Ian definitely didn’t trust the federales, but his gut feeling told him they had no idea who he really was. They were after him because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe they thought he was working for Carlos Moreno. The most important factor was Sarai. She’d been at the apartment where the federales had chased him. She’d been in El Limbo, according to ICE intelligence. She’d been in Mazatlán. They were looking for her—and he kept getting in the way.
Not everything was a conspiracy. Not everyone was dirty. Most people were corruptible, but only under certain circumstances. True evil was rare. Periods of extreme duress and lifelong hardship were common.
That didn’t mean Ian felt sorry for a desperate criminal like Armando Villarreal. Fuck no. He didn’t care about the target’s unfortunate circumstances. What happened to Villarreal after his arrest wasn’t Ian’s problem, and his backstory was irrelevant.
“We should avoid the bus station,” he said to Maria.
She nodded, gathering her things. He had to assume there would be police officers in Hermosillo. They might be swarming around the tracks at Benjamín Hill. If Maria thought it was a smart place to look for Sarai, so would they.
He waited until they were within city limits, in a heavily populated area, to ask the bus driver to pull over. They got off the bus and caught a cab on the street.
“Where to?” the cab driver asked.
Ian wasn’t eager to get on another bus. Benjamín Hill wasn’t a big city like Hermosillo. It was a tiny little town in the middle of nowhere, like El Limbo. Additional caution was required. They could rent a car, but rental cars were easy to identify in small towns. They had stickers or special plates. He needed a vehicle that offered stealth and maneuverability.
“I want to rent a moped,” he said to Maria.
“What is that?”
“A small motorcycle, like a scooter.”
“Una moto,” she translated for the driver.
The man nodded his understanding and stepped on the gas. Ten minutes later, they were in front of a dusty bike shop off the main drag. It was perfect. There were several different types of mopeds. He asked for an older model that would hold both their weight.
The paperwork consisted of Ian writing his driver’s license number on a card. He put down a cash deposit. Helmets were available, so he grabbed two. On his way out, he spotted a case of sporting goods. He bought a pair of used binoculars that might come in handy.
The moped’s controls were basic. There was a brake and a gas pedal. He climbed on, gesturing for Maria to get behind him. She clung to him for dear life. Her fingernails dug into his ribs around every curve. Instead of leaving Hermosillo, he pulled over at an Internet café. There was a real café next door. Taking off his helmet, he studied Maria. “Why don’t you drive?”
She gave him a doubtful look.
“It’s easy to operate. If you’re in front, in control, you might feel more comfortable.”
“You think so?”
“Can’t hurt to try,” he said, searching his pockets. He had less than twenty dollars left. “Will you buy us some sandwiches? Get whatever you want. I have to check on something.”
She went into the café to buy sandwiches while he walked next door. He didn’t want to call the ICE offices and talk to Special Agent Bell again. Maybe there was a leak between ICE and the Mexican police. Maybe there wasn’t. Either way, he didn’t feel right about moving forward on his own. He’d been ordered to lay low, not continue pursuit. If he didn’t initiate some sort of communication, LaGuardia would think he’d gone off the rails. Again.
He sent a quick email about his plans and general whereabouts. Then he pulled up a satellite map of Benjamín Hill. It was a dusty desert town, like many others. A convenient back road would get them there in two hours. He examined every available photo and memorized the layout. Benjamín Hill seemed like a fitting place for a showdown. Ian pictured gunmen on rooftops, a hitching post, and tumbleweeds rolling down empty streets.
Maria returned with sandwiches and drinks. He tucked them away in the borrowed backpack. Then he gave her a quick driving lesson. He climbed on the bike behind her, resting his hands on her hips. She started off shaky but got the hang of it quickly.
Within minutes, they were zipping along at a steady pace. He could feel the soft warmth of her body as her anxiety dissipated. Although he usually preferred being in control as well, he enjoyed the ride. He relished her closeness, the sun on his back, the breeze rippling through his shirt. His pulse raced with excitement and the seat hummed beneath them. Her supple bottom, wedged between his thighs, added to the stimulation. Soon his thoughts wandered to nude beaches and sensual escapes. He imagined taking her on the sand, waves lapping over them, naked limbs entwined.
She swerved around a pothole, jostling him out of his reverie. He tried to reel himself in, but his arousal wouldn’t abate. It throbbed against her, persistent. She finally pulled over and killed the engine. “I can’t drive when you’re like that.”
He didn’t say he was sorry, because he wasn’t. He couldn’t prevent his body’s response to her ass jiggling on his lap.
She dismounted and took off her helmet, letting out a huff of breath. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes glittering. Maybe the vibrations had been getting to her too. If it felt good on his balls, it probably felt great on her clit.
Damn.
Now he was hard as a rock.
They were at least thirty miles away from Benjamín Hill, but they both needed a break. He removed his sweaty helmet and adjusted his fly. She gave him a disapproving stare, as if it was impolite for him to grab his crotch in Mexico. He glanced around for children or nuns, but he didn’t see a soul. They were alone on the side of a deserted road. There was a church across the street. Maybe there was a strict no-erections rule in front of houses of worship.