Rick Mofina - In Desperation

She worked her wrists a bit more.

The tape remained secure, but little by little Tilly could feel her bindings loosening.

Black Canyon City, Arizona

Some forty miles north of Phoenix, the white Ford sedan with Tilly Martin captive in the trunk exited Interstate 17.

Dangerously low on fuel, Tilly’s captors had driven into Black Canyon City, looking for a service station. Ruiz was behind the wheel, concentrating on scanners and radio news reports, while Alfredo nagged him about their predicament.

“I don’t like this,” Alfredo said. “We should call the bosses, end it now.”

“Shut up.”

“But it’s not good, Ruiz.”

“You are like an old woman. Do you have any balls?”

Ruiz questioned the wisdom of the bosses in Mexico who’d selected Alfredo for this job. He lacked the ability to think quickly on his feet. If the jackass came within a hair of becoming a liability, Ruiz would remove him without hesitation, probably with the Glock-20 he had under his seat.

Black Canyon City sat in a valley carved out before the Bradshaw Mountains foothills. It used to be a stagecoach station. All seemed peaceful in the night as sleepy frontier storefronts flowed by. Ruiz focused on the scanners and radio news. Hearing nothing on their motel, he resumed analyzing what had happened in Phoenix. Yes, they’d been caught off guard but Ruiz had kept his cool. Reading the unease in the stinking motel manager’s face, he’d seized their only option.

Leave.

Ruiz was lucky Alfredo hadn’t gone to the door. Alfredo would have shot the manager, because Alfredo was stupid. The jackass had left the tank empty. He’d shown his lack of professionalism by ignoring Ruiz’s specific instructions to keep the car’s tank full when he picked up take-out food, so they would be ready for emergencies like this.

Shaking his head, Ruiz pushed back his growing anger until he spotted a gas station, a one-story cinder block building with a towering cactus on either side. It had a small café, and a flickering neon sign that offered “Curios” and an invitation to See Our Rattlesnake Display!

Ruiz parked by one of the four pumps designated for self-serve, got out, twisted off the fuel cap, put it on the roof and began filling the tank.

As the gas flowed, he gazed toward the mountains silhouetted against the evening sky and tried not to think of the small human in his trunk. She was a product, nothing more. This was a job, but unlike the others, this one was going to give a brutal message.

Time was almost up.

Soon the sicario would be brought in and it would be over.

Like that.

Ruiz glanced at the pump’s counter. A chill rattled up his spine when a blue-and-white patrol car for the Arizona Department of Public Safety with two DPS Highway Patrol officers eased up to the store. Ruiz cursed under his breath but continued filling the tank, thankful he’d told Alfredo to tighten the gag on the girl.

The officer who was driving opened his door.

Police radio chatter spilled from the car as he got out. He was a tall, well-built white boy, about thirty, trimmed moustache. He adjusted his utility belt, nodding at Ruiz. Ruiz returned his nod, then watched the officer head into the store.

The second officer was in the passenger seat, flipping through pages on a clipboard and checking the car’s small computer.

At that moment Alfredo got out and began cleaning the front and rear windshields. Talking low in Spanish to Ruiz, he asked: “What do we do?”

“Pay for the gas and leave.” Ruiz had finished. “Get back in the car.”

Ruiz replaced the nozzle and followed the officer into the store to pay.

Alfredo watched the officer in the car. He was older, tense with his paperwork, writing, making notes, checking. Alfredo glanced into the store. Ruiz was taking a long time. The officer in the car halted his work and turned his face to the computer. Something grabbed his attention and he spoke into his shoulder microphone.

Inside the store, Ruiz was standing behind the tall officer waiting his turn to pay when the radio bleated: “Dan, you know that thing we were talking about with the girl in Phoenix? Something’s up. They may have them.”

“Really?” the tall officer said. “Guess you owe me ten bucks. I told you that would pop.”

“They just sent a statewide.”

“Well, if your piece of crap unit hadn’t blown the rad, you might have been up for some OT. Now, are you sure you don’t want anything? Last chance.”

“Yeah, an orange soda and some of those spicy chips.”

The officer went to browse the chip rack and the thin, wrinkled man standing at the cash looked at Ruiz.

“Sir, I can serve you. Just the gas?”

Ruiz nodded.

“Thirty-five dollars.”

Ruiz put a twenty, a ten and a five on the counter.

“Would you like a receipt?”

“No.”

“Have a nice day.”

As Ruiz exited the store, he heard the tall cop’s radio going again but could not make out the message, only that the tone seemed urgent. Ruiz just needed to get to his car. The officer paid for his food, then followed him out the door, watching him, suddenly noticing something about the white Ford sedan.

Alfredo saw concern in the cop’s face as Ruiz got in the car.

Eyeing Ruiz and the car, the tall officer set his food on the ground and walked directly toward them. In a heartbeat, Ruiz turned the key, started the engine.

“Excuse me,” the officer said as his partner got out of his car to see.

Ruiz’s mind raced as he gripped the transmission shifter.

“Hold on there, sir!”

The officer was almost at the car. Alfredo whispered to Ruiz to pull out as Ruiz dropped his hand between his legs to feel the grip of his gun under the seat.

“Don’t move!” the officer said, going toward the trunk.

“Jesus. Just go!” Alfredo cursed Ruiz, who sat calmly, watching the officer reach above the trunk, then step to the driver’s window.

He held up the gas cap.

“You forgot this.”

“Oh.” Ruiz smiled. “Thank you.”

“We wouldn’t want you spilling gas all over the highway.” The cop replaced the cap, tapped the trunk to signal all clear. “Drive safely.”

Juarez, Mexico / El Paso, Texas

At 5:00 a.m., at the edge of Juarez, in a squalid house on a hilly dirt street of decaying adobes, burned-out cars and yapping dogs, Angel Quinterra lay in bed, waiting in the stillness.

He had not slept.

Again, as with every night, he was visited by the faces of the dead, telling him that death was coming for him.

Last night, two soldiers from the cartel had picked him up in an SUV near Lago de Rosas and brought him to this place.

“Sleep here,” they’d told him. “You will be called at 5:00 a.m. with instructions.”

When he’d arrived, the nervous man and woman who lived in the house had said little. Angel was told to refer to the couple as his “uncle and aunt,” and they gave him a small room with a bed. Above it was an ornate crucifix and a rosary draping the framed photograph of a smiling woman in her twenties.

Angel had no idea who she was and didn’t care.

This run-down shack was a far cry from the palatial ranch-the safe house-where Angel had been staying. As the cartel’s top sicario, he had grown accustomed to luxury while waiting between jobs. The cartel had placed him in the mansions of drug lords in Mexico or South America. Sometimes he took trips to Las Vegas, New York, Rio de Janeiro, or London. Always first class and the best hotels. Once he went to Barcelona to watch bull-fights, then to Monte Carlo to see a Formula One race, where he stayed on a private yacht.