Whitewater (Rachel Hatch Book 6)

by L T Ryan

  He smiled broadly before answering. "You say I don't know these people, but I do. Just as you do. As my father said, at our most basic essence, we are all human. We are all the same. And therefore, I feel a sense of connection with everyone. I may not always understand the reasons for why they do what they do, but I have to believe, at the very core of human nature is goodness. With that said, when people ignore the goodness in their heart and do harm to other people, I agree there needs to be people like you in the world too. Your purpose comes from a place few can understand. But I'd try, if you're willing to tell me."

  Hatch thought about the defining moments in her life that had led her here. And the point and purpose it had given her life. In a lifetime of defining moments, one stood out above the rest, one responsible for permanently redirecting the trajectory of her life. The devestating nature of her father's death at the young age of twelve had forever changed the course. All things led back to that morning in the mountains when the gunshot stole her father from a young Hatch.

  "My father was shot and killed." Hatch left out the details because those details got people killed. It was the reason she left Hawk's Landing. And indirectly why she was here, with the pan-wielding-peacock man.

  Hatch refused to burden Ayala, or in any way connect him to her past. The results could be life altering. Hatch was still looking over her shoulder for the people who might never come or might already be on their way. It was a torturous way to live. But she had no choice in the matter, and much like Munoz had resigned himself to his fate, Hatch had done similar with hers.

  "That must have been terrible. And that's what drove you to, as you say, 'help good people and punish those who do them harm.’"

  Hatch nodded. "So now you know my story. What about yours?" Ayala adjusted himself in his seat and looked at the speedometer as if doing a time distance equation to gauge if he had enough time to tell the story. He cleared his throat and began. "Five years ago, I was embedded doing a journalistic piece on a Mexican special forces unit like your Navy SEALS. Unlike your military, who only operates abroad, ours takes direct action within our country. And with the cartels running amuck, our military are fighting a daily battle waged on the city streets and country hillsides of my beautiful Mexico. I followed them on raids and was writing a piece documenting all the efforts on the war being waged against the cartels."

  "I accompanied them on one raid on a particular morning. They said it shouldn't be too dangerous, and that I could come along if I wanted an opportunity to be with the team when they entered. In the back of the group, of course. Not that I'd want to be anywhere else, even if they offered. The back was plenty fine for me.

  “Getting a firsthand account of how they operate was a rare and unique opportunity. And I seized it, if not a bit reluctantly. The target of the investigation was a low-level drug dealer in the Fuentes cartel's distribution chain, just above your common street pusher. He had no record of violence, which for a drug dealer in Mexico wasn't common, which is the main reason I was authorized to attend the raid. He was deemed a minimal risk operation. The unit commander was interested in getting the story of his specialized unit told. He felt it would assist his psychological campaign, helping him strike fear into the enemy. The commander was an enthusiastic man and one whose passion and pride for his unit was unequaled. It became a perfect storm of sorts. And though I didn't know it at the time, I was in the eye of a hurricane. And one I fear still has me spinning.

  “I was partnered with a strong young operator by the name of Arturo Sanchez. They assigned him to be my shadow to protect me throughout the execution of the raid. He was not very happy with his assignment, to say the least.

  “Sanchez was one of their top men. But the unit commander wanted their best with me to ensure my safety."

  "Makes sense."

  "Sanchez and I were in the back of an eleven-man line of heavily armed men. They used flash bangs and other devices to break into the house and surprise its occupants. Arturo Sanchez and I were the last to enter.

  “Upon completion of the initial sweep of the house, they had located and detained the wife of the drug dealer along with her young daughter, who was roughly the age you were when you experienced your traumatic event. The little girl was sobbing uncontrollably.

  “But what I remember most about her were the drawings. The walls of her room that she shared with her parents were covered in the little girl's artwork. Each picture was of a single flower. Her artistic ability was not that of a girl her age or even one twice it. She glowed."

  "Glowed?"

