In Desperation

21

Los Angeles, California

Gannon’s motel was on West Olympic Boulevard, at the edge of Koreatown, a mile from the Staples Center.

It was just after midnight when he arrived in L.A.

“You gotta be real careful down here this time of night, man,” his airport shuttle driver, who was missing a front tooth, warned while unloading Gannon’s bag in the lot.

Sirens echoed and a police helicopter whomped above while raking its light over the next block. The noise faded by the time Gannon had checked in to his ninety dollar a night “suite.” The stained carpet was damp and smelled of disinfectant and foot odor.

He didn’t care.

He’d stayed in worse. This was his life: hotels, motels, airplanes, fast food and deadlines. He strained to remember the past few days. He’d lost track of time after being in Mexico that morning, before returning to Phoenix. Then, once he felt he was armed enough with information on Ivan Peck, he flew to Los Angeles. Before he’d left, he told Cora what he was doing. She seemed anxious.

Is there more to her history with this guy than she’s telling me?

Gannon would find out soon enough.

He was only going to be in the city a few hours and needed a room near downtown, something cheap because he was paying for this trip. It was easier to do that than try to explain why he had to fly to California to pursue a long shot lead on Tilly’s father.

Gannon tossed his bag on the bed, fired up his laptop to check for emails and consulted his BlackBerry for texts. Something new had come through from Adell, more information on the two guys murdered in the desert.

Jack,

Got this on John Walker Johnson: Ex U.S. Customs, alleged but never proven that he stole seized property while working the border at Juarez. Suspended, resigned.

On Octavio Sergio Salazar: Ex LAPD, left the job after being on leave for psychological problems after shooting a suspect.

On Ivan Peck: Additional info on one of his alleged offenses before the Board of Rights. Accused of planting drug evidence against an LA gang member with ties to Mexican cartel. Complaint dead-ended. No evidence.

More when I have it- Adell.

Gannon sat on the bed and closed his eyes to concentrate on the latest intel, especially the data on Peck. It could be relevant. It could be useless. Nothing was simple when something like this was unfolding. It was never tied together neatly like in books and movies. Gannon didn’t know what fit, what to ignore or what he should follow. All he knew was that he had to do everything he could to find his niece.

That was all he thought of until he fell asleep.

Peck’s agency was called Ivan Private Investigations.

It was tucked in a warren amid a low brick building downtown in L.A.’s fashion district.

To get to it, Gannon had to navigate the vendors hustling knockoff sunglasses, shoes and handbags to the throb of loud rap. Then he bypassed a homeless man camped out on a bench and a few weirdos left behind by the mother ship.

The sign at the door directed Gannon to ascend the narrow stairwell above the tattoo shop and “…ffel’s Canteen”-letters were missing-to the second-floor office.

Before flying to Los Angeles, Gannon had gone to Ivan’s website. He’d sent an email from an anonymous online account WPA used to confirm Ivan Peck would be in his office the next morning to meet a potential client who wanted to check on someone’s past.

Will be in from 9 am to 1 pm – IP, was the response.

The creaking door announced Gannon’s arrival in the dimly lit office. The musty air was in keeping with the pale walls and scuffed hardwood floor. A woman in her thirties sat at a standard police-issue steel desk and looked up from her People magazine.

“May I help you?”

“I’d like to speak with Ivan Peck.”

“Do you have an appointment?” Her eyes flicked to the half-opened door of a small room. “No.”

“Hang on,” a male voice said over the rush of water in a sink. It came from the small room. A large man emerged, holding a glass coffee decanter. He positioned it into the dual coffeemaker on the credenza, pressed a switch then poured a mug of black coffee from another near-empty decanter.

“I’m Ivan Peck. And you are?”

“Jack Gannon.”

“Want a coffee?”

“No, thanks, I’m good. I was hoping to talk to you.”

“I got some time.”

Peck led Gannon to a large office where Venetian blinds filtered the morning sunlight on the drab walls. Olive file cabinets were secured with large padlocks. Gannon smelled onions and bacon wafting up from the canteen below as Peck hooked his foot around a visitor’s chair, offering it to Gannon. The chair was before the large dark wood desk. On the desk were a pack of Marlboro Reds, a file folder, a legal pad, a pen and a holstered pistol.

Peck wore a powder-blue dress shirt, the collar button undone. His navy tie was loosened and shirtsleeves were rolled to the forearms. He filled out the shirt as if he were made of stone. He stood about six four, had a few days’ salt-and-pepper growth and short, silver cop hair.

His face was void of emotion as he lowered himself into his high-back swivel chair and took a hit of coffee. Then he shook out a cigarette and, without consideration for Gannon, lit it with a match and took a long pull.

“Gannon? The name’s familiar. What can I do for you?”

“I want to look into someone’s background.”

“Who?”

Gannon set a recent photo on the desk for Peck to see.

“That’s my sister. Cora.”

Peck picked it up, held it before him. Then Gannon set another photo on the desk.

“That’s her daughter, Tilly.”

Peck studied both photos, shot Gannon a look and passed the photos back.

“You know who they are, Ivan?”

“I know who they are. I see the news.”

“Tilly’s your daughter.”

The little muscles in Peck’s jaw started pulsing. He locked Gannon in a gaze for a long, icy moment before he got up, shut the door and inserted himself between the desk and Gannon. Towering over him, invading his space.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“I want you to help me find Tilly.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Just over eleven years ago, you fathered a child with my sister, Cora. Just over two days ago, Tilly-your daughter-was kidnapped by a cartel holding her for a five-million-dollar debt they say is owed by Cora’s boss, Lyle Galviera. They say they will kill Tilly if they are not repaid. In connection with this, Octavio Sergio Salazar, an ex-LAPD officer, and John Walker Johnson, ex-Customs, were found murdered in the desert outside Juarez, Mexico.”

Peck stared at Gannon for several moments, then returned to his chair and his cigarette, dragging on it while keeping his eyes on Gannon. He leaned back in his chair, swiveling like a ruler on a throne as Gannon searched for resemblance to Tilly.

“What’s any of this got to do with me?”

“I think you might know something.”

“Why would I know something?”

“You were a cop. You worked in drugs.”

“That’s quite a leap. I still don’t see why I should care.”

“Tilly’s your daughter. Cora says you dated her when she was a waitress at a bar in North Hollywood. You wanted her to have an abortion then walked away.”

Peck studied the tip of his cigarette.

“Okay, the fun’s over. I’m not her father. I’m not anyone’s father. I got a low count, which is partly why I’m divorced.” He took a few last pulls.

“Then why did you give her money and drive her to a clinic?”

“Because she begged me.” Peck stubbed the cigarette in an LAPD ashtray. “Gannon? You’re a reporter, right? I’ve seen your name in the Times with the Associated Press or some wire service.”

Gannon didn’t respond.

“Jack, let me tell you something about your sister. She was not a waitress at that bar. She was hooking there. Yeah, I banged her. Despite being a tripped-out whore, she was a fine piece of ass.”

Gannon’s gut spasmed as if he’d been punched.

She was hooking…a tripped-out whore…a fine piece of ass.

The insult burned through him but Gannon refused to believe it. A memory pulled him back to his childhood in Buffalo.

Here he is with Cora, Mom and Dad at Mass. Here’s Cora receiving Communion, crossing herself, genuflecting.

A tripped-out whore…

Cora had had her troubles but she was not a prostitute. She couldn’t be. She would never do that. How could she do that? She was a waitress. This prick is trying to humiliate me.

But Cora was an addict and addicts turn tricks.

Was it true?

Oh Christ, images of this douche with his hands all over Cora.

Maybe Peck was just trying to knock him off his game.

“That’s right, Jack, your sister was a sweet piece of tail, and that’s the truth about her.”

Peck glared at Gannon. His words were meant to wound him and the detective was assessing their impact.

Gannon struggled to focus.

Don’t flinch. Rise above the blow. Use the pain.

“You know,” Peck added, “I saw Cora on CNN begging for her kid. Got to admit it’s a heartbreaker and with these cartels, well, there’s not much hope. Tragic for the kid and I’m sorry for that.” Peck reached for his Marlboro cigarettes. “But the whole time, I’m thinking that while Cora’s still looking good after all these years. I admit, I’d still tap that again.” He winked at Gannon. “But I’m thinking, after all these years, that stupid bitch is still messed up with drug shit. I mean, I heard she got into trouble way back. She is one stupid bitch.”

Gannon was a heartbeat away from leaping across the desk.

But he held his ground because this was Peck’s world. Gannon knew enough about hard-asses and assholes, knew that Peck wanted him to take his shot so he could physically destroy him. Gannon had no cards to play except one-which would take him over an ethical line as a reporter, but he had no choice.

“She looks like you,” Gannon said.

“What?”

“Tilly. You can see the resemblance. It’s there.”

“What?”

“I’m with the World Press Alliance. WPA stories go around the world, you know. Now, I’m thinking about a story-just thinking about one-that would suggest that the anguished mother, Cora, has named you as Tilly’s father, an ex-cop with a number of blotches on his record. Use of force and, oh right, some tie to cartels and planting evidence. Right, that would be a good one. I’m just thinking about a story that implicates you in the abduction and likely murder of your eleven-year-old alleged daughter. Should be good for your business, your life, whatever would be left of it after the hellfire that would befall you. Oh, and I kind of let my editor know about you already, in case I end up in hospital, or worse.”

