Whitewater (Rachel Hatch Book 6)

by L T Ryan

  In lieu of his offer, Hatch flagged a taxi and wasted no time heading out to the club. The cab driver looked as though he were a hundred years old and smelt of day-old wine. At one point, he'd dozed off at an intersection. Hatch banged the smudged plastic partition separating her from her sleeping chauffeur, rousing him.

  The description Ayala gave had been spot on. He'd said it was on the outside of town. The club was literally at the fringe of Nogales' easternmost point. Just past the nightclub was a ninety-degree bend where the two-lane Nogales-San Antonio roadway snaked along in a southeasterly direction until it intersected with Carretera Federal Numero Dos, Federal Highway 2, in Rancho San Rafael. Highway 2 carved across Mexico's northern tip, stretching from the Gulf of California to the violent streets of Juarez.

  Club Fire stood out against the desert canopy sprawled out in all directions. The drunk old coot of a taxi driver muttered slurred Spanish as Hatch closed the door. Turno de manana. The rest was incomprehensible gibberish, but those words she understood. Early shift. She didn't know whether it was meant as a question, joke, or neither. She took it to mean that a) this place moved girls, and b) she was ahead of whatever schedule the club operated. The time it would take for things to pick up was unclear. She felt the stink of the cab cling to her clothes as she watched the driver swerve his way back in the direction of Nogales' city center where she'd hailed him.

  The nightclub was a converted warehouse. It was two stories of black painted concrete. The only spot of color came from the large red swirled flame, the point of which nearly touched the flat rooftop. The flames resembled the symbol used for Cobra Command, the evil regime bent on world domination and G.I. Joe's nemesis. Fitting.

  The curling outline of the flame was dotted in red light bulbs. Below the sign stood the main entrance comprised of two dual-entry doors separated by a couple feet of the painted brick exterior. The sun slapped its warm beams at the tinted glass face of the doors, painting a purple glow on the walkway in front. A place designed for night did not have the same shimmer in daylight.

  A few men were hanging out by the far back corner of the building. Two of them had dark aprons on and the third older man had just carelessly thrown a dishrag over his shoulder and joined the other men in their cigarette break. Smoke encircled the huddled men, none of whom paid attention to Hatch as she walked away from the spot where the cabby had dropped her and away from Club Fire.

  Hatch made a beeline for a broken-down water tower. A faded cartoon water droplet smiled down on her as she ascended the metal staircase. Pipes were connected to the warehouse at one point, and reached out their jagged, rust-covered limbs to dusty wind swirling the arid landscape.

  The three men never looked up from their conversation. Hatch crested the top landing. The two-foot-wide grated walk that wrapped around the top of the water tower loomed twenty feet above the roof of the nightclub. The vantage point gave her a solid visual of the front and back, as well as the side closest to her. The far side, on the east side of the building, was completely shrouded from view. The rust-coated bolt squealed as Hatch lowered herself to the warm metal, taking up a prone position.

  She settled in and waited for night to fall and the girls to arrive. Because as the driver so eloquently put it, the early shift had arrived.

  Thirteen

  The sun yielded to night, painting the sky in a dazzling orange blaze. A deep purple like that of the light bounced off the main doors and lingered before giving way to moonless black. The three kitchen workers had long since finished their smoke break. In fact, they'd had time for two more in the interim hours before nightfall. Headlights from the arriving patrons flooded the dirt lot behind Club de Fuego. Hatch remained in her sprawled position on the rickety landing.

  She had made minor adjustments to her body's position during the five and a half hours she waited. These shifts alleviated the discomfort from the rough treads of the elevated walk where she lay. Being in one spot for long periods of time was a staple of her training and experience during her military service. Embrace the suck, ex-boyfriend and former Navy SEAL Alden Cruise's mantra, which he’d picked up while at the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL Training in Coronado. It was Hatch's next destination if she found Angela Rothman and punished those responsible for her abduction.

