The morning could not come quickly enough for Scott, but when it did come, it brought with it sunlight and no rain, which was a welcome change. Scott had cursed the weather for slowing down their journey and costing them valuable time. However, he was much relieved to see the morning sun breaking through the clouds. He was even more relieved when they got back on Highway 95 to find it open and not at all wet, so they were able to continue their quest, unfortunately hitting Las Vegas at morning rush. Jack, of course, kept asking them to stop – it had been a while since he'd been to Sin City, and he very much wanted to try his luck. Scott told him he'd tried his luck quite enough the night before and would have to satisfy himself with that. Of course, he was not happy at Scott's refusal to stop, but Scott didn't really care.
After slogging through the Las Vegas metropolitan area, they connected with Highway 93, making the excruciatingly slow drive over Hoover dam. Yes, it is an impressive sight, but they weren't there to sightsee. They continued on into Arizona, hitting the Phoenix metro area right after noon and happily avoiding the local rush hour mess. Then they proceeded to the border. They passed up Tombstone, which Scott told Dawn they should take the time to visit sometime, as it had always been a dream destination of his. Dawn did not seem very interested, until Scott reminded her of the Kurt Russell movie of the same name. Jack just laughed.
"Wyatt Earp?" Jack said. "Seriously, Scott?"
"Well, yeah. I've always been a bit of a wild west wonk, so..."
"Wyatt Earp wasn't all he's cracked out to be."
"I take it you knew him too."
"Yeah, and he wasn't the white-hat hero the movies made him out to be. He had a darker side."
"Which made him a most effective agent," Jeremiah said.
"What?" Scott asked, kind of awed that one of his childhood heroes may have been an agent of Ministry, "Wyatt Earp worked for Ministry?"
"He did, indeed. In fact, he was very near to catching Jack, was he not, Jack?"
Jack snorted. "Huh. Yeah, well, he tried to catch me. He was lucky I didn't kill that tall son of a bitch!"
"You almost killed Wyatt Earp?" Scott asked.
"Yep! He wanted to catch me, but I showed him, I--"
"That is not the way I heard it, Jack," Jeremiah said.
"Oh, really? Well, do tell!"
"Very well. I heard that Earp, shall we say, beat the hell out of you. It was not even close. In fact, it was quite possibly the worst beating you ever received at the hands of a mortal!"
Jack huffed. "Now, there you go, Jeremiah. There's no truth to that at all! You see, Earp begged me not to kill him, and I, in a moment of mercy, let him live."
"In truth," Jeremiah said to Scott, "It was Jack who begged Wyatt Earp to spare him. In a moment of uncharacteristic inattentiveness, Jack slipped his bonds and fled into the night. Ordinarily, he simply would have killed the agent, but he did not want to risk another beating at the hands of Marshal Earp."
"Oh, now, who you gonna believe, Scott? Me or him?"
"Is that even a question?" Scott asked. "So, Jack got his ass handed to him by Wyatt Earp. That is cool."
Jack had enough of the conversation and sulked silently in his cage. He said nothing further, allowing for the rest of the group to talk amongst themselves without Jack's unwelcome intrusion all the way to the border.
The border crossing from Douglas to Agua Prieta was as Kitty predicted; this particular checkpoint was well away from the main routes. It was a service road that was intended for governmental traffic and was marked No Crossing (in English and Spanish, of course). The Border Patrol officers who guarded this port would routinely turn away traffic, directing them back toward the main port of entry. However, Kitty had done her job well, having contacted the local branch of Ministry. As they drove up to the guard station, an older, weathered border patrolman came up to the window with a clipboard in hand.
"I'm Officer Tomas Cruz," He said, "You are now leaving the United States and entering the Nation of Mexico. Do you have anything you wish to declare?"
"Seriously?" Scott asked, "Tomas Cruz? Top Gun much?"
"Ahem," Jeremiah said, "We are with the Portland branch. I am sure Doctor Weems has sent forth word."
The older Hispanic officer smiled. "She has indeed. And I'd recognize you anywhere, Jeremiah. It's an honor to meet you. And that asshole must be Scott Campbell."
"Asshole? Me?"
"Anyway, our Mexican counterparts across the border have also been alerted. They'll give you no hassles. Enjoy your time in Mexico."