Peck’s jawline pulsed again.

“Now, Ivan, you’re a smart man. You know that old ditty about the pen being mightier than the big, bad asshole with a gun. You can work with me, or you can work against me. I do not give a damn because the only thing that matters is the life of an eleven-year-old child.”

The detective eyed Gannon for several cold moments. While the wheels turned, Gannon asked him, “What about Octavio Salazar or John Walker Johnson? Can you help me out there?”

Peck stared at Gannon.

“Oh, I’m going to help you, Jack.” He reached for a pen and jotted something on the notepad. “I’m going to give you a name.”

Peck tore the page from the pad. Gannon looked at the name.

“Vic Lomax.”

“Back in the day when I worked Vice, we knew Lomax as a piece-of-shit pimp. Your sister’s pimp. I recall hearing that she got into some trouble with him way back. Word is he’s in Las Vegas now. He’s a major casino exec and allegedly a player with one of the big Mexican cartels. Lomax is a powerful guy. You do not want to fuck with him. So you go try your little game with him, sport. See where it gets you.”

22

Phoenix, Arizona

Hackett eyed the clock, then observed the investigators settling into their seats at the table in the large conference room at the FBI’s Phoenix headquarters.

As he waited to lead the case-status meeting, he was stabbed by his recurring concern.

Was there a traitor among them on the cartel payroll?

That question ate at him as he inventoried the walls, covered with photos and plaques from allied police agencies across the country and around the world. None of it meant anything when you were betrayed.

If you were betrayed.

But Hackett had no proof his case had been infiltrated. All he had was his growing unease, underscored by the latest reality: the two corpses found in the Mexican desert were ex-cops from the U.S. Their gruesome murders appeared to be linked to Tilly Martin’s kidnapping by a cartel that had set a deadline for payment of five million dollars.

They were losing time. People at the table were ready.

“Let’s get started,” Hackett said. “We want to update everyone quickly, then get back to our assignments. First we’ll do a roll call of everyone at the table and on the line. My partner, Bonnie Larson, will then bring everyone up to speed. We’ll brainstorm, hit next steps and get back to it.”

The Phoenix P.D.’s Home Invasion and Kidnapping Enforcement Task Force; the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office; the Drug Enforcement Administration; U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement; Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives were among the agencies supporting the growing investigation.

Also participating was the DHS Border Enforcement Task Forces, which, under an exchange agreement with Mexico, was embedded with Mexican police officers. In addition, there were analysts on the call from the El Paso Intelligence Center, Juarez police, agents from the U.S. working in Juarez and Mexico, and Mexican agents posted to the Mexican Consulate in El Paso.

The roll call ended and pictures of Tilly Martin, Lyle Galviera and other key players, charts and maps emerged on the room’s large monitors, and through a secured encrypted internet channel. Paper rustled as people flipped through a two-page summary. As Larson updated the case, Hackett came back to his fear.

The crime now bled into Mexico, taking on an international scope, requiring more agencies be brought into the loop. Having more players, most of whom were strangers to Hackett, not only increased the risk of corruption, it gave the case a high profile and increasing political pressure.

Prior to the meeting, one of the FBI’s Assistant Special Agents in charge of the Phoenix field office had pulled Hackett aside.

“A few minutes ago, the boss got a call from NHQ. The White House has let the Director know of its interest.” Hackett’s supervisor put his hand on Hackett’s shoulder. “Earl, you can appreciate that we all want this thing cleared ASAP, whatever it takes.”

Now Larson was concluding with a quick summary. To date, they’d received nearly two hundred tips from the public. All were being screened and sorted by Phoenix P.D. and the county, with potential leads flagged for the FBI. Cora’s home in Mesa Mirage was still being processed. Nothing significant had arisen from her computer, phone or bank records. The forensic experts were still analyzing items in the home for latent prints. There were impressions on the duct tape but the quality was subpar and they were still processing it. And crime scene people were still going through Lyle Galviera’s condo and his computer, phone, bank and credit card records.

As Larson finished her update, Hackett elaborated on the facts, suspicions and theories the FBI had gathered and formed from intelligence collected from all agencies and sources so far.

“Among his many longstanding financial troubles, Lyle Galviera had to make a critical two-million-dollar payment in one month or lose his company. So to save his company, he goes into business with Salazar and Johnson, who were tied to Mexican cartels.”

“What do we know about Salazar and Johnson?” a Mexican drug agent asked over the line from the Mexican Consulate in El Paso.

Hackett paused. He hated sharing intelligence.

“John Walker Johnson was ex-U.S. Customs. It was never proven, but it was alleged that in addition to stealing seized property while working the border at Juarez, he received a single three-hundred-thousand-dollar payment by a cartel to allow one truckload of dope to cross. He denied the allegation and resigned. The IRS said it lost the trail of the alleged payment through offshore bank accounts.”

“And Salazar?” the agent asked.

“Octavio Sergio Salazar was an LAPD patrol officer who shot a suspect during an armored car robbery. He left the job after being on leave because of psychological problems. Salazar became despondent, then claimed he never received his full compensation benefits and launched an unsuccessful lawsuit against the city.

“Our intel indicates that Salazar and Johnson met in Arizona through connections, and began dealing with the Norte Cartel.”

“As you know, Agent Hackett, the Norte Cartel is at war with other cartels to expand its U.S. territory,” the Mexican agent said.

“We’re aware. We think that in attempting to set up their own rogue network in the U.S., Salazar and Johnson made the grave error of ripping off the Norte Cartel.

“We believe that when Salazar and Johnson went to Juarez to formally put their network in play, the Norte Cartel executed them and went looking for Galviera and their money. Galviera went underground with the cash. Evidence was found at the crime scene linking Salazar and Johnson to Galviera. And we checked the ESN’s on the prepaid cell phones used by Salazar and Johnson. They were used to call numbers of a prepaid cell phone in Phoenix in the days before Galviera disappeared.”

“So why did the cartel take Tilly Martin?” a Phoenix detective asked.

“We have not yet determined precisely how the cartel located and selected someone close to Galviera. But that is their method. Somehow they learned that Cora was not only his secretary, but his girlfriend. Posing as cops, they grabbed Tilly to pressure Galviera to surface with their cash.”

“How do we know Galviera is not dead?” one investigator asked.

“We think the cartel would have displayed him as a message,” Hackett said. “They’re big on that.”

“This gives us reason to believe Tilly is still alive, too,” a female DEA agent said.

“Yes, it does,” Larson said.

“But for how much longer?” Hackett said. “As we’ve seen with the eyeball incident and the severing of heads in the desert, these guys have turned torture into an art form.”

Another grim-faced veteran DEA agent shot Hackett an icy stare.

“Let’s see if I’ve got this, Earl. We have no leads on where Tilly is?”

“Nothing solid.”

“We have no leads on where Galviera and the money are?”

“No.”

“Tell me something about Cora’s brother, Jack Gannon, the newswire reporter. Didn’t he have some tie to Mexico? How did he get on the desert murder story almost as fast as your team, Earl?” The agent’s gaze went around the room.

“We checked him out. He was on assignment in Mexico at the time of the kidnapping. He’s a well-respected journalist who was nominated for a Pulitzer. He’s broken a few big stories, including that one about a Buffalo cop under suspicion and a threat against the U.S.”

“Well, if that’s the case, if I were you, Earl, I’d be concerned about the things he may know that you don’t.”

The DEA agent had hit a nerve. Hackett knew Gannon had gone to Los Angeles and was concerned Gannon might have information he was not sharing with the FBI. But he’d be damned if he was going to admit it here and now.

“We can’t prevent him, or the press, from investigating this case as a journalist,” Hackett said. “He’s obviously got a stake in it.”

“And what about his sister?” The DEA agent held up the summary. “Your sheet here says she’s a former addict. Hell, that’s got to raise a few red flags.”

Larson noted that checks were done for the drug dealers Cora Martin, aka Cora Gannon, had admitted associations with some fifteen years ago. “The subjects were known by the street names of Deke in Boston and Rasheed in Toronto. Boston P.D. and the Toronto Police Services have found nothing so far,” she said.

“We’re pursuing other avenues of investigation. It would be premature to discuss them now.” Hackett shot a look around the room. “I think that wraps it up at this time.”

The meeting broke up.

Investigators gathered files, notebooks, cell phones and BlackBerries and shuffled from the room, leaving Hackett alone. He ran his hand across his face, chewing on his anxiety, which encompassed his mistrust of Gannon and his suspicion of Cora.

They got clear fingerprints from her. So why did she hesitate to volunteer them at the outset?

As far as they could determine, Cora was never arrested, or charged. So why hesitate to give up her fingerprints?

Every cop knows that at the outset of a crime, everyone connected to it lies, covers up or hides some piece of the truth.

Everyone.

Tilly’s enlarged photo stared at Hackett from the monitor.

Sitting there, it suddenly dissolved into the face of the red-haired medical student, Betsy.

Hackett blinked and saw Tilly’s face again.

Maybe he was exhausted.

All he wanted was to find her alive and arrest the people responsible, because standing over the casket of another innocent victim murdered on his watch was something he could not bear.

23

Lago de Rosas, Mexico

A hard day’s drive south of Juarez on a windblown road, stretching before the lonely sierras, the bean fields, and abandoned mines, was the hamlet of Lago de Rosas.

