“I used to drive for a security company,” Miguel said when our eyes met in the rearview mirror.
“Lucky for me,” I said. “Jesús, I’m sorry about the tunnel.”
“It happens. We shut it down, find another safe house, open it again in a year. It’s part of the work we do.”
“And what work is that, exactly?”
He gave me a wry smile. “Señora Torres and I are not traffickers. And we’re not polleros, either—not coyotes. Some of the migrants crossing Mexico from Guatemala and Honduras, they need to cool their heels for a bit. They’re waiting for family members, or they need money, or they’re just too tired or terrified to go on. So we hide them. From the policía who would give them to the cartels, and from the cartels who would traffic them. Torres trains them and gives them work. Some learn to do the tattooing. Others sew or work day crews. Then, when the money comes or the spouse comes or they recover their courage, we get them moving north again. They have to keep going. They’re running away from gangs or vendettas or abusive husbands. For them, to return home means death.”
Headlights swam over us from a passing car and then fell away. “You’re a good man to help them.”
He looked out the window and shrugged. “It takes many hands. But there are never enough.”
“Every soul counts,” I offered, thinking of Malik.
“So now my turn. Who are these men chasing you? And why do they flex so much muscle?”
“I think they’re trying to prove to me that this is too big. That I have no hope of winning. But, honestly, I don’t know who they are. Not exactly.” I glanced out at the passing city. Somewhere out there was one small boy. “I just know we’re after the same thing.”
“And what is that?”
I shook my head. “Forgive me, Jesús. After all your help, I owe you an explanation. But the story isn’t mine to share.”
“It’s okay.” He touched his heart. “We, all of us, carry others’ stories. Maybe someday you can share, when this is over.”
If it ever was.
Forty minutes later, satisfied we weren’t being followed, Miguel pulled up to the curb in front of a weather-beaten motel with a miniscule lobby and ten rooms set along the long arm of an L. The entire street was lined with similar motels of the kind frequented by American and European teenagers taking a gap year before college—clean and safe but without any frills.
“I figured you’d want a quiet place and a clear view of the street,” Jesús said. “One way in, one way out.”
I nodded, pushing back a wave of fatigue that threatened to swamp me. “It’s perfect.”
“Wait here. I’ll get the key.”
When he returned, I made my farewells to the infantería, then Jesús and I walked together down the long arm of the L to Room 9. I unlocked the door, and we inspected the room. Nothing more threatening than another spider, this one in the bathroom.
Jesús turned to me. “I will be right outside if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Jesús, but no. You’ve done enough. This is a good place, and we weren’t followed. I’ll be fine.”
“You said that the last time we parted. Am I right? No, my friends and I will stay close by and keep watch. We’ll see everyone who comes and goes. Anything suspicious, we’ll come and get you. You focus on sleep.”
I groaned. “I’ll sleep—”
“When you’re dead.” He rolled his eyes. “Such a Marine. That day is too far away, mi amiga. Sleep. Even the toughest warriors need their beauty rest.”
I shrugged out of his jacket and tried to hand it to him, along with his cap.
“Keep them. Souvenirs of the night you lived.”
“Let’s hope that wasn’t a one-off.”
“It never is. Until it isn’t.”
I laughed, but the laugh turned into something else. Another tsunami threatened to buckle my knees. I touched Jesús’s cheek briefly, conscious of the blood on my palm, under my fingernails. “Gracias, amigo. For everything.”
“It is my pleasure.” He caught my hand. “Buenas noches, Sydney. Sleep well.”
Inside the room, I bolted the door, dropped my duffel on the bed, then ripped off my bloodstained clothes and stepped into the shower. The stall was moldy, and I had to share the space with the spider I’d spotted earlier. Jesús had lifted his foot to crush it, but I’d stopped him. No more death. Sharing the room with the spider seemed only fair, since I was the interloper.
