Free The Jaguar by T. Jefferson Parker Page B

and dialed and handed it to Hood. Hood stepped away from Rescendez, listening to the ring.
    A man answered and Hood identified himself as Charlie Bravo.
    Erin’s voice was clear and fearful. “Bradley?”
    “Erin, it’s me.”
    “Oh, God, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
    “Are you all right?”
    “They haven’t hurt me.”
    “You’re going to be okay. I’m bringing the money.”
    “Please do it soon.”
    “I’ll be there, Erin.”
    “Soon, please soon. I’m being strong but—”
    The phone went silent. Hood tossed it back to Rescendez, who caught it in one hand like a first baseman.
    “You are familiar to me, Mr. Bravo.”
    “I have a common face.”
    “But where have I seen you?”
    “I’ve never seen you.”
    “Were you in Mulege?”
    “Never.”
    Rescendez laughed heartily and slapped Hood on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Maybe your face is very, very common. As you say. Now, please, the two hundred dollars fine is due to be paid.”
    Hood fixed him with a calm and durable look. “You’ve fucked with me enough, señor.”
    “
Sí. Es verdad.
Now you will take the money to Ciudad Juarez.”
    A city steeped in blood, thought Hood.
    “It is thirteen hours with no flat tires,” said Rescendez. “That is driving on the U.S. side, of course. You have two days to make the drive. You will stay at the Lucerna. And you will be guarding Benjamin’s money very well.”
    “I understand,” said Hood. “Now, you wait here, please.” Hood climbed into his vehicle and fetched one of the small Mike Finneganphoto albums from the console. The empty booklet had been complimentary and the cover image was a festive holiday ribbon now out of season. But each page was made of slotted clear plastic and each photograph was well displayed and protected. He brought it to the cop and opened the cover and handed it to him. The plastic pages caught the sunlight and Hood watched I. Rescendez flip through the six photographs, then shrug and hand it back.
    “No,” he said. “I don’t know this man. Who is he and what has he done?”
    “He’s a bad man.”
    “The world has many.”
    “Keep the book. Show the pictures to the men you work with. Your neighbors and friends. Call me if anyone knows of him or sees him. A thousand dollars for any good lead. My numbers are on the back.”
    “I still think I’ve seen you before, Mr. Bravo.”
    Rescendez lifted his cell phone and snapped a picture of Hood.

10
    B RADLEY ’ S C AYENNE ROLLED THROUGH E L Dorado, one of several Baja and Sonora properties maintained by Carlos Herredia of the North Baja Cartel. Fellow LASD Sergeant Jack Cleary sat up front and Deputy Caroline Vega in back. On the freshly bladed dirt road ahead of them were two of Herredia’s armored SUVs with ports cut in the roofs for gunmen to stand and fire. Behind them were two more. The gunmen swayed in the dusk. Rainwater stood thinly pooled by the roadside.
    Bradley had been here many times and he had never arrived without an armed escort by land or air, and seemingly never taken quite the same dusty labyrinth of roads that led him here now. Herredia forbade GPSs so all that Bradley knew for sure was that he was in Baja California, south of Cataviña, north of Guerrero Negro and east of Mexican Highway 1. Bradley felt the same bristle of excitement he always felt in El Dorado, the same complicity in a world much more violent and profitable than his own and therefore more invigorating. He thought of Erin. And of his mother, and how she had enjoyed danger and would have loved this place. He missed her and knew he always would.
    “Sweet airstrip,” said Vega.
    “And golf course,” said Cleary.
    “That’s a CH-47 military transport helicopter under the camo net,” said Vega. “Vietnam. Dad flew one over there. Wow, Herredia’s got
two
of them. I wonder how many tons of dope they’ve moved.”
    “Nice little course,” said Cleary. “Bet he cheats.”
    “Nobody calls him on it,” said