It was a speck on the map, forgotten by the nearest, still-distant towns. Few in this remote region paid much attention to the seventeen hundred campesinos, impoverished descendants of field workers, farm and ranch hands who lived, toiled, prayed and died here.

For Lago de Rosas was little more than a faded memory, a dusty cluster of tumbledown shops, and ramshackle adobe houses. They lined tired dirt streets that huddled around the community’s church, built of white stone by Roman Catholic missionaries in early 1800s.

But like the hamlet, it was decaying.

Its bell tower was eroding. Inside, the floors were cracked. The carved pine pews were split. The chipped walls were barren, punctuated by stained-glass windows with graphic depictions of Christ’s suffering at the Stations of the Cross. Lit by the sun, the images came alive; Christ’s blood flowed in crimson streams that carried the promise of salvation from the torment of human suffering.

Father Francisco Ortero adhered to this belief. It’s what sustained him every day, he thought as he left the small rectory and walked under the punishing sun through the earthen courtyard to the church.

Evil thrived in Mexico’s violence and he had witnessed too much of it.

For some thirty years, Father Ortero had been posted to parishes throughout Ciudad Juarez. He was on the front line as the city evolved into the primary battlefield for the country’s drug wars. In that time, he’d seen children he’d baptized fall into the drug world; a world where friends became enemies; a world that pitted brother against brother.

He saw the city’s streets turn red with blood.

In that time, he’d sermonized in his church about the dangers of living the life of the narcotraficantes. He counseled families of victims, tried to reach out to gang members, went to prisons to talk to criminals and urged them to return to God.

But his parish, his city, his country continued hemorrhaging.

Father Ortero had lost count of how many roadside shootings he’d hurried to in order to offer the sacrament of the dying, or how many hospital beds he had been called to in order to hear a last confession, or how many times he performed a funeral mass.

When Father Ortero’s friend, a community leader, was murdered several months ago, he shook with rage. He couldn’t explain why this death had angered him more than any of the countless others.

Perhaps he’d reached a breaking point?

For he believed he was a soldier in a war against evil.

And he refused to accept that God could let evil triumph.

In the wake of the murder, the priest had called out from his pulpit for anyone with information to step forward, to let the world know who the killer was. Or take care of matters the narco way. When word of his outbursts reached his diocese he was summoned to his bishop’s office.

“This kind of vengeful talk is not the way of the church. It is dangerous, Francisco. No one knows that better than you,” the bishop said. “The cartels will threaten you, or worse. I think it is time for a quiet reassignment, for spiritual and safety reasons.”

Without any fanfare, Father Ortero’s bishop posted him to the smallest, poorest community in the diocese with orders to “heal and rest.”

This was how he came to be the exiled priest in Lagos de Rosas.

Father Ortero’s keys jingled as he unlocked the church door and went inside and prepared. In the sacristy, he kissed his purple stole, put it on over his white clerical shirt and glimpsed himself in the small mirror under a cross. Nearly sixty-three, he still had the strong posture of the boxer from his seminary days when he was an Olympic-caliber middleweight.

He never feared a fight.

Father Ortero accepted that Lagos de Rosas would be his last posting, that he would retire with this parish. Die here, perhaps. He accepted that fact, but acceptance was absent from his face. Behind his placid, priestly mask, his eyes carried an underlying sadness, flagging unhealed wounds and a brewing storm of unresolved anger.

He shifted his thoughts and walked through the church. The air smelled of wax. Someone had lit the votive candles. A few parishioners were in pews, on their knees, their rosary beads clicking softly as they prayed.

He checked his watch before entering one of the confessional booths. The latch for the half door clacked. He drew the curtain. The small red ornate light above the confessional went on. For the next two hours, as was the case every weekday, according to the sign posted at the front of the church, Father Ortero would hear the confession of sins.

Over that time, several people came in and out of the church. Children held their tiny hands firmly together at their lips, prayerlike. Adults were less formal. One by one they entered the darkened booth, knelt and whispered their confessions.

They were the usual trespasses: A boy stole a peso from his mother’s purse. A mother had slapped her daughter during an argument. One man had lusted after his neighbor’s wife. Between confessions the priest used a small light to read the Bible, making notes for his next sermon.

As the two hours came to a close, Father Ortero peeked through the curtain. The church appeared empty. He decided to finish reading his chapter of Scripture, then end the session.

As he reached the last few paragraphs, someone entered the confessional. He saw the silhouette, but heard nothing.

“Go ahead,” Father Ortero encouraged.

Silence.

“Don’t be nervous. God is present.”

Silence.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

Silence.

“I’ll help you begin. Bless me, Father…”

“I’ve been searching for you, Father Ortero.”

The priest was taken aback. The unfamiliar voice was that of a young man.

“You’ve found me, my son. How can I help you?”

“I am a sicario.”

Ortero cleared his throat, his knees cracked as he stiffened in the booth.

“Do not think about looking at me, Father. It would be a mistake to try to identify me.”

“The seal of the confession offers anonymity,” he said, “even for sicarios.”

“It is what I am.”

“Do you wish to confess?”

“I wish to negotiate.”

“What is there to negotiate?”

“Recently, police have found two bodies in a barn on a ranch south of Juarez.”

The priest was aware, having read a news story.

“That is my most recent job.”

“Confess. Surrender. I will help you turn yourself in.”

“I have searched for you because you are known to have reached out to narcos. You are respected among the narcotraficantes, some of whom would enjoy seeing you in your grave.”

“If it is God’s will.”

“Today, I am as close to God as you will ever get without dying. I have killed nearly two hundred people. I am the last thing they saw before death. There has never been anyone like me and there never will be anyone like me.”

“What is it you want to negotiate?”

“I am haunted by the ghosts of people I have killed. They torment me, telling me that rival sicarios are coming to kill me and that because of my sins, I will not be permitted to enter heaven, that I am doomed to burn eternally in hell unless I do something about it.”

“Change your ways and surrender.”

“I want to walk away from this life.”

“Then do it. Confess to police now, call the press to report it for history.”

“I need to walk away according to my terms.”

“What are your terms?”

“I will quit the sicario way, but first I must finish one final cartel job in a few days. I will be paid a lot of money for this. I will give half of the money to this church, your church of Lagos de Rosas, for this pitiful stain of a village. Think of all the good you could do. A new school, or clinic? In exchange you will absolve me of my sins so that I will gain entry to heaven. That is my deal.”

“Entry to heaven is not purchased with blood money. The way to heaven is truth.”

“I have told you the truth. Help me.” Silence passed and the young man repeated, “Help me. I cannot sleep. I am tortured by the dead.”

“Turn yourself in.”

“You must absolve me.”

“I can’t.”

“As a priest, you are bound by your oath to God.

Absolve me.”

“You are not truly repentant. You are a frightened braggart. There can be no benediction.”

A tense moment passed.

Then Father Ortero felt movement before the curtain whisked in the adjoining box. He leaned forward in his confessional seat, parted his own curtain to see a shadow exiting the empty church.

Flames of the votive candles trembled in the air that trailed its passing.

24

Los Angeles, California

The airline agent behind the ticket counter grasped that Gannon needed to be on the next flight to Las Vegas.

“You said one way?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing to check in?” Her keyboard clacked.

“Nothing.”

A printer hummed, then she handed him his boarding pass. “Your flight boards in twenty minutes. The security lines are good. You should make it.” She reached for a walkie-talkie. “I’ll alert the gate agent.”

“Thanks.”

After trotting though Terminal One at LAX and clearing passenger screening, Gannon arrived at his gate, where the agent there confirmed his pass and seat.

“Thank you, sir. We’ll commence preboarding in ten minutes.”

Gannon used the time to call Cora on her cell phone in Phoenix.

“Hello.”

“It’s Jack. Are you free to talk?” But it didn’t matter if Hackett was near her, he could not hold off pushing her for more information.

“Yes.”

“Ivan Peck says he is not Tilly’s father.”

“He’s lying.”

“He says he can’t father children.”

“He’s lying.”

“What proof do you have?”

“He was the only man who…the only one who…”

“Just tell me the truth, Cora!” Heads snapped in his direction; people stared at Gannon. He moved to a private area and dropped his voice. “He said you weren’t waitressing in North Hollywood.” He paused. “Cora, he said you were a hooker.”

As the word hung there, he heard her break over the line and it tore him up inside. He clenched his eyes as memories pulled him back to Buffalo, to when they were just kids. It was his bedtime. Mom and Dad were working extra shifts. He’d taken his bath, gotten into his pajamas, combed his hair, brushed his teeth. Now Cora was reading Paddle-to-the-Sea to him, the part where the forest was burning and flames covered the entire page. Everything was on fire. And now here he was standing in LAX, swallowing bile because his sister, his big sister whom he’d worshipped, had been a prostitute.

Even with his eyes shut, everything was on fire.

Cora was crying now.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Just tell me the truth. Tell me how you are certain he is Tilly’s father.”

“He refused to use protection. He paid double. He was the only one. I was an addict, Jack. I needed money to survive. I was in hell. I was messed up. You could never understand how much shame I felt, why I could never go home again.”

Gannon searched the preboarding area in vain, looking for the right words.

After a moment, Cora found a measure of composure and continued.

“Peck is Tilly’s father. Damn it, did you not see the resemblance?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Look, he gave me a lead, so I came here, straight to LAX.”

