Rick Mofina - In Desperation

When Galviera got to the outskirts of the city, he went to JBD Mini-Storage and found the self-storage unit he’d rented. He collected the nylon gym bags containing the $1.1 million in cash. Then he drove across the metro area to another self-storage outlet and collected more bags until he had a total of $2.5 million in brick-sized bundles of unmarked tens and twenties.

He checked his email.

Nothing had come in.

Sweat beaded on his upper lip as he drove along the edges of Phoenix. From the news reports, seeing Cora begging for Tilly, urging him to go to police, he knew Cora was in agony. That Cora and Tilly were suffering because of him was tearing him up.

God, he was so sorry. He’d never, ever meant for any of this to happen.

He scanned the streets, thinking that whatever Cora thought of him now, she had to know that he was doing all he could. First, he needed gas. He spotted a service station.

One with a pay phone.

While filling up he decided he had to tell Cora, he had to risk the call being traced. He’d do it to give her some relief. After filling up, he went to the phone and called her number. A man answered, put him on hold, then-

“Lyle! Oh my God! Oh my God, Lyle!”

“Cora, I’m so-”

“Do you have Tilly?”

“I’m working on it… I-”

“Where are you?”

“Cora, listen, I am so sorry…this is all so complicated. I know we had dreams-”

“Turn yourself in now! Tell the FBI where you are. We have to find Tilly! Where are you?”

“I’m going to see Tilly soon, Cora. I swear to you I am going to fix this!”

Somewhere North of Phoenix, Arizona

Soon it would be over.

Ruiz Limon-Rocha finished his call and switched off the stolen cell phone. After taking the precaution of removing the battery, he hurled the pieces into the river, looking at the silvery rush of water for relief from his apprehension.

Considering their recent narrow escape from the motel and their brush with the patrolmen at the gas station, Ruiz figured it was a race between completion of the job or their luck running out.

Ruiz would be glad to return to Mexico; for the first time he missed the low-paying job of a soldier in the military.

It was a much simpler life.

Now they were wanted, hunted men in America and the FBI was gaining on them, given that Ruiz and Alfredo’s faces were as prominent in news stories about the kidnapping as the girl’s.

Since fleeing the motel, they had lain low, awaiting orders here on an isolated back road east of Interstate 17. They’d found sanctuary among a stand of mesquite trees. Their twisting branches offered cool shade. Nothing and no one else in sight.

“Was that Thirty again?” Alfredo said from the car’s reclined passenger seat.

“Yes. He said the sicario is coming, that he is close.”

“That’s what he said an hour ago. Does he have our coordinates?”

“Yes.”

“We should abort the operation. There is too much heat.”

“They don’t care. The operation will be completed. It’s a matter of honor for them. Remember, they want everyone to get the message.”

Ruiz narrowed his eyes, keeping vigil on the long dirt road.

“I have never killed anyone, Ruiz, have you?”

“Yes.”

“Who did you kill?”

“I don’t wish to talk about it,” Limon-Rocha said.

“If it comes down to us, I cannot kill a child. I have children.”

“Alfredo, I told you we do not do this, the sicario does it. We follow his orders. That is how it is done. And he does it in the most stunning way. You saw the news. You saw what he did to the American cops.”

“The Tarantula.”

“Yes.”

“He is a legend, there are narcocorridos written about him. Have you ever met him?”

“Yes, I helped him once before.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He is a perfect assassin.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He will kill anyone. He is hollow, nothing inside.”

Ruiz nodded to the distance. Alfredo sat up and saw the rising dust clouds. After a long moment, a battered pickup truck emerged. As it drew closer they distinguished an old man in a straw hat behind the wheel.

The brakes creaked as it came to a halt with the engine running.

The young man in the passenger seat gave the driver cash and got out. He retrieved a backpack from the bed of the truck, tapped it with his palm, waving to the driver as the truck disappeared down the road, leaving his passenger standing before Ruiz and Alfredo.

Wearing sunglasses, a Lady Gaga T-shirt and torn, faded jeans, his pack slung over his shoulder, Angel Quinterra-the most feared cartel assassin-looked as if he’d just come from a high school class.

“Hola, Ruiz.”

Somewhere North of Phoenix, Arizona

Tilly could hear the creeps.

Beyond the metal walls of the trunk, their voices were clear, but they were talking so fast in Spanish she couldn’t understand everything they were saying.

Something about the legend of a dangerous spider, a tarantula .

Now she heard the crunch of wheels on dirt; a car was approaching, coming very close then creaking. It stopped but a motor was running.

A door opened then shut and the car drove away.

A new voice-it sounded younger.

Was this help? Or was this danger?

Fast talking in Spanish that Tilly could not understand before the voices faded and the talkers walked away, leaving her on the brink of tears.

Alone in this hot, dark, stupid coffin.

She wanted to scream at them.

Let me out! Let me go! I want my mom!

But she kept quiet. Noise made them angry.

Her eyes stung.

How long had it been? What day was this? She didn’t know how much longer she could last.

Don’t cry. Don’t give in. Be strong. Be smart.

The creeps fed her by placing bags of hamburgers, French fries, tacos, potato chips, chocolate bars and cans of soda in the trunk. Then they removed her gag and stood over her, watching for anyone approaching until she finished. Then they’d replace the gag. And she had no privacy. For a toilet, they’d take her to rest stops, one of them always entering with her, keeping the stall door open, making her hurry, making sure no one saw. It made her feel like an animal.

But she got used to it.

It was a little better now-now that they’d stopped cramming her into the suitcase. When they’d let her out, her hopes rose with the glowing interior trunk-release handle. Tilly pulled it but it didn’t work because the creeps had cut the cable. They’d put thick blankets and pillows on the trunk’s floor, letting her stretch out. They’d still kept her gagged with a bandanna and bound with duct tape. It was a bit cooler, too, but it was still stinky like rubber tires, exhaust and gasoline.

What’s going to happen? What’re they going to do to me?

A wave of sadness rolled over her.

Tilly missed her mom. She was the best mom in the world.

“Sweetheart, if you see me, I love you. We’re doing everything to bring you home safely…” When Tilly saw her on the TV news, she knew her mom would never give up looking for her.

And Tilly knew her mom would tell her the same thing she’d always told her: “You shouldn’t think about what you don’t have. Instead, you should thank God for what you do have-a mother who loves you and will always love you, no matter what.”

There were a few other things Tilly had learned from her mother.

Never ever give up on the important things, because they don’t come easy.