The Lawless Kind by Matt Hilton Read Free Book Online Page B

couldn’t sleep if I tried. I’ve too many things going through my mind.’
    A sign at the side of the highway indicated that we were nearing the tiny town of Rio Rico, but the approach to the town was sheathed in heat haze rising from the asphalt, so I couldn’t make out any signs of life. We were only a few miles off the border town of Nogales where we’d chosen to cross into Mexico. Assuming that Jorge Molina’s influence stretched that far north, it was possibly the first place that his watchers would be stationed. It could also prove the first point where we crossed paths with those I was certain were keeping tabs on Kirstie. Just because we hadn’t spotted a tail at Tucson didn’t mean there was none there. There was every likelihood that they’d called ahead and arranged a welcoming committee for us the minute we crossed from North Grand Avenue – the southernmost tip of I-19 – to Adolfo Lopez Mateos Highway on the Mexican side.
    ‘Even if you can’t, pretend that you’re sleeping,’ I said. ‘We don’t want anyone getting a good look at your face as we cross the border.’
    ‘Won’t we have to be checked by the border patrol?’
    ‘Don’t worry. It’s easy getting out of the country. Not quite as simple getting back in. I’ll do the talking; you just keep your head down, OK? And it’s probably best you stay like that until we’re on the Mex Fifteen south of town and can be sure we’re not being followed.’
    We passed an old mission church with an arched façade and walled garden standing lonely on parched earth. There were a number of cars parked on the lot outside, but no tourists or pilgrims in evidence. The church was reminiscent of the Alamo, but then my opinion was coloured by the old John Wayne movie because I’d never seen the original building. Pushing through Rio Rico I found houses and a few retail premises on widely spread lots, so perhaps my earlier description of it as a town was a tad grandiose. Then we were past the houses at the southern outskirt and surrounded once again by desert. Next stop Nogales. I checked for our friends in the panel van and made it out as a dull smudge in the heat haze behind. As we approached the border crossing, Harvey would fall back and place more distance between the two vehicles so that we were not pegged as travelling companions. If we picked up a tail, then it would be good to have back-up behind them.
    We had valid – though under bogus details –WHTI-compliant travel documents and passport cards with us and, also in preparation for traversing the border, Walter had smoothed our passage by supplying documents for the van produced under the trilateral Security and Prosperity Partnership that existed between the US, Canada and Mexico. Under the documents the van was registered as a vehicle from a trusted traveller/trader company and therefore should go through the checkpoint without too much fuss. I hoped that was the case, because the van was now carrying all our weapons in hidden compartments. I felt naked without the familiar weight of my SIG down the back of my jeans.
    Nogales loomed ahead of us, a sizeable urban sprawl. There were a couple of border crossings at the heart of the city, but we’d chosen to continue on the main highway and cross from Arizona into Sonora by the busiest route. Vehicles would queue on both sides, making the border officials more hurried as they fought to cut the waiting times and meet the targets set by the SPP agreement. It was our hope that we could pass through without raising any suspicion. Not that we expected trouble entering Mexico, but you never could tell.
    Entering Nogales proper it was apparent that things were cosier this side of the tall fences that split the city, and it was hard to imagine the slum-like neighbourhoods on the southern side when passing familiar commercial chain stores and food outlets along the main strip. But I wouldn’t have to imagine for long, because pretty soon we’d pass