The Collected Part 2

He checked his watch. They'd been on the road for almost an hour and a half. Another thirty minutes at most, and they'd be in Reynosa.

His backpack was sitting between his heels and his thighs. He unzipped the top, pulled out the nearly empty bottle of water, and downed the remaining liquid.

As he put the bottle back in his bag, the truck whined loudly, the driver downs.h.i.+fting and reducing speed. A hill, maybe, Nate thought. It certainly wouldn't be Reynosa yet. They hadn't been driving that fast.

The truck downs.h.i.+fted again, but the road remained level.

Nate took a cautious peek around the thin metal part.i.tion. On the pa.s.senger side were the dotted line that indicated the edge of the highway, and the scrub-covered, semi-desert plain. There were no hills or mountains anywhere he could see. He looked to his right. The car in the fast lane next to them was slowing, too, and behind it, he could see the front b.u.mper of the trailing car.

Traffic. Great.

The truck's speed continued to decrease until Nate could have walked faster. Then, with a final hiss of its air brakes, the rig stopped completely.

Nate didn't like it one bit. By his estimation, they still had at least twenty miles left to go before they reached the border. He highly doubted traffic would be backed up this far south. An accident, then?

The truck's engine roared as the semi moved ahead a few feet before halting again.

Nate knew he needed to take a look and get a sense of what was going on. It would be a gamble, but he figured if he stayed low and leaned around the pa.s.senger side, there would be little chance someone would notice.

He snaked his head and shoulders around the lower end of the metal part.i.tion. He checked the side mirror first to make sure the driver couldn't see him, then looked down the road.

There were at least thirty vehicles ahead of them, inching forward at a mind-numbing crawl. Farther down the road, he could see a few flas.h.i.+ng lights, but couldn't tell if they were from police cars or fire trucks or perhaps even an ambulance.

Though part of his mind was thinking that it might very well be an accident, his intuition was saying, Get out of here.

Again, the truck moved, this time traveling about a dozen feet. At the front of the jam, another truck also pulled forward, but it was able to keep going, having cleared whatever the problem was. Once it was out of the way, Nate could see three of the emergency vehicles.

There wasn't an ambulance among them. Not a fire truck, either.

Police cars only.

"A roadblock," he whispered to himself.

Even if the cops there weren't looking for him, given his unconventional seating arrangements, he would not go unnoticed.

He examined the side of the road. About thirty feet ahead, the highway crossed over a bridge that spanned shallow wash. The scrub grew tall along each bank, while scattered patches of bushes had sprung up down the middle.

It was a better opportunity than he could have hoped for.

He waited patiently as the truck continued to move foot by foot toward the bridge. When the cab finally reached it, Nate grabbed his bag, stepped onto the road, and dropped down into the gulch. Ducking under the bridge, he held his position as the truck and the next few cars behind it pa.s.sed by.

No one honked or shouted at him.

He was just starting to think he'd made it without being seen, when he heard a whomp-whomp-whomp approaching. Using the bridge to conceal his presence, he looked toward the sky and spotted a helicopter descending toward the road.

It was dark in color and large, and though there were no discernible markings, it looked distinctively official, not private. He crawled farther under the bridge, hoping they were just doing a flyover and he hadn't been spotted, but the rotors continued to increase in volume until their constant beating echoed through every inch of the semi-enclosed s.p.a.ce.

Suddenly a voice crackled over a loudspeaker. "El hombre que esta abajo del puente, quedese en donde esta. No intente correr, o le disparamos." The voice then switched to English. "Under the bridge. Do not run. You will be shot."

Even if Nate hadn't understood either language, the message was clear: He was screwed.

More orders were shouted over the speaker, telling the cars parked on the road to move out of the way so the helicopter could land.

Nate moved to the far side of the bridge. Beyond were twenty feet of open s.p.a.ce, then a thick growth of shoulder-high scrub shooting up out of the soft sand.

The helicopter sounded like it was nearing the ground.

Now or never.

He sucked in a breath, then raced over to the brush and kept going. He wanted to look back, had to look back, but forced his eyes to stay forward.

Go, go, go!

He weaved back and forth through the scrub, trying to build up as much of a gap as possible between himself and the cops who would soon be chasing him, and searched for a place to hide.

Instinctively, he'd been counting off the seconds since he left the cover of the bridge. Thirty-seven turned out to be the magic number. That's when he heard shouts from back near the bridge, and knew they had discovered he wasn't there anymore. Add a few more seconds for them to get organized, and he figured he had, at best, a forty-second lead. Not great, but not as bad as it could have been.