“A lead?” Hope rose in her voice. “What is it?”

“A guy you used to know. He’s in Las Vegas now.”

“Who?”

“Vic Lomax.”

“Lomax. No. No, Jack!”

“Listen, Cora, I realize Peck may have been feeding me bullshit. I know this is a long shot but he said Lomax was tied to cartels. He might get us closer to people who have Tilly.”

The gate agent announced the first boarding call for his flight over the public address.

“Are you flying to Las Vegas now?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t. I’m begging you to stay away from Lomax.”

“Why?”

“He’s a dangerous monster, Jack. Stay away from him.”

“We don’t have many options here.”

“Lomax is not one of them. He’s in the past, buried, dead to me, Jack.”

Confusion and anger began churning in Gannon’s gut.

“What’s wrong with you?” he said. “Tilly’s life is on the line. We have to try everything. Lomax might know something!”

“Do not go to Lomax!”

“What the hell’s going on? You begged me to help you. Are you telling me everything? Are you playing me? Are you involved in this, Cora? Tell me the goddamn truth!”

“No!”

“Then what the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Jack, please.” Cora swallowed. “In all those years, with everything I went through, my life was a nightmare. It’s still a nightmare. If I lose Tilly… I’m so sorry. I just don’t know anything anymore.”

The long-distance static between them carried her sobs until Gannon heard another boarding call.

“I have to go, Cora.”

25

Las Vegas, Nevada

The sedate, upscale community of Tall Palm Rise was east of The Strip, between Flamingo Road and East Sahara Avenue.

Big celebrity names, casino execs and a few mobsters had once lived in this enclave of custom-made luxury homes, bordered by golf courses, country clubs and palm groves.

It oozed retro grandeur.

Gannon’s cab rolled by the coral-colored stucco houses. Their butterfly roofs crested the high stone-and-shrub privacy walls. Some remained hidden by the fruit and palm trees. Most had fenced yards equipped with security systems that kept visitors under surveillance.

This was where Vic Lomax lived.

A long way from pimping in North Hollywood, Gannon thought.

From the moment he’d left Peck’s office in Los Angeles for Las Vegas, Gannon had launched an all-out investigative offensive on Victor Lomax. In the short time he had, Gannon worked his sources, texting Isabel Luna and Adell Clark.

In the taxi to LAX, he used his BlackBerry to search every WPA database he could for records and learned that Lomax held controlling interest in the World of Dreams, a Las Vegas casino-hotel. Soft news stories had portrayed him as a philanthropist involved in local, state and national charities.

There were pictures.

Cora was right, the guy looked all wrong. Like smiling was painful. Like being in human skin was alien to him. Yet there he was, grinning with Hollywood stars, handing out big checks, including one for a shelter for abused women.

“Be careful, Jack,” Adell had cautioned him over his phone after he’d landed in Las Vegas, as he walked through Arrivals. “I called in a lot of big favors-retired FBI, DEA and Las Vegas Metro. Told them this was all about behind-the-scenes work to find your niece and that I needed their best intel on Lomax ASAP.”

“And?”

“This guy is scary. He’s come up in a number of investigations but there’s never been enough to take to a grand jury.”

“Bottom line?”

“The DEA and IRS suspect Lomax is using his casino to launder money for one of the cartels.”

“That’s not surprising.”

“There are rumors that Lomax performs other services for the cartel, that he makes bodies disappear in the desert.”

“You find anything linking him to Salazar or Johnson?”

“No, but Lomax has entertained major cartel figures at his casino.”

“Then he’d likely know something about Tilly’s kidnappers.”

“It’s possible. Listen, I think the best place to find him is his casino.”

“No, I’m going to his home.”

“Are you nuts? You do not want to show up at his home.”

“I want his attention.”

“Jack, don’t do it. It’s too dangerous.”

“Thanks, Adell.”

Gannon had ended the call, gotten into a cab and checked his bag at a cheap airport motel before heading to Tall Palm Rise.

Now, as his cab reached Lomax’s address, Gannon reached for his wallet. He paid the fare, tipped the driver, then held out two twenties. “You get one now and the other when I get in after you wait down the street. Not sure how long I’ll be, but wait.” Gannon slid on his dark glasses.

“I’ll give it as long as I can,” the driver said.

Lomax’s house was 28 Ripple Creek Path, a single-story pale yellow stucco frame. It had an extra-large carport and gurgling fountain in the circular drive. The house sat on an acre lot hidden by shrubs, trees and professionally maintained landscaping. It was fully fenced, protected by high stone walls and a double wrought-iron gate, with an intercom embedded in the right stone column.

Gannon pushed the intercom button and waited.

A mechanized whirr sounded as the security camera atop the right column tilted slightly to record his visit.

“Yes?” a female voice asked through the intercom.

“My name is Jack Gannon. I am a reporter with the World Press Alliance. I want to see Mr. Lomax, Vic Lomax.”

“He’s not here. I suggest you try his office at World of Dreams.”

“I suggest you give him a message. Tell him his North Hollywood past has caught up with him. Tell him he’s going to be named in a news story about the kidnapping of a child by a drug cartel. Tilly Martin is my niece. Tell him he can meet me face-to-face in the next ninety minutes at the Loaded Dice diner on Las Vegas Boulevard to comment on the story. Otherwise, the story goes out with his name, his picture and the allegations.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Gannon removed his dark glasses and stared at the camera.

“Jack Gannon. World Press Alliance, the newswire agency. Take my picture. I’ll wait at the diner for ninety minutes for Mr. Lomax. Then the story goes. Tell him that, now. Got it?”

A mechanized whirr sounded again as the security camera pulled tighter on Gannon. He waited, replaced his glasses, then walked to the waiting cab, reaching for the twenty to give the driver.

Did he just make a mistake?

Gannon glanced at the big clock above the counter of the Loaded Dice diner. For the better part of an hour, he’d subtly scrutinized every customer who’d entered the diner, concluding that they were tourists, rollers or local characters. No one resembled Vic Lomax.

What if he struck out? What next?

As the waitress topped up his coffee, he was assailed by images of Cora’s past. He saw her with Ivan Peck-“she was a fine piece of ass”-with Vic Lomax and other scumbags and creeps.

My sister.

He considered his mother and father and the sleepless nights they’d spent sitting in the darkened Buffalo kitchen, sick with worry, not knowing if Cora was alive.

Knowing the truth would have killed them.

After picking over the remainder of his cheeseburger and fries, Gannon stared at himself in the black surface of his coffee. He needed to shave. The past few days had been mashed together, Mexico, Phoenix, Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Where did he go from here?

He checked his phone again.

No texts from Luna or Adell. One word from Lyon in New York.

Update?

Chasing a new lead. Tell you more when I can, he responded.

Cora texted him: What’s happening, Jack?

Not sure, we’ll talk later.

Then he looked at Tilly’s picture again. It was like looking at Cora. Memories started to swirl until the waitress arrived to remove his plate. Two hours had passed. It was time to go. He paid the bill, then went outside to flag a cab to the airport.

“Got the time?” a voice asked.

Gannon turned to a large man who’d materialized on the sidewalk, just as an SUV with tinted windows halted beside them. The rear passenger door swung open. Sitting inside, a man with a jacket on his lap tugged it back to let Gannon see a gun barrel.

“Get in,” the stranger behind him said.

26

Las Vegas, Nevada

The SUV traveled southbound along Interstate 15.

Gannon was positioned in the rear seat, between the large man and the man with a gun. Another man sat up front with the driver.

No one spoke.

They had to be Lomax’s people. Be calm. He inhaled and tried to control his breathing. Think, Gannon told himself. Is there anything you can do here?

The large man was rough as he patted Gannon for a weapon. Then he took Gannon’s BlackBerry and wallet and passed them to the guy in the front passenger seat. He studied Gannon’s ID, made a call and spoke in muted tones.

Gannon felt the highway clicking under them as they traveled beyond the city, then turned onto a secondary road, then turned again onto a back road. Fewer and fewer buildings dotted the landscape. Before long, the area had grown desolate. The SUV jiggled when they turned off the road and cut across the desert, coming to a ridge that descended into a low valley that looked like a dried river-bed.

They stopped and jerked Gannon out of the SUV.

The heat was intense as they led him several feet away. He heard the tail door open. A shovel clanked on the cracked earth.

“Start digging, asshole,” one of the men said.

Gannon looked at his captors, stone-cold behind their dark glasses. One stepped forward, seized the shovel and scraped a six-foot-by-two-foot square in the surface, then put the shovel in Gannon’s hand.

One of the men directed Gannon with his gun hand.

“Dig down three feet.”

Gannon’s stomach spasmed as all the saliva evaporated in his mouth. He barely felt the shovel as he started digging.

“My news organization knows where I am and who I went to see,” he said.

The air exploded and Gannon flinched as the gunshot echoed.

“Shut the fuck up and dig,” the gunman said.

Gannon started digging.

Odd, he was not afraid. He was at peace. If this was how it was going to be, then this was how it would be. But he would not go down without a fight. He considered charging the gunman with the shovel, swinging that blade at his throat, but no doubt the others were armed, too. They were standing too far apart. At best, he’d get a shot at two of them, he figured as the sweat dripped from his face, making blotches in the sand.

Gannon was down a little over two feet deep when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dust cloud. He heard the crunch of tires, then saw an approaching vehicle. Another SUV.