  "Sometimes I forget myself. My father's words slip out of me sometimes. Glowed was a term he used to describe a person whose inner beauty shone so brightly it cast an aura around them. My father claimed to be able to see. And until that day, I thought it was just one of the oddities I'd come to expect from him. But on that day, I saw it. I felt it. If nothing else, I understood what my father's word meant.

  “Was that little girl adorable? Sure, but what child isn't. Was her artwork amazing? Absolutely. Maybe it was the fact she was standing there amongst those soldiers in all their gear, with their rifles and armor, while the girl wore nothing but a long nightshirt that went past her knees. Maybe in contrast to all the darkness around her she became the light.

  “I know what you're thinking. Did she really glow? I'll say to you what I've said to the countless others with whom I've shared this story over the years. Her name was Maria and she glowed brighter than any to come before or after."

  "What happened to Maria?"

  "Upon the initial sweep of the house, it appeared as though the husband wasn't home. As the team was assembling to do a secondary, more detailed search, the drug dealer emerged from a trap door in the floor, not unlike the one at Ernesto's house. He fired his gun wildly as he came up.

  “I remember the sound of it passing by my ears. That strange zip and pop is something I had never heard before, and to be quite honest, something I never hope to hear again. Arturo Sanchez, standing next to me, fired three rounds, killing the man instantly.

  “The wife, upon seeing her dead husband, left her daughter's side and launched herself from the couch. To say she was enraged doesn't do justice the viciousness with which she attacked. Make no mistake about it, she was intent on killing the men responsible.

  “Sanchez was already moving to intercept the attack. He told me afterward, years later when we reconnected, that he intended to shove her back to the couch. That was before she grabbed the pistol from her dead husband's hand."

  “In a tragic chain of events, Sanchez discharged his weapon, only firing one round. It killed her instantly. The mother and widow collapsed on top of her dead husband. The sounds of her death still haunt me. The sight of their young daughter Maria painted in both her parents' blood.

  “In the shock and aftermath that followed, the blood covered Maria disappeared from the soldiers tasked with keeping an eye on her. And I've been looking for her ever since."

  "Any luck?"

  "Sadly, no. I do see her in the faces of the girls I help, like Letty. Hoping one day I will learn that little Maria is alive and well, and that her beautiful flowers continue to cover the walls of wherever she is now. Most of all, I pray with all my heart that she glows."

  "Think of all the good you're doing in the process."

  "Take heed of your own words, Daphne. Young Letty has a new chance at life thanks to you." He looked down at the fluttering arm of the speedometer as if willing the car to go faster. "Now let's see if we can do the same for Angela Rothman."

  With only a few hours of darkness ahead of them, Hatch hoped that at the new day's end, Angela would be safe, and Hatch's promise to the young girl would have been kept.

  A sign rose in the distance. The twenty-foot, bright orange of the Solarus Juice Company's walrus painted on the sign above the factory beckoned them forward.

  Twenty-Six

  Miguel pulled the Nissan to a stop in a lot across from a high cha
in-link fence. Topped with spiraled razor wire, it stretched around the 8,000-square-foot warehouse. On top of the building sat the twenty-foot lighted billboard depicting the orange sunglass-wearing walrus, holding a cup of orange juice and wearing a satisfied smile.

  The lights and activity around the warehouse stood out around its dark surroundings. From an outsider's perspective, it looked to be nothing out of the ordinary. Most of the employees wore powder blue coveralls and hard plastic helmets painted white.

  "What's the plan?" Ayala ducked down in his seat, shutting the car and headlights off.

  Hatch took a similar position and cranked her seat back, enabling her a clear line of sight with minimal exposure. She looked over the cracked desert of sun-bleached leather in Ayala's old Sentra. She scanned their surroundings, waiting for an opportunity to arise, and a plan to form.

