by D. V. Berkom
***
I didn't stop until the lights of the house had long disappeared behind me. Grateful for the shadows and the soft, blue moonlight, I continued to walk, working out how to hotwire Oggie's car without being caught. No matter how I looked at it, it was a fool's errand, and I'd end up dead. With no gun, I didn't have a chance against those men. The weight of the money against my back assured me that I'd be fine without the car.
There was just one thing.
Salazar obviously knew I was alive, and by extension, so did Anaya. I had to get to Mazatlán. I needed the anonymity of a big city, both for dropping off their radar as well as securing a passport. There was no way I could go to San Bruno now. Salazar or Anaya would have someone searching for me in every town between here and Nogales, and I had history in San Bruno that Salazar knew about. Besides, I'd be able to fly anywhere from Mazatlán's international airport. Salazar may have an extensive reach, but if he didn't know my name, he wouldn't be able to find me in a sea of tourists.
***
I woke to lush, tropical terrain flowing past me outside the bus window. I hugged my coat tighter against the bus' frigid air conditioning. Outside, the air would be humid and warm. Memories of shrimp dinners and late night walks on the beach from a less complicated time crowded my mind, temporarily pushing away the fear that had become my constant companion.
The bus pulled into the brightly lit station in central Mazatlán. I grabbed the backpack from the overhead compartment and got off, orienting myself before negotiating with a cab driver for a ride to the hotel strip along the beach.
Mazatlán hadn't changed much since the last time I'd visited. It was like remembering another person's trip; a friend and I had just graduated from college and spent a week at one of the luxury hotels on the strip, dancing and eating and flirting with sexy Mexican guys, all the while believing this was our last hurrah before going back to the states and throwing ourselves into climbing the corporate ladder. She had an internship at her father's law firm waiting for her, and I was going to be on the fast track at a prestigious investment company in downtown Minneapolis.
Then I met Roberto Salazar.
It's funny how your life can change with one fateful choice.
I shook off the memories and had the cabbie drop me at a big luxury hotel midway down the strip. I paid cash for the room and ignored the front desk clerk when she looked questioningly at my attire. Good job being inconspicuous, I thought.
When I got to my room, I stuffed the backpack in the closet safe, stripped to nothing and threw my clothes on the king sized bed. Immediately, I went into the bathroom and filled the large tub with hot water and the hotel’s lavender bath salts. A phone call and half an hour later, room service delivered two margaritas and a perfectly grilled steak. I tipped the waiter with the last of the money from Luis, handed him my dirty clothes for valet service, sat down and inhaled the meal.
Margarita in hand, I wandered out to the balcony in my fluffy white robe to watch the orange and purple sunset over the Sea of Cortez. Tourists frolicked in the gentle surf several floors below. The joyful sounds of a large, seaside resort floated up toward me. It all felt so normal and safe. I sank into the comfortable chair and put my feet up on the low table. I was nothing if not good at denial.
The first margarita took the edge off. The second one helped me forget.
***
The next morning, I woke early and headed for the nearest drug store. I bought a pair of scissors, some hair dye and three pairs of sunglasses. On my way back to my hotel, I stopped in a trendy boutique and bought myself a little black dress with matching shoes and handbag, and another pair of jeans. An hour or so later when I looked in the bathroom mirror, I barely recognized myself. Goodbye, California blonde with long, sun streaked hair and no mascara; hello, serious looking woman with short, brown hair and exotic makeup.
I kind of liked the change. The shorter hair felt freer, and made washing it simple and fast.
After a late lunch of grilled prawns, I slid on a pair of faux tortoise-shell sunglasses and the stretchy black dress and shoes, and took the elevator to the lobby. I got in the first cab I came to and gave the driver directions. He glanced in the rear view mirror with a frown, as if to make sure I knew where I was headed. I nodded. He shrugged and drove away from the curb.
