Taco slid his card in. Bill said, “Next.”
Chief said, “My cousin lost his ID. He has a temporary.”
Bill bent down behind the counter and pulled out something the size of an electric pencil sharpener with a glass square at the end. He said, “ID.”
The Ghost handed across his forged document and Bill barely glanced at it. He set it on the counter next to the machine and said, “Right index finger.”
The Ghost put his finger on the piece of glass and held it in place. Hefelt the sweat begin to grow on his brow, the adrenaline coursing through his body. Taco and Chief had no knowledge of what he had done in the past or how he’d been captured and held. They thought this was just a simple check, but the Ghost knew the reach of the United States government and feared it would be a trigger.
The machine dinged, and Bill handed across the temporary identification, saying, “Have a good one.”
And that was it. The Ghost exhaled, said, “Thank you,” and they were across, into Mexico.
They’d walked down a road for about twenty minutes, until they were away from the gate, meeting an SUV driven by a teenager. He said not a word. They loaded up and drove until they reached a small cluster of buildings. The Ghost was led inside one and a picture of his face was taken against a white backdrop. When it was done, Taco said, “This’ll take about thirty minutes to get that picture into a passport. There’s a bathroom in the back with some things for you. Why don’t you go clean up?”
He did, finding a carry-on suitcase sitting on a chair. He opened it, seeing clothes and toiletries. He went to the sink and turned on the water, waiting for it to get hot. He looked in the mirror while he waited, seeing a gaunt shell of himself looking back. His eyes were sunken and he had a cut over his brow that he didn’t even remember receiving. He raised a finger and traced it in wonder, musing that the cut represented his entire life. A bloody wound among so much other trauma it didn’t even rate a memory.
Twenty minutes later he had returned to the car wearing his new clothes, his face cleanly shaved. He slid into the back and Taco nodded approvingly. He said, “Probably another ten minutes.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, then the Ghost asked, “Are we still on the reservation?”
Taco said, “Yeah, but you’ll be moving on from here.”
“Where am I going?”
“The international airport in Chihuahua. From there, I don’t know, but he will.”
The Ghost looked where Taco pointed and saw a man exiting the concrete building where he’d had his picture taken. Wearing a ballcap and covered in tattoos on his arms and neck, he was carrying a thick envelope.
Taco said, “That’s your guy.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s just another conduit. The last one.”
Taco rolled down the window and the tattooed man said something to him in Spanish. In short order, the Ghost was back on the road, this time in a new vehicle with the tattooed man at the wheel. Sixteen hours and one plane flight later, he was now sitting in the international airport in Mexico City with a plane ticket to Buenos Aires, a brand-new Lebanese passport, and a cell phone, still no clearer on the mechanics of his rescue.
Now that he was completely free from both the American authorities and his questionable rescuers, he contemplated running. Contemplated throwing the plane ticket to Argentina in the trash and just disappearing into the heart of Mexico City.
He didn’t.
For one, he spoke no Spanish, and was unclear of how he’d be treated on the streets. He only had the passport, and he knew nothing of Mexico. He didn’t even know what reaction his escape had caused—if any. For all he knew, his face might be plastered at every police station in the city.
Another reason was the letter. The IRGC had spared little expense and time to free him, the organization and planning extraordinary, and he knew if he didn’t follow their instructions, he would need to fear them as well as the Americans. If he crossed them, they would turn any sanctuary he sought into another trap. He could forget traveling home to Lebanon. Because of that fear he had yet to turn on the cell phone he’d been given, wanting to keep his options open.
The only thing he had was the letter, both his anchor and his curse. It gave him instructions for what to do once he reached Argentina, and was pleasant enough, but there was a tone of commitment.
He saw the gate agent open the jet bridge door and heard the announcement for his flight. Travelers began clustering around the gate, but he hesitated. He wanted more information before he took this final, possibly fatal step, but he had no one to turn to.
He’d dared not ask the men who’d rescued him about his future, sure they would have no knowledge of the letter’s content, but he had plenty of questions about the payback for his rescue. Specifically, he had questions about the last sentence in the letter.
The one saying the Quds Force had a mission for him.
Chapter 18
The entrance to the Tohono O’odham reservation was a little anticlimactic. I’m not sure what I had anticipated, but all it consisted of was a barbed wire fence with a cattle guard crossing and a sign saying we’d entered Tohono O’odham land. Nothing else.
I said, “Well, that was a little disappointing.”