The gunman took the shovel from Gannon.

“Get on your knees and face the hole.”

Squinting against the sun, Gannon saw doors open. A man in a white suit got out of the vehicle and approached the group. His dark glasses were locked on Gannon as he took Gannon’s wallet from one of the men. He went through it quickly and nodded to the gunman, who then pressed the barrel hard against Gannon’s head.

The new man removed his dark glasses.

Vic Lomax.

His face seemed as if it had been broken; his eyes were asymmetrical, as if one had migrated down and the other was sunken. His upturned shark’s mouth twisted into a sneer and Gannon’s head snapped when the back of Lomax’s hand flew across his face.

“Who sent you, Gannon?”

“Nobody sent me.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Nobody sent me.”

“You go to my home. You threaten my family. You know, I scrape shit like you off my shoe. Did that old skank of a sister send you?”

“No.”

“Some shit-for-brains cop?”

“No.”

“Why come to me about this kidnapping shit that’s all over the news?”

“To beg for your help to find my niece.”

Still breathing hard, Lomax’s nostrils flared as he glared at Gannon.

“I only know what’s in the news and it looks like a lost cause.”

“I’m begging you, please.”

“Your stupid bitch sister never learned. She’s at it again. You ask her why she got herself tied up with this Galviera asshole, who seems to have pissed off the wrong people.”

“Just help me. A name, advice, anything, and I’ll go away, I swear.”

“I can make you go away-” Lomax snapped his fingers “-like that.”

The gun bored into Gannon’s skull.

“Please, she’s eleven years old.”

“I got nothing to do with this. Bet you didn’t know that your bitch sister got into trouble with a cartel a long time ago. Ask her if it’s got anything to do with this kidnapping shit.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The worst kind.” Lomax gave it a few seconds to sink in. “You ask her what she and Donnie Cargo did in San Francisco all those years ago. When I first heard about it, I told them to hide, stay out of the mix. I told her this would follow her all of her life. Well, now it’s caught up to her. So you talk to your sister, asshole, because I’m thinking that if your niece is not dead yet, she will be. And the only person Cora can blame for that is Cora.”

27

Lago de Rosas, Mexico

The old woman was dying.

At her son’s request, Father Francisco Ortero’s weekly visits had become a daily ritual, now that she was so close to death.

She lived with her family at the hamlet’s edge in a shack built of wood salvaged from pallets discarded by the fruit warehouse in the next town. The priest always declined the family’s invitation to supper, not wanting to further strain their meager means.

He always arrived when the woman’s daughter-in-law was washing her battered pots and pans, or taking dried linen down from the line. The little house was well kept and the corner of it where the old woman was confined to a narrow bed smelled of fresh flowers.

She always took Holy Communion from the priest, who would talk with her into the evening, telling her that she would be with her husband soon, for it was his job to prepare her to meet God. His words comforted her and she smiled.

When Father Ortero left, the moon was rising, washing the dirt road in blue as he walked back to the rectory. Finding peace in the evening, he looked back on his day. His foremost thought was the sicario who’d entered the confessional. While he had always expected some repercussion for the outspoken stand he had taken in Juarez against the narcotraficantes, the encounter was unexpected.

A cartel assassin had come to him-not for blood, but to confess.

The priest wondered if he had done enough to guide the killer back to God. Should he somehow alert police investigating the double murder south of Juarez? Wouldn’t that break the seal of the confession, violate his vow? Perhaps he should talk to his bishop. His questions fell into the silence that cracked with the long, wild cry of a coyote, reminding him that primitive forces were near.

No one else was on the road tonight.

It was a lonely walk, his only company being his thoughts and the mournful wail of the predator in the darkness. This one was likely hunting mice or lizards. While coyotes were common here, they did not attack humans. He was not concerned. He’d walked this road many times and was often serenaded by coyotes.

Thud!

A stone hit the ground and rolled behind him. Instinctively, the priest stopped and turned.

Nothing was there.

When he turned back, a figure was standing before him, a few feet away, blocking his path. He was slender, taller than the priest, who stood five feet eight inches. A young man, judging by his build and his posture.

A bandanna covered his face, allowing the priest to see only his eyes and short hair. He wore jeans, a T-shirt and a shoulder holster that cradled a semiautomatic handgun.

“Father Ortero.”

Immediately, he recognized the voice.

“Do you remember me?”

“Yes.”

“I asked for you in the town. They told me I would find you here tonight. Don’t be afraid.”

“As I recall, you are the frightened one.”

“You insult me. I have killed men for less.”

The priest extended his arms, opened his palms.

“Go ahead. Guarantee your seat in hell.”

The moon was ablaze in the sicario’s eyes.

“I have given more thought to my situation, my offer to the church and what you said.”

“You wish to confess here, now, and surrender to police?”

“I need to understand redemption and salvation. If I am truly repentant and I make my generous donation, will I receive absolution?”

“How old are you?”

“I am twenty.”

“You are naive to think you can manipulate favor with God.”

“I am sorry for my sins and I am willing to give the church more money than it will see in a thousand years.”

“You murder two hundred people and you expect to buy eternal salvation with blood money?” The sicario fell to his knees.

“My nightmares torment me and a rival gang wants to kill me. I must be absolved. I now know that Santa Muerte is a false saint. I leave my calling card now for effect only, to impress police. But I know she cannot protect me. I must make things right with God. I have given more thought to what you said.”

“You will confess and surrender?”

“In a few more days, I will finish my next job, the one that pays large. Then I want you to arrange for me to tell my story to a trusted journalist, so police cannot twist it. Then I will surrender if I can work a deal with police.”

“What sort of deal?”

“I want to go into witness protection in the U.S. or in Canada, in exchange for information I will give them about cartels, very important information that could end a lot of bloodshed.”

“What is this next job?”

“I don’t know. I will be told details later.”

“Why not surrender now, end the killing now?”

“I need the money from this last job for my new life and to give to the church. Can you help me do this?”

“I do not like your proposal.”

“It is not for liking. Can you help me?”

“Yes, I can help you surrender.”

“And can you assure me absolution and save me from eternal hell?”

“Determining the destination of your soul is for God. I can assure you that if you go back on your offer, if you fail to surrender and atone, your soul will remain outside of God’s light forever.”

“I give you my word. I will surrender. I will be in contact.”

The priest’s rectory had one of the few phones in Lago de Rosas and the sicario took the number from Father Ortero before vanishing.

The priest stood alone.

He cupped his hands over his face. His heart was still racing as he tried to comprehend what had transpired. Did it even happen? It was as if the sicario were never there.

As the priest resumed walking, a desert wind tumbled across the land carrying with it the long rising howl of the coyote. It turned into yapping that fell into a growl, triggering a sudden high-pitched scream of something dying out there in the night.

28

Phoenix, Arizona

It didn’t add up.

As night fell, Percy Smoot wet the tips of his nicotine-stained fingers with his tongue and counted the cash at the Sweet Times Motel register.

Worn and torn fives, tens and twenties piled on the front desk. When he finished counting, the total was four hundred and eighty dollars.

Percy pushed aside the long strands of greasy hair that curtained over his face. His bloodshot gaze traveled over his bifocals to the heap of bills as if waiting for the total to change.

It should be five hundred and forty.

He shifted the toothpick clamped in his mouth and scratched his gut, which stretched the mustard stains on his Cardinals T-shirt. He then flipped through his registration cards. Nine units rented at sixty a pop, which meant he should have freakin’ five hundred and forty in cash.

So why did he only have four eighty?

Somebody didn’t pay.

If Percy came up short, that peckerwood owner, Lester, would accuse him of dipping into the till again and take the difference out of his paycheck.

Percy would be damned if he’d let that happen.

Fact was, somebody didn’t pay. Question was, who?

He was certain he’d collected from everybody.

He rubbed the three-day growth on his chin, thinking, then drank from his mug of bourbon-flavored coffee. He looked at the nine empty key pegs on the wall. He definitely had rented nine units. So, let’s take a look at them cards again. One by one, he snapped through the registration cards, trying to recall the face that went with each unit. Names meant nothing; no one ever used their real name here. Percy didn’t give a rat’s A, as long as they paid cash up front.

Every now and then, he’d cut some slack with his regulars.

But this time, someone must’ve got by him. Here we go, the guilty party: Unit 28. It was those two shifty guys. He tapped the card and it started coming back to him in pieces. They’d come in when Percy was half-asleep. They said something about paying later. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that they freakin’ owed him.

All right. Percy sniffed, took another shot of his “coffee,” reached for the motel phone. Unit 28’s going to cough up sixty bucks fast, before Lester shows up to collect today’s cash.

As he extended his forefinger to dial, he released a volcanic belch and blinked. Whoa, that was a bad one, Percy thought, assuring himself that he had pressed the right buttons for Unit 28.

The line rang twice before it was answered.

“What?”

“This is the front desk, sir.”

“So?”

“It appears your account is open and we request that you settle it now.”

“What?”

“Sir, you have an outstanding payment of sixty dollars cash.”

“I paid you, you drunken asshole.”

“That’s not what our records show, sir.”

“Fuck you.” The line went dead.

Percy cursed and steadied himself on the desk. All right, if that’s the way we’re going to play it. He reached under the desk for his bottle and added more bourbon to his coffee. He took a big gulp, gritted his green teeth, then grabbed his baseball bat from behind the door.

