This was shaping up to be a tip-top mission.
Ian snapped a few pictures of the body on the floor and did a quick search for evidence. Flores’s desk was littered with what appeared to be falsified documents. There was a half-finished passport on the surface for a female, age eighteen, named Sayra Torres. No photo was attached. He wondered if Sarai had been here, waiting for this fake passport, when the killers broke in. The place didn’t appear to have been ransacked. There was an open window with a fire escape on the other side. He stuck his head out to inspect the space.
Nothing.
Nothing but a whisper of intuition, and Maria’s assertion that the girl was clever. Maybe Sarai was small and spry enough to slip away, undetected. He considered climbing out for a closer look, but decided against it. Just looking at the fire escape made his leg hurt. His instincts told him to get moving. He strode toward the door and paused at the entrance.
Someone was coming up the stairs. Two someones, in black federales uniforms.
Fuck.
He ducked back inside, his heart racing. Despite LaGuardia’s warning, he hadn’t expected a police response so quickly. No ambulance or wailing sirens accompanied their arrival. There was no indication that Flores’s neighbors had called for help. Perhaps these federales were here to clean up the scene, not investigate the murder.
Now the fire escape was Ian’s only option. He scrambled out the open window and climbed down the ladder. It groaned beneath his weight, threatening to collapse with every step. The rungs were placed too close together for a man his size, and his injury added to the challenge.
About halfway down, his foot slipped.
He managed to hang on, but the extra yank caused the metal ladder to break free from the landing. And that was all she wrote. The ladder careened backward wildly. He let go midair and landed in an awkward sprawl on his stomach. Air rushed from his lungs and pain ripped through his leg. The ladder clattered to the ground next to him.
It took him a moment to draw breath. While he was facedown, gasping like a fish out of water, he noticed a little silver pendant by his palm. He closed his hand around it, rolled over, and looked up. One of the federales was on the fire escape, pointing down at him.
Shit.
Ian was too rattled to move. He thought about drawing his weapon, but didn’t.
That hesitation might have saved his life. Because the cop didn’t draw on him, either. He didn’t even keep an eye on him. An experienced officer would have watched Ian until his partner reached the ground level. This guy went back inside, shouting for help.
Ian took advantage of the rookie mistake and lumbered to his feet. He couldn’t run. The best he could do was limp away at a fast clip, so that’s what he did. His wound throbbed like a son of a bitch, but he ignored it. He reached the end of the building and continued across the street. It was a struggle to maintain his balance. When he glanced over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of two black uniforms.
Damn. They were already gaining on him.
He rounded the corner, stumbled into a parking lot, and almost got hit by a truck. The driver cursed at him in Spanish. Ian tapped his fist on the hood.
“I need a ride,” he panted. “I have money.”
The man gestured for him to get in. Ian jumped into the passenger seat a few seconds before the federales entered the parking lot. He lowered his head and hoped for the best. His fate was in the driver’s hands now. To his relief, the man seemed unconcerned or unaware of the police presence. He stepped on the gas and kept going. His radio was blasting mariachi music. If there were any orders to stop, Ian didn’t hear them. He stayed hunched over for several more minutes, sweating profusely.
“?Adónde vas?” the driver asked.
Ian straightened to glance behind them. He didn’t see anyone following.
Holy shit. That was close. He unclenched his fist and stared at the object in his palm. It was a piece of hammered silver, shaped into a butterfly. Ian fished a twenty out of his pocket and asked the driver to take him to the cargo station. The man gave him a strange look, but he accepted the money and drove on. Ian’s next step was to contact LaGuardia. His battery was low, so he sent a text message.
Almost got intercepted by FP at the scene. Need to talk.
This situation had gone completely off the rails. Ian felt isolated, uninformed, and unprotected. Although San Juan del Río was a large enough city to hide in, he had no connections or resources here. He stood out from the crowd.
Ten minutes later, Ian had reached his destination. And his text remained unanswered.
Chapter 9
Maria spent the next few hours searching for her brother.
The passengers had spread out over a large area along the tracks. Some had eaten breakfast or sought medical attention at the Cruz Roja building. Others had stocked up on water or other supplies. Many were sleeping in the shade.
It wasn’t really a camp, like the one they’d entered yesterday afternoon. The passengers looked too weary to cause mischief. She would never feel comfortable in crowds of men, but she wasn’t afraid of these men in particular. They were mostly poor Central Americans. They were the underdogs here. She had more to fear from la migra and the bandits who preyed on passengers.
She moved warily from group to group, showing a picture of her brother. No one had seen him, which wasn’t a surprise. If he’d jumped aboard a train the evening before last, he’d be at the next station by now. She could ride La Bestia all the way to the border and never catch up with him, but her chances improved with each stop. The passengers had to rest sometime.