I dry off and put on shorts and a T-shirt and light hoodie, socks and sneakers. Atticus had given me a fake ID for entering the country. My alias has everything: social media profiles, a job history, credit history, even transcripts from school. My name is Samantha Lu. I’m a graduate student on vacation using my time off to study the Mexican culture or some such bullshit.
Once I’m dressed, I wipe down the room, even though, again, I doubt anything will come of it. I’m paid up for two more days, and I plan to keep the do not disturb sign on the door. I’ll leave the keys on the bed along with a nice tip. If anything else, the cleaning people will be happy.
I keep the SIG secured to the back waistband of my shorts. I throw the backpack over my shoulder and exit the room, looking up and down the hallway. Nobody around except the cleaning cart propping a door open several rooms away.
The car outside is a Honda Civic, maybe ten years old. Completely anonymous. When I had originally crossed the border, the CRRC was hidden in the trunk along with a suitcase. The weapons I had—the two pistols and garrote and knife—were hidden underneath the car. There hadn’t been much concern about being stopped and searched on my way into the country—nobody gives a shit what goes into Mexico—and I was waved through with barely even a glance.
Now I know leaving Mexico will be a piece of cake. Even if they search the Civic from top to bottom, nothing will be found. Most likely, I’ll just be waved through like before. I’ll meet up with James, swap out the car, get my new identity, and start my new life.
I keep thinking about Maria and the children. The girl holding that water bottle, having not even cracked the cap yet.
For all I know, they’re still at the place I left them. Or maybe they’ve walked to the closest town. Or maybe somebody came and picked them up and gave them a ride home.
Or maybe somebody came and raped them, left them beaten and battered by that abandoned building to bake as the sun rose higher and higher in the pale sky.
You promised to keep us safe.
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath.
The woman and the children are fine. They’re not my concern, anyway. I did all I could for them.
I put the Civic in gear. I go two blocks when I spot the kid from the other day. He’s an early riser, apparently, already on the street corner hawking his fireworks.
I stop the car, power down the passenger side window.
“Hey, kid.”
He smiles at me, already a natural salesman as he runs through his pitch.
“Good morning, senorita. Would you like to buy some fireworks?”
“Not today. But those firecrackers you sold me? They came in handy.”
I toss him some pesos and power back up the window and keep driving down the street.
A stop sign looms at the corner. I pause for traffic, and as I wait I glance at the rearview mirror and see the kid still on the sidewalk with his fireworks. He can’t be more than thirteen years old, much older than Jorge and Ana, much older than even David and Casey Hadden. For a moment I wonder if the kid has a loving family, whether his parents treat him right, and what inspires him to get up so early every morning to sell fireworks on the street.
I close my eyes and shake my head.
“Goddamn it.”
Twisting the steering wheel, I pull a U-turn and head back the way I came.
Ten
I spot the smoke a quarter mile away.
It’s late morning now, forty-five minutes since I pulled that uey, and the main road has been busy except for this deserted patch. A few cars ahead of me, a few passing me by, and a quarter mile away I spot the smoke and something with sharp claws grips my heart.
It could be nothing, of course, but deep down I know that’s not true. My foot grows heavy on the gas pedal, pushing the Civic faster. Very soon that quarter mile turns into a tenth of a mile and I spot the brick building off the main road, that deserted relic, and as I had guessed the smoke is coming from there.
I take the turn hard and accelerate down the dirt road. Because of my speed, the rutted drive causes the Civic to bounce and jump all over the place. I grip the steering wheel tight, trying to keep the car on the drive, and when I reach the building I slam on the brakes and throw open my door.
A dust cloud hangs in the air behind me, connecting the Civic to the main road. Not very inconspicuous, but I don’t care as I hurry around the building, calling for Maria and the children.
The door at the back of the building stands open. It looks like someone took a crowbar to it. The edges are ragged and blistered.
Black smoke pours out of the doorway.
I sprint toward the edge of the bluff to check the beach below, hoping maybe Maria and the children ventured back down there for some reason.
Empty.
I return to the building and the black billowing smoke. I stare into the smoke but can’t spot any flames.
How much time has passed since I left Maria and the children? Three hours? Four? If it weren’t for the smoke, I’d think they had walked on to the next town over. But I didn’t see Maria or the children anywhere as I drove through that town. There’s a chance they may have gone south, toward whatever town lay in that direction, but still, what explains the smoke?
Leave. That’s what part of me thinks. Just get back in the Civic and head north. Cross the border in Nogales and meet up with James and start my new life. That’s the plan, after all. That’s the end of the plan, really,
