Whitewater (Rachel Hatch Book 6)

by L T Ryan

"Are you government funded?"

  He laughed. "No. I started this on my own and been doing it that way ever since. I like it that way."

  "That's a big load to shoulder."

  "Depends. I try to keep things in perspective." The perma-smile dimmed but did not recede altogether. "I was born in an alley much like the one you're sitting in."

  "Must've been rough."

  "Especially when you're brought into this world at the hand of a murderer's blade. I was cut from my mother's belly a month premature."

  "Why? Who would kill a pregnant woman?"

  "The who and why doesn't matter. What matters is the perspective such events bring to one's life." Hatch thought of the long list of tragedies and the direct impact it had on her view of the world as he continued, “So, yes, to some, this work that I do would come at great cost. But not to me. Each day I wake and get to help my fellow humans is a good day to me.

  "Listen to me ramble on. I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Javier," he outstretched his hand as he stood. "But everybody calls me Azul. Because of the color I painted my ambulance."

  "You probably don't want to do that." She looked down at the filth covering her body and Azul's eyes followed. "That's not just dirt."

  "Sounds like you've got a bit of perspective too, eh?

  "Listen, I don't want to press. You don't have to tell me what happened to you. I probably wouldn't want to know. I just want to make sure you're okay?"

  "I am."

  "At least let me give you some things to help you get cleaned up." His eyes pled his case.

  The idea of getting cleaned up trumped any other options as she counted down the seconds until the clothing shop opened. Hatch stood. Being only two inches shorter than the six-foot man shocked him.

  "I didn't realize you were so tall."

  "Just the way I was made." Hatch gave a shrug.

  "I didn't mean it that way. I have a change of clothes in the back that just might fit."

  She looked down at the dark smears on her pants and shirt, knowing full well that not all of it was dirt. The smell of her own stink had stopped registering with her a while ago but seeing the expression on Javier's face told her it was bad. "I think I might take you up on that offer."

  "They were my son's."

  "How old?"

  "Dead."

  "I'm sorry," Hatch said. He gave a smile, but not as genuine. He struggled to mask his pain. Hatch recognized the look, having seen it in herself too many times to count.

  Azul sighed as he led Hatch out of the alleyway to the back of the ambulance. "It's not a safe place by any reasonable measure. Lot of bad people out here doing bad things. But there's lots of good being done by good people."

  "Your vision of retirement may not be what other people envision, but I'm sure the people you serve are grateful. I sure am."

  Azul opened the doors and climbed inside. He slithered his way down the neatly packed rows of shelves containing Tylenol and other over-the-counter drugs. Boxes of diapers filled a corner along with bottles of water and other odds and ends. He stooped at the dividing wall separating the cab from the back. Azul grabbed a yellow plastic grocery bag tucked beside a stack of baby formula. He returned a moment later, bag in hand which he handed to Hatch.

  The bag contained a pair of jeans, worn thin at the knees but otherwise in good condition. Underneath was a long-sleeved collarless white cotton t-shirt.

  "Sorry. I know it's getting warm. Maybe you can tear the sleeves off if you need to."

  "This is more than generous. It's perfect." She looked at the white fabric and her dirty hand holding the bag it was in. "Mind if I use one of those water bottles to rinse off a bit?"

  "I've got something better." The smile never left his face as he turned his back to her and fished around in a brown cardboard box. He spun around holding a package of sanitizing moist wipes. "Use as many as you need."

  Hatch went to work getting the grime off her hands, using every inch of the damp toilettes to dig into every crack and crevice. She made a neat stack of the soiled cloths on the back fender. With her hands clean, she set about cleaning her face. A few minutes later, Hatch was cleaned up as good as she was going to get.

  "Gotta do something about those clothes." He investigated the van. "It's tight but you can use it to change if you want."

  Hatch thought on the offer for a second. And in that second, Azul must've seen the hint of concern at voluntarily getting into a stranger's van. Some things are just universal.

  "I'll stand outside and keep watch."

