Page 71 of Bad Rio

“I’m operating blind,” he said, “not knowing exactly who the enemy is, not even sure my boss can be trusted any more. I need answers—and I need a safe place to communicate while I send out feelers.”

“What safe place?” she asked.

“Home,” he said, abruptly making the decision. “We’re going home. To my family, to Big Jim and Sarah. I can control things there, and gather information. We’re going to Montana.”

Chapter Thirty

After flying northto Nuevo Laredo, Rio explained to Becca that they didn’t dare try crossing back into America openly—he said the authorities might discover where they were and they couldn’t chance that. He’d lost faith in Harrison, and by extension, Black Eagle. It was, after all, a government entity. There was no telling what they might do.

Besides, they had no passports with them. At the border, they would only run into trouble. With his open wound, this time he couldn’t risk infection from the dirty Rio Grande water.

In the end, he hiredcoyotesto smuggle them into the U.S. He arranged for a local man to drive Becca’s car over the border and leave it near town.

Thecoyotesput them into a secret compartment of a tall transport truck. After they were in, a false door was closed and the truck was loaded with mangoes. At the crossing, Rio whispered to Becca that since money had changed hands, given his bribe, the truck would only be cursorily inspected, a mere formality. Indeed, they heard the rear doors open, and someone apparently glanced inside, saw only the fruit, and didn’t investigate further. The doors closed.

In Laredo, Texas, they were delivered to a nondescript warehouse. It was a mere mile from where her car had been stashed, and hand in hand, they walked down a quiet country lane, found the key beneath the seat, and were on their way headed farther north. Sighing in relief, Becca leaned back in the passenger seat.

Rio took her phone, replaced the battery, and made a muttered call. In moments he hung up. “Big Jim’s expecting us.”

When she accepted her phone, she saw a dozen missed calls and voice mails from friends, her brothers, her father, and a two from Maria, the ambassador’s daughter. Sighing, she turned it off, and again removed the battery. Her friends and family might be worried, but there was nothing she could do.

They took turns driving while the other dozed, stopping only for food and fuel. Within twenty-four hours, they drove into the outskirts of Billings. When they pulled into the city limits, Rio was at the wheel.

“Montana is beautiful,” Becca said, admiring the long, rimrock cliffs, and beyond, the majestic shadow of the Bighorn Mountain range. It seemed as though she could see for miles in any direction. The air was crisp, clean. It was so open and free. And she liked the idea that no one knew where they were.

“I’ve been to different places around the world,” he said, “some amazing places. But this is home. Feels good to be back.”

Instead of driving into downtown, he kept to the outskirts, taking them into the foothills. The countryside grew lonely and wild. At last, he pulled through gates over a cattle guard and onto a mile-long driveway. He stopped the car at a sprawling, two-story ranch house. White-faced cows grazed in the fields. A hawk soared overhead.

Already walking toward them from the house, an older man approached, tall and lanky. Two gray and tan cattle dogs trailed after him. He wore a battered straw cowboy hat, worn Wrangler jeans, and beat-up boots. His skin was weathered, his manner calm in the way of an old cowhand who knew that with the rhythms of country life, there was always work to be done, and always another day in which to do it. A hurried, frenzied attitude would never define him.

On the driveway, Rio surprised her. Instead of a manly handshake between father and son, or perhaps a shoulder slap, they greeted each other with a hearty hug.

And to think, she’d first thought Rio was so detached!

“Dad, this is Rebecca De Monte,” he said, drawing her forward. “Call her Becca.”

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