"No. I don't think so."

Dave sat back. "Okay. The best thing we can do is get out of here and get back across the border. You're going to show customs agents these drugs and tell them your story. I'm going to flash my badge and back you up. After that, I guarantee you they'll be all over Robert the minute he steps foot back in the U.S."

"But as soon as I show myself, I'll be a target. Robert still wants me dead."

"Once the story is out, he'll be forced to leave you alone. If you end up dead, he'll be suspect number one. He doesn't dare risk that."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "That's the best news I've had since this whole mess came down."

"But we do have a problem. We can't take a commercial flight, because we'd have to smuggle the pills through security at the Monterrey airport. That's too risky."

"So what do you suggest we do? Cross the border by car?"

"I'd rather hand the drugs over to San Antonio customs agents, just as you'd planned to. That would put us well within the U.S. border, and we'll be talking to agents you're familiar with."

"But that means we need to fly back," Lisa said. "Unfortunately, my plane is at the bottom of the Mercado River."

"Can you rent a plane in Monterrey?"

"There's a commuter airport there. A couple of aviation companies. Rentals should be available."

"Then that's our plan." Dave checked his watch. "It's nearly noon. We can be in Monterrey by three or three-thirty. With luck, somebody will have a plane available and we can head out right away." He stood up, tossing his bag over his shoulder. "One quick stop in Santa Rios, and we'll be on the road."

"Why do we have to stop?"

"The car's nearly out of gas, and there's next to nothing between here and Monterrey."

"What if the wrong person spots me in town? Not likely, but Santa Rios isn't all that big."

"No problem. You can ride in the trunk."

Lisa felt a surge of dread. "No. No way. Not the trunk."

"Just until we get out of town."

"Nope. I don't do small, closed-in s.p.a.ces."

"It's the safest place for you."

"I'm serious, Dave. I'm not getting in that trunk."

Finally he sighed with resignation. "Okay. The floorboard of the backseat, then. Covered up with this." He picked up an old moth-eaten blanket off one of the bunks and gave it a shake.

Lisa didn't really like the sound of that, either, but riding under a blanket in the backseat beat feeling as if she were sealed inside a moving coffin.

She stood up and grabbed her backpack. When she wobbled a little, Dave took it from her, lowered it back to the ground, then placed his hands against her shoulders.

"Hey, take it easy, okay?"

"I'm fine."

But for a moment she wasn't. As the events of the past few days overwhelmed her, she bowed her head and took a deep, steadying breath.

"Everything's going to be okay, Lisa. I'm going to get you out of here. And then I'm going to do everything I can to make sure Robert pays for what he did to you."

"He attempted murder in Mexico. How can he be prosecuted for that in the U.S.?"

"If a crime is committed by one U.S. citizen against another in connection with a conspiracy that began in the U.S., the law allows for prosecution even if the crime was committed on Mexican soil."

"So all we have to do is tie him to the counterfeiting conspiracy and they can go after him for attempted murder?"

"Yes. We'll get him, Lisa. I promise you."

The expression of determination on his face amazed her. That he was making her problem his problem amazed her even more. Suddenly she was swept away by the same force that had drawn her to him all those years ago, that steady, anch.o.r.ed feeling she had whenever she was around him, as if he was the foundation that could calm all the turbulence in her life.

She remembered lying on the bank of that river after her plane went down, wet and exhausted, staring up at the starry sky and feeling more alone than she ever had in her life. Sure, she had friends, but they were people she wouldn't even impose upon to help her move from one apartment to another, much less get her out of a situation like this. And her family. She would rather die a slow death in the Mexican wilderness than speak to any of them ever again.

Then she'd thought about Dave.

Just call me if you need me.

