Flynn slammed the car door closed and said, “Jesus, man. We can’t havehim die on us. He’s the payment for everything. What the fuck have you been doing while I was gone?”
He stomped away and Shane followed, saying nothing. They reached a single-story building made of cinderblocks with a double door wide enough for a vehicle, the floor packed dirt.
Flynn swung open one side, exposing a single room with an exposed bulb. The only furnishings were a cot, chair, and wooden desk. Next to the bed was a case of water, about half gone, the used plastic bottles strewn on the floor. In the corner was a rubber bucket with a makeshift toilet lid on the top, a blanket on a rope running above it giving some semblance of privacy.
The man they knew as the Ghost sat on the cot, his hands still in handcuffs, a length of chain leading from the cuffs to an eyebolt in the ceiling, giving him enough slack to maneuver to the makeshift toilet.
Flynn said, “You doing okay, man?”
The Ghost said, “That depends. What do you want with me?”
“I told you, we’re just helping out some people you know. You’ll be with them soon, so just chill.”
“Then why am I still chained?”
“Just a precaution, man, just a precaution. They’re paying me, but I don’t know you from shit. They’re making your documents now from the names you gave. One more night, and you’ll be out of here and no longer my problem.”
“Where am I going?”
“Not your concern. You need anything?”
The Ghost exhaled saying nothing. Flynn said, “Look, man, I’m on your side here, but it’s only for money. Sorry if you think it’s substandard, but it is what it is.”
The Ghost looked at him and said, “Some food besides granola bars.”
“We’ll bring you something. Just stay cool. We’ll be back in a few hours.”
The Ghost said nothing else and they left. Once outside, Shane said, “Whyarewe keeping him chained?”
Flynn said, “I wasn’t lying to him. I don’t think he’s a threat, but I don’t trust him not to run, and without him, we don’t get paid.”
Flynn went to the Crown Vic and said, “You got the gas?”
Putting on rubber cleaning gloves, Shane said, “Yeah, and I already bleached it.”
“Let’s go. The dump site is about thirty minutes from here.”
They drove away from the small cluster of structures, the Crown Vic throwing up a cloud of dust from the dirt road, forcing Shane to slow the van down. He could not wait to get out of this desert hellhole.
It had been a fifteen-hour drive from Panguitch to the Arizona–Mexico border, and they’d been hard miles. Apart from a single stop outside of Flagstaff, the trip had been straight through. They’d reached the outskirts of the Tohono O’odham Indian reservation and kept heading south, passing grim little settlements of cinderblock houses and ramshackle businesses, until they’d reached a dead end in the desert scrub.
Two shacks with a porta-potty between them and a weatherbeaten trailer became their base of operations. Flynn had called his contact on the reservation, someone he simply referred to as “Chief.” A short, stocky man with a black ponytail and a cleft palate splitting his lip, he was a member of the Tohono O’odham nation.
Flynn and Chief had situated the Ghost in his cinderblock home, the setting sun letting the desert begin to cool. Chief started asking the Ghost about names and documents, and Shane had left them, going to the trailer and finding his stay was going to be one step above sleeping out on the ground.
Flynn hadn’t told Shane every step in the process—he didn’t understand the discussions occurring next door—but he instinctively knew they were planning to get the Ghost across the Mexican border, and that someone with means and money was going to help. His job was the cleanup, and the final phase was the disposal of the van he’d stolen.
Now, with Flynn’s Crown Vic leading the way, they left the Ghost behind and continued on one dusty road after another until they finallyreached one that was paved. Flynn headed east, and Shane realized they were parallelling the border. First one, then another white SUV adorned with light bars passed them—the only vehicles that did so—and he recognized them as Customs and Border Protection.
The road curved to the north and they passed a metal sign dinged with bullet holes proclaiming Papago Farms. The desert scrub faded away to reveal a desolate collection of buildings, this time with a lonely gas station and a brick post office sprinkled among the decaying structures. Flynn took a left next to an auto shop ringed with razor wire, leaving the pavement for another dirt road. Shane backed off again, giving space for the dust cloud kicked up by the Crown Vic.
They passed a sheet-metal structure surrounded by a chain-link fence, the front lined with CBP vehicles, with what looked like a cell phone tower on the north end, the top bristling with cameras. Flynn kept going.
After a couple more turns the road became no better than a rutted track. They reached a washout and Flynn traveled to the far side, motioning Shane to stop in the middle. He did so and got out, seeing the remains of a flood from months ago, the sand now littered with water bottles and other trash.
Flynn said, “We burn it here and continue on, going back to the camp.”
Shane said, “What was that station back there?”