  Rhythmic pulsing resonated through the concrete walls. The club's logo lighted edges flickered, casting their scarlet glow on the black backdrop, giving it the effect of being engulfed in flame. A pigeon stopped by for a visit. It rested its feast, a bit of bread from a tortilla shell, beside the heel of Hatch's boot. It went about picking at the morsel with no regard for present company, as if Hatch didn't exist. Fitting, since according to the police and medical reports out of Hawk's Landing, Colorado, she didn't. Servicewoman's Life Cut Down During Home Invasion, the title of the Denver Post article had read. In it her death was surmised in two sentences: "Rachel Hatch, age 35, died in the fire. Cause of death is ruled asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation."

  She watched the club's logo burn bright. She thought about the fires that had ravaged her own life, each one catapulting her life forward in a totally new trajectory. All different. One left her right arm permanently scarred. The second ripped her from her family and the one man she ever truly loved. The last stopped her from saving a traumatized teen from the monsters she currently sought. All of them led her to the here and now. Fractured points in time pieced together to form the mosaic-stained glass that was her life. Blood from the wicked and the innocent tainted each pane with its unique hue. Hatch looked out at the club and wondered what the next addition to her life's tapestry would look like.

  A line formed and the parking lot filled rapidly. There didn't appear to be any type of dress code, which was good because Hatch didn't have too many wardrobe options. The people arriving, most of them at least, were well-dressed but casual.

  Several large doormen controlled access to the club. Red velvet ropes now lined the walk leading to the two oversized door guards. They stood facing the crowd with thick arms folded across their broad chests. Their backs faced the second set of doors. Four polished brass stanchions connected by the same red velvet ropes quarantined off a six-foot space in front of the second doors. In the dark, Hatch could now see the neon sign above the door, which read VIP.

  Two dark vans with blacked out windows pulled up, panel-side toward the back of the club. Each of the front passenger side doors swung open and similarly dressed men in black fatigue pants and t-shirts of matching color stepped out. She could see the glint of steel peeking out from the front waistband of the closest man. The armed men yanked the back doors open and barked commands at the occupants inside.

  Five girls exited, three from the first van and two from the second. Both vans then drove off. They didn't go far, only pulling around to the back and parking away from the other vehicles in the lot. The two paramilitary men ushered the girls to the club's rear entrance, bookending the single file procession.

  The girls' heads were down with their hands crossed in front of their midline in what looked like prayer. Plastic zip ties bound them together and told anybody paying attention the truth of their circumstances. But none of the employees lingering near the rear of the club even raised an eye in the direction of the slaves passing by. Likely, they were either complicit by their indifference or indentured to the cartel themselves. Either way, this backdoor entrance garnered no attention. Except from Hatch.

  With their heads down, the girls' long hair obscured any chance of getting a visual of any of their faces to confirm whether Angela was among them.

  As the last girl passed through, the cone of light projected out from the club's open door and Hatch caught a shimmer of red.

  Fourteen

  Hatch navigated the metal staircase to the sandy ground below. The abandoned water tower projected its shadow in the direction of the club painting an already dark path even darker. Hatch used it to approach the back corner where she'd seen the wait staff taki
ng their smoke breaks undetected.

  She stood still at the edge of the shadow. Hatch looked toward the growing line of people filling the red velvet roped corral. Blend, even when you stand out. His battle-tested life lessons served as his lasting gift. Her dad's words came back to her now with more frequency. The connection they'd shared in life only grew stronger in death. His guiding hand on her shoulder pushed her a fraction this way or that, enabling her to dodge some of life's hurdles. And in Hatch's life, those hurdles often came by way of bullets.

  Hatch twisted the front of her white shirt into a knot above her belly, exposing the flattened hardpack of her abs. She flared the back, making sure the Glock's jagged lines remained obscured. Satisfied it was still safely tucked from view, she continued her rapid alterations. Hatch pulled down the sleeve on her damaged arm, masking the scars. She mussed her hair. The dirt and grime she'd accumulated acted as a natural hair putty.

