In Desperation

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.”