I WALK INTO the alleyway like I belong there. Two white men standing outside—one throwing papers into the barrel, the other spraying what’s inside with lighter fluid—look up from what they’re doing with confused expressions on their faces.
I notice one of the guys has a revolver tucked into the waistband of his jeans. If the other is armed, the gun is hidden.
“Can I help you?” the one with the gun asks.
“I’m here to drive the van,” I say, smacking my hand against the side of the panel van, which is parked next to the pickup truck I saw earlier.
The two men look at each other. The one with the gun is thin, with a scruffy red beard and a face full of acne scars. He’s wearing an Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt and flip-flops, which look oddly casual for a guy with a revolver tucked into his waistband. The other guy, with a bald head and a belly like a watermelon, is wearing a purple Phoenix Suns jersey and matching shorts.
If I was confident that it was only these two guys here—with only one of them armed—I’d go ahead and draw my gun and try to arrest them. But someone—maybe Llewellyn Carpenter, maybe somebody else—pulled up in that van and disappeared inside the building. And there could be others in there, as heavily armed as the men at the warehouse raid.
For now, I decide I better keep up this charade that I’m one of them.
“Boss sent me,” I say.
“Who?” the guy in the Phoenix Suns outfit says.
“The boss,” I say, emphasizing it like they should know who I’m talking about.
“Mr. Z?” the one with the gun and the Ozzy Osbourne shirt asks.
I nod, not knowing what else to do.
“Llewellyn didn’t say nothing about that,” the other guy says, turning his head toward the back of the building. It looks like there are two rear exits: one door that hangs open, and another that’s firmly shut.
“How many women you got in there?” I ask, then I try the name I heard them use. “Mr. Z didn’t say what kind of a shipment to expect.”
“We only got four left,” the Phoenix Suns fan says.
“Five,” Ozzy Osbourne says. “Counting the one Llewellyn brought.”
Marta.
She’s inside.
My heart rate—already jacked—accelerates even more.
“Well, let’s get this show on the road,” I say. “Let’s get ’em loaded up.”
I step forward toward the back door. I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing, but now that I’m in the middle of this situation, I have to commit all the way. I guess I’m hoping I can somehow convince these guys to let me drive off with the five kidnapped women. It might actually be possible if Llewellyn Carpenter, who must be in there somewhere, doesn’t spot me. These guys don’t recognize me, but I’m certain he would. Marcos’s TOMBSTONE ARIZONA trucker hat isn’t much of a disguise.
As I pass the truck, I spot a shotgun lying on the bench seat. Ozzy Osbourne follows behind me and, when we get to the threshold, instructs me to go down a hallway lined with doors, some ajar, some closed.
“First girl’s in here,” he says, gesturing to the closest closed door.
I try the handle, but it’s locked. The guy pulls out a key ring and opens the door. The room is dark, and I reach for the switch. Colored lights come on, illuminating the figure lying on a mattress on the floor. It’s a young white woman, wearing only a T-shirt and underwear, with tangled hair and a body full of bruises. Lying next to her on the floor is a squirt bottle of lubricant, a box of condoms, and a cardboard box of discarded syringes.
She lifts her head, squinting against the light, and says in a gravelly voice, “You got my stuff? I need it.”
Her lips are flaky with dead skin, and her eyes have the distant, disconnected look of a junkie only interested in the next fix.
“You’re coming with me, darlin’,” I say, trying to play the part. “I got your next fix in the van.”
When she doesn’t move, the guy I’m with grabs her by the arm and yanks her to her feet.
“Easy there,” I say. “No need to hurt the merchandise.”
He ignores the comment and shoves her into my arms.
“You take her on outside,” he says. “I’ll get the next one.”
“Come on with me, darlin’,” I say, guiding her down the hallway.
“Where’s my fix?” she says.
Her body is flaccid, like a wilted flower, and I have to support most of her weight to keep her moving. She smells like she hasn’t had a bath in weeks.
“I’ll do anything you want,” she says to me, her voice pleading. “I’m a real good girl.”
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I say, keeping my voice low.
When we step out into the sunshine, I freeze in my tracks.
Llewellyn Carpenter is there, holding Marta Rivera—her face recognizable from her photograph, her hair down to her butt just like Ava said—firmly by the arm.
Carpenter takes one look at me and, as I feared, recognizes me. He yanks a gun out of his waistband while tugging Marta toward him to use her as a shield.
“Texas Ranger!” he shouts. “Kill the son of a bitch!”