  Hatch decided this was the best of all options right now. Plus, it gave her the opportunity to transfer her personal items, cash, and, most importantly, the gun. "That'd be great, thanks."

  "Just be careful not to damage any of the items. Those will find their way to families in need."

  "Don't worry, I move like a cat."

  Hatch climbed into the back of the van. Azul closed the doors. And in the seconds that followed, Hatch listened hard. Nothing. No click of the door's lock. No start of the engine. She didn't waste any time disrobing. Hatch ran a couple of the wet wipes over her body before slipping on the new clothes. The fit was good. The clothes had the rough feel of being air dried. She doubted they'd ever been touched by fabric softener.

  She bagged up the dirty clothes and the pile of dirty wet wipes before exiting.

  "A perfect fit," Azul beamed. He eyed the bag containing the clothes she crossed the border in and offered, "If you want, I can wash these for you. No trouble."

  "Not necessary. I was just going to toss them."

  "Toss them? Those stains can be washed out. If you're not going to keep them, I'd gladly take them," he eyed the bag's contents, "I'm sure I could find somebody who would benefit."

  "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

  "No need to apologize." He stretched out a long arm and received Hatch's odorous offering and chuckled. "Maybe I'll even wear them? You look to be about my size."

  He tucked the bag containing Hatch's clothes underneath an empty shelf and closed the rear doors of the ambulance. "Where are you heading now?"

  "The police."

  He looked concerned.

  Hatch didn't want to involve this man in any way beyond their current exchange and so offered a dismissive wave. "No, it's nothing. I'm just looking for a friend of mine. Kind of a wild night." Hatch did her best impression of a party going American who let a night of drinking spin wildly out of control. Not convinced her performance was up to par, she hoped it would be enough to close the door on the conversation.

  A question formed on his lips and she could tell he didn't buy her story, or at least part of it. But the question never came. Instead, Azul made another offer. "It's a couple miles walk to the station. I've got nowhere to be, and I would be more than happy to give you a ride."

  He'd kept his word when she changed in the back, staying outside and keeping watch. Getting in a van and driving away was another crossroads in the establishment of trust. She shot a glance at the ambulance.

  Her hand now clean, she shook Azul's. "Let's ride."

  Five

  Neil Taylor questioned Kyle Moss's decision to meet at the motel. As personal attorney for the Moss family and in particular Kyle, Taylor had amassed a small fortune in legal fees over the years. The perks of the job had enabled him to purchase a winter home in Aspen, Colorado. In light of recent events, it appeared as though their partnership was coming to an end and this meeting was likely to be a parting of ways.

  The beige duffle bag filled with cash Taylor had been ordered to bring now lay at Moss’s feet. Taylor now understood just how bad things had gotten. Kyle Moss's business with a multimillion-dollar human trafficking ring had backfired when a good Samaritan interfered and brought light on his involvement. Facing a life sentence in a federal penitentiary, Moss, through Taylor, made an offer of cooperation in which he stated he'd be willing to give a complete and total admission of his knowledge of the operations of the
traffickers and the Fuentes Cartel behind its operation. It meant Moss would be naming names of some very bad people. All of this would be done in lieu of a jail sentence for the option of witness protection.

  Taylor knew the truth behind the offer. Moss made it to postpone his arrest warrant and create a time buffer before his next move, which, if Taylor were honest, was totally insane. First thing his client had done, which made Taylor's job all that much harder, was run from the police.

  Moss abandoned his palatial estate set against the backdrop of Camelback Mountain in the exclusive Hermosa Valley neighborhood of Phoenix. After that woman rescued his stepdaughter, Moss didn't stick around for the state police to arrive. Moss did what most criminals did when facing a lifetime of incarceration, he fled. He'd been in hiding since. Arizona state police in conjunction with the FBI were already actively seeking Moss for questioning. They were looking into the abduction of his stepdaughter after the do-gooder woman blew the whistle.

