Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(11)

Pacabel looked at the floor. Beige tiles, which seemed wrong to Sam. It should’ve been carpet. Green industrial carpet.

The other agents were trying not to stare at him.

“Look, Sam,” Pacabel said, the words dragging out of him. “You’re a little confused, is al . It happens.”

“Joe, my case . . .”

“You’ve got no case, Sam.”

“What the hel are you talking about?”

Pacabel’s eyes watered, and Sam realized it was from embarrassment. Embarrassment for him.

“Sam, you retired from the FBI,” Pacabel said gently. “You haven’t worked here in twenty years.”

Halfway across town, Gerry Far was pul ing dead people out of a trailer.

He hated this part of his job, but he had to help out personal y. Otherwise his employees would panic.

He’d learned that from his mentor, Wil Stirman.

The driver this time was a fruit trucker from Indianapolis. This was his first run. It was al Gerry could do to keep him from cal ing the police.

“Help me with this hombre, ” Gerry told the trucker. “Jesus, he’s heavy.”

The smel in the truck was enough to kil —overripe mangos and excrement and body odor. When they’d opened the trailer, the temperature inside had been about a hundred and ten degrees.

As he hauled the big corpse over to the incinerator, Gerry did the math. Fifty-three il egals. Three hundred dol ars a head. Twenty-one had died, but of course they’d paid up front.

The thirty-two who lived would be sold off to Gerry’s clients—sweatshops, labor ranches, brothels—to “earn credit” for further transportation to Chicago or Houston or wherever they dreamed of going. In reality, none of them would ever be al owed to leave. They’d bring Gerry a sale price of two to five hundred dol ars each, possibly more for young women. That was the beauty of the Stirman system—the il egals paid to get here, then Gerry got paid again for sel ing them into slavery. Welcome to America.

Gerry would have to give the driver his cut, plus a little extra to calm his nerves. There would be a hefty fee to the guy who ran the incinerator. Stil , Gerry figured he would walk away with ten grand from this load.

He was dragging out the last body when his spotter, Luke, ran up, looking paler than the corpses. “You hear the news?”

“What the f**k are you doing here?” Gerry said. “Watch the goddamn gate.”

“Stirman’s free. Broke out yesterday afternoon.”

Gerry dropped the body he was carrying. “You sure?”

Luke swal owed, held up his cel phone. “I just got the cal .”

“From who?”

Luke hesitated. If Gerry had been thinking more clearly, he might’ve picked up on the fact that something was very wrong with the way Luke was acting.

“Just a friend,” Luke said. “Wanted to be sure you were warned.”

“Shit.”

“Where you going?” the trucker cal ed.

But Gerry was already fishing out his car keys, running toward his TransAm.

He’d always known a life sentence wouldn’t stop Wil Stirman. Not after what Gerry had done to him. But damn it—yesterday afternoon? Why hadn’t somebody told him sooner?

Gerry drove toward downtown.

He regretted what he’d done to Stirman. He regretted it every day, but there was no going back now. He had to go through with his emergency plan.

He ditched the TransAm near the Rivercenter Marriott and caught a taxi to the East Side. St. Paul Square. From there, it was a short walk to one of his properties—a place Stirman didn’t know about.

Nobody knew about it except a few of Gerry’s best guys, like Luke. Gerry could lay low there for a few days, make arrangements, then get out of town for good, or at least until Stirman was recaptured.

The property was an abandoned ice warehouse, a four-story red-brick building that didn’t have anything to recommend it—no electricity, no water. Just a whole lot of privacy, a good vantage point from the fourth floor to watch for visitors, and the stash Gerry had squirreled away—a few days’ worth of food, clothing, extra cash, a couple of guns. Not much. Gerry should’ve been more serious. But it was enough to get him started, to make a plan.

He was starting to relax as he climbed the stairs. He needed a vacation anyway. Maybe Cozumel.

At the top of the stairs, two men were waiting for him in the shadows.

A familiar voice said, “Gerry Far. Been praying for you every day, son.”

The I-Tech corporate offices looked out over the wreckage of north San Antonio—streets pulsing with police lights, swol en creeks turning neighborhoods into lakes. The gray ribbon of Highway 281 disappeared into water at the Olmos Basin. On the horizon, clouds and hil s boiled together in a thick, fuzzy soup.

Sam Barrera said nothing to his secretary, Alicia, about why he was late. He hoped Joe Pacabel wouldn’t cal to check up on him.

He stared out at the drowned city, the streets he’d known al his life.

He wanted to weep from shame.

The first time he’d passed on his medication. One sorry-ass morning he’d tried to go without the little beige pil s and the goddamn diarrhea they caused. And what had happened? A nightmare.

So you got confused, he consoled himself. It could happen to anybody. You were thinking about . . .