They drove across the border and found that Officer Cruz was correct. The Mexican authorities there gave them no problem and did not inspect anything. This gave Scott leave to consider how good it was to have friends in Ministry. They then took Mexican highway 2 all the way to Ciudad Juarez. By the time they reached that city, darkness had fallen. However, since Jeremiah and Scott were splitting the driving duty, darkness was no impediment. From Ciudad Juarez, though, they were following Jack's directions. Scott hoped he remembered well, and that he wasn't luring them into some elaborate trap.
"Just head south on the 45 to Samalayuca," Jack said, "Then keep going south a spell. It's an old dirt road. I'd say you can't miss it, but you can. So, better keep an eye open, know what I mean?"
"Hey," Grace said, "Do you mind if we stop somewhere so us mortals can get something to eat and use a bathroom?"
Jeremiah and Scott agreed and began searching the highway sides for a place to pull over. It took a while, but just north of Samalayuca, they spied a fairly active cantina. Scott pointed it out to Grace; she thought it was good enough.
The cantina looked like a stereotypical rural Mexican bar – faded white adobe and stucco walls blasted by sandstorms, with tiled roof and a weathered wooden porch. Cacti in pottery adorned the exterior. From inside Scott could hear the lively sound of traditional Mexican music. Grace advised him that the band was playing a narcocorrida or "drug ballad" that celebrated a particular narcotics trafficker. That right there gave Scott a warm feeling inside, but both Grace and Dawn needed to eat and use a bathroom, and there weren't too many other choices. Scott insisted on coming with them while Jeremiah remained to watch Jack.
The smoke hung heavy in the air as they entered. All eyes in the place were on the newcomers. When Scott was mortal, he frequently felt like he was out of place or didn't belong, no matter where he was. Well, here, he definitely did not belong. Nor did Dawn or Grace, for that matter. Scott heard the words gringo and Norteamericano tossed around casually by several men (and the crowd was mostly men, with a few females thrown in for good measure). The men not only sounded unwelcoming, they looked unwelcoming: Some were large, many bore multiple and extensive tattoos, and none were smiling.
"Just don't make eye contact, and you'll be all right," Grace advised Dawn and Scott. They did as told. So far so good. Grace led them up to the bar, where all three took seats. It didn't help comfort Scott to know that two large, sweaty men were looking with some interest at both the ladies. His comfort level dropped even more when he realized they were also looking at him.
Grace called to the bartender, a stout but short tough looking middle-aged man. This guy had a smile, and even though he was missing a few teeth, the smile was well received. Grace conversed with the bartender in Spanish, asking if the kitchen was open. Luckily it was, and she was able to order a couple plates of carnitas for herself and Dawn. She also ordered three beers.
"Um, I'll stick with water, thanks," Dawn said.
"You're getting beer," Grace responded.
"I don't like beer."
"Okay, then, do you like diarrhea better?"
"Beer it is!"
They managed to remain at the bar with no troubles. Grace conversed further with the friendly bartender, who was quite talkative and very helpful – until Grace mentioned the Santa Muerte. The smile faded quickly from the bartender's face and he refused to answer any more questions on that topic. The beers came – Coronas, in bottles – and Grace and Scott clinked bottles in a toast. The look on Dawn's face was precious as she choked down her Corona.
When the carnitas came (which Dawn praised as some of the best Mexican food she'd ever had, while Grace just thought they were "meh"), the ladies scarfed them down unceremoniously. It was obvious, due to the speed at which they ate, that they wanted to get out of there as much as Scott did -- and he really wanted out of there, before someone got hurt.
Of course, both Dawn and Grace had to use the bathrooms. Scott offered to escort them there, an offer that was met with some nasty looks from both ladies. He didn't mean to come across as sexist, but really, is it sexist to be concerned about your loved one's safety in a seedy Mexican dive bar? Scott really thought he was in the right about that. What happened next confirmed his apprehensions, even though it did not yet involve Dawn or Grace. Scott sensed the large man approaching from behind and even expected the rough tap on his shoulder. Scott turned to see a tall man with droopy eyelids and equally droopy lip standing over him, speaking to him in obviously slurred Spanish. Not understanding him, and not wanting to even acknowledge him, Scott turned back to his beer.
Scott then became aware of another presence approaching from the other side. This man tapped on his other shoulder. He was a short, fat, ugly man with an eye patch. Half his face looked burned, as if someone had hit him with a clothes iron. "He doesn't like you," the man said.
"Sorry," Scott replied, turning again back to his beer. The short man tapped once more, insistently, on his shoulder, gaining his attention again.
"I don't like you either," He snarled.
