The whine of the meat saw’s electric blade filled the night air.
Rising from the Golden Cut Processing Plant, it echoed over the forgotten piece of industrial wasteland occupied by the plant, the Coin-O-Clean Car Wash, Odin Tool & Die and the Sweet Times Motel.
Several years back, the Sweet Times had been a favorite of truckers. Sitting across from the Golden Cut, the motel had been lovingly cared for by the original owners, a retired Navy cook and his wife.
It had offered guests a small restaurant, and flower gardens everywhere.
But the restaurant was gone and the little gardens died long ago, leaving dirt patches that encircled the property like a disease. Chipped paint ravaged the motel’s exterior walls. Nearly half of the doors were fractured from being kicked in and the neon sign only lit the word
Several beer cans bobbed in the pool’s brown water, near the shallow end and Unit 28. This was a deluxe suite of adjoining rooms. Inside, the lights had been dimmed. The two male guests were surfing TV channels, monitoring news reports on the kidnapping of Tilly Martin. The screen’s glow flickered on their faces and the room.
An assortment of empty take-out food containers and a bag of fruit covered the small table. The desk near it had an array of prepaid cell phones. The phones would be used for one call then destroyed.
Two police uniforms hung in the room’s closet, ready for use. Under one bed, there were two AK-47 assault rifles and four Glock-20 semiautomatic pistols. At the edge of one of the two beds, there were three portable digital police scanners. Their volumes were low but the men were listening. They understood the codes.
Now, as they watched the TV news reports, their concern continued to grow. It seemed all of Phoenix was looking for Tilly.
“You did not answer me, Ruiz. What do we do now?” Alfredo, the younger man, asked in Spanish. “The bitch disobeyed the order and went to police. Now she’s got the damn FBI involved!”
As with Alfredo’s other questions, Ruiz’s response was silence.
Until now, Ruiz had hidden his anger over the situation. This time, he reached for his knife. The glint of its blade reflected in the TV light as he cut into a large apple. He placed the first slice carefully into his mouth and chewed slowly.
Chewing helped Ruiz think.
He knew Alfredo was less experienced in these matters and therefore worried. Let him ramble with his questions.
“So what are we going to do, Ruiz?” Alfredo opened a soda. “In Mexico, a case like this is business. People don’t trust police. They don’t go to police.”
“Alfredo-” Ruiz pointed the knife at him “-you knew this one would be different, or did you forget that after you took your extra advance payment.”
“Yes, but she went to police.”
“It was to be expected.”
“So what do we do? This creates a problem for us, for the operation. It is our job to set up the arrival of the
Ruiz stared at the sketch. Once more he listened to the details about his description and his scar. He scratched his growth under his chin. He had not shaved.
“Ruiz, you and I know they will check your scar with the databanks and sooner or later they will know who we are. We have to do something.”
Ruiz cut another piece of the apple and chewed.
“I think we should pull out of the operation,” Alfredo said.
“No,” Ruiz said. “We’ve not been ordered to abort. We’ve heard nothing, which means we continue.”
“Continue? And do what? Where is Galviera? We have nothing set up for the
Ruiz turned to Alfredo. He’d insulted Ruiz’s pride.
Ruiz was seething. His anger was directed at Cora, but Alfredo’s fretting fueled it. Now, watching Cora, over and over, pleading to the camera while standing next to a sketch of his face, a good sketch, Ruiz grew furious.
All they’d asked was that she find Galviera so they could retrieve the money. That was all. The kidnapping was their leverage, their insurance that Cora would act quickly.
But does she find him?
No, she goes to the FBI. This woman did not know her place. She did not know the price she was going to pay for her disrespect.
“Ruiz, what are we going to do?”
The muscles along Ruiz’s jawline pulsed as he turned to the open door and Tilly Martin, bound and gagged on the bed in the next room.
14
Tilly sat upright.
The one with the knife was approaching her room.
Tilly tried to keep calm but fear pulled her down, the way Lenny Griffin had held her underwater that day at swim class.
She had thought she would drown.
She’d struggled but couldn’t breathe. Heart slamming against her chest, lungs bursting, alarm screaming in her ears, she kicked, scratched and gouged Lenny until she broke free.
All the jerk did was laugh.
But his smile had vanished after Tilly landed a swift punch on his face. She was glad that she’d retaliated, giving him a shiner and a guarantee that she would always fight back.
But Lenny Griffin was a stupid twelve-year-old boy.
The monster in her doorway now was a grown man with a knife, a creep who was obviously a fake cop. Because real police officers, like Deputy Sheriff Taylor, who had visited her school, didn’t do the things this creep and his friend, Creep Number Two, were doing. Real police didn’t take kids from their homes at night and stuff them in suitcases.
Creep Number One, the one called Ruiz, just stood there, leaning on the door frame, cutting into that apple with his big knife, looking at her and chewing.
Tilly hated them.
Ruiz and Creep Number Two, the one called Alfredo, had been watching their TV and arguing for a long time. Then they stopped. Now Ruiz was just standing there, looking at her.
She was scared.
Her mouth was gagged, her teeth clamped on a twisted bandanna tied behind her head. Her hands were bound with duct tape. Her eyes filled with tears as she scanned the room.
That big black suitcase was in the closet.
It was so dark in there. When they’d taken her from her mom, they’d scrunched her in the suitcase. She could feel them lift her into the trunk of a car. Then they drove.
