Traffic roars by, and the occasional tractor-trailer truck buffets her car, rocking against her back.
“Hello?”
Rosaria wipes at her eyes, stands up. Behind her disabled Buick is a dented and rusting blue Audi sedan, and an older Vietnamese woman is looking at her with concern.
“Hi,” Rosaria says. “Thanks for stopping, but I think if I—”
The woman, wearing baggy black slacks and a floral blouse down to her thick hips, turns and yells back at the parked sedan. The rear door flies open and two young Vietnamese men and a woman bail out and come to her. Another older male is dozing in the front seat.
The woman points and yells at the three young people, and the two men get right to work, slipping the jack handle in, while the young woman—a sister?—wrestles the spare tire closer to the car.
“Um, hey, I mean—”
The Vietnamese woman shakes her head. “We’ll be done soon. You see.”
And by God, that’s exactly what happens. The two young men manage to get the jack working, get the rear end of the Buick up, while their mother and sister offer advice, criticism, and tips in fast bursts of Vietnamese, and soon enough, the flat tire is tossed into the trunk, the car is lowered down, the jack and handle are put away, and after a round of handshakes, the two young men and woman get back into the car.
Rosaria tries to get to her bag, to offer something to the family, but the woman violently shakes her head.
“No, no,” she says. “We’re good now. Honest. Go with God, my sister.”
Rosaria bows to her. “You, too. Go with God.”
And as they leave, horn honking, everyone waving save for the older man still sleeping in the front, Rosaria knows that no matter what happens in the next hour, she will never, ever forget this family and what they did for her.
I check my watch after I leave the Yucatan beachwear store, feeling about as conspicuous as an elephant in a child’s wading pool. There was a bathing suit waiting for me, and I’m so self-conscious walking out in public with such a skimpy article of clothing that I’m sure my ears and face are burning. My jiggling butt cheeks are hanging out, my boobs—not impressive but a reasonable size—are oozing out of the sides of the small top, and I hate to look down, seeing my flabby and pale white tummy overhanging the tiny triangle of cloth that is rubbing and tearing at me something fierce.
My watch says I have fifteen minutes before the exchange, and I know why my nameless tormentor has ordered to me to dress this way: he wants to make sure I’m not concealing a weapon, and by God, this jet-black suit is so skimpy I don’t think I could hide a nail file.
Archie is right next to me, the placid yet mournful look still on his face. The dressing rooms back there had doors of wooden slats so I could keep watch on him while I changed, but he’s been a very good victim.
I only wish I could be a better person.
We walk along the side of the wide parking lot, heading to the place where the concrete benches are placed, and I slip my arm into his for a few feet. I stare ahead and say, “I’m…I’m sorry for what’s going to happen. But I have to do this to save my family. I hope you can forgive me.”
Then a man’s voice quietly says, “You should not trust that man, not at all.”
And I come to a halt.
The voice is from Archie.
CHAPTER 81
IN THE basement garage of his new hotel, Pelayo Abboud approaches the black GMC Yukon with his associate Casper keeping pace with him. Tom Cornwall is being helped into the rear of the Yukon, sitting next to the young girl who is on the far side, wearing black tights and an oversized Epcot sweatshirt, Tigger doll in her lap.
Casper says, “The old man and the Army captain, they have left the Yucatan.”
“Good,” Pelayo says. “Then it will be finished in just a few more minutes.”
Casper holds the rear door open, and as another vehicle starts up in the distance, Pelayo cheerfully climbs in and sits next to Tom.
I grab the old man’s wrist and pull him closer to a little island of grass and low brush, drag him in for cover, and I say, “You tell me what you know. Now.”
Archie sighs. “His name is Pelayo Abboud. He is a killer, a criminal, a very, very bad man who will one day burn in eternity for his sins.”
My hand is still on Archie’s wrist. “Go on. That’s not really a news flash.”
He looks out at the warm and wide waters of the Gulf of Mexico, acting almost like a child seeing the ocean for the very first time. “Pelayo is the head of a Mexican cartel, the Veracruz.”
“Never heard of it.”
“No matter,” Archie says. “Like many other cartels, his has a bank under his control. One for which I worked.”
“First Republic Global Bank, NA, based in Guadalajara.”
“Ah, exactly. You are a very smart woman.”
“Not smart enough,” I say. “Tom Cornwall…my husband. He’s a journalist. He found out about Pelayo and the bank, and made arrangements to interview you.”
“True,” Archie says, shaking his head. “I was kidnapped by the El Baja cartel, to be turned over to this Tom, so he would write a book about their rivals, the Veracruz cartel. I was to be El Baja’s weapon to publicize the Veracruz’s activities, to cripple them. But now Pelayo has used you to bring me to him, to disarm his enemies.”
I’m running out of time, and sensing that, Archie adds, “One last warning. Do not trust any promises Pelayo has made. They are all false. There will be no exchange, there will be no safety for you or your family. At the right moment for Pelayo, he will kill you all, even your little girl.”
That had been my thought right from the start when I had picked up that sheet of paper back home in Virginia, but to have it confirmed by this mild-mannered and elder banker before me chills me so hard and fast in this tropic sunshine that I shiver.
