There could not be a better time to sever the relationship with Gallagher, and disappear for good. There was a chance that Diaz would be content to go after the bigger fish, and leave the minnows alone. But he had a reputation for being both ruthless and relentless, letting no one escape, and Pavón couldn’t take the chance of looking up one day and coming face-to-face with that devil. His original plan was better, to take the woman and use her as bait to catch and kill Diaz. Only then would he truly be safe.
So he sat in the cantina and waited—and waited, consoling himself with several bottles of Victoria beer. Where was she? Was he so unimportant to her that she wouldn’t bother to walk across the border to see him? He’d made it as easy for her as possible, short of presenting himself at her front door.
He was on his fourth bottle of beer before he realized that perhaps she would not come into the cantina. Only whores did, or women looking for trouble. A good woman did not, and the bitch was a good woman.
Swearing to himself, he got to his feet and was halfway across the floor to the front door when he suddenly reversed himself and went to the back. Fool! What if she was parked directly outside? That would be foolish of her, but it was possible. He definitely wanted to see her before she saw him, so he would go out the back door.
He worked his way around, which was not easy, because here the buildings had been built flush against one another and he had to walk through the narrow, smelly back alley to the end of the street, then double back. He stayed in the shadows against the buildings and near other people as well; she would be looking for a lone man, not a group. Luckily this street teemed with people, especially at night, and most of them were men of the type a good woman would not like to meet.
He moved carefully. She might be parked on the other side of the street, or facing him. He had to examine each vehicle—there! And so conveniently parked, on this side of the street, with her back to him.
It had to be her. It was a woman with light-colored curly hair, so light a brown that it was almost blond. And the curls; he especially remembered the curls. Even at night and in silhouette they seemed to float around her head with a life of their own; they looked as soft and feathery as a baby chick. He wondered if her lower hair was as curly, and chuckled to himself because he would soon find out.
For ten years he had not fucked a woman who was not a whore—not a willing woman, anyway—because this curly-haired bitch had ruined his face. She would pay for that. He would use her until she screamed for mercy.
Perhaps he would keep her for a while, even after he killed Diaz. He could charge others to use her. He did, after all, need to make a living.
There was someone else in the car with her. A man.
He stopped, his blood turning to ice. Diaz—how could he have returned so fast? Idiota! He mentally slapped himself. Just because he himself would not go in an airplane—too much security and checking of papers—didn’t mean others had the same need for secrecy. Diaz could return from anywhere in the country in a matter of hours.
But this could be to his advantage. Both of them together, and oblivious of his presence behind them. He could kill Diaz right now. A bullet through the window into his head; that would do the job. The woman . . . he would probably have to kill her now, too, and he sighed with regret. Ah, well. Shooting Diaz first, as he had to do, would give her time to react. He didn’t dare approach from the front, which would give him two quick shots at both of them; he would have to move in from behind and to the side, out of the view of the side mirror, until he had an angle on Diaz’s head. After shooting Diaz, he would have to move forward even more to be able to see the woman and have a decent shot at her. She would be screaming, moving around, perhaps even trying to drive away. He would have to be fast, and accurate, which was not so easy now with only one eye. To make things worse, it was his left eye that was missing, and they were on his left.
The man got out of the car. Pavón froze in place. This was not Diaz! This man had light-colored hair. He was older, shorter, stockier. Shocked, he recognized him. It was Dr. Kosper’s husband, the other Dr. Kosper.
Son of the great whore! What was he doing here?
Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. This Dr. Kosper was going into the Blue Pig, presumably to look for him, Pavón. This could not be better. The woman was watching Dr. Kosper; she wasn’t paying attention to—she looked into the rearview mirror, checked her side mirror, and Pavón froze. She couldn’t see him in the mirrors, but she was more alert, more cautious, than he’d believed. He needed to come at her from her left, his right, so he would be best able to see her. But if he did, she would be able to see him.
He had underestimated her once, to his cost. He would not do so again.
She would have the car doors locked; she wasn’t stupid. The windows were up. But had she relocked the passenger door after Dr. Kosper got out?
The four beers he’d had to drink said there was only one way to find out.
He strode forward at an angle, staying away from the mirrors until he was right at the car. He pulled on the door handle, the door opened—miracle!—and he leaned in with his pistol pointing right at her head.
“Hola!” he said, grinning as he slid into the passenger seat and closed the door. “Remember me?”
He saw her eyes grow huge, a most satisfying response—then quick as a snake her hand snapped up and he found himself also staring down the barrel of a pistol that was pointed at his good eye.
“Hijo de la chingada, do you remember me?” she said in slow, careful Spanish. Son of a bitch, do you remember me?