Ayala accepted his new role and descended the wobbly steps to the uneven basement floor below.
"Any other way out? Windows, doors, anything besides what I can see?" Hatch called down.
Cruz rubbed the scruff at the bottom of his chin. "If you're talking about them getting in, then the front door is the only way. If you're talking about getting out, then that bathroom window might work. It's going to be tight, but I think you'll fit. But I beg of you to stay with us, down here, where it's safe."
"Nothing's safe unless I can stop those men outside from entering." Hatch lifted the hinged door in the floor and prepared to close it.
"Be careful when you get out the window. My bicycle is beneath. It's a broken heap that I've been meaning to fix. Just be careful to avoid it. Otherwise, you're likely to make a lot of noise."
No further protest was made. Hatch closed the door to the cellar and covered it with the rug, ensuring that the dirt line on the floor matched the carpet. If she was compromised, she wanted to give them the best chance of survival.
Hatch moved quickly using the toilet seat to access the small window and Ernesto was right. It was a very tight fit. So tight in fact that she had to take both pistols out of the small of her back and then Superman her way out of the window holding both guns in front of her.
She wriggled herself forward to her midline using her back and core muscles to hold herself as erect as possible before lowering herself. Hatch folded down, bringing the guns in her hands closer to the ground so she could drop them while minimizing the noise.
After momentarily freeing herself of the weapons, Hatch pressed the palms of her hands against the burgundy wall, which upon touching it, she realized it was paint the color of rust and not rust itself. A second later, Hatch propelled herself out of the window like she'd been fired by a cannon, sailing over the broken bike. She turned her shoulder in before hitting the hard dirt, using the momentum from her launch to tuck into a roll just as she passed over the handlebars. Hatch righted herself and immediately grabbed both guns, scanning her surroundings for any potential threat. Finding none, she moved to the left and found cover by a tree.
In the dark gap between the crossing headlights of the two police vehicles stood the barely visible Lieutenant Eddie Munoz. Even now, he struck the same cocky pose, his muscular arms folded neatly across his chiseled chest. He continued to bark at the front door of Ernesto's house.
"You've gotten yourself into a whole mess of trouble with people that don't like trouble. I'm here to sort all of that out."
Hatch saw what he meant by “sort out”. She counted a total of four men, all outside of their vehicles. The driver of the vehicle closest to her was a fat man who she had never seen before, but he wore the uniform of the Nogales Police. Munoz was next, standing to the right of an opened passenger door shielding his torso and lower extremities. The driver of the far vehicle stood a few feet away from Munoz, leaving his door open. The two doors, Munoz’ and the other driver's, nearly touched ends. The fourth man was barely visible except for his hand reaching out into the light. In it, he held a pistol. They all did. All the policemen had their weapons drawn and pointed at the front door of Ernesto and Josefina Cruz’s house, except for Munoz. He remained still with his arms folded.
"You've taken something that belongs to us," Munoz continued as if he was on the podium pontificating a speech to the masses. "Did you not think we'd find out? First, you burned down one of Mr. Fuentes' favorite nightclubs and then you relieved him of his property."
Hatch understood why men like Munoz used words like property or package. Men like Munoz didn't see girls like Letty or Angela as human beings. These girls in their possession were commodities to be traded and sold, to be discarded when used up. Nothing more. From the looks of the way Letty was being treated or about to be treated in that room at Club Fire, she appeared to be heading toward the discard pile.
What bothered Hatch was how quickly Munoz and his goons had been able to track them down. Munoz did not seem like the brightest in the bunch when she’d encountered him in the police department lobby. Yet, here he was, standing outside with a smug look.
"Mr. Fuentes keeps tabs on all his property."
There was the word again. The gears shifted in Hatch's mind and now she had a better inkling as to why or possibly why. Maybe they had tracked the transponder to the mission where they dumped the van and picked their trail up from there, but it seemed doubtful. She'd kept watch the entire way and saw no tail. But he'd managed to show up, in spite of all that.
"The kindness of my offer will only last a very short period of time. The clock has started. I'm going to give you a minute to think about it. At the end of which, I will help you along with your decision.
“There's two ways this can go. In the end, it doesn't matter to me or my men which you choose. The result will be the same. You're coming with me, and the property taken from Mr. Fuentes will be returned to its rightful owner. When those two things happen, I will determine how I handle the three others who chose to help you. But hey, I'm a reasonable guy. And I'm sure I can work something out."
The fat cop to his left laughed. Munoz leaned over and said something in Spanish that even if she could hear, based on the speed at which Munoz spoke, it was doubtful she would have been able to comprehend. But the message was clear.
The heavyset police officer moved off into the darkness, stepping wide, careful to avoid the cone of light flooding the front porch. He began making his way around toward the back.
Hatch pulled her weapon tight to her chest and readied herself for the man who stalked toward the tree she pressed against.
Twenty-Four