  By the end of Hatch's makeover, she was a drunken party girl. Hatch stepped out from the shadows and began her wobbly stagger toward the back of the line. She kept her head down, avoiding the surveillance camera at the corner of the building as she came up behind two men, each reeking heavily of aftershave and marijuana.

  Hatch maintained a light sway. Even with her head down, she could feel their eyes rolling over her body like she was a piece of meat. They said something in Spanish she did not understand. She hoped they didn't try to start up a conversation and was grateful when a loud group of party goers up ahead drew their attention.

  Five or six American college kids were belting out the lyrics to a song Hatch had never heard. Based on what she was hearing, both in content and delivery, Hatch hoped she never heard it again. The men nearest Hatch laughed at the impromptu show and lost interest in her.

  A stretch limousine rolled to a stop in front of the doors. The driver who exited, wearing a full suit, immediately hustled around the trunk and around to the back passenger door facing the club. He opened the door and stepped aside, allowing the occupants to exit. Two well-dressed men left the vehicle, one a dark-haired Hispanic male in his mid to late thirties, and the other an American of similar age with sun-bleached blonde hair. The American wore sunglasses. At night. His choice of accessory making the Cory Hart classic hit seem all that more ridiculous when observed in real life. They entered through the boxed off area marked for VIPs. The special treatment earned boos from the rowdy college kids who, in turn, garnered a nasty look from one of the oversized doormen.

  The limo drove off. Hatch watched as the smaller of the two doormen waved a black and yellow metal detecting wand over each entrant. The cold steel of the Glock pressed into the small of her back dictated a different entrance point.

  The line had continued to grow and now a young couple stood behind Hatch. She needed to get out of the line and find another way in. Then she saw it. The staff entrance opened and the dishrag man from earlier appeared still with the same rag as before, though this time slung over his opposite shoulder.

  "Whoa," Hatch lurched forward, hopping out of line and covering her mouth. "Here comes dinner." She said this for anybody paying attention. The couple gave her wide berth and the aftershave-wearing weed smokers just shook disapproving faces as she hustled away in an overexaggerated stagger.

  Techno music masked her footsteps as she closed in on her entrance point and the overweight chain smoker standing between her and Angela. Hatch fell against the wall. A small piece of broken plastic acted as a doorstop, keeping it ajar. The electronic repetitive four beat pulsed, assulting Hatch's ears. The ragman turned in surprise. He spoke, but the club washed out any chance of deciphering its meaning.

  Hatch let her head droop. It swung loosely as if dangling by a thread. His hand touched her shoulder and he worked to stabilize her against the wall. He continued to speak in Spanish. He was close enough for her to hear. And the words weren't kind and compassionate. Drunk bitch was thrown in somewhere. It didn't matter what he said or wanted. The minute he'd opened the door, he became another obstacle in a long list that stood in the way of Hatch and the girl she’d vowed to bring home.

  If there'd been one lesson she'd learned from her father about obstacles, it was to overcome them by all means possible. He told her once, no matter how remote, explore all avenues until you find a way around. A young Hatch had asked, "what if you can't?" Her father's answer was, then you kick it in.

  The smoke emptied from the ragman's mouth filling her nostrils as he put his other hand on her and shoved her hard. Two mistakes he made. First, pushing Hatch without blading his stance, leaving him completely off-balance. The second was putting a hand on Hatch in the first place.

  Hatch capitalized on both mistakes in the seconds that followed. She spun her body redirecting the ragman's energy to the wall where Hatch had been leaning. With both hands on Hatch, his momentum sent him headfirst into the hard concrete. She assisted the wall's efforts in rendering him unconscious by slamming her left elbow into the back of his skull. The ragman collapsed in a heap at her feet. Hatch used her body to temporarily block the crumpled man from view as she broke the lightbulb above the door.

  Shattered bits of the popped bulb dusted the sleeping man. The only light now filtered out through the smoke-filled air of the club inside. The music pulsed on as Hatch cast a glance in the direction of the line. Nobody noticed the brief but intense moment with the ragman.

