Shit.
The memories weren’t going away, and he couldn’t breathe.
He closed his eyes and let the memories flood him.
Past
HE caught up with Cash hours from Las Varas, spotting the horse that the previous owner described as “three ribs away from death” outside a tiny bakery in Agujero en la Roca.
He killed the engine of his motorcycle and strode into the bakery, eyes grim, mouth flat.
Cash turned from purchasing tiny iced cakes from the woman at the counter and gave Glen a green smile.
“Hola,” he said, and then, in fluent Spanish, “are you here to purchase a cake from this nice lady—she mostly sells to the town.”
“I ate,” Glen said in English. “But I’ll have one of yours.” He pointed to one of three little round tables in the mostly empty bakery. “Sit,” he ordered, gratified when Cash dropped obediently into the wooden chair. Yeah, sure, he knew it was for show—but God, if he could get the little asshole to listen to him, they might not have to run this song and dance again.
Glen looked at the woman at the counter, who eyed them curiously. She appeared to be in her late forties, with black hair twisted in a bun on her crown. It was July in Nayarit, and she was wearing a peasant blouse and skirt, probably in deference to the heat rather than for tradition. He asked her courteously for some water and got a ceramic pitcher and mug.
The bakery itself was built of stone and was stifling, probably because the stove itself was woodburning, and Glen kept a sigh in his chest. This town was so small it was more commune than city—these people wouldn’t have a police force or people equipped to bust into the kind of setup Cash had described and then power his friend out.
They were going to have to break the girl out themselves.
Glen drank deeply from the mug and then poured himself another cup. “So how much did that guy charge you for ol’ Glue Factory outside?” he asked pleasantly.
“Five hundred dollars,” Cash said, his voice sinking in shame.
Glen spit out his mouthful of water. “Are you fucking insane?”
“He looked like he needed it more than I did!” Cash defended, and Glen cocked his head.
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be counting your pity for the next year. Which is way longer than that horse is going to live.”
Cash scowled and had the grace to look ashamed.
“I mean, seriously, kid—you almost start a war hustling poker and blow the wad on that fucking horse? I thought you were smarter than that. But then, I thought you wanted help.”
“You don’t want to help me,” Cash muttered. “I’m nothing but trouble.”
Glen grabbed one of the pastries and tore it in half, setting the other half down in front of Cash. “Well, I won’t argue with you there. But whether you’re trouble or not, I promised. Now, this town doesn’t have any law enforcement. There’s no sheriff you can go to who’ll bail your friend out. Can you tell me what your plan was here?”
Cash clenched his jaw and shook his head. Apparently throwing himself on the mercy of the authorities had been it.
“Do you mind if I share a few thoughts with you?” Glen took a bite of the pastry and smiled, his jaw unclenching for the first time since he’d woken up that morning. He looked at the proprietress and told her, “This is delicious, ma’am. I’ll take three more to go.”
She smiled at him, probably thrilled to have all her stock bought instead of having to take it home, and began wrapping the pastries in paper. Glen was bathing in sweat, but she was barely dewy, and he had a moment to wish he played for the other team. She would probably be happy to flirt with him if she was interested, and if they did share a night together, she would probably still be there in the morning when he awoke.
“Go ahead,” Cash muttered. “I’m obviously too much of a fuckup to make this work.”
Glen raised his eyebrows. “Your only fuckup was not letting me help. But I’m here now—we can fix that.”
“Yeah, but what’s my price?” Cash asked meanly, and Glen’s temper rose.
“Oh, kid, you don’t got to pay me a red cent you don’t want to. Just don’t look at me with those big cow eyes and beg me for anything either, because right now, help is the only thing I’ve got to offer.”
Cash looked away, and the mutinous quiver in his lower lip eased up. “I deserved that,” he said in wonder.
“Damned straight. Now do you want to hear my plan or not?”
“I’ll take suggestions,” Cash said on a sigh—but not a sorry. Well, apparently that’s how he played this game. Now Glen knew. This didn’t have to be anything but a search-and-rescue operation from here on out. Glen was good at those; that was his job and the purpose of his company when they weren’t shuttling people or hauling freight.
Clive was paying him top dollar to get Cash back in time to go on tour with his band. Glen wouldn’t let him down.
TWO hours later, Glen wasn’t so sure about that.
“You did what?”
Cash’s lips parted in dismay, and Glen sighed. They were standing in the dusty woods outside Tranquilo Paz, and Glen was really wishing Cash had decided to go on a bender by the beach instead of a rescue mission so close to the desert. His pit stains had pit stains.
“Well, I was standing behind the mansion, and two of the muscle guys saw me!”
“So why didn’t you get on the back of that glue factory and go!” Glen’s heart pounded in his chest, and he cursed the shakiness in his hands. Glen had done some recon, and the gorillas in crew-cuts and madras he’d seen at strategic exit points around the grounds weren’t a joke. Glen had quizzed Cash extensively before they’d taken off across what was essentially a dirt path that connected Agujero en la Roca to the oak-paneled castle with extensive—and wilting—British-style grounds. What sort of clientele did this Tranquilo Paz have? Who helped the guru/cult leader/scam artist enforce his rules? What sort of electronics did the place have? What security measures were obvious, and which ones weren’t so obvious?
Glen had picked the kid’s brain and then suggested going in for a closer look. He’d walked the motorbike the last half-mile toward the grounds, thinking it probably hadn’t been far enough, given how quiet the place was—at least this yo-yo had the “tranquil” part right. Then he’d left Cash with the wheezing horse and the motorbike and disappeared to check the place out.
He found it to be assailable—but not leaky.
There were two kinds of guards—locals and pros—and while the pros were few and badass, the locals weren’t organized. They stood or sat in random corners of the mansion or the grounds—maybe four of them visible on what Glen would have to guess was sixty combined acres of manicured grounds and dusty pine forest, with the big impractical mansion in the middle. Glen didn’t hear any generators, and Agujero en la Roca had been without all but the most basic amenities, so he imagined that wood and stone edifice was hot as balls inside.
He spotted the cameras right off. There weren’t any in the surrounding forest, and the cameras on the grounds and near the house had great gaps in the coverage. The side facing the direction of Jalisco had a hill directly behind it, but it wasn’t a cliff. Coming and going from that direction would be a little noisy and a little dirty, but not impossible, and a river flowed about a quarter mile away. If there were boats down there, Tranquilo Paz could evacuate his hostages/cult members in about twenty minutes, and Glen couldn’t do much to stop him.