Matt said.
Garza froze. "What about him?"
"Depending on the level of cooperation, we could arrange a transfer from ADX Florence to house arrest somewhere in the United States." A former warden once described the “supermax” prison as a “cleaner version of Hell,” and Hernando Garza had earned his place there as his brother's chief enforcer north of the border. According to his dossier, Onofre had a tendency to murder anyone who reminded him of this fact. "He could see his family, and we'd allow supervised, monitored phone calls."
Garza's shrug revealed nothing. "Prison is prison. Freedom is freedom. I will consider helping you in exchange for my brother's extradition to Mexico."
"I don't think that's going to happen."
Garza slammed his cup onto the table, sloshing scalding coffee over his fingers. "Ask." His killer's eyes bored into Matt's, every hint of hospitality burned away. "Call them, or get out." His eyes flicked to the door, then down to his hand. He picked up a cotton napkin, wiped the table and his fingers, then set it down next to the cup.
"Excuse me a moment." Matt stepped away and pulled out his cell phone. The satellite uplink would work anywhere in the world, but the four bars of local service surprised him. He stared out the window as he talked to Jeff, who in turn had to call someone else in Washington. The forested mountains out the window stood taller and perhaps more majestic than home but were no more beautiful. After a lengthy conversation he returned to the table.
"We'll consider extradition in exchange for Dawkins's whereabouts leading to his capture. We get him, you get Hernando."
"No. Verified whereabouts only, not guarantee of capture. You want Senor Dawkins brought back to the fold, that's up to you. I mean no offense, but recent successes aside, I'll not bet my brother's freedom on your agency's competence."
A dozen replies went through Matt's mind. "Um . . . What do you mean, 'back to the fold?'"
Garza smirked. "Surely your superiors have told you. Senor Dawkins was one of yours. An ICAP agent."
Matt's heart pounded. "Excuse me?"
Garza gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "It doesn't matter. What your superiors choose not to tell you is not my problem. Do we have a deal?" He'd walked halfway to the door by the time Matt replied.
"Yes." The idea of freeing a man like Hernando Garza sickened him, but bagging Dawkins would be worth the price. Maybe.
Garza smiled, one hand on the doorknob. "Excellent. I will be contacting you through a surrogate within the month. Good day, Senor Rowley." He opened the door.
The porch glistened with bright, wet redness, and the air smelled of iron and shit. A red-blue, ropy garland hung between the main columns. Intestines.
Matt reached for a sidearm that wasn't there.
Garza pulled the pistol from his shorts and ducked behind the door. "What is the meaning of this?"
Matt admired the gun, an Obregon .45 ACP, with mother-of-pearl grips and gold etching on the barrel. A seven-shot semi-automatic. At this range a center-of-mass shot would make a mess of him, regenerates or no. A hit to the head or heart would kill him, no question. Matt decided to tell the truth.
"I don't know."
Garza spat out a string of Spanish. Matt caught puta and nothing else. Whispers rejoiced in the muzzle flash the instant before it happened. He dove to the left, and the report followed him through the kitchen door.
Aracelia sat at the counter, mouth agape, a half-sliced apple in one hand, a paring knife in the other. He ducked past her, grabbed a rolling pin from the counter, and grunted in pain. The girl had driven the knife into his kidney. He backhanded her off the stool and hurled the pin toward the door, pulling the throw so the impact would be non-lethal. It took Garza in the forehead just as he peeked around the corner. Aracelia rebounded off a cupboard, and the bodies collapsed together. Grunting, Matt pulled out the knife and dropped it.
His third step pinned
Garza froze. "What about him?"
"Depending on the level of cooperation, we could arrange a transfer from ADX Florence to house arrest somewhere in the United States." A former warden once described the “supermax” prison as a “cleaner version of Hell,” and Hernando Garza had earned his place there as his brother's chief enforcer north of the border. According to his dossier, Onofre had a tendency to murder anyone who reminded him of this fact. "He could see his family, and we'd allow supervised, monitored phone calls."
Garza's shrug revealed nothing. "Prison is prison. Freedom is freedom. I will consider helping you in exchange for my brother's extradition to Mexico."
"I don't think that's going to happen."
Garza slammed his cup onto the table, sloshing scalding coffee over his fingers. "Ask." His killer's eyes bored into Matt's, every hint of hospitality burned away. "Call them, or get out." His eyes flicked to the door, then down to his hand. He picked up a cotton napkin, wiped the table and his fingers, then set it down next to the cup.
"Excuse me a moment." Matt stepped away and pulled out his cell phone. The satellite uplink would work anywhere in the world, but the four bars of local service surprised him. He stared out the window as he talked to Jeff, who in turn had to call someone else in Washington. The forested mountains out the window stood taller and perhaps more majestic than home but were no more beautiful. After a lengthy conversation he returned to the table.
"We'll consider extradition in exchange for Dawkins's whereabouts leading to his capture. We get him, you get Hernando."
"No. Verified whereabouts only, not guarantee of capture. You want Senor Dawkins brought back to the fold, that's up to you. I mean no offense, but recent successes aside, I'll not bet my brother's freedom on your agency's competence."
A dozen replies went through Matt's mind. "Um . . . What do you mean, 'back to the fold?'"
Garza smirked. "Surely your superiors have told you. Senor Dawkins was one of yours. An ICAP agent."
Matt's heart pounded. "Excuse me?"
Garza gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "It doesn't matter. What your superiors choose not to tell you is not my problem. Do we have a deal?" He'd walked halfway to the door by the time Matt replied.
"Yes." The idea of freeing a man like Hernando Garza sickened him, but bagging Dawkins would be worth the price. Maybe.
Garza smiled, one hand on the doorknob. "Excellent. I will be contacting you through a surrogate within the month. Good day, Senor Rowley." He opened the door.
The porch glistened with bright, wet redness, and the air smelled of iron and shit. A red-blue, ropy garland hung between the main columns. Intestines.
Matt reached for a sidearm that wasn't there.
Garza pulled the pistol from his shorts and ducked behind the door. "What is the meaning of this?"
Matt admired the gun, an Obregon .45 ACP, with mother-of-pearl grips and gold etching on the barrel. A seven-shot semi-automatic. At this range a center-of-mass shot would make a mess of him, regenerates or no. A hit to the head or heart would kill him, no question. Matt decided to tell the truth.
"I don't know."
Garza spat out a string of Spanish. Matt caught puta and nothing else. Whispers rejoiced in the muzzle flash the instant before it happened. He dove to the left, and the report followed him through the kitchen door.
Aracelia sat at the counter, mouth agape, a half-sliced apple in one hand, a paring knife in the other. He ducked past her, grabbed a rolling pin from the counter, and grunted in pain. The girl had driven the knife into his kidney. He backhanded her off the stool and hurled the pin toward the door, pulling the throw so the impact would be non-lethal. It took Garza in the forehead just as he peeked around the corner. Aracelia rebounded off a cupboard, and the bodies collapsed together. Grunting, Matt pulled out the knife and dropped it.
His third step pinned
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