Dirty Deeds(21)

“And did he want to know?”

“Probably not but I told him anyway.”

She laughed and her eyes darted to the rearview mirror. She frowned. “And do you trust him?”

“Do I trust him?” I repeated. “What does that mean? I barely know him.”

“I know.” Her eyes were still focused on something behind us. I looked to the side mirrors but couldn’t see anything unusual except for cars.

“What do you keep looking at?”

“I don’t want to alarm you,” she said in a way that I was immediately alarmed. “But I think there is someone following us.”

Now, I managed to twist in my seat and get a good look behind us. It was hard because the back window was so dusty. “What is it? What car?”

“There’s a white truck two cars behind us. It’s been two cars behind us before we even got on the highway.”

Now I could see it, the top of the truck poking up above the traffic but it was too far away for me to get an idea of who was driving it.

“Do you think that’s Derrin?” I asked, feeling this incredible sense of dread creep up on me.

“I don’t know.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Take the next exit,” she said determinedly. “If someone is following us, we don’t want to lead them straight to your apartment.”

Jesus. So much for thinking all my paranoia was put past me.

Luz put her signal on for the next exit, one that led to an outdoor market permanently set-up in a parking lot. We both held our breath as the car turned off and soon after the truck followed.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

We exchanged a nervous glance.

“It’s going to be fine,” she told me, though she didn’t look like she believed it. For once I found myself wishing I had a gun. I’d always told myself the minute I had one was the minute I was closer to become my brother, but considering everything, it made a lot of sense. Maybe Derrin knew something about them and could help me out. He was a Canadian but he had been in the army, so he at least knew how to handle one.

Luz kept driving past the market stalls and finally pulled into a parking spot right beside a bunch of other people. Safety in numbers and all that.

We waited, still as ice and with baited breath as the truck slowly crept past us. There was some older man driving – Mexican – with a thick mustache but no real discernable features. He didn’t even look our way and kept driving until he parked further down.

I let out the largest puff of air and nearly laughed from relief. “Luz, you are crazy.”

“You thought he was following us too!”

“Only because you told me. Besides he was following us but not in the way you thought.” I shook my head and sank further into the seat, my heart beat slowing. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

“Agreed,” Luz said. She started the car and we drove back onto the highway. We never saw the white truck again.





CHAPTER SIX


Derek





Her name was Carmen. She had been the love of my life.

When I first came to Mexico, all those years ago, I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I had grown disillusioned with the American government, destroyed by the war. My leg still hurt from the explosion in Afghanistan and I hurt somewhere deep inside. It was so needless, so senseless. I had lost too much, we all had, over something that was never meant for our benefit, just to pad the pockets of those in the country that mattered most. I’d seen villages burned, young children dead and torn up on the streets, parents wailing, grandparents dying. All for nothing, not really.

The day the Humvee blew up was the day that everything changed. I guess that’s the sort of day that should change a person. I was one of the lucky ones – one of my buddies lost both his legs, another had half his body burned to a gruesome crisp. But I would never consider myself lucky because then I was burdened with survivor guilt. More than that, I was burdened with guilt, pure and simple.

When I returned home to Minnesota and finally healed up, I said goodbye to an ice hockey career – or at least the promise of one – I said good bye to friends and family. Both of those were easy. My father, a cruel, terrible man, had died while I was overseas. My mother, weak and helpless, couldn’t seem to exist without his cruelty. She barely noticed I was gone.

As for my friends, they’d all pulled away once they got to know the new me. I barely spoke. I stopped drinking with them, going out, finding chicks, playing hockey. It was all over. I just worked out and hated every single minute I had to be a veteran, a survivor, a pawn.

One day something in me snapped. I’m not sure what it was, maybe someone cut me off driving or perhaps I saw an advertisement for Mexico somewhere. But the next morning my bags were packed. I got in my car and drove for the border.