Whitewater (Rachel Hatch #6)(10)

Taylor looked through the fish-eyed leans of the peephole again. The man on the other side of the door wore a wide brimmed hat that obscured most of his face, leaving only the bottom of his pale chin exposed. A well-tailored suit draped loosely over his thin frame. In his left hand, he held what appeared to be a wide leather briefcase comparable in shape and size to a small dog carrier. The thing Taylor found most odd, was the fact the man on the other side wore gloves.

Taylor pushed back from the door and moved over near the table. In a low whisper he described their visitor.

"Let him in."

"I don't like it. You heard me? Right? He's wearing gloves."

Moss shrugged indifference. "Maybe he's real careful. Guys like this aren't going around leaving their fingerprints all over the place. Or hell, maybe he's a damned germophobe."

Taylor's excitement from the moment before, during the cash exchange, seemed less so now in face of the surprise guest. Panic set in as the realization that he, middle-aged attorney from Phoenix, was going face to face with a member of the Fuentes Cartel, one of the deadliest crime families in the world. He didn't like that but he hoped in the brief exchange he could pass by and out and leave this behind. Taylor vowed right there and then to pick a less dangerous path to his opulence. He certainly did not want another one of these experiences, in the future or ever. The exhilaration was replaced by the fear churning in the pit of his stomach.

He looked at the plastic trashcan by the dresser and fought the urge to fill it with the contents of his stomach, which at the current moment consisted of weak coffee and a sticky bun. Fighting to keep his composure, Taylor shifted back over to the door and unlatched the chain lock and released the deadbolt. His hand rested on the cool stainless steel of the knob for a moment before he opened the door to the man outside.

Taylor stepped aside allowing him access. Once inside, the man said nothing as he took three steps to enter the room and bring himself in front of the chair where Taylor had just sat. He placed the case on the dirty table, positioning it so the latch opening faced Moss. Taylor noticed the leather case had small holes along the sides.

Moss gestured to the door with his eyes. Taylor, taking the unspoken command, realized he'd remained frozen in place after opening the door and his hand was still on the knob.

"Please shut the door." The man in the hat spoke clearly and quietly.

Taylor's skin crawled. He clutched the brown bag a little tighter and it crinkled loudly. "I was just leaving."

"Shut the door." The volume and cadence of the man's voice was the same, but this second utterance had a coldness to it that caused Taylor to break into a cold sweat.

With the doorknob still in hand and the door wide open, Taylor decided to make a break for it. He felt the sun on his face as he stepped his left foot through the threshold. His right foot never felt the freedom of the pavement outside the door. The gloved hand of their visitor gripped him by the shoulder.

Taylor spun. Off-kilter, he fell backward. His body slammed into the door, closing it.

Looking into the man's eyes which peeked from under the brim, he could see two faded scars, small circles that looked like burst stars just under the man's right eye. It was the last thing he saw before the bullet passed through his head.





Six





Azul pulled the ambulance to a stop in a strip mall parking lot. It sat idling in front of a Kenmore appliance store. Both businesses on either side were vacant. And from the looks of it, had been for a very long time. Hatch leaned forward and looked past her kind-hearted chauffeur.

Through the driver's side window, Hatch saw across the street to a building that looked more like a sandcastle than a police department. The light brown stone exterior blended into the dirt berm behind it. The sign affixed to the chain link fence topped with razor wire read, “Policia Municipal, Nogales.” Beyond the fence, the steepled front with an arched, clear glass window at the center above the main doors looked more like a church than a law enforcement headquarters.

"Across the street," Azul pointed in the direction of a guard station by a pedestrian access gate, "at that little hut. You see it? That's where you check in. Tell them you're there to speak with one of the officers and they'll tell you where to go."

"Thanks." Hatched grabbed the door handle.

"Look, it's not my business—but if I can help…"

He let the question linger. Hatch noticed it was the third time he'd tried to bring it up without asking, but once again, Hatch offered nothing to satiate his thirst for understanding. Not that she didn't trust him. In their short time together, he'd proved that he was trustworthy. No, Hatch's disregard of his offer came from a different place. Protection. The people she was going after wouldn't hesitate to hurt anybody remotely connected with her and she knew this. The less he knew the better.

"You've been a great help, Azul. I can't thank you enough. I owe you." She took his hand in hers and shook it. "And I always repay my debts.".

"No need. The pleasure was mine."

Hatch exited, stepping on a half-eaten chicken wing overrun with ants. A nearby dumpster added its foul contribution to the weighty heat of mid-morning.

Just before shutting the door, Azul said, "You know where to find me, if you ever need me."