A short time later, we pulled up to the Mapas y Más storefront in the old section of Mazatlán. I paid the driver and asked him to wait for me, and then went inside.
The long, narrow shop held dozens of neatly stacked maps and books of maps, along with globes, magnifying glasses and intricate ships-in-a-bottle. A man dressed in board shorts and a Baja hoodie with hipster glasses and hair the color of wet sand stood on one side, paging through a large, leather bound book. I walked past him to the back and rang the bell on the counter.
Behind the register, the dusty velvet curtain parted and a short, muscular man with a neck as wide as his head and the expression of an angry pit bull appeared. Dressed in black jeans, a white golf shirt and worn huaraches, he drew his shoulders back and lifted his chin when he saw me. I removed my sunglasses and smiled at him. His answering smile softened his hardened demeanor, but only a little.
"Hola, Señor. Are you the owner?"
"Sí. May I help you, Señora?"
I'd overheard Salazar mention the map store where I now stood as the best place to obtain forged documents in Mexico. The owner was well-known in the drug cartel world, and gladly acquired any kind of documentation requested. He worked fast, and asked no questions, preferring to remain silent about his clients, as many were members of rival cartels.
I cleared my throat and replied, "Please. I have heard that not only are you the purveyor of the finest, most comprehensive collection of maps in all of Mexico, but deal in procuring other items, as well."
His eyes narrowed as he considered the gringa standing before him. He clasped his hands on the counter in front of him, his eyes shifting to my chest, emphasized by the low-cut, clingy black dress.
"It depends on what you need, Señora. I have many items for sale." He continued his perusal, his gaze trailing up my neck to my eyes. My heart skipped a beat. I'd seen that look before. I could only describe it as deadly, and this man had it in spades. I tried to swallow.
Tentatively, I reached forward and touched his sleeve, wearing what I hoped looked like a flirtatious smile. "I've mislaid my passport. I am to leave your beautiful country soon, but can't wait for my replacement, as I would forfeit the large sum of money I've paid for the remainder of my trip." I leaned over the counter to give him a better view. "An old friend told me on good authority that you may be able to expedite the process- for a price."
The man grinned, his neck muscles bulging even more. We both knew this was a bullshit story, but protocol dictated the false reasoning. That way, no one expressly acknowledged the true nature of the transaction. At least, that's what I assumed.
I was wrong.
"I'm sorry, Señora, I wish I could help you with your dilemma." He shook his head and lifted his hands, palms up. "Life would be very good indeed, if I would be able to do such a thing. I'd be a rich man."
My cheeks burned as I realized my mistake. Of course. He didn't know me from Adam. He probably thought I was going to turn him in- that I was part of a sting operation or worse. Why did I think he'd respond to a complete stranger? A woman, no less. I could have kicked myself for my stupidity.
“You should visit the American consulate. I’m sure they will be happy to help you.”
"I-I'm so sorry. My friend must have been mistaken." I turned to leave and noticed the sandy-haired man staring at me. Still embarrassed, I ignored him as I passed, heading for the door. It looked like I needed a Plan B.
"Let me-" the sandy-haired guy said, and reached around me to open the door.
Australian accent. Looked like a surfer.
"Thanks," I said, and walked through the door onto the street. My taxi was where I'd left it,
the cabbie's head laid back against the headrest, apparently taking a siesta.
"Is this yours?" he asked, indicating the cab. His brown eyes had an earnestness that made me smile. I was tempted to brush his tousled hair away from his face. He wasn't bad looking, for a surfer.
I nodded and reached for the cab's door handle.
"I can help you," he said.
I turned to face him, sizing him up.
"What do you mean?"
"What you asked Juan for in there- a passport." He looked around, casually. No one was within hearing distance.
"You know him?"
"Sure. Everybody knows Juan. But only a few know what he does on the side."
Well, then. Maybe there was hope for this idea yet.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
He grinned, and his face lit up. "I thought you'd never ask."
