Coincidence - Alan May [40]
“They’re here. On my signal, Polo.”
Severo began to shake.
“Go,” they heard Esteban yell and everything fell into place. Polo’s foot lifted off the brake, just like in the practice runs, and the SUV started forward, picking up speed to twenty-five miles per hour as it approached the road.
Esteban pulled onto the road behind the last pickup in the drug convoy, edging up close to its rear bumper.
The timing was perfect. Polo swung the SUV out onto the road and rammed smack into the side of the van. Although this was the one maneuver they had not been able to rehearse, it went with impeccable precision. The van never lost control; it slid to a gentle stop just ahead of the SUV. To Juan, peering out from among the leaves, the impact seemed like a slow-motion sequence in a movie.
Then, pandemonium.
The lead truck squealed to a stop. Guards from all three vehicles swarmed out, drawing their weapons, shouting. Polo, pale as a boiled egg in his skimpy bathing suit, emerged from the SUV, raised his hands over his head and stood frozen to the spot, surrounded by six surprised guards, all shouting at one another and all with their guns trained on his scrawny figure.
The din let up for a moment as the guards, realizing that the vulnerable-looking little man before them posed no threat, began to chuckle. Polo, in a convincing display of terror, was falling to his knees, hands still up, invoking the name of his sainted mother. The tall guard, the one who seemed to be in charge, barked a terse command to the others. They lowered their weapons while the tall guard took a step toward Polo, and then—
Crack! Crack! Crack! The sound of rifles pierced the air as Severo and Juan fired, picking off the guards one by one before they could register that they were in danger.
All was silent for a moment, but for the echo of the rifle shots reverberating in their ears. Polo was up and on his feet in a flash, pulling on the pants and shirt he’d stashed in the SUV, joining Juan and Severo in their exhilaration and accepting Juan’s compliments for his performance.
“Polito, hombre, you should get an Oscar for that one.”
Juan had known that Polo could look the part of a sniveling coward, but he’d been amazed by the guy’s acting ability. It was only Polo’s instant return to his usual cocky self that persuaded Juan that it had all been an act.
Juan wheeled around, looking for Stefano, wondering if he’d been able to see any of the theatrics from his spot across the road.
That was odd. Where was Stefano, anyway? Why hadn’t he come over as soon as the shots had ended? Juan bolted across the road to the ditch.
One look at his brother and Juan knew something was wrong—very wrong.
Stefano had been kneeling, his rifle aimed and ready, when he felt the searing pain tear through his left thigh. Next thing he knew, he was lying on his back in the ditch, using every ounce of will he possessed not to scream. Now, he looked down at his leg and was surprised to find it not only still attached, but bleeding very little.
“Jesus y Maria,” Juan said, squatting down beside him. He fingered the small hole in Stefano’s pants where the bullet had entered, then edged the pants leg up. There was no exit wound; the bullet must still be lodged in his leg.
Polo, Severo, and now Esteban had come running across the road and were standing over him. It must, they decided, have ricocheted off one of the trucks. There was nowhere else the bullet could have come from.
Shit, Severo thought. Hadn’t he known all along that you couldn’t anticipate everything, that something like this was bound to happen? And now that something had happened, and to the chief planner himself, what would be next? Shit.
Juan and Esteban helped Stefano hobble across the road and poured him into the van. He was pale and clammy but assured the others he would be okay to drive. Thank God the van was automatic.