He came to a fork in the wash. To the left, the dry bed rose gently as it narrowed in width. Most likely, it went on for only another fifty feet or so before petering out. The fork to the right, though, continued as it had been.

Knowing the latter would be the direction they expected him to go, he chose the shallower route. Ten feet shy of where the wash disappeared, he found what he'd been looking for. A portion of the sidewall had been cut away by a recent storm, creating an overhang just large enough for him to fit into. If he could pull some dirt on top of him, or cause the overhang to collapse, they might never find him.

As he dropped to his knees and started to roll into the s.p.a.ce, a loud roar raced overhead.

"Do not move! You are being covered, and you will be shot dead." The voice from the helicopter didn't even bother with Spanish this time.

To emphasize the point, a bullet slammed into the dirt three feet from Nate's head.

His mind raced, trying to come up with something else he could do. He'd made it this far; there had to be some other way out. But the pounding feet nearing his position forced him to realize all his options had been exhausted.

The job was over.

CHAPTER 4.

"IZQUIERDA," A VOICE said.

Nate was jerked to the left, the plastic cuffs around his wrists cutting once more into his skin.

They walked in a straight line for twenty-three paces before he was yanked to a stop.

He heard a door open not too far ahead. By the sound of the latch, he knew the door had to be st.u.r.dy, probably reinforced metal. If it weren't for the black bag over his head, he would have known for sure. Still, he'd trained hard to hone all his senses, and was confident his guess was right.

Once the whine of the hinges stopped, he was pushed forward across the threshold.

Unlike moments before, their footsteps now echoed loudly. A corridor, he guessed-concrete, or possibly tiled, with unadorned walls.

The hallway was surprisingly long. It wasn't until they reached their seventy-sixth step that the man doing all the talking said, "Derecha."

Again there was the quick tug as their direction changed. This time they only went seventeen steps before Nate was stopped again.

Another metallic door clanged. Once the sound stopped, Nate was shoved hard in the back and sent sprawling forward. With his arms secured behind his back, the only thing he could do was twist as he fell to the floor so that he didn't land face first. Instead, it was his hip that took the brunt of the fall. Behind him, a door slammed shut, and a key turned in a lock. A moment later, he heard the m.u.f.fled footsteps of his two escorts receding down the way they'd come.

Slowly, he worked his way back to his feet, wincing for a second as the pain shooting out from his hip joined that of the ache in his back caused by a rifle b.u.t.t that had whacked into him when he was captured.

Using the toe of his shoe as a guide, he found one of the walls, placed his head against it, and tried to work the bag off. Unfortunately, the cord running through the open end around his neck wouldn't loosen to allow the bag to slip over his chin.

He gave up, and used his foot again to work out the boundaries of the room. Five paces wide and seven deep. Against one wall was a thin mattress on a steel cot secured to the ground. This was the extent of the furnis.h.i.+ngs. There wasn't even a toilet, just a drain on the floor in the back corner.

He half-lowered, half-dropped onto the bed, wondering where, exactly, he'd been taken. He'd initially a.s.sumed the police would hustle him off to a holding facility not far from where he'd been captured-Reynosa, most likely-but the helicopter ride lasted much too long for that. When they finally landed, Nate figured they'd been in the air almost two and a half hours, which was also confusing. That was way more time than necessary to fly him back to where the mess had started in Monterrey.

It doesn't matter, he told himself. You're in jail. That's all you need to know.

This was the third time in his life he'd been put in a cell. The first was in college, with campus police breaking up a party that had grown out of hand, and Nate acting the tough guy and taking exception to their tactics. Looking back, their detention cell had been a joke. Even with just half of what he knew these days, he could have easily escaped.

The second time had been in Berlin. That cell had been located in the US emba.s.sy, his temporary incarceration understandable since he'd driven up to the gate with several boxes of deadly, virus-tainted mints. But he'd known it was going to happen that time. It had been part of Quinn's plan, and the next day Nate was out again.

This time was nothing like the others. This time he had done the one thing no cleaner should ever do. Get caught.

At the very least, the police would connect him to the badly burned body in the back of the van. That would probably be more than enough to get him put away forever. Thankfully, even if he got as far as being sentenced to life, it was unlikely he'd ever serve any of it. Once he was able to make his phone call, he'd get a hold of Pullman, and wheels would be set in motion that should end in his release. And if Pullman failed, Nate could always call Quinn. He was sure his old mentor would figure something out. Until then, though, he would have to deal with these jacka.s.ses and their fists and gun b.u.t.ts and whatever else they wanted to use on him to prove how tough they were.