***
His name was Tristan. He was in his mid-thirties and I'd guessed right- he was from Australia and loved to surf. He landed in Mazatlán a month before and decided to take an extended break from his year-long surf odyssey.
"I wasn't getting any younger, you know? I knew if I didn't do it this time, I'd probably never get the chance."
We sat at an open-air bar under a palapa, sipping margaritas. The ocean breeze felt like a caress on my face. If I closed my eyes, I could almost believe I was on vacation.
Almost.
"So what's your story, Ava?"
I'd given him the name I picked out for my fake passport. The less people who knew me as Kate, the better.
"I'm a little embarrassed," I began, sliding my finger around the rim of my drink to remove some of the salt. "My boyfriend and I had a fight and I left in a huff, forgetting my passport. Now he won't give it back, and my flight leaves the end of the week. I met a guy who told me about Juan, but he didn't mention I had to have an introduction in order to deal with him." I shrugged and took a sip. "I didn’t get a number."
Tristan leaned closer, his shoulder touching mine. He smelled faintly of salt water and spicy aftershave. I found myself relaxing for the first time in weeks. The margarita helped, and Tristan had a personal magnetism that reminded me of much better days.
Not to mention he had a great ass.
"If you don't mind being from a different country than the U.S., I think it would only take a couple of days to get one made. Although, I'm warning you now, it will be exy."
"Expensive?"
"Yeah. I think the last time it was ten grand, easy." He finished his margarita and ordered a beer from the bartender.
"You want another?" he asked.
I nodded. What the hell. I hadn't felt this good in a long time. An execution didn't appear to be in my immediate future. And ten grand for a fake passport didn't sound so bad.
Not if it meant getting as far away from Salazar and Anaya as possible.
We left the bar an hour later, headed for a nearby taco stand, giggling like fools from his outrageous surfer stories. He finished off a humungous burrito in the time it took me to eat a taco.
"Why don't you come with me?" The invitation was delivered with nonchalance, but I detected intense interest in the answer.
I reached over and wiped a drop of salsa off his chin.
"You mean to Fiji?"
"Yeah. What do ya think?" He grinned and nudged me with his elbow. "There's no better place to learn how to surf, guaranteed."
He'd mentioned earlier that his next and last stop would be Fiji before returning home to Australia.
"Get me a passport, darlin' and we'll talk about it."
"Too right!" He grabbed me around the waist and started to Samba in the street. I laughed and followed his lead.
He talked me into continuing our dancing at a club, but first, he'd parked his rented van along a side street and wanted to move it closer to the strip so it would be easier to find later. Once we'd accomplished that, we headed for a Latin dance club and more drinks.
By the time two o'clock rolled around, I was seriously ready to get back to my hotel room, and I wanted Tristan to join me. I felt a small measure of safety with him around, even though I knew I was deceiving myself.
As he walked me up the steps to my hotel, I leaned into him and nuzzled his neck. He tightened his arm around me and kissed the top of my head.
"Stay with me?" I asked.
He nodded, and we took the elevator to my room.
***
The echo of laughter followed by a door slamming shut in the hallway jolted me awake. I lay still for a minute, trying to remember where I was. The memory of Tristan naked brought a languid smile to my face and I rolled onto my side to snuggle up next to him.
The bed was empty.
I sat up and ran my fingers through my hair.
"Tristan?" No answer. I wrapped the sheet around me and slid off the bed, padding over to the open door to the balcony, half-expecting to see him reading the paper and drinking coffee.
Two empty glasses and a napkin from the night before sat on the low table. No Tristan. I mentally shrugged. Maybe he'd gone for coffee. I turned and walked back into the room, heading for the bathroom.
I stopped. Something wasn’t right.
I back tracked a couple of steps and looked again.
My breath caught in my throat. I sank onto the bed and stared at the closet.
At the open, empty safe.
No.
The events of the night before clicked into place, as though a lock had just tumbled to the right combination.
