“Go on, then,” the man yelled.
Armando opened the passenger door and exited the vehicle. Temoc and Tonio followed him. They seemed relieved to make an escape. The driver started the engine and took off again, swerving all over the road. Then he steadied the wheel and puttered away.
Unfortunately, they weren’t much safer outside the car than in it. Walking along the highway after dark attracted attention. Any passing patrol car would stop to investigate. Armando didn’t know how close they were to their destination, either.
Benjamín Hill was on the west side of the highway, so they headed that direction, away from the shoulder and deeper into the desert. The terrain was difficult to navigate without a full moon. There were boulders, sand-covered hills, and cactus groves at regular intervals. Burrs littered the ground, clinging to his sweatpants. Cactus needles penetrated the fabric. He’d have killed for some heavy denim.
“Do you have any other pants?” he asked.
Tonio was wearing two pairs of jeans, one on top of the other. He gave Armando his outer layer but refused payment. “You saved our lives.”
Temoc nodded his agreement.
Armando put on the jeans and kept walking, uncomfortable with their gratitude. He was uncomfortable, period. His wound ached from too much exertion. The dead animal stench grew stronger, almost as if his own flesh was rotting. He suspected that it was. His bandage needed to be changed. He felt like a zombie, lumbering forward on stiff legs.
Then the sun rose, and he could see where he was going again. That was a relief—until the temperature climbed to record levels. They stumbled upon a dirt road that ran alongside the tracks and followed it for several more miles.
“You don’t look so good,” Temoc said.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and admitted defeat. There was an acacia tree nearby. He stumbled toward it, desperate for shade. They shared a bottle of water. Then he removed his jacket and the rancid T-shirt. His bandage was wet with seepage. He tore it off and tossed it away. Both brothers grimaced as reddish fluid dribbled down his side.
“I can help,” Temoc told him, taking some supplies out of his backpack. He rinsed the wound with water and covered it with crushed herbs. Armando didn’t know if this native remedy would help, but it smelled nice. Temoc made a new bandage with a clean, folded sock and duct tape. “How’s that?”
“Better,” he said, surprised. “Thank you.”
After a short break, Armando eased the jacket back onto his shoulders and started off again. He was beginning to think they should have stayed in the deathwagon, or at least near the highway. Then they came to a fork in the tracks. Just beyond that, there was a little town. Benjamín Hill.
If he hadn’t been so dead on his feet, he might have noticed the sentry. There was a federal police officer standing beneath a palm tree less than thirty feet away. They’d strolled right into his view. The officer stood and walked toward them, gun raised.
Temoc and Tonio both froze and put their hands up. Armando followed suit.
When the officer got closer, he studied the trio without a flicker of recognition. “You boys are a long way from home, aren’t you?”
Armando was no boy at forty-one, but those words were music to his ears. This officer thought he was a Guatemalan immigrant, like Tonio and Temoc. Armando started speaking to him in their native language, claiming he’d lost his papers.
The officer holstered his weapon and removed a radio from his belt. “I’ve got three Guatemalans here on the north side of the tracks. Should I detain them?”
“Just sit them down. I’ll send someone over.”
Armando didn’t like the sound of that. He couldn’t afford to get apprehended. He waited until after the officer replied to strike. When the officer glanced down to reattach the radio to his belt, Armando stepped forward. He used the blade of his right hand to jab the man in the neck with swift ferocity. The officer made a choking sound and stumbled backward.
“Run,” Armando said to the brothers, advancing again. Although he wasn’t operating at full strength, his attack was vicious. He punched the officer in the stomach, causing him to double over. Then he brought his knee to the man’s face and crushed his nose. Blood streamed from his nostrils, but he didn’t go down. Armando jumped on his back and put him in a headlock.
The officer put up a pretty good fight. Armando wrapped his legs around the man’s torso to prevent him from reaching for his weapon. The officer bucked and kicked and tried to shake him off. Then he slammed him against the tree with shocking force. Pain exploded in Armando’s side, as if he’d been shot all over again. His grip loosened.
Chingado. He was going to pass out.
Bells sounded, tinkling merrily to celebrate his demise. It took him a few seconds to realize his phone was ringing.
Sarai was calling him.
Armando dug deep into his strength reserves. He rallied, tightening his chokehold. He applied pressure with his arms and legs like a boa constrictor until the officer weakened.
Finally, the officer fell down. Armando released him, completely spent. The officer was unconscious. Armando’s head was spinning. He collected the officer’s weapon and his radio. He didn’t see anyone else coming. Temoc and Tonio had fled. Armando stumbled west, away from the tracks. He pressed his fingertips to his side. They came away wet with blood.
Fuck.
After he’d gone several hundred yards, he ducked behind a boulder and flattened his back against the stone. If more officers came for him, he was done for. He took his phone out of his pocket. His heart pounded as he listened to Sarai’s voicemail.
“I’m still on the train. I’ll be at the border soon. I can meet you at the place you wrote about in your letter.”