13
David drove the Hummer to the airport along not-so-well-worn dirt roads. He supposed he could swerve in an attempt to miss some potholes, but he didn’t think that would do any good, so they bumped along between the thirty-foot trees that lined the road. Enrique was quietly sitting in the front passenger seat. He’d been checking the signal on his cell phone every third bump. David guessed they were still out of range, since Enrique wasn’t calling whomever he felt he needed to reach before they even left Columbia.
John Logan Phelps, Sr., wasted no time sending David Morales into Mexico. David thought for sure Phelps, Sr., would go himself after what happened to his son. Or at least send someone back to Pablo’s Cartel. It was probably better this way, as Pablo Escobedo would be paranoid
