CHAPTER 22 #2
And Zach felt his own temper rise. “You just don’t get it, do you?
You really believe that your elected position gives you rights the rest of America just doesn’t have.
Forget it. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help.
Justice will take its course. I trust the agency I work for to get to the truth. ”
“I’ve never understood you. You don’t think that fathers out there everywhere do all they can to help their kids get ahead in this life? You think I’m the only one who tries to pave the road for my son?”
“You don’t just pave the road. You manipulate someone into moving it so that it comes to my front door. Being a U.S. senator’s son shouldn’t mean that I get to live by a special set of rules. You’re charged with making the laws. You need to respect them more than the average person, not less.”
They’d been arguing about this since 9/11, when Zach had walked into the living room to overhear his father tell his mother that their son would never have to serve in the military because he was a U.S.
senator’s son. It had been the last straw after years of watching his father wade through one scandal after another.
In disgust, Zach had joined the navy and applied for Officer Candidate School the next day.
His father shook his head. “You know, I thought maybe you’d matured enough—”
“Matured? Go to hell!”
“—so that we could have an honest conversation, maybe spend some time together. But you’re just as pigheaded and unreasonable as you’ve always been. You know, your mother understood—”
“Don’t you bring her into this!” Zach was in his father’s face now, blood pumping hot in his veins. “My mother was an idealist who believed in everything she thought you stood for. It literally killed her to watch you turn into a crook. All your sleazy mistresses. The money you blew on—”
The blow took Zach by surprise. He rubbed his jaw, looked his father in the eye. “You better get the hell out of here, old man. If I hit back, it’s going to hurt.”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Zach. I don’t know what made me do that. I’ve missed you. I came here to make amends, to help—”
“I said get the hell out of here. Now.”
His father turned and, with an angry look over his shoulder, stomped off.
Jaw aching, Zach sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
THE MOMENT ARTURO heard the voice on the other end of the line, he broke into a sweat, beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead and upper lip.
“Are you watching the news?”
“Sí. Yes, I am. And I can explain—”
“Explanations are irrelevant. Besides, it’s obvious what happened. You wanted her for your perverted little rituals, so rather than instructing your men to put a bullet through her head on the bus, you had them take her captive. Isn’t that right?”
How dare this gringo speak of La Santa Muerte as if she were a perversion?
“Sí. I had them take her captive. I wanted to see the woman who was so dangerous that she frightened you.”
“That was a grave mistake. We asked you to do something for us, and you agreed to do it. Board the bus, and kill her, along with the Mexican journalists. It would look like just another act of cartel-related violence. No one would think twice about it.
“But now, somehow, she’s back in the United States, very much alive. That’s very disappointing, Arturo. Very disappointing.”
Arturo swallowed—hard. “I am sorry. She had help. A shipment of cocaine was stolen, and we caught the man who—”
“He didn’t steal the cocaine, you imbecile. The woman you cut up and tossed in the street stole it. Or hadn’t you figured that out yet?”
“She stole it?”
“Yes. Gisella Sanchez worked for Interpol. And that man you chained up wasn’t a drug pusher.
He’s a deputy U.S. marshal and former Navy SEAL—a war hero no less.
That pretty reporter you planned to rape—she turned out to be a lot tougher than she looked, too.
She’s the one who broke them out. You probably assumed it was the man, didn’t you?
That’s what you get for being a chauvinist bastard. ”
Arturo heard all this, but only one part connected.
“U.S. marshal? SEAL? How do you know all of this?” His heart was beating so hard it hurt. Was he having a heart attack?
“That doesn’t matter. You fucked up, Arturo.”
“I can fix it. I will send my best man to Denver to—”
“No, Arturo, we don’t trust you. Your incompetence sickens us.
So we’re going to take care of it ourselves.
We wanted to have her eliminated down there to prevent any suspicion being cast our way.
But since it’s known that your men took her and were tearing your country apart looking for her, people will assume that you had her killed. ”
“If you think that is best.” Arturo didn’t tell him he’d put his own plans into motion the moment he’d seen that little puta’s face on television this morning.
“We do.” There was a pause. “For the sake of our long association, we’ll forgive—no, that’s not the word—overlook your failure this time. But we need you to do something for us.”
“What is that?”
“Spread word on the street that Los Zetas are crossing the border to finish the reporter.”
That made no sense. “If I do that, won’t the police put her under their protection, making it harder and riskier for you?”
“By the time the police mobilize, she’ll already be dead. Action has already been taken. The pieces are moving. Just get the word out. Do it tonight.”
Then the line went dead.
Arturo put the phone down and then, with shaking hands, he poured himself a shot.
Santa Muerte protect me!
“YOU’VE GOT IT, Syd.” Natalie hung up the phone, glad her article was done and in the hands of the managing editor.
She’d spent the day writing an eyewitness account of the attack on the bus, her kidnapping, captivity, and escape.
It wasn’t something she’d wanted to do, but Tom had thought it would be good for readership.
Rather than focusing on her own experience, she’d decided to use the article as a chance to pay tribute to the slain Mexican journalists, sharing what she remembered about each of them.
Their home newspapers had generously donated head shots and other photographs, enabling her to put a face with each name.
It had been especially painful to write about Sr. Marquez.
Marquez finished his prayers, then turned to me and apologized, as if he were to blame for the fact that he was about to be murdered. Then, he looked up into his killer’s face. In the next instant, it was over, and he was gone, a bullet hole in his forehead.
Then, referring to Zach only as Mr. Black—a joke for his benefit in case he read the article—she’d managed to report on her hours in the Zeta prison, as well as the escape, without giving away sensitive information.
She’d felt close to him, as if she were connecting with him, writing words about a shared experience, words that he might see and even appreciate.
He probably won’t even read it, girl.
God, how she missed him! It put a constant ache in her chest, some part of her unable and unwilling to accept that she wouldn’t see him again.
More than once she’d found herself wondering what would happen if it turned out she was pregnant.
Would he change his mind and come back? Would he want to see the baby, be a part of its life?
That’s no way to win a man’s heart, girl. Are you that desperate?
Quashing the thought, she gathered her things, took the elevator down, and walked out to her car, only to find a dozen or more persistent reporters staking out the front entrance.
She thought for a moment about taking the back entrance, but slinking down the alley while gunshots still echoed in her memory held no appeal.
So she lifted her chin and walked out the door.
“Thank you, but no comment,” she said again and again, finally making it to her car. She unlocked the door, got inside, and quickly locked it again. Then slowly, she nudged the car forward.
And then out of the corner of her eye she saw him—Sr. Scar Face.
She gasped, jerked her head around, looking for him. But he was gone.
Or maybe he’d never been there. Writing the article had left her jumpy, reviving the terror for her. Perhaps she was just seeing things. Besides, how could he have gotten here so quickly?
The same way you did.
A chill shivered up her spine. She picked up her cell phone and called Julian.