  Workers moved about the concrete campus surrounding the building. Hatch watched the men come and go using a pedestrian gate alongside the main truck entrance. It was located fifty feet in front of where they were parked. A dirt path had been worn through the weed-laden patches of grass, leading from the parking lot where they sat to the gate. A gray rectangular keycard fob access panel was attached to a cylindrical metal pole. No physical security was present at the pedestrian entrance. There was a gate guard positioned in a guard shack on the other side of the truck entrance, but he was not inspecting employees who entered the facility, just the trucks passing through. Hatch watched several employees come and go from it, using their badges, all of which were attached to lanyards on the lapel of their pockets.

  The way Hatch saw it, two major problems stood in her way of infiltrating Solarus. First off, every employee she'd seen pass within view, in the time they'd been parked, was male. And secondly, they were all Hispanic. She absently ran her hand over the pale skin leading up from her right wrist, feeling the raised roadmap of scars leading to her shoulder, and looked over at Ayala, her big-hearted justice-seeking sidekick doing his best impression of every cop from any '80s television cop stakeout.

  He gnawed nervously on the end of his cigar when he caught Hatch looking at him. "What are you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking, I don't think I can get in there, not without raising a thousand alarms and bringing more heat down on us than we can bear."

  Miguel let out a sigh. "What do we do now then?"

  "I said, I didn't think I could go in there."

  Ayala swallowed hard and looked a shade lighter than he did a moment before. "I don't think I'm capable of that."

  "People are capable of a lot more than they give themselves credit for. You told me about the story with the rock and the troll. Be the brave boy that splits it in half and walks your people to the other side."

  And with that, Ayala’s color returned, as well as a competent, but nervous smile. "Just tell me what to do and I'll do it."

  "First thing we need to do is get you a change of clothes. Covering that awful Hawaiian shirt might be the second-best thing I do today."

  "Second best?"

  "Because today, we're going to bring Angela home."

  "Optimism shines light on the prepared."

  "Another one of your dad's grains of wisdom?"

  "Nope. That one's all mine."

  "I like it." Hatch opened the door to the Nissan and slipped into the darkness.

  An older white model Toyota pickup pulled into the lot and parked a few spaces from the Nissan. She made her way toward it, staying in a low crouch and moving along the back end of the vehicles until she came to the space between the driver's side door of the pickup and the narrow avenue of space created by the Subaru it was parked next to. The employee never saw her approach because he was bent inside the cab of his truck and looking for something, cursing under his breath in Spanish.

  Hatch struck him hard with her left forearm, the bone driving into the side of the man's neck. The brachial stun rendered him unconscious without serious damage.

  She stripped him of his clothes, hog-tying his hands and feet together with some rope she’d found in the bed of his truck. She stuffed one of his socks in his mouth to keep him from screaming and slid him across the bench seat of the Toyota before locking him inside.

  A moment later, she was back inside the Nissan.

  A glisten of sweat formed on her brow. She held out her offerings to Ayala who took them with a surprised look.

  "I think they should fit. I'll give you a moment to get ready." Hatch stepped back out of the Nissan and ducked low, posting up alongside the front wheel of Ayala's weather-beaten Sentra.

  She looked at the factory. She thought about Letty and the nickname given to the walrus-endorsed juice company involved in the trafficking of girls. The Last Stop.

  Ayala sat in the driver's seat wearing the subdued powder blue of the Solarus factory worker. He nervously grinded his teeth across the chewed end of his cigar, the only visible remaining trace of his loud ensemble.

  Hatch's best chance of slipping in undetected now rested in the hands of an untrained civilian reporter with an unhealthy attachment to Hawaiian shirts.

  Twenty-Seven

  Ayala stood on the outer edge of the trail leading from the parking lot to the pedestrian access gate, and beyond that, the Solarus Juice Company. Even though the cool night still prevailed over the coming day's sun, Ayala was already sweating profusely. He tried to sound macho back there in the car when he agreed to do it. The Nighthawk woman had proven her bravery and now it was his turn, but as soon as he'd moved off in the dark, he unburdened himself the fear he'd been holding back in one long body tremble.

