Page 33 of Fighting for Julia (Laguna Beach Cops #6)
TIJUANA
JUST OVER THE BORDER
When the van slowed down to a crawl, Miguel glanced at his watch. “We’re in Tijuana.” He reached into his back pocket, found his wallet, and hid it inside one of his shoes. “Julia, do you have identification on you?”
“No. Just my cell phone.” She checked it for service and saw a text from Tex. “Tex says not to panic. He’s tracking us. He also said that Justice and Wolf, whoever that is, have already mobilized a rescue team. They’re on standby. Wow. That was quick.”
“SEALs don’t mess around.”
Outside the van, a cacophony of horns blaring and racing motorcycle engines rose in volume. Miguel shot Julia a look of concern. He scooted toward the opening between the driver’s and passenger’s seats to check out the situation through the windshield.
“Oh, shit,” he said in a low voice. “Alfredo, are these your men?”
“No.”
“Do you recognize them?”
“Sí. The Jalisco gang.”
“A rival cartel?”
“Sí. They’ve been trying to destroy the Escobars ever since the Jaliscos gained a foothold in the drug business.”
Julia saw what concerned Miguel. The motorcycle gang had surrounded the van and were forcing it to go where they wanted. Sweat ran down Juan’s face. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
“Listen, Alfredo, Julia and I can get us out of this situation, but you have to trust us. Do you have any more guns?”
“Why should I trust you? You threatened to kill me and Juan. And besides, I’ve dealt with this kind of thing in the past.”
“For fuck’s sake. If I wanted you dead, I would have slit your throat already with Julia’s Swiss army knife.”
Apparently, Alfredo remembered he was a fearless Escobar because he opened the glove compartment and handed Miguel and Julia a pair of Sig Sauer P365s, along with rounds of ammunition.
They checked the chambers and found the handguns loaded with ten rounds.
Miguel glanced out the windshield. They were out of Tijuana.
“Ready, Jules?”
She nodded. “Let’s do this.”
Miguel threw back the side panel, and they opened fire on the Jalisco motorcycle gang.
Alfredo rolled down his window and fired several shots.
The Jalisco gang, taken by surprise, gathered their wits and returned fire.
The van swerved as Juan avoided a direct hit.
Miguel and Julia lost their balance but quickly recovered and continued the firefight.
“I’m out!” Julia yelled.
“Take my gun!”
She grabbed it and shot a gang member who’d come dangerously close to the open side panel. As soon as Miguel loaded his Sig Sauer, he fired it at another motorcycle. The driver slumped over, and the bike careened out of control.
More gang members joined the attack. They set up a roadblock and fired straight at the van. A bullet shattered the windshield and whizzed past Miguel’s head. Other bullets pinged off the van.
“What do I do?” cried Juan. “They’re blocking the road!”
“Don’t stop, Juan,” Miguel ordered. “Step on the gas and run right through them.”
Juan obeyed. Julia could have sworn he closed his eyes as they barreled through the blockade.
Several gang members leaped out of the way.
Julia and Miguel gripped the seats in front of them to keep from being thrown from the van upon impact.
The sound of metal striking metal deafened them.
Once past the mangled motorcycles, Julia and Miguel shot the men lying dazed on the side of the road.
The remaining members of the Jalisco gang decided not to pursue the fleeing van.
Alfredo turned around to face Miguel. “We did it. We stopped them.” His voice rang with a fierce satisfaction.
“Sí. But we have to disappear fast before they have time to regroup.”
“Agreed. We have a safe house fifty miles southeast. Head there, Juan.”
Juan pressed the gas pedal, and the van shot forward.
To Alfredo’s surprise, Miguel offered his Sig Sauer. “Here.”
Alfredo stared at the gun. Then he lifted his eyes to meet Miguel’s honest and open gaze. “No. Keep it. You are no longer a prisoner but a guest like my cousin.” He addressed Juan. “We do not hurt him. He is our guest.”
“Sí, Alfredo.”
Pride swelled in Julia as she settled in Miguel’s arms. No doubt they’d either be dead or prisoners of the Jalisco cartel if Miguel hadn’t sensed the danger posed to them.
His instincts, his honor, continually amazed her.
She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Miguel, I’m in love with you.
I want to be your wife more than anything else in this world.