Nobody rips off this old dog, Percy told himself, tapping the bat to his palm, ready to settle matters. Walking by the shit hole pool was a hazy reminder that he was a far cry from his old job at the Biltmore, before his wife died and he hit the juice.

Yeah, well, those days are gone.

His current problem crystallized when he got to Unit 28. He remembered. It was a deluxe suite with adjoining rooms but he’d only charged the two guests sixty bucks. He should’ve charged one-twenty. He hammered the bat on the scarred door. Nothing happened for a long moment until he felt a slight vibration, indicating movement inside.

He pounded again.

“Open up, hotel management!”

The lock and handle clicked. The door opened a crack and a man’s unshaven face appeared behind the security chain. Percy brought the tip of his bat to within inches of it.

“You owe this establishment sixty dollars cash.”

Questions surfaced in the man’s dark eyes as he assessed Percy.

“I think you have made a mistake.”

For a second, Percy thought the man’s voice differed from the guy he’d just called but he dismissed it, hawked, spat and fixed his grip on the bat.

“Pay me now, or I call the cops to kick your ass out.”

Unfazed, the man contemplated Percy as if he were an insect that had crawled under his boot. A moment passed before the man came to a decision.

“It’s possible my friend did forget to pay. Sixty dollars, is it?”

“Damn straight.”

“Wait.”

Remaining at the door, the man shifted his weight as if searching for his jean pockets. Percy’s ears pricked up at the jingle of a long chain coming from the adjoining room.

“Do you have a dog in there?”

The man shook his head.

“Because we have a no-pets policy. I might have to charge you extra for any damage.”

“No dog.”

“I don’t give a rat’s A what you two do to each other in there.” Percy scanned what he could see through the sliver the opened door made. It was very dark but he glimpsed the wall mirror, reflecting the adjoining room. The inside partition door swung open ever so slightly and there was a diffusion of light, as if someone had moved inside.

Then everything became still.

Too still.

What was going on there in the other room?

In that instant Percy sensed something was not right. The man at the door, reading the first stage of alarm rising on Percy’s face, tightened his grip on the Glock he was holding behind his back. The moment was telegraphed to the door man’s partner, sitting on the edge of the bed with one hand over Tilly’s mouth, the other holding a knife to her throat.

“Here, this should cover it.”

The door man gave Percy several crumpled bills before closing and locking the door, leaving Percy to count off one hundred dollars.

He lowered his bat and shrugged.

As he returned to the office in his alcoholic stupor, he threw a parting look over his shoulder.

Something was not right in Unit 28, not right at all.

29

Mesa Mirage, Phoenix, Arizona

Twenty-five thousand feet over Nevada, Gannon gazed out his window, contemplated the sun setting over the desert and his close call with Vic Lomax.

After weighing the downside of murdering a reporter who was investigating a high-profile case, Lomax had instructed his goons to return Gannon intact to Las Vegas.

The ordeal resurrected other threats Gannon had faced in Texas, Brazil and Africa. That his job could be dangerous was a given, but this time it was his niece’s life on the line and he had to do everything he could to save her. He was unearthing pieces of Cora’s past, but those pieces spawned questions that might, or might not, be crucial to finding Tilly.

Who is Donnie Cargo?

What did he and Cora do in San Francisco? Was Cargo tied to Salazar and Johnson?

Those questions had troubled Gannon when he’d arrived at the Las Vegas airport, where he’d first considered flying to San Francisco. Before buying a ticket he’d launched a quick online search on Donnie Cargo but had found nothing.

Was Donnie Cargo even a real name?

He’d asked the WPA library to help and he’d contacted Adell Clark and Isabel Luna, requesting they check for anything on “Donnie Cargo.” It was not looking good and Gannon feared his luck at finding people fast may have run out. With little more than Lomax’s accusation, he decided to return to Phoenix and confront Cora, again.

She had texted him minutes before he’d departed.

Jack, what’s happening? Did you find Lomax?

Yes. We have to talk.

Call me.

No time. We’ll talk when I get back.

Now, as the lights of Phoenix wheeled below and Gannon’s plane began its descent, he returned to Lomax’s allegation.

“Your bitch sister got into trouble with a cartel a long time ago…the worst kind…you ask her what she and Donnie Cargo did in San Francisco.”

In the time Gannon was gone, Cora had remained lost in her pain.

She had not slept or eaten. The deeper Jack dug among the ruins of her old life, the more dangerous it got.

In finding Peck and Lomax, he’d exhumed demons that would drag her back into the pit of her past.

What did Lomax tell Jack?

It could guarantee that I never see Tilly again.

Forces continued mounting against Cora. Images of the gruesome delivery of eyeballs and those of the headless corpses of the two ex-officers found in the Mexican desert, tortured her. The FBI still had nothing on Lyle or the money. They had no leads on the kidnappers, or any trace of Tilly.

Was she still alive?

Cora prayed but hope seemed as distant as a dying star.

Now she heard the sound of rising voices in her living room. Recognizing one as Jack’s, she went to her bedroom door, stopping when she saw him arguing with Hackett about where he’d been.

“I’m warning you, Gannon, if you’re withholding information or interfering with this investigation-“

“You want to spend time violating my First Amendment rights instead of finding my niece? Want me to alert the WPA’s lawyers in New York?”

“I want you to think about what you’re doing. If you-”

“I have a right to talk privately with my sister.”

Gannon entered Cora’s bedroom, closing the door behind them.

“What did you find out?” Cora asked.

He struggled to keep his voice low as he spat back with a question.

“Are you involved in any way?”

“No!”

“Do you have, or have you ever had, a connection to any cartel that could be linked to this?”

Cora couldn’t answer him.

“All right, so far this is what I’ve got,” Gannon said. “You ran away with a drug addict, destroyed our family, became a prostitute, got pregnant, left the life and cleaned up. Then your daughter is kidnapped by a drug gang because your boyfriend owes them five million dollars and you want everyone to believe that you and your past have nothing to do with this?”

Her face crumpled and she covered it with her hands.

“What are you keeping from me, Cora?”

Could she tell him? Could she spell out every devastating mistake she’d ever made? Several anguished moments came and went.

“Cora?”

She didn’t respond.

“You called me, remember? I’m putting everything on the line for you.”

“It’s not about me, Jack. It’s about finding Tilly. I called you to help find who took her, help me bring her home.”

“Then tell me everything! For Christ’s sake, Cora! I get more help from the scum in your past than I do from you!”

“I have to protect Tilly!”

“From what? What could be worse than this? I don’t understand you!” Gannon saw that she was contending with a whirlwind. He softened his approach. “You were my hero, Cora. My big sister. I worshipped you. It’s because of you I became a reporter.”

“Jack, you have to trust me. It’s not what you or Hackett think. I am a good person, a good mother. I did terrible things to survive a long time ago. I’m not perfect…I made mistakes. I was a seventeen-year-old addict when I ran away. It was stupid but I had my reasons.”

“Yeah? And what were they?”

Fear, horror and shame.

Two life-changing incidents were buried in Cora’s past; events she never spoke of, or dared to revisit. She’d kept them secret for decades. That’s how she’d survived, if you could call it that. But now, in order to help save Tilly, she would have to exhume one of them for Jack. Only one.

The other must never be revealed.

Cora swallowed hard, hesitated. The pain was unbearable, the shame overwhelming. It hurt so much to even form a thought around the right words. But she had to do it. She’d have to tell him about the night that changed her forever.

The night that made her less human.

“When I was sixteen, I went to a party. Somebody put something in my drink and I was gang-raped.”

Gannon stared at her for the longest time.

His big sister.

Memory carried him back and he no longer saw Cora, the damaged woman before him. Suddenly he saw his sister at the kitchen table of their Buffalo home, blowing out candles for her fourteenth birthday party.

She glows in that pretty yellow dress Mom had made.

Glows like an angel.

Looking upon her now, in the wake of her painful revelation, his heart broke for her. His eyes stung and slowly, his shock gave way to rage. He wanted to drive his fist through something, wanted to attack the violation of his sister.

“Who were the assholes? Do we know?”

She shook her head.

“Jesus, Cora, I’m so sorry. I…I never…realized.”

“This is the first time I ever told anyone. I never told Mom, Dad, anyone. That was a mistake. I turned to drugs. That’s how it all happened. The night I ran off, after my biggest blowup with Mom and Dad, Dad told me to never come back. It was like a knife through my heart. I was garbage to them.”

“That was never true, Cora. They did everything they could to find you, to bring you home. Mom told me how Dad regretted saying what he said to you every day of his life after you left. They loved you.”

“I know. I don’t blame them. I was horrible to live with. I was stupid, so messed up. And after I left, I made one mistake after another for over a decade. I was a failure and nearly destroyed myself. But it all changed when I had Tilly. She was my salvation. When I had her, I turned my life around. Then this happens. I don’t have anything to do with cartels, or any of this.”

“Is that the whole truth? Are you telling me everything?”

“You want the whole truth? Okay. Deep down, I am out of my mind with fear that maybe somehow, in some way, this could be connected to my past. But it’s not about me. My past is behind me. I’m a single mom, a secretary at a courier company. I never knew what Lyle was up to. I loved him, trusted him with my heart and he betrayed us. That’s the absolute truth, Jack.”

He rubbed his haggard face, then his eyes.

“Not all of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who is Donnie Cargo?”

