Neil Taylor questioned Kyle Moss's decision to meet at the motel. As personal attorney for the Moss family and in particular Kyle, Taylor had amassed a small fortune in legal fees over the years. The perks of the job had enabled him to purchase a winter home in Aspen, Colorado. In light of recent events, it appeared as though their partnership was coming to an end and this meeting was likely to be a parting of ways.
The beige duffle bag filled with cash Taylor had been ordered to bring now lay at Moss’s feet. Taylor now understood just how bad things had gotten. Kyle Moss's business with a multimillion-dollar human trafficking ring had backfired when a good Samaritan interfered and brought light on his involvement. Facing a life sentence in a federal penitentiary, Moss, through Taylor, made an offer of cooperation in which he stated he'd be willing to give a complete and total admission of his knowledge of the operations of the traffickers and the Fuentes Cartel behind its operation. It meant Moss would be naming names of some very bad people. All of this would be done in lieu of a jail sentence for the option of witness protection.
Taylor knew the truth behind the offer. Moss made it to postpone his arrest warrant and create a time buffer before his next move, which, if Taylor were honest, was totally insane. First thing his client had done, which made Taylor's job all that much harder, was run from the police.
Moss abandoned his palatial estate set against the backdrop of Camelback Mountain in the exclusive Hermosa Valley neighborhood of Phoenix. After that woman rescued his stepdaughter, Moss didn't stick around for the state police to arrive. Moss did what most criminals did when facing a lifetime of incarceration, he fled. He'd been in hiding since. Arizona state police in conjunction with the FBI were already actively seeking Moss for questioning. They were looking into the abduction of his stepdaughter after the do-gooder woman blew the whistle.
Then came the call. Moss reached out to him in the middle of the night. 3:47 AM to be exact. Taylor's hands trembled. Lack of sleep combined with the stress of the last five hours of running around after receiving his boss's instructions. Moss always knew this day might happen, a day when he had to cash it all in and disappear. For years, Moss had put cash into a storage locker an hour drive from Phoenix. The amount had reached a total of three-hundred thousand. Moss had given Taylor the address of the Sunnyside motel in Nogales, with specific instructions for Taylor to meet him there as soon as possible.
Taylor left his wife and three children, all of whom were sound asleep, to drive an hour outside of Phoenix to the location of the storage warehouse, load up the duffel bag, and then drive three hours south to the border motel where he'd been sitting for the last hour with the jittery Moss.
"Try to explain it to me again. Help me understand what it is you hope to accomplish." Taylor sipped at the tepid gas station coffee he’d picked up when exiting the highway. He felt the start of another migraine and hoped to be home in time to take his Ketorolac before it became debilitating.
Moss lit a cigarette from a pack of Camels set out in front of him. Taylor had seen Moss smoke on occasion, but never to the extent he was now. When Taylor first arrived, he tried to ventilate the room by opening the window, but Moss had nearly tackled him when he reached for the closed blinds. On edge would be an understatement. Moss looked as though he hadn't slept for a day or longer. Deep dark circles shrouded his bloodshot eyes as he stared deeply into Taylor's.
"No way I'm going to jail. And there's no way I'm brokering a deal with the FBI." Moss trembled. At first it appeared to be only in his fingers, but as Taylor looked at his boss, he saw the tremors spread across his body as if a low current of electricity were pumping through him. In fact, there was. It was called adrenaline.
"Two words: Witness Protection." Taylor offered.
"You really think they can protect me?" Moss huffed.
"Maybe. They've done it in other high-profile cases. Plenty of mob guys laying low somewhere." Taylor didn't know any of the stats on something like that, but he assumed.
Moss shrugged. "You think I'm going to be happy living in Mayberry and working in some office?"
"People do it all the time, Kyle."
"I'm not most people," he seethed. He then stretched out his arm and jingled the thirty-thousand-dollar Rolex. "I'm Kyle Freakin' Moss. I don't do that 9 to 5 bullshit!"
"You'd rather be on the run for the rest of your life?"
"Beats the alternative."
"And you trust these people?"
"I don't trust anybody, least of all the federal prosecutors or FBI investigators who will be looking for any reason to stick it to me. Besides, the minute I open my mouth, I'm as good as dead.
Taylor eyed the duffle. "And what's a quarter million or so going to get you really? How long are you going to be able to live on that?"
"Long enough. Plus, I was told once they sneak me across the border, they're going to set me up with them."
"You're going to work for the cartel? Doing what, exactly?"
"Doesn't matter. No choice in the matter. Mind's made up."
"And just how do you plan to get across the border? You've been flagged. The first thing the feds did the minute you ran was to put you on the no-fly list. It's not like you've got fake identification." Taylor thought about his last statement. "Wait, do you?"