In Desperation

69

Somewhere South of Phoenix, Arizona

I sabel Luna leaned against the airport rental she’d parked under the shady canopy of a pine grove near an abandoned mission that had been built by Franciscans in the 1800s.

She was about to check her watch again but saw chrome glint from an oncoming car. As it slowed to a stop, she saw Jack Gannon behind the wheel. She recognized his sister, Cora, from news pictures, in the passenger seat.

Gannon got out, uneasy as he scanned the isolated surroundings.

“Why are you here? What’s going on?” he asked her.

“Do you know where my daughter is?” Cora was desperate.

“This is my sister, Cora. Tilly’s mother.”

Luna nodded to her, but she was slightly annoyed at Gannon. She’d told him to come alone.

“Cora, this is Isabel Luna, the journalist I met in Juarez who’s been helping us.” Gannon’s attention went to Luna. “What’s the important information you have on Tilly?”

“A meeting has been arranged.”

“A meeting? About what? With who? Where?” Gannon looked to the few empty buildings next to the old church, now fearing that they’d made a mistake leaving Hackett at the airstrip.

“Please, if you know, tell me where my daughter is,” Cora pleaded.

Luna glanced around without answering.

“Isabel-” Gannon’s frustration was mounting “-we’ve just come from some very bad scenes to this godforsaken place. We don’t know where Tilly is or if she’s been hurt. Your call offered us hope.” Gannon again surveyed the buildings, bereft of life. “Why did you come here from Juarez? What’s going on? What do you know? If you don’t give us some answers, I’ll call the FBI, I swear, Isabel.”

Luna glanced at her watch.

“I’m sorry I have to be cryptic,” she said. “Please, come with me.”

They walked to the old church. Gannon saw fresh tire tracks in the sand near the front and sides, evidence of some sort of recent activity.

Are there other people here?

The old white building was constructed of clay brick, pocked and weatherworn by time. Its shutters dangled in surrender, the doors to the entrance had fallen off.

Upon entering they were met in silence by statues, heads bowed as if to hide the leprous disfigurement from the plaster that had blistered on their faces, hands and bodies. The roof had holes. Water had seeped into the walls and bled around the shattered stained-glass window. The wooden floors creaked as they moved forward, gazing at the rotting wooden pews leading to the altar.

The church was empty except…

Cora gasped.

A young man was perched on the prayer rail of a pew with his back to the altar and his feet on the bench. Facing the arrivals, he waited calmly. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. A massive cross bearing the crucified Christ looked down on him and the world below.

“Are you Angel?” Luna asked.

The young man nodded but held up his hand, stopping them cold a distance away at the back of the church.

“Father Ortero sent me. I am Isabel Luna, a reporter with El Heraldo.”

Recognition twigged briefly and died in Angel’s eyes.

“And the others?” he asked. “You were instructed to come alone.”

“They are associates, here to bear witness to your legend and verify your account so police cannot lie. This is Jack Gannon. He is a correspondent with the World Press Alliance, one of the largest newswires in the world. Beside him is his assistant.” As Angel considered the situation, Luna reached into her shoulder bag. “Before we start, may I take your photo?”

Gannon stared in confusion at Luna. Cora was going to burst. She refused to believe Tilly was dead. She would never accept it, not while she could still fight to find her.

“Please,” Cora whispered, “let’s get out of here and go back.”

Luna ignored her. Gannon noticed Luna was trembling as if she were standing before a rattlesnake.

“A photo, Angel?” Luna pressed. “To verify this moment in history?”

Wary and exhausted, he nearly smiled before he turned slightly to indicate two large sports bags on the altar. Gannon saw Luna’s attention dart to the windows at the side of the church, then back to Angel.

“My donation to Ortero’s church is in the bags,” Angel said. “Two million dollars. I have made my confessions to him. You will tell my story, then go to police with my offer to exchange information for a deal.”

Light flashed as Luna took Angel’s picture without his objection. She stepped forward and took several more, licking her lips in nervous tension.

“Enough,” Angel said. “Let’s get started.”

“Certainly.” Luna opened her notebook, nodding to Gannon, who, not quite understanding, pulled his out as well. “First,” Luna said, “as the Norte Cartel’s number one sicario, how many people have you killed?”

“As of today, one hundred and ninety-five.”

Cora stifled a low cry.

“And you will confirm that you work under orders from the leader of the Norte Cartel, Samson Zartosa.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“And did he instruct you to murder the editor of my newspaper, El Heraldo? ”

Luna’s question exhumed a memory. His face confirmed what she knew: She’d found her father’s killer. The realization caught up to Angel, but he shrugged.

“Perhaps. I just told you, I had nearly two hundred jobs-”

Near and unseen a soft muffle echoed. Instinctively, Cora started toward Angel.

“Tell me where my daughter is. Where’s Tilly?”

In one motion, Angel reached down for the AK-47 assault rifle he’d kept out of sight and pointed it at Cora.

Gannon pulled her to him.

“You look familiar to me,” Angel said to Cora.

“I am the mother of the child your people stole and I want her back!”

“What is this?” Angel face contorted with rage. “I trusted the priest!”

Gannon noticed a shadow, a tremor of light outside.

In an instant, Angel yanked Tilly up from under the pew and locked his arm around her neck. Her eyes were filled with fear.

“Mommy!!!”

“Tilly!” Cora struggled against Gannon.

“Nobody move or I will kill her!” Angel said.

“Let her go!” Cora said. “I did not kill Eduardo Zartosa.”

“What?” Angel was confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Look at you!” Luna shouted. “Using a child as your shield in a church. You are a coward who will never see heaven!”

“Neither will you!”

As Angel steadied his gun to shoot Luna, Gannon saw a piercing sunray reflected from a window on the scope of a sharpshooter’s rifle as the muzzle flashed.

The sniper’s bullet smashed into Angel’s temple, tore through his skull and removed the back of his head. This was how Angel Quinterra-the sicario, the son of an alcoholic garbage picker from the shantytown near the Juarez dump-died. With his cranial matter splattered on the feet of the crucified Christ.

Tilly ran into Cora’s arms.

Luna and Gannon turned to the window where Esteban Cruz, Isabel’s stepbrother, lowered his rifle.

Numbed, the five of them moved to the front steps of the old mission.

They waited in the sunlight as Cora freed Tilly from her bindings and held her as she trembled.

“Mommy, he killed Lyle…he killed them all… I thought I was going to die!”

Cora hushed and soothed her as both of them sobbed softly.

Gannon called Hackett and told him what had happened. Hackett said they were already on their way.

“A priest in Mexico had called the task force. He was concerned about the safety of a reporter from Juarez, who he believed had key information on the case. Then we got a call from a Mexican cop on the case.”

Afterward, Gannon called Melody Lyon in New York.

“It’s over, Mel. We found Tilly. She’s traumatized but alive.”

“Thank God.”

“You can put out a story alert. I’ll file something over the phone later.”

“Thanks, but wait. Jack, how’s your sister doing?”

“She’s going to be okay.”

“And you?”

“It doesn’t matter about me.”

After hanging up, Gannon and Cora thanked Luna and Esteban and they looked to the horizon, saying little until they heard the sirens.