The Dogs of Mexico by John J. Asher

a Pemex station—then snapped alert, not only registering the familiarity of the car, but the incongruous figures standing alongside—a large platinum blond and a thin little boy. He sensed it was the same Chevy that had followed him to Taxco the previous afternoon, the same woman, the same boy. Ana was looking out the side window, oblivious. Helmut was still asleep. In passing, Robert looked again at the twosome alongside the Chevy. The woman was barrel-bodied, awkward-looking in a bright orange blouse and a red leather miniskirt. She wore blue pumps and black net stockings. The boy wore jeans, a T-shirt and cowboy boots. They were occupied with a food vendor who had pushed a cart up alongside. Robert saw now that the boy wasn’t a boy after all, but a man—thin little arms blurred with India ink tattoos. And the woman, he realized with a jolt, was actually a man too. When he picked them up in the rearview mirror, he saw them turn, watching until he lost them in the traffic.  
    His first thought was that they might be kidnappers—but then they would have made a move on him the evening before on the road to Taxco when he was alone. Surely Fowler wouldn’t hire two sets of watchdogs? In any case, there was more to those two than met the eye. Mexico was beginning to feel downright crowded.  
    A half hour later, he was still mulling it over when up ahead he spotted a jeep and a truck parked under a stand of trees just off the road. A dozen soldiers lounged in the shade of the tarp-bedded truck. Two uniformed men stepped out onto the pavement. One carried an automatic weapon. The other, an officer, lifted his hand for Robert to stop.  
    As often as not, both cartels and kidnappers posed as police and military. Just as often the actual police were involved in trafficking. But right now the .380in the paper bag was his biggest concern. He could shove it under the seat, or jam it in the back of his belt, but Helmut was waking up and would see him for sure.  
    “You’ll need your passport,” Ana said tersely. She took hers and Helmut’s from the purse on the strap around her neck. It struck Robert that for all he knew she and Helmut could be running drugs. That would be ironic—down here on a multimillion-dollar diamond deal, getting busted over someone else’s nickel bag of weed.  
    He braked to a stop, then reached across and took his passport from the glovebox. The officer stepped to Helmut’s window. The other soldier stood back, rifle butt on his hip.
    “Buenas tardes,” the officer said, looking them over, each in turn.
    Ana lowered her window and handed her and Helmut’s passports over. “ Buenas tardes, señor. Qué pasa?”  
    “Turistas?”
    “Sí. De Estados Unidos.  
    The officer looked the papers over. He squinted at the luggage in the backseat, then turned and shouted and two soldiers jumped up from the shade and came on the run. The officer spoke rapidly in Spanish. One of the soldiers opened Helmut’s door. Helmut fumbled his way out and stood back, unsteady. Ana stepped out as the second soldier hurried around and opened Robert’s door. Robert slid out over the paper bag crammed between the seat and the rocker panel.  
    The officer said something to Robert in Spanish.
    “He wants you to open the trunk,” Ana explained.  
    The soldier on the other side of the car reached inside, opened and closed the ashtray.  
    Robert leaned back inside and pressed the trunk release. The trunk lid popped open. One of the soldiers reached in, took up the paper bag and hurried around the car with it.
    “ Deténgase! ” the officer shouted at Robert.
    The soldier with the weapon threw the safety off.
    “Subir las manos!”
    Robert froze, his gaze fixed on the paper bag.  
    “Put your hands up!” Ana cried.
    She had lifted her own hands above her head, explaining to the officer, “Es Americano, no habla español.”Robert slowly raised his hands.
    The officer plunged his hand into the bag and