  Then came the call. Moss reached out to him in the middle of the night. 3:47 AM to be exact. Taylor's hands trembled. Lack of sleep combined with the stress of the last five hours of running around after receiving his boss's instructions. Moss always knew this day might happen, a day when he had to cash it all in and disappear. For years, Moss had put cash into a storage locker an hour drive from Phoenix. The amount had reached a total of three-hundred thousand. Moss had given Taylor the address of the Sunnyside motel in Nogales, with specific instructions for Taylor to meet him there as soon as possible.

  Taylor left his wife and three children, all of whom were sound asleep, to drive an hour outside of Phoenix to the location of the storage warehouse, load up the duffel bag, and then drive three hours south to the border motel where he'd been sitting for the last hour with the jittery Moss.

  "Try to explain it to me again. Help me understand what it is you hope to accomplish." Taylor sipped at the tepid gas station coffee he’d picked up when exiting the highway. He felt the start of another migraine and hoped to be home in time to take his Ketorolac before it became debilitating.

  Moss lit a cigarette from a pack of Camels set out in front of him. Taylor had seen Moss smoke on occasion, but never to the extent he was now. When Taylor first arrived, he tried to ventilate the room by opening the window, but Moss had nearly tackled him when he reached for the closed blinds. On edge would be an understatement. Moss looked as though he hadn't slept for a day or longer. Deep dark circles shrouded his bloodshot eyes as he stared deeply into Taylor's.

  "No way I'm going to jail. And there's no way I'm brokering a deal with the FBI." Moss trembled. At first it appeared to be only in his fingers, but as Taylor looked at his boss, he saw the tremors spread across his body as if a low current of electricity were pumping through him. In fact, there was. It was called adrenaline.

  "Two words: Witness Protection." Taylor offered.

  "You really think they can protect me?" Moss huffed.

  "Maybe. They've done it in other high-profile cases. Plenty of mob guys laying low somewhere." Taylor didn't know any of the stats on something like that, but he assumed.

  Moss shrugged. "You think I'm going to be happy living in Mayberry and working in some office?"

  "People do it all the time, Kyle."

  "I'm not most people," he seethed. He then stretched out his arm and jingled the thirty-thousand-dollar Rolex. "I'm Kyle Freakin' Moss. I don't do that 9 to 5 bullshit!"

  "You'd rather be on the run for the rest of your life?"

  "Beats the alternative."

  "And you trust these people?"

  "I don't trust anybody, least of all the federal prosecutors or FBI investigators who will be looking for any reason to stick it to me. Besides, the minute I open my mouth, I'm as good as dead.

  Taylor eyed the duffle. "And what's a quarter million or so going to get you really? How long are you going to be able to live on that?"

  "Long enough. Plus, I was told once they sneak me across the border, they're going to set me up with them."

  "You're going to work for the cartel? Doing what, exactly?"

  "Doesn't matter. No choice in the matter. Mind's made up."

  "And just how do you plan to get across the border? You've been flagged. The first thing the feds did the minute you ran was to put you on the no-fly list. It's not like you've got fake identification." Taylor thought about his last statement. "Wait, do you?"

  "From this point forward, the less you know, the better. But let's just say, it's not that hard to border hop. Especially if you know the right people." Moss played with the cigarette in his hand as he surveyed the meager furnishings of the motel room. Twin beds, a dresser and tv, and the table where they both sat. "That's why we're here."

  Moss sucked a long drag from the filtered cigarette. A curled bit of ash clung precariously from the burning ember at its end. He made no effort to tap it off, letting it hang there, until it was flung freely when he made an exasperated wave of his hand. "Why do you think I'm sitting in this shit motel, staring at you? They're going to meet me here. Before I called you, I called them."

  "Wait. What? You called the cartel?" Taylor felt immediately uncomfortable with the thought of coming face to face with an actual member of the Fuentes Cartel.

  "Of course, you think I'm just going to cross the border without some help?" Moss unzipped the duffel bag at his feet. He removed five stacks of cash, each banded and marked with 10K. "This fifty is for you, consider it severance pay."

