I park ten blocks away from the hotel. I’m wearing gloves, but I do my best to wipe the car down anyway—the steering wheel and gearshift and door—though part of me knows it won’t matter. The car will either get stolen again or it will remain abandoned for days and then stripped for parts. Doubtful the owner will ever find it. The old Holly Lin would worry about such things—maybe the owner needs the car for work, to get groceries—but the new Holly Lin (the Holly Lin that will soon no longer exist) has become much more selfish.
It’s early morning and the sun is rising, the city starting to wake up and go about its day.
I keep my head down the whole way to the hotel, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible while also keeping an eye out for any danger.
I note the car I drove into Mexico is still in its spot. It’s not stolen—Atticus had arranged it for me, with clean tags and registration—but once I drive it back into the States it will be swapped with the car James is currently driving toward the border. He’ll take it and probably have it demolished. Not that it’s been used in any crime, but better safe than sorry.
The do not disturb sign is still on my door. Good. It’s been that way the past two days. I’m sure the cleaning people love the fact they get to skip the room.
I unlock the door and enter quietly, the SIG now held at the ready. I check the bathroom, then check the window overlooking the parking lot to make sure it hasn’t been tampered with. When I’m confident everything is secure, I chain the door, set the gun aside, and begin to strip out of my clothes.
I keep the gun in the bathroom while I take a shower. The water is warm and pulsing and I’m so exhausted I could fall asleep under the spray, but I stay focused, washing my skin and hair clean, then step out of the shower, steam thick in the air, and wipe at the mirror to look at myself.
Less than a week ago I had come face to face with a man who I had believed was dead. Zane, my boyfriend, my lover, the man who I thought my father had killed, had turned out to be a complete and utter asshole. He had taken David and Casey Hadden because I had messed up his operation and he wanted a flash drive, and I had to go to some pretty extreme lengths to retrieve that flash drive. Zane, unsurprisingly, was planning to kill the kids anyway, but I had managed to kill him. Not before he kicked the shit out of me first, which explained the bruising on my face and the broken rib. The rib will heal eventually, as will the bruises on my face. If I’m lucky there won’t be any scars, but if there are scars, then so be it. They won’t be my first, and they most certainly won’t be my last.
I dry off and put on shorts and a T-shirt and light hoodie, socks and sneakers. Atticus had given me a fake ID for entering the country. My alias has everything: social media profiles, a job history, credit history, even transcripts from school. My name is Samantha Lu. I’m a graduate student on vacation using my time off to study the Mexican culture or some such bullshit.
Once I’m dressed, I wipe down the room, even though, again, I doubt anything will come of it. I’m paid up for two more days, and I plan to keep the do not disturb sign on the door. I’ll leave the keys on the bed along with a nice tip. If anything else, the cleaning people will be happy.
I keep the SIG secured to the back waistband of my shorts. I throw the backpack over my shoulder and exit the room, looking up and down the hallway. Nobody around except the cleaning cart propping a door open several rooms away.
The car outside is a Honda Civic, maybe ten years old. Completely anonymous. When I had originally crossed the border, the CRRC was hidden in the trunk along with a suitcase. The weapons I had—the two pistols and garrote and knife—were hidden underneath the car. There hadn’t been much concern about being stopped and searched on my way into the country—nobody gives a shit what goes into Mexico—and I was waved through with barely even a glance.
Now I know leaving Mexico will be a piece of cake. Even if they search the Civic from top to bottom, nothing will be found. Most likely, I’ll just be waved through like before. I’ll meet up with James, swap out the car, get my new identity, and start my new life.
I keep thinking about Maria and the children. The girl holding that water bottle, having not even cracked the cap yet.
For all I know, they’re still at the place I left them. Or maybe they’ve walked to the closest town. Or maybe somebody came and picked them up and gave them a ride home.
Or maybe somebody came and raped them, left them beaten and battered by that abandoned building to bake as the sun rose higher and higher in the pale sky.
You promised to keep us safe.
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath.
The woman and the children are fine. They’re not my concern, anyway. I did all I could for them.
I put the Civic in gear. I go two blocks when I spot the kid from the other day. He’s an early riser, apparently, already on the street corner hawking his fireworks.
I stop the car, power down the passenger side window.
“Hey, kid.”
He smiles at me, already a natural salesman as he runs through his pitch.
“Good morning, senorita. Would you like to buy some fireworks?”
“Not today. But those firecrackers you sold me? They came in handy.”
I toss him some pesos and power back up the window and keep driving down the street.
A stop sign looms at the corner. I pause for traffic, and as I wait I glance at the rearview mirror and see the kid still on the sidewalk with his fireworks. He can’t be more than thirteen years old, much older than Jorge and Ana, much older than even David and Casey Hadden. For a moment I wonder if the kid has a loving family, whether his parents treat him right, and what inspires him to get up so early every morning to sell fireworks on the street.
I close my eyes and shake my head.
“Goddamn it.”
Twisting the steering wheel, I pull a U-turn and head back the way I came.