Rick Mofina - In Desperation

A soft rap on the open door interrupted them.

“Excuse me,” Bonnie Larson said. “I thought you’d like to know we’ve just received confirmations from the lab and EPIC. The prints of our kidnappers belong to two Mexican nationals in the Norte Cartel.”

“Get on it.” Bruller reached for his phone. “I’ll advise NHQ.”

Returning to their desks, Larson pulled Hackett aside, dropped her voice. “Thank God I got you out of there. With all that yelling, I was afraid.”

“For me?”

“For Bruller.” Larson rolled her eyes. “The last time he was operational, cell phones were just a dream.”

Upon examining the new analysis, Hackett’s stomach tightened.

The first man was Ruiz Limon-Rocha, a Mexican National. DOB: 14 July 1980. Height: 5'11". Weight: Unknown. Hair Color: Black. Eye Color: Brown.

The second was Alfredo Hector Tecaza, a Mexican National. DOB: 03 December 1986. Height: 5'10". Weight: 170. Hair Color: Black. Eye Color: Brown.

Limon-Rocha and Tecaza were ex-military recruited by a high-ranking member of the Norte Cartel. The two dead guys in the desert were American ex-cops, believed to be working for the Norte Cartel before betraying them.

Hackett also reflected on the task force, now hitting upward of seventy people from a range of jurisdictions.

Unease gnawed at him. The Norte Cartel was known for infiltrating law enforcement agencies.

His phone rang. Bruller wasn’t finished. He had a question.

“What about Cora, the mother?”

“What about her?”

“How deep did we go on her background?”

“We’ve been through all this. You saw our reports. No record, no warrants. She admitted to her past addiction to hard drugs but has been clean for over eleven years, since her daughter’s birth.”

“She admitted to knowing drug dealers.”

“Yes, in the past, but her neighbors told us she is a clean-living, churchgoing single mom.”

Larson’s line rang. She picked up the call, then started waving frantically at Hackett.

“Right,” Bruller was saying into Hackett’s ear, “but her boyfriend was a money man for the Norte Cartel. We need to polygraph her. Let’s get that set up.”

Hackett hung up, knowing Bruller was right. He should’ve trusted his instinct and polygraphed Cora earlier.

“Earl!” Larson cupped one hand over the receiver. “It’s EPIC. They just got a lead that a sicario for the cartel just entered the U.S. at El Paso. They think he’s our guy for Salazar and Johnson and he’s on a bus to Phoenix now. Arizona DPS is talking to the bus company and the driver. They’re getting set to take it down now!”

Willcox, Arizona

Angel watched the desert roll by his window.

The bus, westbound on I-10, had just left New Mexico. It was nearly full with weary passengers: leather-skinned men in faded denim shirts, young mothers with small children, a few students, and a few grandmothers; people running away, or going home, people who kept to themselves. When they spoke, they talked softly in Spanish, their privacy protected by the drone of steel belts on asphalt.

Angel was alone.

The seat next to him was empty. He was taking in the wide-open landscape and mountain ranges, the territory where Cochise and Geronimo once rode.

But every few seconds his eyes shifted to the driver.

Something’s wrong .

Angel had been watching him in the big rearview mirror and, when the light was right, studied his reflection on the windows.

It was essential to Angel’s survival that he be aware of every sound, action and reaction.

Yes, he’d entered the U.S. earlier in Texas without incident. But his counterfeit documents had been scanned into computers. And the bus terminal went smoothly, but he’d noted the security cameras and an intelligent ticket agent who seemed capable of remembering faces when he glanced at him. “Just one way to Phoenix, sir?”

Angel took nothing-absolutely nothing-for granted as he continually assessed every iota of information to determine if it was a threat.

And now, he may have detected one.

Through the driver’s body language .

A short time ago, somewhere around San Simon, something twigged. The driver had taken a call on his cell phone. Angel could not hear any of it over the rush of the wheels and the fan pushing conditioned air, smelling of fabric freshener and diesel, through the old bus. But in seconds, the driver’s reaction to his call telegraphed alarm in a million ways.

While on the phone, he’d glanced into his mirror and quickly inventoried his passengers, nodding as he spoke. Angel noticed how, upon ending the call, the driver repositioned his grip on the wheel with both hands, then licked his lips. Then he dragged the back of one hand across his mouth as he constantly checked his side mirror.

As if he is expecting to see someone come up beside them .

The warning signs accumulated.

Trouble’s coming.

Angel had to act but he needed to keep calm. He controlled his breathing the way he’d been conditioned since his first days as a professional assassin.

At that time, the cartel had sent him to a secret training camp, where for several hard months hired mercenaries from around the world taught him how to maintain and shoot with accuracy every kind of gun, from pistols to assault rifles. He was instructed on how to use knives, bows and employ everyday items as weapons. Here is how a paper clip can be used to puncture an eyeball . The mercenaries taught him self-defense, how to read and escape dangerous situations and survive as a fugitive. They taught him the art of killing hand to hand, but not how to live with death on his conscience.

Angel had soon understood that killing was not possible for all the prospective hit men at the camp, where cartel enemies had been delivered for execution.

Some could not do it.

They could not look into the eyes of their target, a defiant man, a sobbing woman, even the pleading child of an enemy kneeling before them, and end their life. Some broke down, lost their minds.

They were the first to be executed.

Angel was different.

He held enough hate in his heart, knew the smell and taste of it, so that squeezing the trigger was a release.

An embrace .

But with time, killing had exacted a toll, and now he knew that his days as a sicario were numbered. He was tired of the torment, tired of living in the crosshairs, of facing eternal damnation. That is why he brokered his deal with the priest.

That is why he would bring it all to an end after this final job.

But it would end on his terms.

Not here.

Not with a white, potbellied bus driver squirming in his seat. Angel continued studying his actions for the next few miles and contemplated his options.

Since departing El Paso, Angel had used the bathroom a few times, familiarizing himself with the layout of the old bus, a Strato AirGlider, and the distribution of passengers, mentally noting which ones were using wireless laptops or cell phones, possibly watching news sites.

He was vigilant. None of the passengers, so far, posed a threat.

They were passing the Dos Cabezas Mountains and, according to the signs, nearing the exit for Willcox. That’s when Angel noticed a car had materialized alongside the driver’s left, then eased its way ahead of the bus, giving Angel a clear view.

It was a gleaming white Ford.

A Crown Victoria, no markings, no roof lights. But the push bars on the front bumper and back dash lights were telltale indicators of an unmarked police car.

Then the bus driver lifted two fingers in a subtle wave.