  Taylor thought about shoving the cash back across the ash covered table. But his conscience was silenced the second his finger touched one of the crisp, twenty-dollar bills atop the tightly packed stacks. Taylor also knew this would be the last stipend of money coming his way from his employer. Taking a page from Moss's book, Taylor realized the cash would make it easy should he need to go off the grid until the dust settled on this investigation. It wouldn't be long before the FBI dug into Taylor's background. He wasn't so sure how he'd look under the FBI's intense microscope.

  Taylor grabbed a large paper bag from the nightstand. The bottle of tequila it had once contained was empty, the last glass half full in front of Moss. Taylor stuffed the cash inside and rolled it down making a paper briefcase. "How long do you have to wait?"

  "They didn't give me a time. They just told me to come to the Sunnyside Motel and check into room number two. Somebody would be by to take me to the next destination."

  "Did they ask you anything about the situation?"

  "No." He smashed the cigarette into the top of the table and then tossed the butt to the carpet. He took a swig of the tequila sitting in a plastic cup in front of him. Cigarette smoke mixed with the booze gave his breath an unpleasant sourness.

  "Then I guess this is goodbye." Taylor stood. This had to be, hands down, the most surreal business exchange of his professional life. He felt as though he were part of a noir novel his wife liked to read before bed. With it came a sense of exhilaration. A palpable fear combined to make an intoxicating elixir. He now understood the allure of the criminal world. There was some intangible high provided by living on the edge.

  Even though he was actively involved in much of the criminal enterprises his employer had dabbled in over the years, all of Taylor's involvement to date had been from afar, working from his ornate office in downtown. He hadn’t been in the trenches like he was now. Strangely, Taylor liked it.

  As he stood ready to leave his former employer in the seedy motel and head back to his regular life, he wondered if he'd ever have an opportunity to experience anything comparable in the future. He scooped up the bag of cash with one hand and shook Moss's with the other, "Best of luck to you, Kyle."

  "Same," Moss tapped out another cigarette from the crinkled pack.

  Just as Taylor reached the door to leave, there was a knock. He leaned forward and peered out through the peephole.

  "Who is it?" Moss asked in almost a whisper. He brought the new cigarette to his lips and paused with his t
humb on the lighter.

  Taylor looked through the fish-eyed leans of the peephole again. The man on the other side of the door wore a wide brimmed hat that obscured most of his face, leaving only the bottom of his pale chin exposed. A well-tailored suit draped loosely over his thin frame. In his left hand, he held what appeared to be a wide leather briefcase comparable in shape and size to a small dog carrier. The thing Taylor found most odd, was the fact the man on the other side wore gloves.

  Taylor pushed back from the door and moved over near the table. In a low whisper he described their visitor.

  "Let him in."

  "I don't like it. You heard me? Right? He's wearing gloves."

  Moss shrugged indifference. "Maybe he's real careful. Guys like this aren't going around leaving their fingerprints all over the place. Or hell, maybe he's a damned germophobe."

  Taylor's excitement from the moment before, during the cash exchange, seemed less so now in face of the surprise guest. Panic set in as the realization that he, middle-aged attorney from Phoenix, was going face to face with a member of the Fuentes Cartel, one of the deadliest crime families in the world. He didn't like that but he hoped in the brief exchange he could pass by and out and leave this behind. Taylor vowed right there and then to pick a less dangerous path to his opulence. He certainly did not want another one of these experiences, in the future or ever. The exhilaration was replaced by the fear churning in the pit of his stomach.

  He looked at the plastic trashcan by the dresser and fought the urge to fill it with the contents of his stomach, which at the current moment consisted of weak coffee and a sticky bun. Fighting to keep his composure, Taylor shifted back over to the door and unlatched the chain lock and released the deadbolt. His hand rested on the cool stainless steel of the knob for a moment before he opened the door to the man outside.

  Taylor stepped aside allowing him access. Once inside, the man said nothing as he took three steps to enter the room and bring himself in front of the chair where Taylor had just sat. He placed the case on the dirty table, positioning it so the latch opening faced Moss. Taylor noticed the leather case had small holes along the sides.