  Gaining his composure with a long deep inhale and equally long exhale, he set his eyes on the gate and the task ahead. The man pictured on the ID card clipped to his left pocket bore a striking resemblance to Ayala. The excitement he'd experienced at first noticing the resemblance was dashed the moment he stepped from the car.

  In his other breast pocket, his cell phone's circular eye of the camera was just barely visible above the top off the pocket. The Bluetooth device nestled in his right ear came to life with the sound of Hatch's voice.

  "Tip your head down and to the right. There's plenty of cameras, but the one closest and angled to get the best possible shot of your face is located on the back corner of that storage shed, just beyond the gate."

  "How did you see that?" Ayala whispered.

  "I ate my carrots as a kid. Now, no more talking. We went over this."

  "Thanks for reminding me." Ayala tried to laugh but his nerve-wracked body released it like a hyena's cackle.

  Ayala remembered he'd been given strict instructions from Hatch.

  This is a one-way radio system.

  I am the only one who speaks.

  The moment I say move you move.

  Hesitation will kill you.

  Do not die.

  Do not get captured.

  In the event you are compromised, I will come for you.

  He remembered the intensity in her eyes as she spoke to him. She’d managed to tune out the entire world around her. Hatch's face had been eerily calm, almost serene, as if the impending threat of death held no burden. In that moment, Ayala remembered the cyclonic events that forever changed his life and the conversations he’d had with Hatch about hers.

  Looking at Hatch in that car, just before he exited for his rescue attempt, he remembered thinking, Hatch wasn't in one of those calm before the storm moments. She was calm because she was the eye of her own hurricane.

  This is a one-way radio system.

  Those were Hatch's exact words. He hadn't even made it to the first checkpoint before violating the first rule. He hoped to keep Do not die off the table for the foreseeable future.

  He shook off the mistake and focused. Ayala's shaky hand extended the key card from the attached lanyard. He pressed it against the access pad. Here goes nothing, he thought, instead of saying, proud of himself for remembering.

  The delay between the red light
flipping to green and the door making its electrical buzzing release sound seemed like an eternity to the impatient Ayala.

  "I've got eyes on you until you get to that door over there on the left. And don't worry. Once you're inside, I'll still have eyes by way of your cell phone. It should work just as long as the connection holds." There was a pause. In it, Ayala heard Hatch sigh. Her exhale, amplified by the small wireless earbud in his ear, sounded of rushing water crashing over wet stone. The sound of it reminded him of that day by the river. The other day his life changed forever. The story he never told the woman watching on from the passenger seat of his Nissan.

  Ayala had wanted to tell her. And had planned to after they'd finished eating their meal at Ernesto's house. But then Munoz and his goons showed up. The rest is history. But still, Ayala hoped to live to tell her about it.

  There were similarities and differences, both in the circumstances of their childhood, and how each handled fallout. Both lost a parent at a tender age. Both marred by the wounds of their experiences.

  Ayala couldn't remember a time when he didn't hate the sound of rushing water, but he still had one photograph, warped and faded with time that depicted a young Ayala at, age ten. It had been taken by his uncle who was excited to use a camera he had just bought. He had the photograph tucked in a shoebox with other old memories collecting dust. But no other memories collected were as important as the one in that picture. Because it was taken the day his mother died, not one hour before her death.

  Ayala's father had always wanted to take them to the Rio Grande but getting from Nogales to the eastern side of the country without a car would take them a lifetime. He never figured it would happen, but a month before his eleventh birthday and to his family's surprise, his father got them there. His uncle married into money, and to show it off to the family, offered to take them in his new car.

  Ayala's mother was sweet and kind, everything a mother should be. He had no bad memories from his childhood. He lived in a cluster of homes on the western side of Nogales, away from all the riffraff of downtown. They didn't have much. But nobody did and so it didn't seem to matter as much. Crime was minimal there, and aside from struggling to keep a chin above poverty, Ayala's family could be described in one simple word: happy.