Whitewater (Rachel Hatch #6)(9)

"Two words: Witness Protection." Taylor offered.

"You really think they can protect me?" Moss huffed.

"Maybe. They've done it in other high-profile cases. Plenty of mob guys laying low somewhere." Taylor didn't know any of the stats on something like that, but he assumed.

Moss shrugged. "You think I'm going to be happy living in Mayberry and working in some office?"

"People do it all the time, Kyle."

"I'm not most people," he seethed. He then stretched out his arm and jingled the thirty-thousand-dollar Rolex. "I'm Kyle Freakin' Moss. I don't do that 9 to 5 bullshit!"

"You'd rather be on the run for the rest of your life?"

"Beats the alternative."

"And you trust these people?"

"I don't trust anybody, least of all the federal prosecutors or FBI investigators who will be looking for any reason to stick it to me. Besides, the minute I open my mouth, I'm as good as dead.

Taylor eyed the duffle. "And what's a quarter million or so going to get you really? How long are you going to be able to live on that?"

"Long enough. Plus, I was told once they sneak me across the border, they're going to set me up with them."

"You're going to work for the cartel? Doing what, exactly?"

"Doesn't matter. No choice in the matter. Mind's made up."

"And just how do you plan to get across the border? You've been flagged. The first thing the feds did the minute you ran was to put you on the no-fly list. It's not like you've got fake identification." Taylor thought about his last statement. "Wait, do you?"

"From this point forward, the less you know, the better. But let's just say, it's not that hard to border hop. Especially if you know the right people." Moss played with the cigarette in his hand as he surveyed the meager furnishings of the motel room. Twin beds, a dresser and tv, and the table where they both sat. "That's why we're here."

Moss sucked a long drag from the filtered cigarette. A curled bit of ash clung precariously from the burning ember at its end. He made no effort to tap it off, letting it hang there, until it was flung freely when he made an exasperated wave of his hand. "Why do you think I'm sitting in this shit motel, staring at you? They're going to meet me here. Before I called you, I called them."

"Wait. What? You called the cartel?" Taylor felt immediately uncomfortable with the thought of coming face to face with an actual member of the Fuentes Cartel.

"Of course, you think I'm just going to cross the border without some help?" Moss unzipped the duffel bag at his feet. He removed five stacks of cash, each banded and marked with 10K. "This fifty is for you, consider it severance pay."

Taylor thought about shoving the cash back across the ash covered table. But his conscience was silenced the second his finger touched one of the crisp, twenty-dollar bills atop the tightly packed stacks. Taylor also knew this would be the last stipend of money coming his way from his employer. Taking a page from Moss's book, Taylor realized the cash would make it easy should he need to go off the grid until the dust settled on this investigation. It wouldn't be long before the FBI dug into Taylor's background. He wasn't so sure how he'd look under the FBI's intense microscope.

Taylor grabbed a large paper bag from the nightstand. The bottle of tequila it had once contained was empty, the last glass half full in front of Moss. Taylor stuffed the cash inside and rolled it down making a paper briefcase. "How long do you have to wait?"

"They didn't give me a time. They just told me to come to the Sunnyside Motel and check into room number two. Somebody would be by to take me to the next destination."

"Did they ask you anything about the situation?"

"No." He smashed the cigarette into the top of the table and then tossed the butt to the carpet. He took a swig of the tequila sitting in a plastic cup in front of him. Cigarette smoke mixed with the booze gave his breath an unpleasant sourness.

"Then I guess this is goodbye." Taylor stood. This had to be, hands down, the most surreal business exchange of his professional life. He felt as though he were part of a noir novel his wife liked to read before bed. With it came a sense of exhilaration. A palpable fear combined to make an intoxicating elixir. He now understood the allure of the criminal world. There was some intangible high provided by living on the edge.

Even though he was actively involved in much of the criminal enterprises his employer had dabbled in over the years, all of Taylor's involvement to date had been from afar, working from his ornate office in downtown. He hadn’t been in the trenches like he was now. Strangely, Taylor liked it.

As he stood ready to leave his former employer in the seedy motel and head back to his regular life, he wondered if he'd ever have an opportunity to experience anything comparable in the future. He scooped up the bag of cash with one hand and shook Moss's with the other, "Best of luck to you, Kyle."

"Same," Moss tapped out another cigarette from the crinkled pack.

Just as Taylor reached the door to leave, there was a knock. He leaned forward and peered out through the peephole.

"Who is it?" Moss asked in almost a whisper. He brought the new cigarette to his lips and paused with his thumb on the lighter.