CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
The coyote was a lean, weather-beaten man in leather, straddling an all-black Kawasaki dirt bike. Vicente noted the powerful engine and extra fuel tank.
They had met, as previously arranged, at sunset in a poor and dusty suburb at the end of the bus line where the cheaply made homes looked out on the fringe of the desert.
Vicente had changed back to his traditional black and had a small carrier bag strapped to his back.
“Got the money?” the coyote asked instead of hello.
Vicente pulled out a wad of a hundred-dollar bills. “Half up front, half when you get me across the border.”
The coyote took it and counted. He gave a curt nod, stuffed the money in the pocket of his leather jacket, zipped it up, and gestured to the back seat.
“Hope you don’t mind riding in the