The name tore her wide open. Jack was getting too close to her last secret. Lomax must’ve told him about Donnie. Cora looked at him. Or rather, she looked right through him, as though he wasn’t there, trepidation clouding her gaze. The name pierced her the way lightning pierces the darkness, hurling her back to that night in San Francisco and…

Rain.

A downpour. She’s maybe nineteen and her life’s a blur, like the city with its twinkling lights drowning at night. Donnie’s driving, Vic is with her in the back and she’s tripping, totally wired on crack. It’s a pretty city, cable cars climb halfway to the stars. Donnie and Vic picked her up. You’re coming with us. Donnie Cargo brags that his nickname means shipment because he moves the supplies. He doesn’t have a real name. She doesn’t care. He’s always jittery, always sweaty. You’re coming with us on an errand. That’s right, Vic says. Got to take care of business, then we’ll have a little party. Vic throws good parties, has good drugs. She owes Vic. She works for drugs. A little of this and a little of that. Anything for drugs. Vic owns her because she owes him. Vic’s the boss. Vic the prick, Vic the psycho. Vic has more enemies than friends. What does she know? She’s a tripped-out street ho from Buffalo. What does she care? All she wants to do is party. Kick ass, die young. You’re coming with us on a little errand before Vic’s party. They float through Golden Gate Park, the Haight. I was born late, she says. I should have been a hippie…flowers in my hair…rain fallin’ on my head… Where are they now? Eight miles high. Where we going, boys? Where is this place? I’m a stranger here. Projects, blighted row houses and gloomy alleys. Vic says I got to send a message to a guy. A streetlamp hits on the chrome of the gun tucked in Vic’s waist. A gun? Cora’s upright like a shot. What the fuck? A gun? Donnie, let me out! He smiles. Be cool. Let me out now, you crazy mothers! Vic says be cool. Cora, baby, dial it down. Cora…Cora…Cora…

“Cora, did you hear me?” Jack squeezed her shoulders hard. “I said, something’s going on.”

“What is it?”

He opened her bedroom door to a surge of activity among the investigators in her living room. The air sparked with tension, as an agent, cell phone pressed to his head, passed on information to Hackett,

“Phoenix P.D. emergency dispatcher’s got a caller now in real time who says he’s got a location on our suspects!”

“Can she patch us in to listen to the call?”

The agent spoke into the phone, then gave a big nod.

30

Phoenix, Arizona

“Sir, can you confirm if the people are still in the unit?”

The Phoenix police emergency operator listened for the caller’s response through her headset. Pumped with caffeine for her night shift, she concentrated amid a multibutton telephone console, radios and monitors with colored geocode maps, her fingers poised over a keyboard.

“Sir?”

“Yes, they’re there.”

The operator resumed typing.

Her rapid-fire staccato updates shot across computer screens in patrol cars, alerting them to a report of a possible kidnapping/hostage-taking in Unit 28 of the Sweet Times Motel.

Immediately procedures were set in motion for a rescue operation. Radio silence was maintained in case the subjects were monitoring emergency traffic on scanners. All communication was made through secure cell phones or by text, as police cars took up positions just out of sight of the motel. More units were dispatched to the area with orders not to use emergency lights or sirens.

“Sir, can you see the room from where you are now?”

“No, not from the office here.”

“But you saw them?”

“Yes, half an hour ago, maybe. I was at their room talking to one of them about their outstanding bill. Then I turned on the news and seen another report on that kidnapped girl, then I realized what I seen in the mirror. At first I thought it was a woman-it was dark-but there was a guy holding his hand over her face. I seen a bitty piece of them in the mirror. I heard a chain, like a dog’s chain, and the guy at the door looked like the police sketch on the news. And later it hit me after I watched the news report-oh boy, that’s them all right.”

The operator’s supervisor stood over her workstation. He was also wearing a headset and listening. He had another line going directly to the FBI. The supervisor pressed a button that let the FBI and Hackett’s team in Mesa Mirage listen in on the motel caller to the 911 operator.

“Sir?” the operator continued. “Sir, I need you to listen to me carefully. Did you see any weapons?”

“I think I saw a knife.”

“Can you describe the vehicle belonging to the subjects?”

“No, they parked around the side. Want me to look?”

“I need you to stay on the line. Can you do that, sir?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, good. We’ve got people rolling.”

“Hey, there’s a reward for this, right?”

Forty-five minutes after the 911 call, the heavy-duty van used by the Phoenix Police Department’s Special Assignments Unit creaked to a halt in the Golden Cut Processing Plant’s larger shipping lot behind the plant. The lot was near the Sweet Times Motel but not visible from any unit.

A dozen SAU squad members stepped out, equipped with rifles and handguns, each wearing helmets, armor and headset walkie-talkies. They huddled around the hood of an unmarked patrol car. Tate Halder, the squad sergeant, switched on his headlamp, unfolded a large sheet of paper and sketched a map of the motel property based on an attachment emailed to him by the records department.

“Listen up, people. Unit 28 is here, north of the pool-”

As the squad crafted its strategy, police cars choked off traffic at all points around the motel area. Officers with photos of Tilly Martin fixed to clipboards recorded plates and checked vehicles leaving or attempting to enter the zone.

SAU Lieutenant Chett Gibb and negotiator Rawley Thorpe had entered the motel office. After interviewing the 911 caller, motel manager Percy Smoot, Gibb took no chances, despite Smoot’s booziness. Gibb sent plainclothes officers to escort all guests, with the exception of Unit 28, from their rooms and quietly lead them out of the line of fire.

When FBI Agents Earl Hackett and Bonnie Larson pulled into the Golden Cut parking lot, they were directed to the motel office. They shook hands with Gibb and Thorpe, who acknowledged Smoot’s condition.

“All right, what do you have?” Hackett asked.

“Mr. Smoot here is convinced Tilly Martin is being held hostage by two men who fit the description,” Gibb said.

“Did you talk to her?” Larson asked Smoot.

“No, ma’am, but I saw her in there, even though it was dark. I think they got her chained.”

“Have you had anything to drink today, sir?” Hackett asked.

“Couple sips for medicinal reasons. But I am telling you, I know what I seen a little while ago.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hackett said, pulling Gibb and Thorpe aside. “What’s next?”

“Halder’s squad makes a dynamic entry, kicks the door, goes in with flash bangs.”

“You’ve ruled out calling in?” Hackett asked.

“Can’t risk them grabbing the girl, using her as a shield.”

Gibb raised his walkie-talkie and checked with Halder.

“What’s your status, Tate?”

“Good to go.”

Without making a sound, two squad members scouted the hot zone surrounding Unit 28. The motel had been cleared of life and the night held an eerie quiet, conveying a false sense of calm.

Tension filled the air, as if a shotgun had been racked.

Using a stethoscope device, they heard the sound of Unit 28’s TV and air conditioner. No other movement, as they waved in their team.

Pressed against the chipped exterior walls, the squad inched toward the door with one member leading as point, another as rear cover.

For an instant, Halder recalled how a barricaded gunman shot a squad member during an arrest at a school shooting last year. The officer survived; the gunman didn’t. Checking his grip on his weapon, Halder forced his thoughts back to the operation.

His squad was made up of battle-tested veterans.

Each one was ready.

At that moment, Jack Gannon and Cora arrived in Cora’s Pontiac Vibe at a police checkpoint at the outer perimeter, far from the motel.

They got there without Hackett’s blessing.

Indifferent to their pleas at the house, Hackett had refused to give them information on the motel tip, again, because he didn’t want them at the scene. It didn’t matter. Gannon had been alerted by a WPA photographer who was among the press pack keeping vigil outside Cora’s home. The photographer was standing near a patrol car when he’d overheard two officers discussing the dispatches they’d read on their terminal.

As Gannon expected, the breaking news was not exclusive to the WPA. Other media outlets had also learned of it through their sources and once they spotted Cora at the police line, they moved in for her reaction. Microphones were thrust at her and news cameras closed in as reporters fired questions.

“Is your daughter in the motel?”

“Are these the kidnappers?”

“Cora, please tell us, what thoughts go through your mind at this time?”

Her heart racing she glanced at Jack, who gave a little nod.

“I’m terrified,” she said. “I can’t take it anymore. I want Tilly home, safe.”

Beyond the motel’s pool and across the courtyard, SAU sniper Paul Mulligan lay flat on his stomach in the shadow of a trash bin, one eye squinted behind his rifle.

The window and door of Unit 28 filled his scope.

Mulligan’s accuracy was rated at ninety-eight percent.

The room’s curtains were almost completely drawn. Concentrating on the dark interior, Mulligan detected no movement and whispered his report to Tate Halder and their lieutenant, Chett Gibb.

After a last run-through, Gibb green-lighted the squad.

“Go!” Halder said.

The battering ram popped the door, followed by the deafening crack-crack and blinding flashes of stun grenades as the tactical team stormed the room. Flashlight beams pierced the fog as the heavily armed team swept the rooms in choreographed tactical maneuvers to detect and neutralize any threat.

Bedroom number one: empty. Bathroom: empty. Closets: empty. Bedroom number two: empty. Bathroom: empty. Closets: empty. The ceiling, floors and walls were tapped for body mass.

They found fast food take-out containers heaped in the trash.

“What the hell?”

Halder and the others looked at a long silver chain fixed to an open handcuff near the bed.

