Paralyzed with fear, Virginia glanced to her counter for her knife.
“Freeze! Release her, now!”
One of the officers drew his weapon and pointed it at Virginia while his partner charged at Tilly. She broke free, bolting to the living room for the phone just as Angel smashed through the rear door and seized it from Tilly.
The two men held her down, clamped the loose handcuff around her free wrist. One of the creeps, Alfredo, dragged her wailing to the car and locked her in the trunk.
Inside the house, Limon-Rocha held Virginia at gunpoint in a chair in her kitchen.
Angel entered, glanced at her, then picked up the knife she had been using a moment ago.
Angel took stock of Virginia’s double-wide trailer, the photograph of her Marine son. Running his finger along the serrated edges of the blade, he looked into her eyes. They glistened with terror.
“I am very sorry,” he said.
61
Lyle Galviera kept the Cherokee a few miles under the speed limit, moving south along the freeway.
The AC had quit. His hands were sweating on the wheel. He opened the windows and concentrated.
This was it, his only shot.
The cartel had given him the location for the meeting. He knew the area but still had a long way to go. Amid the multilane streams of headlights and taillights, he checked his mirrors again, glad the guy in California who’d provided him with the Cherokee and new ID had put several different plates in the storage bin.
Galviera had switched to a Colorado plate a few hours ago. There was no margin for error here. As the road rushed under him, he looked out at the ocean of city lights and floated with memories of his father.
His old man had driven a bus all day, taking every overtime shift. At home, his mother kneaded the cords of stress from his neck. His old man worked extra hours because he wanted Lyle to be the first in the family line to go to college.
It had happened; Lyle was accepted at Arizona State and, man, it brought tears to his father’s eyes. Then came the day Lyle was called to the faculty office. A phone was passed to him and he heard his mother’s voice:
After they buried his dad, Galviera dropped out and worked like a dog as a bicycle courier and delivering pizzas before finally carving his own business out of nothing.
He nearly lost it all when his first marriage ended but he triumphed, battered but wiser. Then he met Cora, admired how she’d survived her own problems. They were alike; they were good together. They had dreams but he’d put them on hold because his company was in trouble.
He refused to lose it.
He pounded the wheel with both fists and cursed.
He could fix this.
The solution lay behind him under the tarp in the sports bags filled with cash-cash from high school pot-heads hustling fast food to suburban soccer moms, university dope smokers, music types, movie types, bottom feeders, high flyers, pimps, hos, street trash, tripped-out execs and all-round losers; drug users from every scene of the American dream. Three million dollars in unmarked bills for Tilly’s life.
No one knew about the two million he was hiding for his own use.
This was it.
He came to an industrial wasteland at the city’s edge, a railcar repair depot that had closed down after an explosion some thirty years ago.
In the darkness, the Cherokee crawled by the crumbling brick buildings rising like headstones from the yard. Galviera’s instructions were to go to the tallest building, park at the base and wait in the car with his lights off.
He turned down a road that ran between two long tracks, both lined with weatherworn box and hopper cars. He followed the dark road to the metal tower that supported a deteriorated storage tank, the tallest structure in the site.
He parked near the base.
He waited, watching the strobe lights of jetliners sailing by overhead. After nearly an hour, his rearview mirror glowed with the headlights of an approaching vehicle.
It stopped behind him.
Two figures got out, carrying flashlights, and came to his passenger and driver doors, where one directed a blinding beam into his eyes. “Mr. Galviera?”
He glimpsed a shoulder patch-a uniform-and his heart sank.
“Yes.”
“Step out of the car, please, with your hands above your head, palms out.”
Galviera complied, grappling with the fact it was over as they patted him for weapons. The men kept the light burning in his eyes before taking him to the rear of their vehicle, where another figure stood in the dark.
The trunk opened and Galviera’s heart lifted.
Light washed over Tilly-bound, haggard, scared, but alive.
“You brought our property, Mr. Galviera?”
“Yes, in the back, under the tarp. In the bags.”
One of the men opened the rear door of the Cherokee, dropped two laden sports bags on the ground in front of the car and unzipped them to display thick bundles of cash. He took one and fanned the edges.
“Did you bring all of it?”
“It’s all there in all the bags. Let me take Tilly and go. Our business is done.”
“No.”
“We each fulfilled our obligations. You can count it.”
“We’re not going to count it here.”
“Why not?”
“We’re not done, not yet.”
“I don’t under-”
Stars exploded across Galviera’s eyes.
DAY 5
62
At dawn, climbing out of a short, troubled sleep on Cora’s sofa, Jack noticed the task force agents huddled around the laptops on the kitchen table.
One of them-
