"How did you see that?" Ayala whispered.
"I ate my carrots as a kid. Now, no more talking. We went over this."
"Thanks for reminding me." Ayala tried to laugh but his nerve-wracked body released it like a hyena's cackle.
Ayala remembered he'd been given strict instructions from Hatch.
This is a one-way radio system.
I am the only one who speaks.
The moment I say move you move.
Hesitation will kill you.
Do not die.
Do not get captured.
In the event you are compromised, I will come for you.
He remembered the intensity in her eyes as she spoke to him. She’d managed to tune out the entire world around her. Hatch's face had been eerily calm, almost serene, as if the impending threat of death held no burden. In that moment, Ayala remembered the cyclonic events that forever changed his life and the conversations he’d had with Hatch about hers.
Looking at Hatch in that car, just before he exited for his rescue attempt, he remembered thinking, Hatch wasn't in one of those calm before the storm moments. She was calm because she was the eye of her own hurricane.
This is a one-way radio system.
Those were Hatch's exact words. He hadn't even made it to the first checkpoint before violating the first rule. He hoped to keep Do not die off the table for the foreseeable future.
He shook off the mistake and focused. Ayala's shaky hand extended the key card from the attached lanyard. He pressed it against the access pad. Here goes nothing, he thought, instead of saying, proud of himself for remembering.
The delay between the red light flipping to green and the door making its electrical buzzing release sound seemed like an eternity to the impatient Ayala.
"I've got eyes on you until you get to that door over there on the left. And don't worry. Once you're inside, I'll still have eyes by way of your cell phone. It should work just as long as the connection holds." There was a pause. In it, Ayala heard Hatch sigh. Her exhale, amplified by the small wireless earbud in his ear, sounded of rushing water crashing over wet stone. The sound of it reminded him of that day by the river. The other day his life changed forever. The story he never told the woman watching on from the passenger seat of his Nissan.
Ayala had wanted to tell her. And had planned to after they'd finished eating their meal at Ernesto's house. But then Munoz and his goons showed up. The rest is history. But still, Ayala hoped to live to tell her about it.
There were similarities and differences, both in the circumstances of their childhood, and how each handled fallout. Both lost a parent at a tender age. Both marred by the wounds of their experiences.
Ayala couldn't remember a time when he didn't hate the sound of rushing water, but he still had one photograph, warped and faded with time that depicted a young Ayala at, age ten. It had been taken by his uncle who was excited to use a camera he had just bought. He had the photograph tucked in a shoebox with other old memories collecting dust. But no other memories collected were as important as the one in that picture. Because it was taken the day his mother died, not one hour before her death.
Ayala's father had always wanted to take them to the Rio Grande but getting from Nogales to the eastern side of the country without a car would take them a lifetime. He never figured it would happen, but a month before his eleventh birthday and to his family's surprise, his father got them there. His uncle married into money, and to show it off to the family, offered to take them in his new car.
Ayala's mother was sweet and kind, everything a mother should be. He had no bad memories from his childhood. He lived in a cluster of homes on the western side of Nogales, away from all the riffraff of downtown. They didn't have much. But nobody did and so it didn't seem to matter as much. Crime was minimal there, and aside from struggling to keep a chin above poverty, Ayala's family could be described in one simple word: happy.
His father wanted to take the family to a section of the river that was calm. His uncle, being one to live a bit more on the edge, and also the person driving, had opted for a bend in the river called The Devil's Hand because of the twisted shape of the enormous boulder jutting out from the riverbank.
The entire way to the river Ayala's uncle went on and on about The Devil's Hand. He said the boulder pinched the river tight. The following bend created a brief, intense section of rapids. His uncle thought it would be a great family photo.
He tested the camera, using Ayala as his first subject. The first of two photos taken that day was now tucked away in a shoebox buried in his bedroom closet. He'd thought about throwing it away, but each time he held it in his hand, he couldn't bring himself to do it.