“We just missed them, Tate.” Hawkins, the squad’s point man, touched a take-out coffee cup. “It’s warm.”

Halder reached for his radio.

Less than half an hour after Halder’s squad cleared Unit 28, the FBI’s Evidence Response Team began processing it. Time passed at an excruciating pace before Cora’s cell phone rang.

It was Hackett. After learning Cora and Gannon were at the tape, he advised them to proceed to the motel.

“Need you to look at something.”

Cora passed her phone to a Phoenix officer, who nodded a few times and said, “Right away.” Then Cora and Gannon went to the Sweet Times office. Hackett showed Cora a photo on his cell phone of a small shirt.

“They found this on the bed,” he said, zooming in, enlarging it.

Cora and Gannon studied the shirt’s unicorn pattern.

“Oh my God, that’s Tilly’s pajama top!”

“There’s no mistake?” Hackett asked.

Cora touched her fingernail to a small tear on the cuff. “I did that on the dryer door. That’s hers,” Cora said. Looking at Hackett, her eyes filled with anguish. “Did you find her?”

31

Somewhere Near Phoenix, Arizona

H ail Mary, full of grace…pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death…

Can God hear me in my dark coffin? Tilly asked.

Drenched with sweat, almost drowning in fear-drowning, like when Lenny Griffin held her underwater. Her heart was pounding with the thump-thump rhythm of the wheels on the highway.

Where were they going? What were they going to do?

She was buried in darkness.

The creeps had moved so fast after some angry guy had banged on the door. Tilly’s first thought-her hope-was that real police had come to save her. The banging had surprised her kidnappers. Ruiz, the one whose English was good, told Alfredo, the dumb one, to hold her.

She had tried to claw off her gag, to scream for help to whoever was banging on the door, but Alfredo had one hand around her mouth and held a knife to her throat with the other one. The guy at the door sounded mad and from what she could glimpse through the crack, he had a bat or something.

Ruiz calmed him down.

But when Tilly saw the gun behind his back, she thought, “Oh no, he’s going to shoot the guy at the door, then kill me, too.” She got so scared she peed a little.

Ruiz gave the angry guy money and he went away.

Then-bam! They moved so fast.

They didn’t even put on the phony cop uniforms, staying in their jeans and T-shirts as they collected all their stuff in travel bags. Then they unlocked the chain from her leg, cut the tape on her wrists, making her get dressed, go to the bathroom with the door open, all the while barking: “Hurry up! Faster!” Then Alfredo tightened her gag and retaped her wrists. But he didn’t notice how she’d held them apart slightly, getting some play that allowed her to wriggle them a little.

Then she was forced back inside the big black suitcase.

My coffin.

They zipped it shut, rolled her to their car, hefted her into the trunk and drove. Tilly couldn’t make sense of her nightmare. Why were they doing this to her? She didn’t really understand why they were so mad at Lyle. He was nice to her, he worked so hard at his business and her mom was in love with him.

Tilly liked Lyle a lot and hoped that one day they’d be a real family.

Why can’t they just leave us alone?

Tilly missed her mom so much. She loved her so much and wanted to be home with her now, so much.

What if the creeps kill me?

What if I never see Mom again?

Tilly tasted the salt of her tears seeping into her gag and held her breath when she felt the car slow down. As the highway noise decreased she heard the muffled voices of the creeps. They were fighting. The car continued slowing until it stopped dead and the motor shut off.

Tilly heard a door open and the car dipped with the weight shift of someone getting out. She heard more arguing in Spanish. Then a small noise at the side of the car, the squeak of something twisting, the knock of metal against metal, the rush of liquid and smell of…they’d stopped for gas.

Yell. Scream. Make noise! Someone would hear and call police!

No!

What if no one heard? They were already angry.

Tilly did not move, except to brush her tears. That’s when she discovered that her sweat had dissolved some of the adhesiveness of the tape. She wriggled her wrists and felt her bindings slip ever so slightly.

She worked her wrists a bit more.

The tape remained secure, but little by little Tilly could feel her bindings loosening.

32

Black Canyon City, Arizona

Some forty miles north of Phoenix, the white Ford sedan with Tilly Martin captive in the trunk exited Interstate 17.

Dangerously low on fuel, Tilly’s captors had driven into Black Canyon City, looking for a service station. Ruiz was behind the wheel, concentrating on scanners and radio news reports, while Alfredo nagged him about their predicament.

“I don’t like this,” Alfredo said. “We should call the bosses, end it now.”

“Shut up.”

“But it’s not good, Ruiz.”

“You are like an old woman. Do you have any balls?”

Ruiz questioned the wisdom of the bosses in Mexico who’d selected Alfredo for this job. He lacked the ability to think quickly on his feet. If the jackass came within a hair of becoming a liability, Ruiz would remove him without hesitation, probably with the Glock-20 he had under his seat.

Black Canyon City sat in a valley carved out before the Bradshaw Mountains foothills. It used to be a stagecoach station. All seemed peaceful in the night as sleepy frontier storefronts flowed by. Ruiz focused on the scanners and radio news. Hearing nothing on their motel, he resumed analyzing what had happened in Phoenix. Yes, they’d been caught off guard but Ruiz had kept his cool. Reading the unease in the stinking motel manager’s face, he’d seized their only option.

Leave.

Ruiz was lucky Alfredo hadn’t gone to the door. Alfredo would have shot the manager, because Alfredo was stupid. The jackass had left the tank empty. He’d shown his lack of professionalism by ignoring Ruiz’s specific instructions to keep the car’s tank full when he picked up take-out food, so they would be ready for emergencies like this.

Shaking his head, Ruiz pushed back his growing anger until he spotted a gas station, a one-story cinder block building with a towering cactus on either side. It had a small café, and a flickering neon sign that offered “Curios” and an invitation to See Our Rattlesnake Display!

Ruiz parked by one of the four pumps designated for self-serve, got out, twisted off the fuel cap, put it on the roof and began filling the tank.

As the gas flowed, he gazed toward the mountains silhouetted against the evening sky and tried not to think of the small human in his trunk. She was a product, nothing more. This was a job, but unlike the others, this one was going to give a brutal message.

Time was almost up.

Soon the sicario would be brought in and it would be over.

Like that.

Ruiz glanced at the pump’s counter. A chill rattled up his spine when a blue-and-white patrol car for the Arizona Department of Public Safety with two DPS Highway Patrol officers eased up to the store. Ruiz cursed under his breath but continued filling the tank, thankful he’d told Alfredo to tighten the gag on the girl.

The officer who was driving opened his door.

Police radio chatter spilled from the car as he got out. He was a tall, well-built white boy, about thirty, trimmed moustache. He adjusted his utility belt, nodding at Ruiz. Ruiz returned his nod, then watched the officer head into the store.

The second officer was in the passenger seat, flipping through pages on a clipboard and checking the car’s small computer.

At that moment Alfredo got out and began cleaning the front and rear windshields. Talking low in Spanish to Ruiz, he asked: “What do we do?”

“Pay for the gas and leave.” Ruiz had finished. “Get back in the car.”

Ruiz replaced the nozzle and followed the officer into the store to pay.

Alfredo watched the officer in the car. He was older, tense with his paperwork, writing, making notes, checking. Alfredo glanced into the store. Ruiz was taking a long time. The officer in the car halted his work and turned his face to the computer. Something grabbed his attention and he spoke into his shoulder microphone.

Inside the store, Ruiz was standing behind the tall officer waiting his turn to pay when the radio bleated: “Dan, you know that thing we were talking about with the girl in Phoenix? Something’s up. They may have them.”

“Really?” the tall officer said. “Guess you owe me ten bucks. I told you that would pop.”

“They just sent a statewide.”

“Well, if your piece of crap unit hadn’t blown the rad, you might have been up for some OT. Now, are you sure you don’t want anything? Last chance.”

“Yeah, an orange soda and some of those spicy chips.”

The officer went to browse the chip rack and the thin, wrinkled man standing at the cash looked at Ruiz.

“Sir, I can serve you. Just the gas?”

Ruiz nodded.

“Thirty-five dollars.”

Ruiz put a twenty, a ten and a five on the counter.

“Would you like a receipt?”

“No.”

“Have a nice day.”

As Ruiz exited the store, he heard the tall cop’s radio going again but could not make out the message, only that the tone seemed urgent. Ruiz just needed to get to his car. The officer paid for his food, then followed him out the door, watching him, suddenly noticing something about the white Ford sedan.

Alfredo saw concern in the cop’s face as Ruiz got in the car.

Eyeing Ruiz and the car, the tall officer set his food on the ground and walked directly toward them. In a heartbeat, Ruiz turned the key, started the engine.

“Excuse me,” the officer said as his partner got out of his car to see.

Ruiz’s mind raced as he gripped the transmission shifter.

“Hold on there, sir!”

The officer was almost at the car. Alfredo whispered to Ruiz to pull out as Ruiz dropped his hand between his legs to feel the grip of his gun under the seat.

“Don’t move!” the officer said, going toward the trunk.

“Jesus. Just go!” Alfredo cursed Ruiz, who sat calmly, watching the officer reach above the trunk, then step to the driver’s window.

He held up the gas cap.

“You forgot this.”

“Oh.” Ruiz smiled. “Thank you.”

“We wouldn’t want you spilling gas all over the highway.” The cop replaced the cap, tapped the trunk to signal all clear. “Drive safely.”