Chapter 11: The Gate

I did not know where the book was.

That was the whole horror of it.

I knew only that a man I had once stitched together was on his knees in my own gravel.

The only thing I had that Escamilla wanted was a lie.

"Call them off," I said. "I'll find it."

"You will find it for me, then."

"I'll find it. But your men stand down now."

"They stand down when you arrive and I see your face on the camera." He lifted his water glass. "You have twelve minutes. It is a pleasant drive."

I ran.

I took the kitchen exit, through the steam, past a cook who flattened himself against the stove.

In the truck I snatched the CB mic from its hook and keyed it before I had even started the engine.

"This is Ximena Arriaga. All Arriaga units, all drivers, whoever is in the yard or within five miles. Front gate. Now. Headlights on high."

Static.

"This isn't a drill," I said. "He's one of ours."

Nobody answered, and I hit the gas and went through the red light on Zaragoza.

By the time I reached the bridge road, the radio had begun to crackle.

"Copy, jefa." A voice I knew, the old driver who had trained half the fleet. "Rolling."

"Copy, Ms. A, I'm two minutes out."

"Rolling."

The yard gate came up on my left, bright as a football field.

I had never been prouder of anything in my life.

Thirty-eight tractors had pulled up in a ragged arc around the guard shack, engines rumbling.

Every one of them had its high beams burning straight at the gravel.

The light was white and total.

In the middle of it, with their guns half raised, two men in black stood blinking over the kneeling figure of Dell Haverford.

Thirty-eight drivers stood on their running boards with tire irons and flashlights and phones held up.

The phones were all recording.

I got out and walked into the light with my empty hands open.

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