Grimm - The Icy Touch by John Shirley Read Free Book Online Page B

take that chance. Call me when you’re ready, I’ll pick you up. And I’ll see what my friend can do...”

CHAPTER FOUR
    Night on the freeway, wending up through the Willamette Valley. Santiago was feeling nervous. What he had in the trunk of his Toyota Camry could get him twenty years in prison, maybe thirty. But the Sombra Corazón had told him this was his load, so he must carry it.
    Santiago Mendoza had no love for the Sombra Corazón. He hadn’t even wanted to get the tattoo under his right arm. They’d made him. But the “Shadow Heart” made it possible for him to stay in this country. It had made it possible for him to pay his mother’s hospital bills. The gang had paid for this car. And after all, he didn’t have to sell any drugs himself. All he had to do was pick the stuff up, and take the risk of driving it from the laboratories and warehouses in southern Oregon, up to a place south of Portland and another near Seattle. Sometimes it was bricks of marijuana, grown in Humboldt County, in Northern California, warehoused in Southern Oregon. He usually pinched out a gram or so of that for himself. This time it was about ten pounds of yellow-white powder. Probably raw, pure crystal meth. That, he wouldn’t touch. He’d seen what it could do to people.
    Another few minutes, and he could drop it off in Canby. There was a farm on the edge of town where the stuff would be cut and redistributed, in an old barn that had once contained numerous doomed pigs and still smelled of it.
    His headlights cut through the night and caught the reflective sign he was looking for. There—the exit.
    He took the exit, careful not to take it too fast, to always drive smoothly. Do nothing to make a Highway Patrolman stop you.
    Santiago drove around the curve, onto the utility road. He continued carefully for another quarter mile south, then turned left onto Strawberry Farm Road. He drove along an old concrete highway through a series of strawberry fields, already harvested, then turned right at the big redwood mailbox. Another short drive down a gravel road, then he was pulling up in front of the big aluminum-sided barn.
    He stopped the Camry, feeling relief. They’d have something for him to transport to Seattle but he was glad to have this leg of it over with. He walked toward the partly open barn door, a little yellow light spilled out from inside. It took him a moment to see Juan standing by the door, submachine gun on a strap over his shoulder. The slim but deadly sentry was almost hidden in the shadow, but his glowing cigarette had caught Santiago’s eye.
    Juan’s pockmarked face lit up red when he drew on the smoke.
    “Que pasa, Juan. Todo bueno?”
    “Bueno,” Juan replied hoarsely, exhaling.
    They performed the distinct Sombra Corazón handshake and then Santiago stepped into the big room, where a row of men and two women worked at a long metal table in front of the row of old aluminum stalls, cutting the dope. All of them were wearing respirator masks. Another guard stood at the back, a mestizo Santiago didn’t know.
    Donny Diaz, the boss of the operation, had his feet up on an old dented, gray steel desk, a bottle of tequila propped in his lap, a glass in his hand. A big wide smile, big black eyes. A sleeveless T-shirt, baring tattooed arms, though it was cold. He waved the bottle at Santiago, offering him a drink.
    Donny was not supposed to be drunk right about now. He was a pretty decent guy, and Santiago hoped Donny didn’t get caught by some cartel captain.
    Over by the table, Jimmy Hernandez waved and then pulled the goggled mask off his face. He came toward Santiago, smiling, shotgun cradled in his arms, and showed a mouthful of big white teeth under a small black mustache.
    “Hey, bro. Cómo te va?” Santiago called out.
    “Nada, aquí, man. You deliver?”
    “Shit’s in the car, man. Diez libra.”
    Then Santiago realized Jimmy was staring past him, gaping in shock.
    Santiago turned, and saw Juan