His words had stayed in the back of her mind for years, like a promissory note in a dusty file just waiting to be uncovered. They were what had moved her to stand up on the bank of that river, exhausted, her head throbbing, and begin the long walk back toward Santa Rios, driven to put one foot in front of the other because she knew that if only she could talk to him somehow everything would be all right. Now that she felt more lucid, she realized what a slender thread that had been to hold on to. How could she have thought that he'd come seven hundred miles into the middle of nowhere to help her?

And yet he had.

Still, she knew why. Dave DeMarco was the kind of man who would sooner lose a limb than go back on a promise, no matter how ill-advised that promise might have been. And as he stood here with her now, dead tired and undoubtedly counting the miles they were going to have to travel before he could get back home again, she had to believe he had a few regrets about that.

"Maybe now you wish you hadn't made that promise to me back then," she said. "It was a pretty unfortunate thing to say at the last moment, wasn't it?"

"Unfortunate?"

"Look, I know you're here only because you felt obligated. You made me a promise, and you feel as if you have to fulfill it. It's just the way you are." She paused. "The way you've always been."

"Yes. Which is why I'm careful about the promises I make."

"It was a long time ago."

"Did I mention anything about an expiration date?"

"No. But we were kids, Dave. Kids don't always do smart things."

"I knew exactly what I was doing then." He slung her backpack over his shoulder, his gaze never leaving hers. "And I know exactly what I'm doing now."

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the door, and she resisted the urge to slip her arm around his waist and lean into him. No matter how much Dave was helping her now, she'd discovered that at the end of the day there was only one person she could depend on, and she had only to go to the nearest mirror to find her. He was here now because of a promise he'd made, and soon he'd be out of her life again just as quickly as he'd arrived.

The sooner she could rely on herself again, the safer and more secure she was going to feel.

As Dave drove into the outskirts of Santa Rios, he was struck once again by just what a c.r.a.ppy little town it was. Aged storefronts lined the main drag, and the windows of every one of them could have benefited from an economy-sized bottle of Windex and a supersize roll of paper towels. A couple of kids raced down the sidewalk on skateboards, while shiftless men hovered around the street corners, smoking, scratching, and spitting. h.e.l.l, no wonder n.o.body wanted to set up an actual medical practice here. There wasn't a country club, a golf course, or a five-star restaurant in sight.

He saw the gas station in the distance, a tired cinder-block building that might have last been painted sometime around the turn of the century. The nineteenth century.

"Lisa, we're getting close to the gas station. Get under that blanket."

"I will."

"And don't move an eyelash."

"I hear you."

"I still say the trunk would be better than the backseat."

"Yeah, and all the screaming just might tip somebody off that I was in there."

"Just how claustrophobic are you?"

"You mean, how closed in do I have to be before I start sobbing uncontrollably?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not doing too great with this blanket over my face. Does that tell you anything?"

"And you fly private planes? Aren't the c.o.c.kpits a little small?"

"Yeah, but there's all that sky out there beyond it. Not a problem."

Dave swung the car into the gas station lot, then pulled up next to one of two pumps.

"We're there. I'll have us out of here in a couple of minutes."

He reached under the dash, flicked open the gas tank cover. He stepped out of the car and had just pulled the nozzle off the pump when he was greeted by a stubby little Mexican man wearing a greasy denim shirt. The name Fernando Fernando was embroidered just above the pocket. was embroidered just above the pocket.

"Buenos dias," he said with a gregarious smile, taking the gas nozzle from Dave's hand. "No es necesario hacer nada. Esta es una gasolinera de servicio completo."

While Dave's command of Spanish was somewhat conversational, most of the time it was limited to Yes, you were Yes, you were speeding speeding and and Drop the weapon and put your hands behind Drop the weapon and put your hands behind your head your head, so he wasn't exactly making out what the guy was saying.

"No hablo espa'nol," he told Fernando.

"Ah, you are American," he said, smiling even more broadly and talking a little louder, as if Dave had a hearing problem to go with his language barrier. Fernando eased the gas nozzle out of Dave's hand. "What I say is that I am happy to do. I will put gasoline in the car."