“Why did you keep your mouth shut all this time?”
“What could I say?” he says. “I could have begged to have been released, but that never would have happened, would it? You had a mission, to save your family, and they can only be saved by my presence. Like any good banker, I knew that someday there would be a final accounting for my sins.”
I pause for the briefest of moments. “How do you know this?”
A mournful shrug. “Pelayo is my son.”
CHAPTER 82
SITTING IN the rear of the Yukon with Tom Cornwall and the little girl, Pelayo Abboud allows himself a smile of satisfaction. It’s going well, better than expected, and in a very few minutes, this complex and very satisfying operation will come to a close.
Driving is one of his men, Paco, whose shoulders are so broad that they nearly rub up against the passenger up front, who is the Afghan boy, Hamid. The young Afghan lad still seems overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of wealthy Florida, and it’s now time to bring him back to earth.
“Paco,” he says, as the bulky man maneuvers around a slow-moving crowd of beachgoers.
“Jefe,” he replies.
In Spanish, Pelayo says, “Tell Hamid that he is doing a wonderful job for me and that he is going to be rewarded, as a true warrior of…God, Allah, whatever it is he believes in.”
Paco stops the Yukon for a moment, talks to Hamid in Pashto. The young Afghan turns and smiles at Pelayo, nodding his thanks.
Again in Spanish, Pelayo says, “Tell Hamid that the man sitting here next to me is married to the American woman who killed his family. Tell Hamid that when I call his name out, he has my permission to kill this man, to avenge the deaths of his family.”
About halfway through Paco’s talking to Hamid, his expression darkens, his eyes narrow, and he utters something and stares the look of utter death and hatred toward Tom Cornwall.
Paco says, “It is done, boss.
“Bueno,” Pelayo says.
He gently pats the upper leg of Tom.
“No worries, Tom. It will be over soon.”
Tom says not a word, but hi
s eyes look to be swelling with tears.
The girl next to him also remains quiet.
I’m standing at the arranged meeting site, near a concrete park bench that is empty, still feeling cold and exposed with the skimpy bathing suit I’m wearing, and with Archie at my right, I say again, “Your son? Pelayo is your son?”
Archie says in a quiet voice, “Yes, by blood and birth, the boy is my son. I have disowned him many times…but still, he haunts my life. He knows I have always been a threat to him, and now, he has come to settle accounts, to make sure I will no longer be able to do him harm.”
A black Yukon is slowly approaching us. There’s no visible sign that this vehicle contains my family or Pelayo, but I can sense something odd and evil about the large black four-wheeler coming my way. Its windows are all tinted, not allowing me to see inside.
Thinking as fast as I can, I say, “When the time comes…and if I have my husband and daughter, run for it. I’ll try to protect you.”
He shrugs. “Run where? This complex…it is completely owned by Pelayo, and the people here work for him. Even these tourists…they are either workers of his or family members, here on a holiday to repay their work in assisting Pelayo to climb his bloody hill of bodies.”
I reach over and grab his hand, give it a squeeze. “I’m so sorry…I’m so, so sorry.”
The Yukon pulls around so that the passenger’s side is facing us. The Yukon is blocking traffic but I’m sure nobody here is going to complain.
“What’s your real name?” I ask.
He chuckles. “It makes no difference. I like Archie. You may keep on using it as long as you wish.”
A breeze comes up, and I freeze in terror. No, not a wind, not now. Please God, no wind. Make it remain still.
I see a rear door on the driver’s-side open up, and a confident-looking man wearing a seersucker suit with no necktie casually walks around the front of the Yukon, placing himself so the engine block is a shield.
Archie whispers, “There he is. Again, don’t trust him, not at all. He has planned this, all of it, and the plan does not include any of you coming out alive.”
“But we’re in a public place.”
He says, “His public. Don’t forget that. There are no innocents around here. May God help you.”
“And you, too, Archie.”
I step forward and hold out my arms, to show I’m not armed.
“I’m here!” I call out. “And so is the old man you wanted.”
Pelayo clasps his hands and smiles. “So he is, so he is. Well done, Captain Cornwall.”
When he passes the driver’s-side door, Paco—even with his impressive bulk—slips out and is now kneeling beside him, by the Yukon’s big front tire.
Pelayo whispers to Paco, “Are you ready?”
Paco is holding an H&K MP5 9mm submachine gun at his side. The weapon looks like a toy in his huge hands.
“Yes, jefe.”
“Good,” Pelayo whispers back. “When I’m done talking to the old man, and say, ‘It is finished,’ then kill the bitch.”
“What about the old man?”
Pelayo waves again, smiling. “The old man is mine.”
CHAPTER 83
THE MAN called Pelayo is smiling at me, his expression that of a butcher eager to start his day, standing in a wooden chute, ready to kill cow after cow with a bolt to the head. I see his lips moving but don’t hear anything, which tells me there’s someone else nearby, heavily armed.
He calls out, “Captain Cornwall, why don’t you come closer so I don’t have to yell?”
I say back, “I like standing in the shade.”
“Ah, yes,” he says, “underneath the palm fronds and branches. Wanting to cover yourself from any snipers, eh?”
