Pitt threw the van into first gear and stepped on the gas. A grinding sound erupted from the rear as the van struggled to move forward. The bumper finally broke free from the Charger, and the van lurched ahead. Giordino looked back to see the pipe jutting from the grille of the police car like the beak of a hummingbird, steam billowing behind it.

Giordino made his way back to the front seat. “Now you’re really going to cost those utility boys.”

“Just proves those two gringos really were crazy.”

Pitt tightened his grip on the wheel and scoured the road ahead with renewed urgency. Every cop in Tijuana would soon be searching for the battered utility van. Wheeling around the corner, he pressed the accelerator to the floor. They’d have to make a play for Ann—and quickly.

18

I DON’T SEE THE POLICE LIGHTS ANYMORE.” The pickup’s driver flashed Pablo a dirty smile. Years of drug use had left his mouth a cavern of brown gums and decayed teeth. “I think we lost them.”

“Do not draw attention to your driving,” Pablo said, “but get us to the airport without delay.”

The driver checked the route on the truck’s navigation screen: it angled across the city toward the airport on the northeast side of town. Glancing constantly in the mirror for police lights, he paid little attention to the small utility van that followed a short distance behind.

As they approached the city center, the streets became more congested. The pickup’s driver turned east, down a street called Plaza El Toreo, where the dirty sidewalks were swarming with people. As he dodged some jaywalkers, the pickup hit a large pothole, which sent the crate bouncing on the truck bed.

Following close behind, Pitt and Giordino saw the unsecured box move.

Giordino rubbed his chin. “What do you suppose is in there that’s causing all the excitement?”

“I wish I knew.” Pitt had to suppress his anger over leading the crew of the Drake into a dangerous situation without any advance warning.

Giordino pointed at the truck. “If you pull alongside the bed, I might just be able to grab hold of that thing.”

Pitt considered the idea. Driving a wanted vehicle, and with no weapons, they had little chance of overpowering the men in the pickup. Their options were limited, if not suicidal. “Maybe we could negotiate a swap for Ann,” he said, “if they don’t kill us outright.”

They had the advantage of being in a crowded city, one with a sketchy reputation. Giordino agreed it was worth the risk.

Pitt kept the van close to the pickup’s rear bumper, waiting for a break in the oncoming traffic so he could pull alongside. The vehicles reached a stop sign, which Pitt eased past without stopping. He was chagrined to look up and see a police car passing in the opposite direction.

He held his gaze ahead as the car passed, then tracked it in his mirror. The police car rapidly made a three-point turn on the narrow street, nearly flinging a boy off a motorbike.

“I think we’ve been made,” Pitt said.

Giordino rolled down his window. “Then let’s at least get something for our trouble.”

Pitt edged closer to the truck as lights erupted behind him.

The police car tried to fight its way across the intersection, but a semitrailer truck had turned in front of it, slowly navigating through a tight turn. Pitt looked ahead, waiting for a battered Isuzu to pass in the other lane before catching a gap in the oncoming traffic. Flooring the accelerator, he surged into the other lane and pulled alongside the truck. Giordino leaned out the side window and thrust his arms into the bed, grasping for the crate.

The pickup’s driver, alerted by the police lights in his mirror, saw Giordino lunge out of the van. He immediately tapped his brakes. Giordino just managed to duck back inside his window to avoid colliding with the truck’s cab. For an instant, the two vehicles traveled alongside.

“Almost got it,” he said to Pitt. “Give me one more try.”

Giordino sat nearly face-to-face with Juan, who was desperately lowering his window.

Pitt matched the truck’s braking, then looked ahead and saw a cement mixer rambling down the road directly in front of him. “Make it quick!” Pitt stepped harder on the brakes.

The pickup accelerated, and Pitt fought to match it before facing a head-on collision.

As the van again pulled alongside the pickup’s bed, Giordino was true to his word. Hanging half out the window, he snared a handle on one end of the box. With a hard pull, he yanked the box out of the bed, letting it dangle alongside the van. “Got it!”

Pitt had no room to accelerate past the truck, so he braked hard. But the truck also slowed, keeping him hemmed in the opposite lane with the cement mixer just yards away. A narrow side street appeared on his left, and Pitt stomped on the accelerator and turned the wheel hard over.

Inside the truck, Juan finally lowered his window. He climbed halfway out and aimed a Glock 22 at the van. He fired a wild volley of shots—until the pickup driver shouted, “Look out!”

Too late, Juan turned to see the front fender of the cement mixer a heartbeat before it clipped him just beneath his collar. His clothes caught on the fender and he was plucked out of the truck. Both legs were smashed as he was ripped backward.

Swerving left, Pitt barely escaped a collision of his own. As the van screeched across the cement mixer’s path, just missing its front bumper, a spray of bullet holes opened along the side panel and up the passenger door. Only the last bullet did any damage, splintering the crate and nicking Giordino’s hand. Nerve reflex caused him to release his grip, and the crate plunged to the pavement.

Panicked, the cement mixer’s driver slammed on the brakes. Briefly clutching the fender, Juan slid off and under the left front wheel. The opposite tire found the dropped crate, and the mixer bounced over both. The massive vehicle skidded to a halt, but only after flattening the remains of Juan and the crate under its dual rear wheels.

Stunned by the sight in his rearview mirror, the pickup’s driver lost rein of his own vehicle. He drifted right and barreled into a Chevy Cobalt parked at the curb. The four-door pickup rode up onto the little car’s trunk before grinding to a halt. A bang filled the air as the pickup’s front tire cut into the car’s shredded body and burst.

Across the street, the utility van went from careening past the cement mixer to nearly rear-ending an SUV. The side street was clogged with traffic, and Pitt locked the brakes to slide to a halt. Crowds of people filled the sidewalks and street, blocking the traffic ahead. Pitt noticed flashing lights reflecting off the storefront windows; the police car was approaching the scene.

“I think,” Pitt said, “this would be a good time to kiss our utility van good-bye.”

Giordino shook his head. “And I was just getting rather attached to her.” He found a roll of electrical tape and began wrapping his bleeding hand.

“You okay?” Pitt asked, just realizing his friend had been injured.

“I may have to give up two-fisted drinking for a spell, but I’ll live.”

They jumped out of the van and blended into the crowd that began to surround the cement mixer. Ignoring Juan’s flattened body, they moved to examine the smashed box.

There was little to see. A mangled assortment of wires, circuit boards, and metal casings were spread under the truck like a disemboweled robot. Whatever the box had contained, it was well beyond any attempt to resurrect.

They slid away from the mixer as two police officers approached with their sidearms drawn. Pitt and Giordino worked their way toward the pickup truck, using the mass of onlookers to avoid detection. The crowds were thicker on the sidewalk, so they joined the throng moving alongside the mangled sedan and truck. With a sense of dread, Pitt stepped forward and peered inside the pickup.