Payback by Keith Douglass Page A

Harley would have found it.
    â€œOkay, Jack. I’ll call Jose and tell him you’re coming. Give it three hours before you come back this time. They can check by computer to see how long your license-numbered car was gone. They don’t like twenty-minute stays in the country and then a drive out. The car will be clean and hasn’t been driven across for six months. They check on that too. Just be casual. Don’t act drunk or they’ll pull you over and hold you. Just nice and easy.”
    â€œSure, yeah, and me looking at ten years if I get caught. I must be nuts. But it’s a try. Hell, I can only die once, right?”
    â€œYeah, right. But you sure as hell better not blow our operation while you’re getting dead.”
    â€œNo sweat. I’m gone to Tijuana.”
    He drove to San Ysidro the same way he had the previous night, and found the garage with Jose there. The second time around, it seemed routine. Hell, he was a dope smuggler, a candidate for the big house. Jose checked him out and handed him the keys. His wheels for this trip was a 1992 Ford Taurus. The paint job was still good, and it only had one dinged rear fender. It had some junk in it, including some stuffed toys and a kid’s game. After the short drive to theborder, he went through the Tijuana gate, and the Mexican guard waved him on through without stopping. They liked the American dollar the tourists brought with them.
    He made the turn on Presidente Avenue and pulled up to the same garage. Three beeps with his horn, and the garage door rolled upward and he drove inside. The same Mexican came over as he stepped out of the car.
    â€œHola.”
    â€œYeah, hi, where is there a better restaurant than the café?”
    â€œBetter eats?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œTwo blocks down. Good eats.”
    â€œI’m supposed to wait three hours this time.” The Mexican nodded, and Mahanani waved and headed for his dinner. He hadn’t been a fan of Mexico, almost never came down here. He’d gotten drunk here once a year ago, and had nearly never made it home. That cured him of TJ. He walked to the restaurant, tried to read the Spanish menu in the window, but gave up and went inside. He had a steak with all the side dishes and two bottled Cokes. He couldn’t even risk drinking a beer, and he wanted something bottled so he didn’t get food poisoning. The steak was good, and he meandered back to the garage. The Taurus sat outside, so he knocked on the door and the Mexican man nodded.
    â€œCar ready, but wait two hours.”
    Mahanani had no trouble with that. He crawled in, pushed the seat back as far as it would go, and reclined it. He could stand a two-hour nap.
    It was almost three hours before one leg cramped and woke him. The sleep had left him groggy and bleary-eyed. He walked around the car a dozen times; then he was ready. He drove carefully, but had trouble keeping his mind on the road. His stomach growled and he quickly felt ill, but he didn’t know why. Maybe the flu bug the other guys had. He shook his head. It was only three or four miles; then he’d be back in his own country and in his own set of wheels.
    It took all of his concentration to find the border. He drove up to the tenth open inspection gate, and waited ten minutes to get up to the man. The border guard started to wave him through, then stopped and came up to the window.
    â€œSir, are you all right? You look a little strange.”
    â€œGot the flu coming on, I think, but I can drive.”
    â€œYou could pull over into secondary inspection and have a half-hour nap. Would that help?”
    â€œNo, I had some coffee, I should be okay. I don’t have far to go, just into Imperial Beach.”
    Mahanani blinked and stared wide-eyed at the border guard. “Yeah, I’m doing better now. Just some gas, I think. Thanks for the help.” He let his foot off the brake, and the car rolled ahead. The