He lay back on the cot and closed his eyes, thinking he might as well get some rest. Though he couldn't see his watch, he knew it had to be right around one p.m., and his last sleep was the hour-and-a-half nap he'd caught the previous evening before he and Burke headed out to the staging point. A little shut-eye now would not be a bad thing.

He wasn't sure how much time had pa.s.sed when the same voice that had guided him down the hall earlier barked, "De pie."

Nate shook himself awake, and swung his legs off the cot. Before he could stand on his own, two men grabbed his arms and pulled him up.

"Gee, thanks," Nate said. "I couldn't have done that without your-"

He sensed motion a half second before a fist slammed into his gut. His body wrenched forward, trying to double over, but the men at his sides dug their fingers into this biceps, keeping him upright. They forced him across the room and slammed him back against the wall.

Another punch, this one only a inch away from where the previous had landed. Again the men kept him from moving.

A pair of slow and deliberate footsteps entered the room, stopping an arm's length away. Nate could hear the person breathing-not labored, but distinctive. Breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold.

"So this is him," the man said in English. An American accent. New York, it sounded like.

"Si," someone responded.

"About d.a.m.n time." The voice moved in so that it was only an inch from Nate's ear. "You gave my Mexican friends quite a workout. You're even better than advertised." Pulling way, the man said, "Take the hood off."

One of the guards undid the bag's knot. Once the opening was loosened, the cover was pulled up, taking a few strands of Nate's hair with it.

Standing in front of Nate was a tall, bald man in a dark suit. Like a lot of men with no hair, it was hard to tell his age. He could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty. Neither fat nor skinny, he wore a scowl on his face that made it clear he was the one in charge.

Behind him was a hard-looking, middle-aged Mexican man in a uniform. There were two others in the room, younger men in police uniforms.

"Are you going to be a problem?" the bald man asked Nate.

Nate didn't respond.

The bald man looked back at the suited Mexican. "Captain Moreno, I'd like a couple minutes alone with our friend here, if you don't mind."

There was a hint of relief in Moreno's eyes. He looked at the two officers and nodded. "We'll be right outside if you need us," he said, and the three of them left, closing the door behind them.

The bald man stared at Nate, his eyes narrowing. "You're younger than I expected."

Nate kept his mouth shut.

"Or is it just that you have a young face?"

Alarms were starting to clang in Nate's head, as he began to realize this was not what he'd thought it was.

"Well, it doesn't matter," the man said. "I'm just finally glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Quinn."

No, Nate realized. This was much, much worse.

CHAPTER 5.

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA.

AS SOON AS the tone bonged and the seat belt light went out, Liz Oliver stood up and retrieved her bag from the overhead compartment.

For the first time in her life, she had flown business cla.s.s. That had been Nate's doing. She had told him it was an unnecessary expense, but after the nearly twelve-hour flight from Paris to Los Angeles, she was glad he'd paid the money. Usually when she arrived back in the States, she'd be totally worthless for a couple days. But here it was, just after one p.m. in California, and she felt fresh and awake and ready to go.

Another perk of business cla.s.s was that she was one of the first ones off, and able to beat the crowd to pa.s.sport control. Once her booklet was stamped, and the officer said, "Welcome home," she headed straight for the nothing-to-declare exit, her carry-on the only bag she'd brought.

A ramp led out of Customs to an area where dozens of people were jammed off to the left side, craning their necks every time someone new came out like fans watching movie stars walking down the red carpet at the Academy Awards. Liz knew Nate wouldn't be sandwiched among them, though. He'd told her specifically to continue on through the door to the outside, opposite the ramp, and he'd be right there.

Knowing she was going to see him in a matter of seconds sent a spike of antic.i.p.ation up her spine as she weaved through the crowd and walked out the door. To say she was excited to see him would have been an understatement. It had been nearly a month and a half since he was able to visit her in Paris, and it had started to seem like forever. She'd had her share of boyfriends before, but it had never been like this. Despite the fact they had met each other under false pretense, she felt an intense connection to Nate, and it was obvious he felt it with her, too.

A few feet beyond the door, she paused. While there were several people around, Nate wasn't one of them. Maybe he was at the sidewalk, or waiting at the curb with his car. She headed over. Nate wasn't there either, and neither was his car.

She checked her watch. One fifteen. Her flight was a bit early, but Nate would have surely been tracking her flight online, and would have left home in plenty of time to meet her. He was thorough that way.