Rafael swallowed hard. He felt both men’s eyes upon him. Juan Carlos, although shorter by about two inches, seemed taller. His intimidating demeanor added a few inches. Rafael felt like he was a little kid again in the barber shop watching the blood covered man stare down at the dead barber with a knife jammed inside, under his chin until it cracked the top of his skull.
"If you send a team out and dispose of her," Rafael was careful with his words, "we run the risk of bringing more heat down on us. We don't know who she is. She could be with the DEA or FBI. Who knows? Maybe she's with the CIA."
"Or maybe the family of that Rothman girl hired a private investigator? Who cares?" The disgust was inserted back into the tone of Moreno's words.
"Doesn't matter who. That's my point. If anybody knows she's here, we need to know. Because, if she goes missing, then more people come looking. Especially if she's got ties to a federal agency."
Moreno stepped one foot closer, his nostrils flared. "When I make people disappear, nobody knows where to look."
Rafael wasn't sure if the comment was made as a general testament to the man's skills, or a subverted threat directed at Rafael himself. Either way, he didn't like it, nor did he agree with it.
"That's not the point. I'm sure you can make her disappear so that nobody would ever find her, but if somebody knows that she was looking into us and they happen to have other resources like a federal agency, and she disappears off the face of the earth, then we can expect more visitors."
"Then, if you know better, tell me what you think we should do, Rafael," Moreno spat his name as if its taste in his mouth had soured.
"Eddie Munoz is already out there. He's got the authority to make any interaction with the Nighthawk woman to look like part of an investigation. She did just burn down a nightclub. I think it's a good idea if Munoz picks her up."
"And if she's with a federal agency?"
"We dust her off, say it was an accident."
"And let her live?" That part seemed a sticking point for the man who had chosen murder and mayhem as his life's calling.
"Maybe we hold her long enough, official-like, until we can get the Rothman girl sold off."
Moreno was quiet for a moment. It was Hector that spoke next. "Well, Juan Carlos, it sounds like you have your marching orders. Let me know when Munoz has our unwanted nuisance in hand. I'd like to have a conversation with this Ms. Nighthawk before we send her on her way."
Rafael gave a slight bow of his head and then departed the room, leaving his father to finish his brandy, while he went to find the woman responsible for burning down the nightclub.
Twenty
Angela Rothman sat in a cell no bigger than the one from the previous day. But this one smelled different. Instead of the caustic paint thinner she sniffed for the better part of twelve hours yesterday, she enjoyed the fresh clean scent of citrus, though yesterday's cell was a whole lot quieter. Since arriving at her latest destination, there had been nothing but an incessant banging and clanging of bottles and a mechanical hiss and whir from outside the door. Having never seen the other side, she had no idea what was making the noise.
The zesty scent filtered through a small crack underneath the door and the light that accompanied it was the only light she had since arriving. Between the clatter from the other side of the door and the constant dripping from a broken pipe in the ceiling, Rothman settled into the sound providing her the only source of entertainment while she waited. Not that she wanted entertainment. She wanted saving. She wanted that tall woman, the bad ass who had almost saved her in Arizona, Angela wanted her to come here now, to kick through those doors and rescue her.
She regretted having dismissed Hatch's attempt. Angela wished she could go back in time. When she thought about the fire and her chance of escape, she could not understand why she resisted Hatch’s help. She was out of her mind back then.
Thinking back on it, it was more of an outer body experience where she watched her actions, not fully in control of herself when it was happening. She regretted it, nonetheless. That wall of fire separated Angela from the only person within a thousand miles who seemed remotely capable of saving her. Angela knew well enough that it was unlikely the Nighthawk woman or anyone else would ever find her again. She passed the insufferable ticking of time by listening and watching.
Angela took in her surroundings like a sponge took in water. Not that any of it had proved useful so far. But if she survived, she'd get to finally tell her father that the four years of Spanish he made her take finally paid off. She kept quiet that she was able to understand the men who had been escorting her through this hellish nightmare. They spoke more freely than they would have, had they known she could understand them.
Sometimes she wished she didn't understand the things that they said. Most of the time, it was never good. Hope was fleeting, and she held on to her last thread of it with a death grip, hoping that something she heard would serve to benefit her.
She'd been treated like an animal since crossing the border. They fed her, or better yet gave her what could be construed as food. The slop was better than starving, but the last thing that had been on a metal tray slid under the door looked like it had come from a pig's trough. Angela had eaten it, every last bit, and took the time to lick the tray clean. Gross? Yes. But she needed to keep herself strong.
They were feeding her to keep her healthy enough to look presentable for sale value. She ate to be strong enough to fight back or escape when the time presented itself. Even in her starved state, the food turned in her stomach and the aftertaste in her belches almost brought it back up.