The sinking feeling in my gut told me the memory that I'd opened the safe and given him the ten thousand dollars for the passport after we’d made love wasn't a dream.
But I also remembered resetting the safe and closing the door.
How long had he been gone? I flung myself off the bed and rushed to the closet where I threw on my freshly laundered jeans and tee shirt, slid into my shoes and ran out the door to the elevator. The lift took too long, so I raced to the stairwell and flew down the six flights to the lobby.
When I reached the huge front door, I stopped to orient myself.
Left. We'd parked the van down the street to the left. Almost knocking the doorman over, I sprinted down the sidewalk, past the few early morning tourists sipping cups of steaming coffee, toward where we'd parked the night before.
Halfway down the next block, I spotted the van. Relief surged through me. At the same time hurt and anger at Tristan's betrayal boiled to the surface.
I spotted him as he crossed the street, carrying my backpack. I was still too far from the van.
"Tristan!"
Startled, he looked up. Our eyes met. Without breaking stride, he opened the door, tossed the backpack into the van, got in and shut the door. He bowed his head for a moment, and then glanced up and watched me through the windshield as the engine turned over.
The force of the blast threw me backward onto the sidewalk. The explosion rocked the boulevard, shattering plate glass windows and setting off car alarms up and down the street. I rolled to my side and lifted myself onto my elbow. A still burning door from the van landed in the street with a crash, narrowly missing a red car driving past. Pieces of what looked like singed hundred dollar bills fluttered to the ground. A child's wail split through the chaos.
I struggled to stand, and held onto the granite storefront next to me for support. Enveloped in flames, the van was a hulking, charred chassis, reminding me of pictures I'd seen on the news of roadside bombings in Iraq. I staggered closer, bracing myself in case some part of Tristan remained, but it seemed improbable that any of him survived.
The wail of sirens broke through the shock. I had to leave, now.
In a panic, I turned away from the scene, and realized I had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. I couldn't go back to my hotel room. Obviously, someone knew exactly where I was, who I was with and where I was going. I leaned forward and tried to catch my breath.
People ran in all directions. I scanned the crowd that ha
d started to gather around the burning van, afraid I might recognize someone from Salazar's army of gunmen.
That's when I realized it could be anyone. Male, female, it wouldn't matter. If they could get to me this fast, I didn't have a chance. Fear rooted my feet to the spot. My brain screamed at me to run.
I forced myself to walk away.
Luis. I had to call Luis. It may not be the most secure option, but it was the best. They’d be careful. They knew Salazar had an informant in one of the agencies. Or, maybe it was Anaya. I had enough information on both to put them away for years. And, I knew how to find Anaya's camp in the northern mountains.
I reached into my pocket, praying that the piece of paper with Luis' cell phone number was still there. It was. I sighed with relief. The valet must have removed it prior to laundering the jeans, and then replaced it before delivering them to my room. With knees shaking, I walked into the next hotel and found a phone.
***
Twenty-four hours later, I was onboard a helicopter, headed for the states. The game had changed after Luis transferred my phone call to Chance, and I told him that I had information on Vincent Anaya as well as Salazar. After his arrest, Salazar had made a deal with the Mexican government to betray Anaya in return for a lesser sentence. Ultimately, the DEA agreed to the terms, as Anaya headed an organization that reached well beyond Mexico. In return, they anticipated Anaya's extradition to the U.S.
That didn't happen.
With my recorded testimony, and that of two other witnesses, Anaya was sentenced to twelve years - in a Mexican prison. The Mexican judge was well known for being open to bribes, and the prison he chose for Anaya was well known for taking good care of its prisoners, for a price. He'd be able to run his empire easily from his cell, all with the protection of armed guards. Infuriated by what he viewed as the betrayal of the agents who lost their lives during the operation, Chance vowed to find a way to bring both Anaya's and Salazar's operations down, whatever the cost.