Customer service? Dave hadn't counted on that. Then again, Fernando's enthusiasm probably stemmed from the fact that Dave was driving a sporty late-model car. Such vehicles seemed to be a rarity in Santa Rios. Fernando probably a.s.sumed Dave had a few more pesos than his average customer and a tip might be on the horizon, a tip that would grow in proportion to how much he engaged in chatty conversation.

"The car, she is very very good," Fernando said, parking the nozzle in the gas tank with a soft clatter. "A Mustang, yes?" good," Fernando said, parking the nozzle in the gas tank with a soft clatter. "A Mustang, yes?"

"Yes," Dave said. "It's a Mustang."

Fernando left the nozzle in the tank, then ran his fingertip back and forth over the side panel of the car. "She is red. That is very hot. A red car is like a s.e.xy woman. She moves so good, and the eyes-they fall on her and you cannot remove them."

Or he couldn't take his eyes off it. Something like that. Unfortunately, Fernando was loaded with bad English and wasn't afraid to use it.

His gaze lingered over the side panels, then slid along the downward curve of the hood. Then he lowered his head to glance through the driver's side window. "The seats? Leather?"

"Yeah," Dave said, moving in front of the window. "Leather." Just be still, Lisa. Be very, very still. Just be still, Lisa. Be very, very still.

"Ah," Fernando said, breathing deeply to make his point, "leather smells like perfume. The perfume of a s.e.xy woman."

Right. Eau de Cowhide. s.e.xiest scent south of the Rio Grande.

Fernando circled to the back of the car, teasing his fingertips over the rear spoiler, wearing an expression of sheer bliss. He compared cars to women. Dave wondered if he told women that they reminded him of cars. He glanced at the man's left hand. No wedding ring.

Probably.

Fernando walked around to the opposite side of the car, then bent over a rear fender, spending an inordinate amount of time admiring one of the tires. Apparently Firestones were as s.e.xy to this guy as high arches in stiletto heels.

The gas pump clicked off. Fernando came back around the car to extract the nozzle from the tank, moving slowly, regretfully. A drop of gasoline fell onto the car and slithered downward. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped the gasoline away, then flipped the hankie over and buffed the paint with a slow, circular polish. Now, if only he could refrain from lighting two cigarettes and handing one of them to the car, maybe they could get the h.e.l.l out of here.

"Much fortunate man you are to have this car," Fernando said, his smile positively o.r.g.a.s.mic. "Much, much fortunate."

Dave noted the outrageous price of the gasoline and pulled enough money from his wallet to cover it. Fernando went into the station, and after a few minutes he returned with Dave's change. Dave gave him a few extra pesos for his trouble. Fernando thanked him profusely for his generosity and started back toward the building. But just as Dave was getting back into the car, the man stopped by the right rear tire, a look of horror on his face.

"Senor!" he called out. "Come! A problem!"

s.h.i.t. What now?

Dave circled around to the right rear fender. Fernando pointed at the tire, and Dave stared in disbelief.

A flat tire? How in the h.e.l.l had that happened?

"A beautiful tire," Fernando said with a sorrowful sigh.

"And now she is dead." Then a smile popped back onto his face. "No problem. I will fix."

G.o.d, no. If he let the Metaphor Man jack up this gorgeous red vehicle and fondle her tires, they'd be here all day.

"No, that's okay," Dave said. "I can change it myself."

"But, senor, I can-"

"No," Dave said. "I can handle it."

Fernando looked longingly at the car for a moment more, with the dejected expression of a dorky guy who'd been turned down for a date with a gorgeous woman. Finally he turned and walked back toward the station.

Dave slid into the driver's seat, putting his wallet into the glove compartment so he could clue Lisa in on what had happened.

"We'll be here a minute more," he said quietly. "We've got a flat tire."

"A flat? How did that happen?"

"Given the road we drove down here on, I guess I'm surprised the other three aren't in the same condition."