“Cora, I’m so-”
“Do you have Tilly?”
“I’m working on it… I-”
“Where are you?”
“Cora, listen, I am so sorry…this is all so complicated. I know we had dreams-”
“Turn yourself in now! Tell the FBI where you are. We have to find Tilly! Where are you?”
“I’m going to see Tilly soon, Cora. I swear to you I am going to fix this!”
53
Soon it would be over.
Ruiz Limon-Rocha finished his call and switched off the stolen cell phone. After taking the precaution of removing the battery, he hurled the pieces into the river, looking at the silvery rush of water for relief from his apprehension.
Considering their recent narrow escape from the motel and their brush with the patrolmen at the gas station, Ruiz figured it was a race between completion of the job or their luck running out.
Ruiz would be glad to return to Mexico; for the first time he missed the low-paying job of a soldier in the military.
It was a much simpler life.
Now they were wanted, hunted men in America and the FBI was gaining on them, given that Ruiz and Alfredo’s faces were as prominent in news stories about the kidnapping as the girl’s.
Since fleeing the motel, they had lain low, awaiting orders here on an isolated back road east of Interstate 17. They’d found sanctuary among a stand of mesquite trees. Their twisting branches offered cool shade. Nothing and no one else in sight.
“Was that Thirty again?” Alfredo said from the car’s reclined passenger seat.
“Yes. He said the
“That’s what he said an hour ago. Does he have our coordinates?”
“Yes.”
“We should abort the operation. There is too much heat.”
“They don’t care. The operation will be completed. It’s a matter of honor for them. Remember, they want everyone to get the message.”
Ruiz narrowed his eyes, keeping vigil on the long dirt road.
“I have never killed anyone, Ruiz, have you?”
“Yes.”
“Who did you kill?”
“I don’t wish to talk about it,” Limon-Rocha said.
“If it comes down to us, I cannot kill a child. I have children.”
“Alfredo, I told you we do not do this, the
“The Tarantula.”
“Yes.”
“He is a legend, there are
“Yes, I helped him once before.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“He is a perfect assassin.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He will kill anyone. He is hollow, nothing inside.”
Ruiz nodded to the distance. Alfredo sat up and saw the rising dust clouds. After a long moment, a battered pickup truck emerged. As it drew closer they distinguished an old man in a straw hat behind the wheel.
The brakes creaked as it came to a halt with the engine running.
The young man in the passenger seat gave the driver cash and got out. He retrieved a backpack from the bed of the truck, tapped it with his palm, waving to the driver as the truck disappeared down the road, leaving his passenger standing before Ruiz and Alfredo.
Wearing sunglasses, a Lady Gaga T-shirt and torn, faded jeans, his pack slung over his shoulder, Angel Quinterra-the most feared cartel assassin-looked as if he’d just come from a high school class.
“Hola, Ruiz.”
54
Tilly could hear the creeps.
Beyond the metal walls of the trunk, their voices were clear, but they were talking so fast in Spanish she couldn’t understand everything they were saying.
Now she heard the crunch of wheels on dirt; a car was approaching, coming very close then creaking. It stopped but a motor was running.
A door opened then shut and the car drove away.
A new voice-it sounded younger.
Was this help? Or was this danger?
Fast talking in Spanish that Tilly could not understand before the voices faded and the talkers walked away, leaving her on the brink of tears.
Alone in this hot, dark, stupid coffin.
She wanted to scream at them.
But she kept quiet. Noise made them angry.
Her eyes stung.
How long had it been? What day was this? She didn’t know how much longer she could last.
The creeps fed her by placing bags of hamburgers, French fries, tacos, potato chips, chocolate bars and cans of soda in the trunk. Then they removed her gag and stood over her, watching for anyone approaching until she finished. Then they’d replace the gag. And she had no privacy. For a toilet, they’d take her to rest stops, one of them always entering with her, keeping the stall door open, making her hurry, making sure no one saw. It made her feel like an animal.
But she got used to it.
It was a little better now-now that they’d stopped cramming her into the suitcase. When they’d let her out, her hopes rose with the glowing interior trunk-release handle. Tilly pulled it but it didn’t work because the creeps had cut the cable. They’d put thick blankets and pillows on the trunk’s floor, letting her stretch out. They’d still kept her gagged with a bandanna and bound with duct tape. It was a bit cooler, too, but it was still stinky like rubber tires, exhaust and gasoline.
A wave of sadness rolled over her.
Tilly missed her mom. She was the best mom in the world.
