CHAPTER TWELVE
Harley stretched her arm out of the Jeep’s window and pointed at a row of mesquites beside the road, gesturing for Callaway to pull over. They had almost passed the trees – there was nothing for cover beyond them but the occasional cholla cactus, which stood no chance of disguising the vehicles – when the brake lights of the truck lit up as Callaway turned off the road.
“What’s the holdup?” he said as he joined Harley between the two vehicles. The early sun was still climbing, casting slanting rays that drew long shadows among the mesquites. Despite how young the day was, however, heat rose in shimmering waves off the roofs of the vehicles.
Harley studied the ghost town about a quarter mile away. Los Muertos Afortunados was even smaller than she had expected, no more than