“Where are Tom and Denise?”
He points to the Yukon. “Right in here, of course.”
“Show them to me. Now.”
He shrugs. “As you wish.”
He steps back and the near rear passenger window slides down, and I see my Tom and the top of my little girl’s head, and the tears just burst out and I desperately try to keep my cool.
“All right, let’s get this over with,” I say. “I brought you this old man. Give me my family.”
Pelayo is back in front of the Yukon. “But a few words to the old man, if I may.”
Pelayo starts speaking in Spanish to his father, but the old bastard, demanding as always, yells back, “English! Speak to me in English. At least this poor woman should know why I am here, and why you have done so much harm to her and her poor family.”
Seeing the arrogant old man standing in front of him stirs up lots of memories that Pelayo thought had been buried deep and long ago, and he recalls the lecturing, the beatings, and most of all, the disappointing looks on his father’s face as Pelayo grew older and learned it wasn’t love or family that meant anything in this world, only money and power.
He yells, “You’re here because of what you’ve done to me, how you’ve belittled me, and because you were about to betray me.”
The old man shoots back, “Then I’m proud to be here, to face a creature that pretends to be my son. Betray you? I was merely going to tell the world of how you were always a twisted, evil child, and that your despised life has caused death and misery to thousands.”
“You have no right!”
The Army captain, looking ridiculous in a skimpy suit perfect for a woman half her age and weight, is standing close to his father, as if she is trying to reassure him as he yells back at Pelayo.
“A father always has the right to tell the truth about his son, especially when he has a heart and soul as dark as a rotten gourd, forgotten in the field at harvesttime.”
“It is because of you, old man, that I am like this!”
He grins back. “You have been an adult for many, many years, my son. Are you so weak that you continue to blame me, your mother, and the Church for how you turned out? Like your despised cousin, you have the face and body of a human, but the soul of a monster.”
Enough is enough, Pelayo thinks, and he yells out, “It is finished!”
There.
He reaches under his coat to grab his Glock .40-caliber pistol, and then like a jack-in-the-box, Paco leaps up next to him, submachine gun in hand, and as Pelayo brings the pistol up to shoot the old bastard, there’s movement and—
The Army woman is pointing at pistol at him!
How is this possible?
Where did she get it?
Where was it hidden?
He warns Paco, “Faster, faster, she’s armed!”
And then the bitch shoots first!
CHAPTER 84
AS PELAYO and my friend Archie yell at each other, I’m ignoring the words and instead looking for the threat. I’m looking at the Yukon, knowing there has to be at least a second or third gunman back there. There’s no way this cartel leader has come to this supposed swap by himself without extra firepower right next to him.
Movement.
I’m looking for movement.
And here it comes.
Now it’s my time.
A wind comes up, and I don’t care anymore if the breeze reveals the slit I earlier made in the rear of Archie’s suitcoat, which gives me easy access to my SIG Sauer pistol concealed in his rear waistband.
I grab it and it’s in my hands as Pelayo whirls out with a pistol, and a beefy-looking guy pops up with a cut-down H&K MP5—Nice intelligence work there, Amy, says a voice inside me—and I’m presented with two threats: I go to the deadlier one, the man with the submachine gun, and open fire.
Inside the Yukon, Hamid jerks at hearing the familiar sound of gunfire, and he turns in his seat, ready to slaughter the American behind him when the word comes, but the American is bent over, seemingly crying and sobbing, and Hamid shouts, “Shut up, you bawling woman!”
He has a pistol on him but is going to go with the folding knife that is now in his hand. A bullet to the American’s h
ead would kill him and be merciful.
Hamid is not going to be merciful.
The little girl is also crying, and Hamid is ignoring her.
Tom Cornwall is bent at the waist, making noises to signal he’s crying and afraid of the gunfire, but he’s been in a number of tight places before, and the gunfire is now just part of the background noise, like the yells and the curses he also hears.
With his hands bound in tape, he is desperately working at his left pant leg, which he manages to drag up, revealing his sock and—
God, yes, the cutting tool.
He tries to work with the tool, cutting and slicing at the tight tape, and he winces as the blade twice cuts into his own skin, but he keeps on working.
The gunfire outside continues.
The bitch was using his father to get to him, Pelayo screams inside, and he opens fire, just as Paco aims at the woman, and there’s an ugly noise of metal being ripped apart, and then there’s a quick “oh” and the side of his face is suddenly soaked, and he spares just the quickest of glances, seeing the pockmarked metal on the Yukon’s hood where the woman opened fire in Paco’s direction.
It looks like four or five rounds worked their way up the metal, until the last bullet took off the top of Paco’s head.
Pelayo fires off two rounds, ducks, and picks up the MP5, rolls to the left, and the woman is advancing, shooting at him, and Pelayo yells out, “Hamid, Hamid, kill him, kill him!”
Hamid hears the blessed words, and he yells, “American, sit up, look at me in the eye!” and yes, the American comes up, but he has something in his hand which whirls toward Hamid, and then his throat is burning, and he tries to yell something again, but his mouth is full of blood and he falls back.
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