You’re my man. My heart is yours. Forever. ”
His arms tightened around her. He tilted her chin and claimed her mouth in a deep kiss. “I’m in love with you, too, Jules. I want to be your husband more than anything else in this world. You know you’re my woman. And my heart…my heart is yours. Forever.”
Their quiet confession of love resembled vows. Promises. Promises Julia intended to keep with every fiber of her being.
It took almost an hour to reach a whitewashed wood, single-story home in the middle of rows and rows of lush green mango trees. Brown-skinned children of various ages, dressed in play clothes, ran alongside the van. They smiled, beautiful, innocent smiles, and waved at Alfredo and Juan.
“Our uncle, Alejandro Escobar, owns many acres of mango groves, as far as the eye can see. This is how he makes his living,” Alfredo explained.
The implication was clear. Alejandro Escobar wasn’t part of his father’s illegal enterprise.
“Where’s your father, Alfredo?”
“Dead.”
Julia winced. “Was his death related to the family business?”
“Sí.”
“So, why does Uncle Alejandro get a free pass, and our fathers are dead?”
“Because he’s the youngest of six sons. After Felipe killed your father, the General gave Alejandro a choice.
He was educated in the States, like Uncle Julio and my father, and when he returned to Mexico with a degree in Agribusiness and Economics, our grandfather allowed him to pursue his own dreams.”
They climbed out of the van riddled with bullet holes.
The children stared in wide-eyed fascination at them.
A handsome man of strong build and medium stature came out of the house to meet them.
His dark hair was slicked back and curled at the nape of his neck.
He eyed them with a thin veil of tolerance.
“Are you bringing trouble to my home and family, Alfredo?”
“No, Uncle. We weren’t followed by the Jaliscos.”
Alejandro scowled. “You may stay long enough to rest a bit, then you must leave.” Julia caught Alejandro’s eye, and he did a double take. “No. It can’t be. You are my brother Julio’s long-lost daughter?”
“Sí.” Julia held out her hand. “My name is Julia Washburn.”
Alejandro’s dark eyes registered surprise, and something else.
Fear, perhaps. “I recognize that name from my time in the States. Barbara Washburn is a former corporate attorney who had a meteoric political rise to Secretary of State, and now she’s running for President. She and her husband adopted you?”
“Sí.”
“What in God’s name are you doing in Mexico? Surely, you know?—”
“I do. I’m here at your father’s…behest.”
He understood what she meant. “ Dio s mío . How did he find you?”
“Mutual acquaintances. It’s a long story.”
“I must hear it.” Alejandro pointed at Miguel. “And who is this?”
“Secret Service agent Miguel Rivera.”
“Assigned to protect you?”
Julia smiled. “It’s a little more complicated than that. He’s…my fiancé.”
Alejandro’s face split into a wide grin, and he offered his hand. “Welcome, Agent Rivera. Congratulations. Please come in.”
Alejandro’s youngest children scampered curiously about their visitors. They bombarded them with questions in perfect English and could hardly refrain from touching them. The sight of Miguel’s bloodstained sweatshirt scared them, though, and they kept a polite distance from him.
Julia’s aunt, a pretty, slender woman whose honey-blonde hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, glided forward as she cleaned her hands on a yellow apron. She greeted Julia and Miguel with hugs and kisses and introduced herself.
“Welcome to our home. I’m Carmen Escobar.” She glared and tsked at Alfredo and Juan. “Up to no good, I see. Please come into the kitchen. We are about to eat.”
Mouthwatering aromas wafted from the kitchen. The smell of corn, spices, flour, and a multitude of others assailed them. Miguel quickened his pace, drawn to the warmth of the kitchen that must have sparked fond memories in him. Julia’s heart lifted, too. These were her kin. Her people. Good people.
The family sat in their usual places around the huge, butcher-block style dining table. It was built to accommodate ten people, so there weren’t any empty chairs. Julia knew it was crafted by loving hands, as was the furniture in the living room they passed through.
A feast lay before them on the worn table: stacks of tortillas kept warm in tin foil; homemade salsa and chips; and bowls filled with ground beef, shredded lettuce and cheese, diced tomatoes, and sour cream.
Everyone filled their plates, and Alejandro offered a prayer. As they ate, the children laughed and teased the adults and each other, reminding Julia vividly of such meals at home. Nostalgia gripped her.
Would anything stay the same if…when…her mother won the White House?