Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(69)

Long after the police took Erainya Manos away, Pablo had waited in the ventilation shaft.

He expected the woman to sel him out. Any second, the muzzle of an assault rifle would poke its way into his hiding place.

But Pablo kept waiting.

When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he crawled out. No one was waiting in the storage room to ambush him. His gun was stil lying on the floor by the window. They hadn’t even bothered bagging it for evidence.

Why would the police leave the scene so fast?

He checked the magazine. Stil loaded, minus the bul et Erainya Manos had fired to rattle the police.

Dangerous, he had told her.

It’ll throw them off balance, she said. When they find out I fired the gun, they’ll relax their guard about everything. They’ll believe I’m alone.

He hadn’t trusted her, but he’d gone along. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t surrender. He couldn’t bring himself to kil her.

He crept down the stairs, spotted two uniformed cops at the front entrance. They looked bored, like they’d been put there to keep people out. They weren’t paying any attention to the inside of the building.

Pablo slipped out the back, onto the loading docks.

The rain felt good on his face, but he told himself he would never make it across open ground. There were probably stil snipers on the surrounding rooftops. His shoulder blades tensed for the bul et he expected in his back.

He jogged down a dark al ey. Nothing happened. He made it three blocks away, came out next to St. Paul Square. A bunch of tourist rental cars were parked on the street. He strol ed down the line, glancing casual y through windows. A Dodge Neon had the driver’s keys just sitting there on the front seat.

Too easy. Had to be a trap.

The police would surround him as soon as he turned the ignition. The engine would explode. Something.

But he got in, started the Neon, and pul ed away from the curb.

By the time he got to the highway, he was crying like a child.

He had come that close to kil ing Erainya Manos, and she’d been tel ing him the truth.

The pilot found himself facing a young Latino with cobwebs in his hair, ragged clothes, dirt and scratches on his arms like he’d crawled out of a col apsed building.

The pilot tried for calm. He raised his hands. “I got nothing you can rob, partner. Unless you want an airplane.”

“Actual y,” the Latino said, “that is exactly what I want.”

The pilot blinked. “You’re Wil Stirman?”

“You know the Calabras airstrip, south of Juárez?”

“Sure.” The pilot didn’t feel the need to mention he’d flown he**in from that airstrip a dozen times. “You have my hundred grand?”

The Latino smiled. He nudged the pilot’s nose affectionately with his gun. “Actual y, se?or, there’s been a slight change of plans.”

Wil Stirman found his money, right where Navarre said it would be.

The black duffel bag was lighter than when Wil had packed it, eight years ago, but that was to be expected. Fred Barrow must’ve used a good half mil ion.

Wil stuffed a couple of hundred-dol ar bil s in his pocket, rezipped the bag.

He had one last score to settle.

He climbed the wooden stairs out of the basement, the knife wound in his shoulder throbbing so badly he could hardly think. He found an intact section of roof to stand under. Rain was blowing through the skeletal remains of the house. The dark hil s around him smel ed of wet juniper.

Wil cal ed the SAPD. He was pleasantly surprised to get a connection so far from the city. He told the dispatcher he was the outside accomplice who’d helped Wil Stirman escape, and now he had a guilty conscience. He gave her enough details about the jailbreak to be sure she was taking him seriously. Then he told her where they could find one of the missing Floresvil e Five. A hunting cabin in the woods of Wisconsin. He gave her directions.

Wil hung up, feeling satisfied.

With any luck, his guess would be right. The Guide might be stupid enough to lay low there. He might have thought Wil had forgotten about the Wisconsin property, which the Guide had shown him once, years ago— his little retirement dream house. But Wil never forgot a good hiding place.

He walked back to the main road in the dark—a good half mile, through mosquitoes and mud and brambles. Down toward the river, the only visible light was a kerosene lamp glowing in a curtained window.

A caretaker’s cabin, maybe. Wil avoided it.

He hadn’t seen another human being for thirty miles, since he exited the main highway. Every farmhouse had been dark, every road abandoned. Anybody crazy enough to ignore the evacuation orders, Wil wanted to stay clear of.

He climbed into the truck and stared at the empty seat next to him.

You failed Soledad, Navarre had said. You let the past stay buried.

The words weighed on Wil ’s heart.

Eight years ago, he had taken the coward’s way out. He’d never tried to find out what real y happened to Soledad’s baby— his baby.

He’d assumed the worst, nursed his anger, promised himself that he would get revenge in the long run.

But he’d stayed silent. In his most secret thoughts, he’d been relieved not to be a father anymore. Relieved the child was gone. And his guilt had fueled his anger.

Now . . . what had he accomplished?

He’d left hardly a ripple on the lives of his old enemies. He’d had a chance to settle his debts, salvage something from the past. But here he was again, doing the only thing he was good at—running away. He never had Soledad’s courage for staying put.