The asset, p.12
The Asset, page 12
Region three. Idaho, Montana, Wyoming. He’d seen pictures of the area. Why would Heather want to bring Martin to such a desolate region? It was relatively unpopulated since the war. People had left in droves because the land was mostly infertile from the floods and chemical warfare. Geothermal spouts had become poisonous. Cattle ranching was difficult, and farming nearly impossible.
“What’s there?” he asked.
“Our only chance. If this doesn’t work, I don’t know where we can be safe.” The statement landed like a rock in the tin can flying through the underground tunnels. They didn’t speak for a few minutes.
The answer to all of their problems popped into his head. “My mama has plenty of space in Mexico City. We could go there.”
She chewed her lip. “That might work if we can somehow get Martin Slade across the border without tripping any PD alarms. I am sure they have notified all the crossings to be on the lookout for him.”
His heart leapt at the thought of having Heather safe and sound in Mexico. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s go now. My mama will love you.”
The smile she gave him was one of the saddest things he’d ever witnessed.
“I can’t leave my little girl behind, Mike. I have to stay here.”
And just like that, his heart broke.
“Me too. I can’t leave until I find Francisco’s body.”
“We’re stuck here then until we complete our own personal missions.”
“Juntos.”
She studied him for a long moment. “Yes. Together.”
When the second ride of his lifetime stopped, the doors opened.
A large mountain of a man stepped aboard. Miguel went for his weapon.
Heather held up her hand. “Put it away.”
“Need a little help, boss?” the man said.
“Yes, thanks, Brute. Nice to see they haven’t caught you yet,” she said.
“You’ll know if they do, boss. I ain’t goin’ down without a fight.”
The man she called Brute started unbuckling the harness and taking it off Martin. Even though he was missing three fingers, he was still faster at undoing the straps than Miguel was at unbuckling his own harness. Brute lifted the unconscious Martin off the seat as if he were as light as a large sack of clothes.
“Where is our vehicle?” Heather asked.
“Around the corner in the bay. You’re gonna love it,” Brute said. “Follow me.”
A long black car was parked around the corner with a sign on the side that said, We’ve got you, this life and next.
“Wait, that’s our vehicle?” Miguel frowned.
“Yep, amigo. It’s a hearse, you know, for carrying dead people,” Brute said.
“I-Q-T. They have quite a sense of humor,” Heather said. “Uniforms?”
“In the cabinet,” Brute said.
“Come on, Mike. Let’s get suited up.” Heather walked over to the cabinet and pulled out her outfit. She was already taking her shirt off and putting on a white blouse.
“Mike?” Heather said as she put the black pants on. “You need to change.”
Miguel didn’t move. He’d grown up in a family that feared spirits. His abuela swore at her dead husband as if he were standing next to her, still abusing her. Sometimes she took a swing at the air as if fighting the man who had been dead for years. As a kid, Miguel was terrified of the mean dead man’s spirit. As an adult, he didn’t like the idea of sitting in the back of a hearse where the deceased had their last ride.
Heather shook his shoulder. “You okay there, Mike?”
“Are you sure we can’t take another vehicle?” He looked around the parking bay. “What about that trash truck?”
“What’s wrong with the hearse?”
Mierda. He didn’t want to explain. Heather was going to think he was an idiot. He felt like a suspicious fool. “I don’t think I can ride in the back where bodies go.”
She squinted at him. “Brute is putting Martin in the back. In case we get pulled over, he will be the body.”
“Oh.”
“You’ll be up front with me. Got it?”
He could feel his cheeks warm. “Sí, that makes the most sense.”
“So, are you okay now?”
Sort of. “Can I drive?”
She cocked her head at him. He waited for her to say, ‘Oh, hell no.’ She never let anyone else drive. “Will that make you more comfortable?”
“Yes.” He could focus on the road and not have to think about the back of the vehicle.
“Will you drive fast and hard if I tell you to?”
“Of course, boss.”
She grinned. “Fine. Get your hearse driver suit on. People are waiting for us. We’ve got to jet.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Where are we headed?” Mike asked.
“Northeast Wyoming.”
“What’s there?”
“Safety. I hope.”
He was silent for a moment. “Isn’t that tribal territory?”
“Yes. Shoshone.”
He shot her an incredulous look. “We are going to Shoshone territory? They are one of the most dangerous tribes in the Union. They are loaded with weapons and ammunition. No one gets inside their walls.”
“I know.”
He slammed his hand on the wheel. “Is this a suicide mission?”
“No. I mean, I hope not.” She could tell that she wasn’t making him feel any better. Mike was already twitchy driving the hearse. “Chief Natihani said he would consider taking my dad in to the reservation while he recuperates. No one will look for him there. Not even Blockwell.”
Mike’s mouth dropped.
“Consider it? How? Why? Do they know who he is? Why would the Shoshone agree to this? It’s loco. Why would the chief even think of such a thing?”
“Mike, has anyone ever said you ask a lot of questions?”
“Yes. You. Many times.”
She checked her coordinates monitor. They were getting close.
“Can you answer at least one of them?” he pressed.
