Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) Read Online Free PDF Page B

I thought he only came out on special occasions.”
    “I guess this is special.”
    “Doesn’t sound like they’re planning a prayer meeting. What the hell does he want with this idiot, anyway?”
    “Why do you care? You got problems of your own.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “He’s pretty pissed at you and the retard.”
    There was a shuffle of movement; then Sergio squealed.
    “What the hell are you doing?”
    “Call him that again, you little shit, and I’ll gut you right here.”
    “All right, all right! Jesus, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
    There was a beat of silence, more shuffling. Vargas fought the temptation to open his eyes.
    Then Ainsworth said, “I don’t know what he’s so upset about. Me and Junior did what we were told. Wasn’t even our mess to begin with, and he got what he wanted, didn’t he?”
    “What he wanted was this whole thing erased. But you two blew it.”
    “Like it’s our fault the only honest cop in Chihuahua decides to get curious before we can finish?”
    “And you think calling out to the guy made it any better?”
    “He saw our truck, asshole. Was staring right at the plate. Besides, we signed on as couriers, not garbage collectors.”
    “Maybe, but even you’ve gotta admit it was pretty stupid leaving the American woman alive.”
    “We ain’t killers, either. Shape she was in, it was only a matter of time, anyway. And it all worked out in the end. So you tell the man, he’s not happy with us, he can shove the whole goddamn arrangement. We’ll go back to raising chickens for a living.”
    “Are you sure that’s what you want me to say?”
    “I’m not afraid of him.”
    “You should be, mi amigo. ”
    “You ask me, only a coward leaves a mess and tells somebody else to clean it up. And cowards don’t scare me.” A pause. “Besides, the way he’s been pissing his pants over our boy here tells me he’s the one who…”
    Another pause, and Vargas knew instinctively that he was being stared at.
    “What?” Sergio asked. “What’s wrong?”
    “Might be my imagination, but I think this son of a bitch is awake.”
    And before Vargas could assess what had given him away, he felt something thud against the side of his head, followed by an intense, hot white pain.
    Then darkness.
     
     

13
     
    W HEN HE CAME to, he had to fight his way through a hazy field of cobwebs and cotton before he remembered where he was and what had happened to him. But the rope around his wrists and ankles and the layers of duct tape wrapped around his head and covering his mouth were fairly good reminders.
    And the heat.
    Jesus, it was hot.
    The Corolla was moving, and he was now locked inside the trunk, his body screwed up into an impossible position, the road bumping beneath him, sending little jolts of pain through his tailbone and along his spine.
    His head throbbed worse than ever, blood and sweat trickling along his temple, across his cheek, then down past the tape and into his mouth.
    He recognized the taste.
    When he was six years old, his father had fashioned a toy parachute for him using some string, a handkerchief, and a small lead weight. For hours he had delighted in tossing it into the air and watching it float to the ground like a miniature paratrooper about to land on some foreign beach.
    One time, however, he threw it high and into the sun and immediately lost track of it. Spinning in a circle to see where it would come down, he couldn’t for the life of him find it.
    Then something hit his head, pain shooting through him, and what seemed like a bucket of blood began to flow into his eyes and mouth.
    Horrified, he ran into the house, screaming for help. And after his father had washed and treated what turned out to be a fairly insignificant wound, Vargas had asked how such a small piece of lead could have caused so much blood.
    “The head is very sensitive, mijo. Even the tiniest of cuts will bring on the blood of a hundred more.” Then his father smiled.