I took my corner, and he took his, but he scurried away as soon as I turned on the tap. Fickle friend. I cranked the faucet until the wheezy stream of water was as hot as it would go and then let it burn away the surface of my skin still stained with Angelo’s blood. I used every bit of soap and shampoo as I scrubbed my hair and body, then stood with my face turned into the spray and rinsed my mouth until I no longer tasted blood. My weeping mixed with the fall of water, and I could tell myself the tears were only that—a warm mingling of oxygen and hydrogen.
The minutes ticked by, and still I did not move. Then the air shifted, and the stall seemed to shrink, and, even in the heat, goose bumps ran down my back. Behind me, I sensed a ghostly presence. I didn’t have to turn to picture Angelo standing with me in the small space, his ruined face awash with water, his butchered hands hanging helpless near his thighs. I kept my back turned and my eyes closed, for I could not bear to see him.
Our ghosts are our guilt.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, water leaking into my mouth where it mingled with the tears. “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. I didn’t know they were following me. And I didn’t know they would go after you.”
A thick silence greeted my words.
My counselor would have advised me to turn around, to face my demons and confirm that they existed only in the traumatized space between my ears. But although Peter Hayes had served in Iraq just as I had, he had not spent long nights alone with the newly deceased. Hayes was wise about many things, but about the dead, I feared he was, well, dead wrong. If I turned, I would learn that I was not alone.
I spread my hands flat against the ancient tiles and pressed my forehead to the slimy wall. The water pounded the back of my head and neck, burned down my back, and roiled at my feet as my chest heaved with sobs.
“You have to go,” I said at last. “I can’t think with you so close.”
By the time the water turned cold, my tears had stopped and Angelo had vanished. I lifted my chin and shunted aside the self-pity. I was here to find Malik. He was all that mattered, and I would not let myself be sidetracked by grief or guilt or fear. His mother had given her life for the Marines, and, if need be, I would do the same for her son. The life of one boy might seem a small thing against the backdrop of a still-raging war. Against the loss of so many. But if I ever came to believe that, my soul would be forfeit.
I stepped out of the shower, turned away from the mirror.
Despite what I’d told Jesús, I needed some sleep to clear my head before I could plan my next move. A good six hours, then I’d be ready for the world again.
To sleep, perchance to dream.
But not here. The Alpha seemed capable of reaching anyone—of corrupting them, or torturing them, or killing them. I had to find a different hotel. A place where no one would be at risk for the simple sin of knowing me.
I dried off with the rough towel, donned a clean tank top and my filthy cargo pants, placed Jesús’s cap and jacket on the bed, then grabbed my bag and cranked up the volume on the television set.
I went out the window above the toilet.
CHAPTER 4
There are good and bad people on both sides of a conflict. The trick is in figuring out which is which. And who is working for whom.
—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.
At 2:00 p.m. the next day, I sat at a table in an open-air coffee shop in the Mexico City suburb of Ecatepec with a café Americano and a plate of sugar-dusted pan dulce.
I’d arranged myself
with my back to the adobe brick wall, my chair half-hidden by a riotous climb of brilliant-red bougainvillea and the shade cast by the eaves of the roof two stories above. The afternoon was quiet, save for the occasional rattle of cutlery and clink of glasses as a woman set the tables inside. I tried to relax as I took in the mingled aromas of coffee and baking bread and the sweet waft of the flowers nodding in a soft breeze.
Angelo had died a soldier in a war he hadn’t even known was being waged. But the fact that the Alpha’s men had gone so far meant they were desperate. Malik was not yet in their sights. And for the moment, at least, I’d shaken off their pursuit. Over the next hour, perhaps I would learn something that would help me find Malik. And find a way to keep him safe.
I put down my coffee and sat back. I wore a newly purchased embroidered blue blouse, a long skirt, sunglasses, leather huaraches, and a straw hat, bought at a market that morning. I’d dyed my hair a dark brown and replaced my usual braid with a tight chignon coiled at the nape of my neck. I looked minty and new, or so I hoped, the duffel sitting next to my sandaled feet the only outwardly tattered thing about me.
