He licked his lips. He’d expected a recording, a disconnection, a wrong number, but it rang two, three, four times, then, “Si?”
Galviera’s heart skipped and he focused his thoughts. This was it, his shot. He spoke in Spanish.
“This is Lyle Galviera.”
A long, cautious silence.
“Who gave you this number?”
“Salazar, before he was murdered in the desert.” Another long silence passed before Galviera broke it. “It’s very important that I speak to Thirty now.”
“Speak.”
“Your people are looking for me.”
“My people are concerned about the theft of our property and are holding an asset for return of that property.”
“I am an innocent third party in this dispute,” Galviera said. “So are the others connected to the asset. But I have a solution.”
“And what is it?”
“That we meet in the Phoenix area. I will return your property in exchange for the asset, undamaged. Then the matter will be closed.”
“That is desirable. We wish to resolve the issue quickly, amicably. I assure you no damage has been done to the asset.”
“I will give you an email address and propose the time and location.”
“No. We will tell you the time and location, in the Phoenix area as you prefer. Your email?”
Galviera gave him an email address from an online account he used under another name.
“If this is a setup, the asset we’re holding will be destroyed.”
“I assure you, this is not a setup.”
“Good, Mr. Galviera, we’ll contact you. We’ll finish this within the next forty-eight hours.”
The call ended.
Did that happen?
Adrenaline pumped through Galviera, blood drummed in his ears. He sat at the bar, ordered a Coke and took a few minutes to let his pulse level off.
“You all right there, pal?” the bartender asked.
“I lost my cell phone and need to buy a new one. Is there a good place around here?”
“Six Feathers Mall, down the street. Can’t miss it.”
The clerk at the Six Feathers Mall cell phone store fixed him up quickly with a top-notch, good-to-go, prepaid plan for a phone. Galviera paid cash for it and felt relatively safe with a new phone under an alias. He knew that you did not have to be making a cell phone call for the location of the caller to be tracked; something about triangulating the roaming signals. So to be safe while driving to Phoenix, he shut it off and removed the battery when he wasn’t using it, to ensure he did not accidentally switch it on.
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!”
53
Somewhere North of Phoenix, Arizona
S oon 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.”
54
Somewhere North of Phoenix, Arizona
T illy 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.