“Sure. I’ll go with ‘Why would the chief even think of such a thing?’ It’s an easy one. I contacted Chief Natihani and told him everything.”
“You told him everything.”
“Yes.”
“Everything?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Well. The key points. I told him my father is being targeted by President Blockwell, that the PDs tortured him and locked him away in an infinity hospital. I knew he would be interested because the Shoshone hate President Blockwell almost as much as I do. I told the chief I have to hide my father while he heals up. He needs time and safety from evil.”
Mike blew through his lips. “He agreed?”
“Sort of. The chief agreed to meet with me. If I can convince him to take Martin in, he promised he could stay until he feels better. He told me they have springs with medicinal properties that are known to heal.”
“And if you can’t convince the chief?”
“Then it will be a suicide mission.”
“Mierda.”
She checked the coordinates. About sixty miles out. The first sign popped up. You are entering Shoshone territory.
A few miles in, there was another. Turn back now. You are entering Shoshone territory.
And another. We don’t want you here. Trespassers will be shot.
The signs lined the highway like headstones.
“Not very welcoming, are they?” Mike asked.
“Why would they be after what the Patriots did to the tribes? When Blockwell stole their farmlands and water rights to feed Patriot citizens, many of the tribes banded together and fought back. They were slaughtered, just like the American families who tried to stop the Patriots. Blockwell has never been discerning when it comes to genocide.”
God, she hated Blockwell.
“I thought the Shoshone people stayed out of the war.”
“They did. And because they didn’t fight the Patriots, they were pushed to the farthest corner of their reservation and allowed to live. But while the war raged on around them, they strengthened their walls and stocked up their armories. They sealed themselves off from the rest of the Union and are now strong. Untouchable. The only way Blockwell can kill the Shoshone is by dropping bombs on them, which is impossible. The next plane that goes into the air with bombs on it will seal Blockwell’s fate. The international prosecutors will drag him to Canada or Mexico and hang him. The Shoshone are safe here on the reservation. But Patriots? Not so much. If patriots dare set foot on their land, they will be shot, no questions asked.”
“Heather, Martin Slade is a Patriot. Everyone knows he was Blockwell’s biggest donor. Won’t they shoot him?”
Heather’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of Martin. The billionaire was still out cold. “We just have to make the chief agree to let Martin stay. What is that old expression? The enemy of my enemy is my friend?”
He rubbed his forehead. “I don’t like it. What’s to stop them from shooting us before we can convince the chief that we are not his enemies?”
She exhaled, didn’t answer.
A huge rock wall came into view. It was easily twenty feet tall and stretched as far as the eye could see. She squinted and could barely make out two towers. “Up there. It must be the entrance.”
Mike squinted too. “How many shooters in those towers?”
She shrugged. “Can’t see that far. They’re there, though. Count on it.”
He muttered a few choice Spanish curse words.
“Relax, Mike. If they start shooting, you just burn ass the way we came. They won’t chase us. Shoshone are not safe outside the walls.”
“Burn ass. In reverse. While avoiding a storm of bullets. In a hearse?”
“Exactly.”
More cursing under his breath.
“You want me to drive?” she asked.
Tension lined his jaw. “I want to turn around and go back to Capital City.”
“You hate Capital City.” She gave his arm a squeeze. He captured her hand on his bicep. “We’re going to be okay,” she said softly.
He didn’t respond. They both knew the truth—assets were trained liars.
Mike drove slowly toward the gate.
They were close enough now to see four shooters, two in each tower, each with long-range weapons. Heather swallowed hard. The hearse was already in range. If these men got itchy fingers, she and Mike would be easy target practice.
A voice boomed over a speaker so loud that the car windows rattled. “You are not welcome here. Turn back now!”
“Get closer,” she said, studying the towers. Three men were alert, still. The fourth man raised his weapon.
“Are you sure?”
Not at all. “Yes.”
He rolled forward.
“Closer,” she repeated, her focus pinned to the fourth guy.
If he even twitched…
“Stop!” the same voice exploded through a loudspeaker again, the sound rumbling through the car.
Mike slammed on the brakes. It would be a miracle if Martin stayed asleep through all this. Suddenly, red lights turned on from the stone wall. Beams of red swept over the hearse and crisscrossed again.
“They’re scanning us to see what’s inside the vehicle,” Heather said softly.
“Looking for bombs?”
“Probably.”
“Do you have a plan?” Mike looked at her.
She chewed her lip. It wasn’t a plan, per se, but it was a move. She put her hand on the door handle.
“Heather! What are you doing?”
“I’m going in.”
He grabbed his weapon.
“No. Put that away. Stay here.”
Before he could do anything stupid, she got out of the vehicle and held her hands up.
“Heather!”
“I mean it, Mike. You’ll get us killed. Do. Not. Move!”
Five men came out from behind trees, two more from behind the hearse. Where had they all come from? Each man had an assault weapon and wore a serious, no-nonsense expression. They surrounded her.
To his credit, Mike stayed in the car. He did, however, move to roll the window down. Was he preparing to shoot?
