Chapter 7 - The Shadow of the Ridge
Mateo did not answer.
He pulled his head into the rear compartment of the Cadillac. The heavy steel door swung shut with a thick, muffled THUD that sealed out the noise of the dry mountain wind, the hum of the cicadas, and the smell of roasting pork.
Inside the car, the air was cold, chilled by an artificial refrigeration unit mounted beneath the dashboard that blew cold, chemical-scented air directly into Mateo’s face.
"Get us back to the capital," Mateo instructed his driver, his voice hollow, his eyes staring straight ahead into the smoked glass of the partition window.
"Understood, sir," the driver replied, shifting the transmission into gear.
The heavy V8 engine roared to life once more. The Cadillac backed up ten yards, its whitewall tires churning up a fresh storm of red dust, then turned sharply toward the valley road, its long black chassis swaying on its air-ride suspension.
As the car accelerated away from Calle de la Cruz, the lead security guard in the front passenger seat turned his head, his eyes scanning the rear-view mirror with sharp, rhythmic twitches.
"Mr. Vance," the guard said, his hand slipping inside his coat to grip the handle of his weapon. "We have a problem."
Mateo did not lift his head from his hands. "What problem?"
"The ridge road isn't clear," the guard reported coldly. "The local precinct didn't set up a roadblock. They've been cleared out."
Mateo slowly lifted his head, his brow furrowing as he looked out the rear glass panel of the speeding sedan.
Through the settling cloud of yellow dust behind them, three dark, low-slung utility trucks were emerging from the dry scrub oak lining the canyon walls. They were unpainted, steel-bodied flatbed trucks loaded with men in olive-drab fatigues, carrying surplus military rifles across their knees.
They were not state police. They were the remnant militia of the copper mines—the men who had spent twenty years hunting Mateo Vance’s supply lines through the southern mountains.
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They hadn't come for the old woman. They hadn't come for Calle de la Cruz.
They had been waiting for the black Cadillac to leave the narrow alleyways where heavy armor was useless, trapping it on the narrow, two-lane dirt pass that ran along the edge of the river gorge.
