beneath him. His only choice was to jump, but he knew he’d do some damage in the process.
Then the Corolla began to slow, Sergio apparently aware that something was up, and Vargas started over the side—
—only to hear the loud, long honk of a horn.
Snapping his head up, he saw a familiar F-150 headed straight for him. Fast.
Shit.
Ainsworth.
He’d forgotten about him.
Vargas pulled back just as the F-150 smashed into the rear of the Corolla, the impact throwing him forward again. Grabbing onto the lip of the trunk, he held tight, trying to avoid becoming part of the truck’s grille, just as Sergio put on the brakes.
Ainsworth braked, too, getting some distance between them, then sped up again, about to ram the Corolla a second time.
Knowing it was now or never, Vargas scrambled over the edge, then dove sideways toward the road, tucking his head as he went.
He hit the pavement hard, tumbling like a cat caught in a dryer, feeling his shoulder give, another stab of pain. The world swirled around him, quick flashes of color, as he rolled into the dirt at the side of the road and lay still.
Hearing the screech of tires, he willed himself to sit up, saw Ainsworth and Junior and a squat, muscular Mexican guy—Sergio—emerging from their vehicles, shouting at him, and he knew he had to get to his feet, fast.
Glancing around, he saw that he was on a main drag, a cluster of buildings in the distance. And beyond that—
—the border station—
—the fucking border station—
—where several rows of cars were lined up for passage into El Paso.
Vargas jumped to his feet, his body protesting, then turned toward the station and ran, not looking back, not thinking about how close the others might be.
Someone shouted his name again—Sergio this time—and Vargas picked up speed, forcing his legs to move faster than they’d ever moved before, feeling as if they could give out on him at any moment.
Approaching the line of cars, he began to weave through them, not slowing down, doing his best to make himself a difficult target. Grabbing hold of the duct tape plastered over his mouth, he yanked it free.
“Help me!” he shouted. “Somebody help me!”
All around him drivers rolled down their windows and craned their necks, trying to get a look at what was going on. Trying to get a glimpse of the shouting madman.
Up ahead, a guard came scrambling out of his booth, drawing
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