“Are you deaf or stupid, lady?” one man yelled.
“You do not belong here,” another said.
She lifted her chin. “I’m neither. And you are wrong. I have an invitation to be here.”
“Invitation? Maybe she’s crazy.”
She forced her voice to sound calm. “Is this the way you treat all of Chief Natihani’s guests?”
They looked at each other.
She waited. They began discussing what she imagined to be her fate in a language she couldn’t understand. She cut her eyes at Mike. He shook his head. He couldn’t understand their words, either.
One of the young men laughed and said in English for her benefit. “She’s been smoking loco weed.”
Another said. “No one died here, lady. We don’t need your hearse.”
“Unless the white lady and her man get shot.”
“I’d like to see what happens when we set a hearse on fire. Boom goes the death car.”
Half the men snickered at the image in their heads.
“Please check with the chief. He’s expecting me,” Heather said.
“What’s your name?” an older guy behind her asked.
“Heather Slade. My driver is Mike Robles. The ‘body’ in the back is—”
“There’s a body in the back of the car?” a very young guy asked. His voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old.
The men started talking quickly in the Shoshone language. She heard notes of worry, maybe even terror. She didn’t know if a bunch of scared Shoshone was a good thing or something that would get her murdered. Were they superstitious about dead white guys? Or afraid of spirits, like Mike was?
“Calm down, all of you. The man in the back is not dead. He’s injured. Are you going to let us in or what?” Heather was losing the last sliver of patience she had.
No one moved.
She had one more play, but it was risky and might get her killed. Pulling on her pride like a wig, she straightened her back and huffed. “Fine. I’ll speak to Chief Natihani later. He needs to know what weak-livered babies you all are. Too afraid of your own shadows to obey him.”
She waved them off like an irritating fly, turned on her heel, and started heading back to the car. The click of several guns made her realize they weren’t playing. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the shock and fear on Mike’s face. It was too late to take her words back now, but not too late to save him. She mouthed the words to Mike, Floor it!
She ordered Mike to leave her. Go!
“Freeze!” A man with an assault rifle stepped in front of her. She forced herself to look at the man’s face instead of the weapon pointed at her chest.
She heard two sounds at once—Mike yelling, “Leave her alone!” in the car beside her that wasn’t burning ass in reverse out of the area, and the creaking of gates opening behind her. Slowly, she turned her head. A dark-blue pickup truck was on the other side of the gates. The engine was running.
“You’re coming with us,” said the man with the weapon still pointed at her chest. “Get in the truck.”
“No!” Mike yelled.
Her heart pounded. Keeping the irritated, huffy persona in place was proving to be a challenge. Whatever happened, they couldn’t see her sweat.
“My hearse comes too,” she said.
The guy pointed at Mike. “You! Follow us.”
She climbed into the cab of the truck next to the driver. The man barking orders climbed in next to her. She was trapped. She cast one look behind her at Mike through the back window. His expression hadn’t changed. He was still scared as hell for her safety.
So was she.
The gates closed behind the hearse.
They were in it now.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Miguel watched with horror as two Shoshone men caged Heather between them inside the blue pickup truck. Where were they taking her? He quickly caught up, driving the hearse as close to the truck’s bumper as he could without hitting it.
The gates closed behind him. His heart hit the floorboards. It would be infinitely harder to get Heather out of here now.
His focus was on Heather’s head, as it was the only part of her body he could see through the pickup truck’s back window. He was ready for a signal, any signal, she might give him. He would then ram the maldito truck as hard as he could to give her a chance to escape. It wasn’t a great plan. Díos, it wasn’t even good, but it was the only one he had at the moment. He had no clue how they would escape the reservation after the initial diversion. He hoped she did.
He followed the truck down a single-lane road inside the walled city. Buildings began to emerge on both sides of the road—two stories, and then three and four. Storefronts and offices. Metal, wood, and glass. It resembled many cities he’d seen in Mexico. The only difference was the wall. The people couldn’t leave the reservation, just as Patriots couldn’t leave the Union. People trapped like rats. Freedom was a thing of the past in this part of the world.
And then, people came out of the buildings, swarming like hornets on a juicy slab of meat. People pressed against the hearse, peering into the windows, banging on the sides. He drove on as carefully as he could down the street. Heather’s situation was already precarious. He couldn’t afford to run anyone over.
They drove on. Tree-lined sidewalks appeared, houses with front porches, and a park with a children’s play area and picnic benches.
Where are they taking her?
Up ahead he saw a huge crowd gathered in front of a large building. There was a raised stage in front of the building. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. In his experience, nothing good ever happened in crowds, especially on stages.
The pickup rolled up to a parking spot near the side of the stage. He idled the hearse, waiting, ready for anything. A man up on the stage waved at him to park next to the pickup. He did as he was told and jumped out of the car with his weapon in hand. Several men surrounded him. They were all armed and yelling at him in a language he couldn’t decipher. It didn’t take a linguistic genius to understand they were telling him to put his weapon down. Carefully, he reholstered his gun. Surprisingly, they didn’t grab it from him.