  Nobody noticed as Hatch entered the club through the steel employee access either.

  Fifteen

  Hatch choked on the air. One of the cooks looked at her, conveying confusion and annoyance at her surprise arrival in the kitchen. Hatch threw her hands in the air and gyrated her hips with the music. She let out a loud, "Woohoo! Let's party!" In her best drunk-girl impression. Surprising even herself, she nailed the performance because the pout on the man's face instantly shifted into a gapped-tooth smile.

  The cook ordered a busser to escort Hatch back to the main dance floor, but not before blowing Hatch a kiss which she playfully caught and stuffed into her pocket, staying in character until she was taken into the bar area. The busboy released his not so friendly grip and cast her back into the crowd of drunken clubbers.

  Laser lights and smoke machines added their insanity to incessant vibrations echoing into the three-thousand square foot converted warehouse space. Nude girls danced in cages suspended at random intervals throughout the crowded space. The girls moved to the music's command, the drugs in their system undoubtedly contributing to their trancelike state. No Angela.

  She continued her visual scan as she stepped further inside. A long bar stretched out to her right running the full length of the wall and dead ending on the other side where the front doors were located. Hatch pressed further into the room, slipping in and out among the undulating sweaty bodies lining her path.

  The massive ventilation and air conditioning system centered above did little to alleviate the staggering swelter. Hatch's white t-shirt was becoming translucent, exposing the contours of her bra which a nearby club goer was admiring before getting jostled by a man of equal size behind him. The fight that erupted in the following seconds was like watching a silent western. Neither man backed down in the deafening drone. Without words, no resolution could be amicably agreed on for the accidental transgression and so the two men did what any neanderthal would do. Fight.

  The man who'd been transfixed by the curvature of Hatch's breasts was the first to throw a punch. A wildly telegraphed right hook came in wide and should have been defended against. But it wasn't. The other man was so drunk, standing came at great effort and he was completely unprepared for the attack. And about five seconds late in his failed attempt to intercept the incoming fist that crashed into his nose.

  Blood arced into the air and was caught by a yellow beam of light, giving it an orange glow before showering down on the man's girlfriend, who screamed. Bodies piled as more jumped into the fray.

  Four bouncers, wearing skintight black t-sh
irts embossed with the red flame logo of the club, rushed the clump of people, and began indiscriminately delivering vicious beatings to anybody, man or woman, within the radius of fist or foot. Both men who'd initiated the fight, plus the blood-covered girlfriend, were pummeled until no resistance was offered. All three were dragged through the crowd by the four bouncers and tossed out through the main door.

  The chaos was over in a less than one minute. Hatch had moved on, working her way toward the other side of the club floor. A closed door marked VIP cast its hot pink neon glow off the bald headed security guard blocking it. To his left was the disc jockey's massive turntable station where he was sending out his unique blend of music. The floor bouncers were now shooting the breeze with their doormen counterparts, celebrating their decisive victory over the drunk fools. In their moment of macho bravado, they'd left the floor unprotected, minus the one guard at the door. And with it, Hatch had a window of opportunity upon which to capitalize.

  Hatch closed the gap, looking for her access point to the VIP lounge. Angela was nowhere to be seen among any of the working girls in the club. They had come through a back door which must have given direct access to this section. Weighing the odds, the door ahead held the best chance of finding Angela. Going head on with the guard would be futile. Even with the floor bouncers a distance away, she needed to come up with a less direct approach. She needed a distraction. And she found one in the unrelenting pulsing of the DJ's music.

  The projector bolted to the ceiling above the DJ, casting the turntablist's teal spikey hair in prismed color patterns. A hypnotized crowd throbbed along as the beats directed them. A girl wearing nothing but a glittery thong shared the small, raised landing where the DJ spun his mix. He licked the sweat-soaked side of her neck as he changed out the record on the second turntable. She seemed not to notice or care that the wild music man had just treated her like a lollipop.