To any casual observer, I hoped to pass as a local, an idle expat housewife enjoying the afternoon while she watched the sun bake the world into a torpor.
The waiter, a friendly twenty-something, appeared at my table.
“You like the abrazos?” he asked, gesturing toward the pastries on the red-and-white patterned plate. “They are a warm hug, are they not? Those with the cream, they are my favorite.”
I smiled and picked up my coffee. “They are very good.”
“Would you like more coffee?”
“Por favor.”
“I’ll be right back.”
The little square in the town of Ecatepec was a sleepy, sun-drenched refuge. After my trip to the market that morning, I’d taken an Uber to the Buenavista subway station, then the suburban railway to Lechería Station. From there, I’d used a combination of taxis, another subway, and a bus before walking the final stretch. When I was absolutely sure there was no one on my tail, I’d selected this table tucked into the afternoon shadows. My duffel was within easy reach on the ground, the stun gun with its remaining three cartridges sitting on top of my filthy clothes.
I was there to meet a man named Ehsan Zarif, who ran security for the Jameh Mosque where Malik had been photographed. When I called him that morning and introduced myself, Zarif had assured me the place was known only to the neighborhood locals. “You won’t find it on any tourist map,” he’d promised. Which made it a good place to rendezvous if you didn’t want to be seen.
And Zarif and I did not want to be seen. I had my own reasons. For him, it would likely raise uncomfortable questions if he were spotted in the company of a young American woman, sharing pastries with her on a Sunday afternoon.
And meeting at the mosque had been out of the question—the Alpha almost certainly knew about it by now. Extreme pain like the kind Angelo suffered sooner or later makes everyone talk.
The waiter strolled out of the café and refilled my cup. He smiled at me, then stretched and yawned, taking in the day before strolling back inside. I was his only customer. I scooted my chair a few inches to the right to avoid the encroaching sunlight spilling across the tables and kept my face in shadow. I slid my phone from my pocket and checked the time. Still early.
Ten texts and two voice mails from Jesús. I’d sent him a text earlier, thanking him and letting him know I was all right. I ignored these newest messages and my guilt and dropped the phone back in the pocket of my skirt.
In the distance, a train blew its horn. The sound pushed against the effects of the coffee and adrenaline, and my heart rate slowed. But the sound also brought a deep desire for Denver and those I loved. If his schedule permitted, Cohen would be out for a midafternoon run with Clyde, the mountains rising in steep blue ridges beyond the park near police headquarters. Clyde would ignore the taunts of magpies and mountain blue jays, and the lure of the squirrels darting between trees. He would stay with Cohen.
I sat up when a man appeared on the far side of the square. Of medium height and build, he had a neatly trimmed gray beard and wore jeans, tennis shoes, a collarless shirt, and a black suit jacket. A black ball cap topped off the mix of casual and professional. He stood motionless as he scanned the restaurant patio. I leaned forward, into the sunlight. When he saw me, he smiled and made his way across the square.
I stood when he drew near.
“Ms. Parnell?” he asked in unaccented English.
“Sydney. And you are Mr. Zarif?”
“Ehsan. Please.” We shook hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet someone from my home country.”
“You’re American?” I asked.
“First generation. My parents fled Iran for the US in 1979, after the shah was deposed. I grew up in San Diego, but I went to college in Boulder, not far from your hometown of Denver.”
Of course he had researched my background. “You speak like a native.”
“You’re kind. But not completely truthful. Still, I try.”
“And now you live here. In Mexico.”
“I still have my American citizenship. But I’m an expat. Or, as I prefer, a man of the world.”
“Most people are running in the opposite direction.”
The skin around his eyes crinkled. “What do they know?”
