Rider on Fire & When You Call My Name: Rider on Fire / When You Call My Name. Sharon Sala
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mention my name to anyone.”
“There is no more you and me,” Buddy reminded her. “And don’t worry about me. I’m not the one with the death wish.”
Sonora frowned. “I don’t have a death wish. I just do my job and do it well.” Then she kissed him on the cheek, as much as a thank-you as for old times’ sake, as well as for bringing back her bike, then pointed at the cab in the street. “I suppose that’s your ride. Don’t keep him waiting.”
She watched him get into the cab before checking the area for someone who didn’t belong. All was well. When he looked back, she waved goodbye, then quickly closed the door.
She walked through her home one last time, making sure everything was as it should be, then shouldered her bag, picked up the helmet and turned off the lights. She opened the door, hesitating briefly to scan the neighborhood once more, and saw nothing amiss. The black and shiny Harley was at the curb.
She hurried outside, opened the storage compartment and dropped her handgun inside, then lowered the lid and tied her bag down on top. When she stuck the key in the ignition, she could tell Buddy had been good for his word. Not only was the bike clean, but the gas gauge registered full. She checked to make sure her toolbox was in place, then put on the helmet and slung her leg over the bike as if she was mounting a horse.
The engine roared to life, then settled down to a soft rumble as she released the kickstand and gave it the gas. As the rumble changed to a full-throttle blast, she put it in gear and rode away without looking back.
It wasn’t until she was on the highway that she remembered the path she’d highlighted on the atlas. There was no reason for her to have chosen that direction, and a couple of times she even considered turning around and heading for Las Vegas or points farther west. But something more than instinct was guiding her trip.
Chapter 3
Miguel Garcia was in Juarez, trying to figure out how to get over the border. The Mexican police had staked out his hotel and would have already had him in custody if it hadn’t been for Jorge Diaz, one of his dealers, who’d sent his own child into the restaurant where Miguel was having breakfast to warn him.
Now he was in a dingy room over what must be the oldest cantina in the city, without his clothes, and without access to his bank. Even though he hadn’t been born to it, Miguel had been in the drug business long enough that he’d become accustomed to fine dining, elegant surroundings. Being forced to hide in a room like this was like a slap in the face—a degradation that only added to the grief of losing his brothers.
Enrique was incarcerated somewhere in the States, and Juanito was on a slab in a Tijuana morgue. He’d promised his mother on her deathbed that he would take care of Juanito. He was the baby of their family, the last of eight children, but now, because of that DEA bitch, Juanito was dead.
Before he’d gone into hiding, Miguel had made a promise at his mother’s grave that he would avenge Juanito’s death. He’d also let it be known that he would pay big money for the name and location of the agent who’d killed his brother, with the warning to leave her alone. He wanted to end her life—personally.
And so he waited. And waited. A day passed in this hell, then a second, then a third before everything changed.
* * *
The puta Miguel had just paid for a blow job was in the bathroom brushing her teeth when someone knocked on his door. He reached for his gun, grabbed the woman who was just coming out of the bathroom and put his finger to his mouth to indicate she be quiet. His grip on her arm was so painful that she stifled a screech and covered her mouth with both hands. Tears ran down her face, but she didn’t move.
Once he was satisfied that she understood what he meant, he whispered in her ear, “Ask who is there.”
She nodded, then called out as he told her.
There was a long stretch of silence, then a man spoke. “I have news for Miguel.”
Miguel recognized the voice of Jorge, the dealer who’d helped him escape. He pulled the woman away from the door, opened it enough to make sure Jorge was alone and then shoved her out.
“Get lost,” he said.
She scurried away, glad to be leaving in one piece.
“Come in,” Miguel said.
Jorge nodded quickly, looked over his shoulder, then stepped inside. He didn’t waste time or words. “You wanted the name of the agent who killed your brother.”
Miguel’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes.”
“Her name is Sonora Jordan. She lives in Phoenix, Arizona.”
Miguel stifled the urge to clap his hands. This was the best news he’d had in days. “You are sure.”
“Sí, Patron.”
Miguel put a hand on Jorge’s shoulder to explain why he couldn’t pay him yet. “They are watching my home and my bank.”
Jorge nodded again. No further explanation was needed. “I know,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a roll of hundred dollar bills, which he handed to Miguel. “For you, Patron, and if you’re ready, I can get you across the border tonight.”
Miguel was not only surprised, he was shocked. He had greatly underestimated this man’s loyalty. “When this is over, you will be greatly rewarded.”
Jorge shrugged. “I expect nothing, Patron. It is my honor to help. At eleven o’clock, there will be one knock on your door. The man who comes will take you to a hacienda outside of Juarez where a private plane will be waiting. The pilot has already gotten clearance for his trip, but it does not include landing in Juarez, so the timing will be crucial. You must not be late because he will not wait. Once across the border, he will touch down briefly at a small airstrip outside of Houston. More money and a car will be waiting for you there. The man who brought it has been instructed to stay until he sees that you’re safely on the ground.”
Miguel threw his arms around Jorge. “Gracias, Jorge…gracias. I will never forget this.”
Jorge nodded and smiled. “Vaya con Dios, Patron.” And then he was gone.
Miguel glanced at his watch. It was just after nine. Within two hours, he would be gone from this place and on his way to fulfilling the promise he’d made at his mother’s grave.
As soon as Jorge reached the street, he took out his cell phone and made a call. “Tony, this is Jorge Diaz. I need you to do something for me.”
Tony Freely was one of Jorge’s mules. He traveled back and forth regularly from his ranch outside of Houston to Juarez, doing his part to make sure that the drug market continued to thrive and being nicely reimbursed for his troubles.
“Yeah, sure, Jorge. Just name it.”
“You remember the old runway where I had you pick up a load about three months back?”
“Yeah, but I thought you didn’t want to use it anymore.”
“I don’t. It’s something else,” Jorge said. “What I want you to do is go to that runway at an hour before midnight tonight and wait for a small plane to land there. A man will get off. You let him see you. Let him see your face, but don’t talk to him. Just get in your car and drive away.”
Tony frowned. This didn’t sound right, but he knew better than to question Jorge.
“Sure. No problem.”
“Thank you,” Jorge said. “I’ll make it worth your while.” Tony’s frown disappeared. Money talked loud and clear to him. “Consider it done,” he said, and hung up the phone.
Jorge did the same, smiling as he disconnected. Before he was through, the Garcia brothers’ reign of power would be over and he would be the one in charge.
*