What is this, Scott wondered to himself, a reenactment of the Star Wars cantina scene? Well, this is a hive of scum and villainy, apparently, but sadly for me I have no lightsaber and my Ben Kenobi is out in the parking lot. "Okay, guys, I've seen this movie several times."
"Nobody else here likes you, either," The short man with the eye patch continued.
"My loss."
"Most of these men have done time in prisons on both sides of the border. My friend and I are wanted in the Estados Unidos for murder. We are desperate and angry men."
"I'll be careful, then."
"Very angry men, and we don't think no stinking American pig should be here."
"Aw, dude, you screwed up the line!"
"Huh?"
"It's 'you'll be dead!' You know? The cantina scene from Star Wars? That one alien tells Luke, 'We're wanted men. We have the death sentence in twelve systems'! And I say, 'I'll be careful then', and you're supposed to say, 'you'll be dead'! Don't you get it?"
The short man was fuming, his lip quivering with rage. "You son of a bitch! Your mother was a whore and you are the son of a thousand fathers, all bastards like you!"
"Oh, and now you're screwing up lines from The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly! Guys, don't mix genres like that, you'll only confuse the audience!"
That was it. The short man stepped back and nodded to his large drunk partner, who balled his fast and swung roughly in Scott's direction. Scott moved aside and allowed the tall man's momentum to carry him into the wooden bar. As he fell against the bar, Scott stepped on his right shin, breaking the bone and causing him to howl out in pain. He fell to the floor, now out of the fight. His eye patch-wearing buddy scampered into the crowd, which was now advancing on Scott. Another tough guy swung at him. He blocked his blow with enough force to break his arm, and he went down. Scott struck another thug with an open fist, as if to shove him away; this propelled the guy over a pool table. At that juncture, both Dawn and Grace had reentered the room and joined in the fray, both girls acquitting themselves very well; Grace, of course, was a former Marine and well-versed in hand-to-hand, and Dawn was a bit of a martial artist herself, as well as a Ministry-trained vampire killer. Those two ladies thoroughly embarrassed much larger men who probably prided themselves on their machismo. Meanwhile, Scott was teaching several gang members why you don't pick fights with a vampire. Not even the cracking of a pool cue over his head caused him much discomfort (although the existence of two sharp wooden objects did give him pause, but none of the would-be warriors were able to use them effectively).
One tough guy produced a sawed-off 12-gauge single-shot from under the table at which he had been sitting. A charge of buckshot hit Scott in the gut at near contact range. It ruined his shirt, and it really set things off, for now the beast was truly unleashed. Scott growled a hideous, otherworldly growl as the fangs came out and his eyes blackened. Now the fight was on. Scott cut a path of destruction through that bar the likes of which he did not know he could. Soon, there were no more men to fight, as all of them lay about the place in various states of consciousness and various states of pain, blood pooling on the floor, dripping from the walls and even from the ceiling fans (Scott couldn't even remember how it got there). Scott invited Dawn and Grace to leave, Grace scurrying out while Dawn stopped and looked deeply into his eyes. Scott thought she was going to give him a stern lecture, or just look at him in abject horror with those sad doe eyes she often gave him. He really did not expect what she said next.
"Oh, my, god," She said through a growing smile, "You are a beast!"
"Did my lady like that?"
"Oh yeah. Yeah, I liked that."
"Oh really?"
"Scott, shut up and kiss me. Now."
"Uh, with my fangs?"
"Yes! With the fangs!"
Deep soul kisses with the fangs deployed are hazardous, but apparently Dawn didn't care.
"So," She whispered, "Are you a beast in bed, too?"
"Dawn!" Scott was shocked by the sweet young lady's sudden turn for the interesting. "Yeah, okay, probably?"
"Good. I mean, once we're married!"
"Oh, yeah, of course."
Dawn then headed toward the van, and Scott really looked forward to his wedding night now. Anyway, he just had to do one last thing. Scott went back to the bar, where a shocked bartender stood looking about his now thoroughly mangled bar with wounded men lying all around. Scott reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin of unknown denomination, then tossed it to the poor guy.
"Sorry for the mess," Scott said.
*
"Scott!" Jeremiah cried as they got back into the van. "What happened in there? What happened to your shirt?"
"Maybe it's best if I explain it further down the road. Just drive. I mean, now."
Jeremiah shook his head but said nothing more as he started the van, then pulled back onto the highway. Scott asked him to put the hammer down and get out of there post haste.
"Do I even want to know?" Jeremiah asked.
"No."
Without another question, he stepped on the gas, and pushed the old van as fast as it could go.