He held my hand for a moment, cupped in both of his in the Persian manner as we took a moment to inspect each other. He was not what I expected. Most people who work security are physical, almost overbearingly so, and they carry themselves with an aggressive body language designed to discourage anyone from getting close to their clients. Zarif’s gentle gaze and frameless glasses gave him the look of someone more comfortable running Google searches than chasing bad guys.
But appearances could be deceiving. And there was the matter of the gun he was packing; I’d taken note of the outline of an ankle holster beneath his jeans as he approached. Possibly there was another gun in his back waistband.
He released my hand.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” I said.
“Of course. Although you were very mysterious.” He smiled. “But then, maybe that’s why I came. Who can resist a mystery?”
“There are things I prefer not to say on the phone.”
“And who, I wonder, do you think might be listening in?” He cocked his head. “You mentioned a man named Angelo Garcia.”
“Please,” I said. “Sit down. Would you like some coffee?”
His smile was bemused, but he nodded. “It is one reason I picked this place. Aside from your desire for privacy. Their coffee and pastries are without parallel.”
He waited until I had resumed my seat, then chose the chair across from mine so that his back was to the square. Not something I’d ever seen a security guy do.
At my raised eyebrow, he said, “I trust you’ll watch my back.”
“Of course.” But I was wondering what was up with this guy. Maybe running security at his mosque was more of a theoretical job than an actual need.
The waiter reemerged and took Zarif’s order for a double espresso and more pastries.
When we were alone again, I asked, “How can you be sure you weren’t followed?”
“That mystery again,” Zarif said. “I did as you asked. Although my secretary will forever wonder at my insistence on borrowing her car instead of taking my own.”
“She won’t talk?”
“No more than usual. Now tell me what I can do for you.”
I drew in a breath. Zarif hadn’t been on my original list of people I’d planned to meet with. During the night, as I’d tossed and turned in a new bed in a new hotel, I’d debated how much I would reveal to him. I needed to persuade him to share what he knew—if indeed he knew anything—without giving him any more information than was necessary.
As for Zarif posing any risk to me or to Malik, I had little concern. From what I could g
lean online, his life seemed straightforward. He served as the head of security for Jameh Mosque. The mosque’s website said he was married with two children, and spent his free time playing tennis, coaching his daughter’s soccer team, and painting landscapes.
The mosque itself appeared as banal as the Presbyterian church I’d grown up with. Jameh was the cornerstone of its small Muslim community, a meeting place for the locals with not only a prayer hall but also a community room, programs for young mothers and preschoolers, and soccer teams for the older girls and boys—the Islamic equivalent of a local parish.
“I need to be clear,” I said. “There is risk for you in meeting with me. Maybe—probably—a lot of risk.”
Zarif raised a sardonic brow. “I got that sense.”
“I’m very serious about this, Ehsan. People have died.”
His expression turned somber. “After you called me this morning, I did some digging into your past. Your time in the Marines. Your work as a railway cop. You will forgive me for this, I hope. I would be remiss not to do so.”
“Of course.”
“I saw nothing there that would explain why you reached out to me. You have asked for my help, and because you made me curious and because I hate to turn down a woman in need, here I am. But I don’t understand what help I can possibly provide.”
An image rose in my mind of the woman Haifa and the Marine, Resenko, their butchered bodies arranged next to each other in a small house in Habbaniyah. And eight-year-old Malik, weeping nearby. In my memory, I once again gathered him in my arms and carried him outside, his eyes wide and wet in the moonlight.
Zarif cleared his throat, and I snapped back to the sun-drenched patio.
“For six months, I’ve been looking for an eleven-year-old boy named Malik,” I said. “His mother was an interpreter for the Marines in Habbaniyah, in Iraq.”
Zarif’s brow furrowed. “Okay.”
I spun the saucer under my coffee cup around with restless fingers. “When Malik was eight, his mother was murdered by insurgents. After she died, Malik spent a lot of time on our forward operating base. I think he felt safe on the FOB. Outside the wire, it was chaos. There were corpses on the street every morning, local nationals who had been kidnapped and tortured the night before.”
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