Free Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) by Robert Gregory Browne

only raise a bet when he was looking at a sure thing.
    “You’ve managed to make a routine day pretty interesting,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”
    He stood just inside the doorway to the exam room at the local emergency clinic, a few blocks north of the border station.
    After a brief interrogation, the extent of Vargas’s head wound was assessed and he’d been brought here by ambulance. The wound was cleaned and stitched, his shoulder examined and found to be bruised but not dislocated, the puncture and wrists burns treated with Neosporin, his hand bandaged—all followed by a tetanus shot and a CT scan to make sure his brain wasn’t bleeding. The nurse who administered them all had the warmth and personality of a motel room curtain.
    Fortunately, Ainsworth and company had neglected to steal Vargas’s wallet and passport, so he’d had no trouble proving his American citizenship. And he’d had the foresight to buy a SENTRI card, which afforded him easy entry into the United States.
    None of this had done much to allay the suspicions of the border guards, however, who seemed ready to toss him into a cell as a suspected terrorist or drug smuggler. Fortunately, they didn’t have any evidence to back up their suspicions and word came down from on high—Harmon, no doubt—to cut him loose.
    So, they’d transported him to the clinic. Vargas had been on concussion watch for a good two hours and had spent a large portion of that time trying to figure out what the hell he’d stumbled into.
    He’d obviously been set up, but why? He was pretty sure he’d been right about the looting of the bodies in the House of Death, but there was something much more sinister going on here than simple robbery, and he’d be damned if he could figure out what it was.
    Ainsworth had complained of having to clean up someone else’s mess—the someone Vargas had been on his way to see before his escape.
    But who?
    The man who had slaughtered the people in that house?
    And what did he want from Vargas ?
    It occurred to him that maybe the Border Patrol was on to something here. Maybe this was about smuggling. Hadn’t Ainsworth referred to himself as a courier?
    And then, of course, there was his story about the American woman. But was it even true?
    Vargas didn’t imagine Ainsworth would have any trouble lying, but Junior didn’t seem capable of it.
    So who was this American woman? And how did she fit into the equation?
    Harmon approached the gurney where Vargas lay. Vargas had no idea why he was here but figured he was about to find out.
    “My crew tells me you’re claiming somebody’s after you. That you were trussed up and thrown into the trunk of your own car.”
    “Not a claim,” Vargas said. “A fact.”
    Harmon nodded. “They showed me the duct tape.” He glanced at Vargas’s wrists. “And I’ve seen rope burns before. Unfortunately, your car’s nowhere in the vicinity.”
    “I gave them a statement. Names.”
    “That you did. And I have to admit I was pretty surprised when I heard those names.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’m not familiar with this Sergio fella, but Jim Ainsworth happens to be an old family friend of mine. And I’ve known Junior since he was just a gleam in his daddy’s eye.”
    Oh, Christ, Vargas thought.
    “Hard to believe, I know. Over half a million people in El Paso proper, and I just happen to know the ones you say jumped you.” He paused. “And I suppose you think that means I won’t be fair and impartial, but there’s not much I can do about that.”
    “You could be fair and impartial,” Vargas said.
    Another nod. “Just remember it cuts both ways. Thing is, the crime you’re alleging took place on Mexican soil, so we’re not really in a position to claim jurisdiction. And I’m not sure we need to get the FBI involved.”
    “You want me to go to the Chihuahua state police. Is that what you’re saying?”
    “That’s entirely up to you.”
    Vargas chuckled and shook