A line formed and the parking lot filled rapidly. There didn't appear to be any type of dress code, which was good because Hatch didn't have too many wardrobe options. The people arriving, most of them at least, were well-dressed but casual.
Several large doormen controlled access to the club. Red velvet ropes now lined the walk leading to the two oversized door guards. They stood facing the crowd with thick arms folded across their broad chests. Their backs faced the second set of doors. Four polished brass stanchions connected by the same red velvet ropes quarantined off a six-foot space in front of the second doors. In the dark, Hatch could now see the neon sign above the door, which read VIP.
Two dark vans with blacked out windows pulled up, panel-side toward the back of the club. Each of the front passenger side doors swung open and similarly dressed men in black fatigue pants and t-shirts of matching color stepped out. She could see the glint of steel peeking out from the front waistband of the closest man. The armed men yanked the back doors open and barked commands at the occupants inside.
Five girls exited, three from the first van and two from the second. Both vans then drove off. They didn't go far, only pulling around to the back and parking away from the other vehicles in the lot. The two paramilitary men ushered the girls to the club's rear entrance, bookending the single file procession.
The girls' heads were down with their hands crossed in front of their midline in what looked like prayer. Plastic zip ties bound them together and told anybody paying attention the truth of their circumstances. But none of the employees lingering near the rear of the club even raised an eye in the direction of the slaves passing by. Likely, they were either complicit by their indifference or indentured to the cartel themselves. Either way, this backdoor entrance garnered no attention. Except from Hatch.
With their heads down, the girls' long hair obscured any chance of getting a visual of any of their faces to confirm whether Angela was among them.
As the last girl passed through, the cone of light projected out from the club's open door and Hatch caught a shimmer of red.
Fourteen
Hatch navigated the metal staircase to the sandy ground below. The abandoned water tower projected its shadow in the direction of the club painting an already dark path even darker. Hatch used it to approach the back corner where she'd seen the wait staff taking their smoke breaks undetected.
She stood still at the edge of the shadow. Hatch looked toward the growing line of people filling the red velvet roped corral. Blend, even when you stand out. His battle-tested life lessons served as his lasting gift. Her dad's words came back to her now with more frequency. The connection they'd shared in life only grew stronger in death. His guiding hand on her shoulder pushed her a fraction this way or that, enabling her to dodge some of life's hurdles. And in Hatch's life, those hurdles often came by way of bullets.
Hatch twisted the front of her white shirt into a knot above her belly, exposing the flattened hardpack of her abs. She flared the back, making sure the Glock's jagged lines remained obscured. Satisfied it was still safely tucked from view, she continued her rapid alterations. Hatch pulled down the sleeve on her damaged arm, masking the scars. She mussed her hair. The dirt and grime she'd accumulated acted as a natural hair putty.
By the end of Hatch's makeover, she was a drunken party girl. Hatch stepped out from the shadows and began her wobbly stagger toward the back of the line. She kept her head down, avoiding the surveillance camera at the corner of the building as she came up behind two men, each reeking heavily of aftershave and marijuana.
Hatch maintained a light sway. Even with her head down, she could feel their eyes rolling over her body like she was a piece of meat. They said something in Spanish she did not understand. She hoped they didn't try to start up a conversation and was grateful when a loud group of party goers up ahead drew their attention.
Five or six American college kids were belting out the lyrics to a song Hatch had never heard. Based on what she was hearing, both in content and delivery, Hatch hoped she never heard it again. The men nearest Hatch laughed at the impromptu show and lost interest in her.
A stretch limousine rolled to a stop in front of the doors. The driver who exited, wearing a full suit, immediately hustled around the trunk and around to the back passenger door facing the club. He opened the door and stepped aside, allowing the occupants to exit. Two well-dressed men left the vehicle, one a dark-haired Hispanic male in his mid to late thirties, and the other an American of similar age with sun-bleached blonde hair. The American wore sunglasses. At night. His choice of accessory making the Cory Hart classic hit seem all that more ridiculous when observed in real life. They entered through the boxed off area marked for VIPs. The special treatment earned boos from the rowdy college kids who, in turn, garnered a nasty look from one of the oversized doormen.
The limo drove off. Hatch watched as the smaller of the two doormen waved a black and yellow metal detecting wand over each entrant. The cold steel of the Glock pressed into the small of her back dictated a different entrance point.
The line had continued to grow and now a young couple stood behind Hatch. She needed to get out of the line and find another way in. Then she saw it. The staff entrance opened and the dishrag man from earlier appeared still with the same rag as before, though this time slung over his opposite shoulder.
"Whoa," Hatch lurched forward, hopping out of line and covering her mouth. "Here comes dinner." She said this for anybody paying attention. The couple gave her wide berth and the aftershave-wearing weed smokers just shook disapproving faces as she hustled away in an overexaggerated stagger.
Techno music masked her footsteps as she closed in on her entrance point and the overweight chain smoker standing between her and Angela. Hatch fell against the wall. A small piece of broken plastic acted as a doorstop, keeping it ajar. The electronic repetitive four beat pulsed, assulting Hatch's ears. The ragman turned in surprise. He spoke, but the club washed out any chance of deciphering its meaning.
Hatch let her head droop. It swung loosely as if dangling by a thread. His hand touched her shoulder and he worked to stabilize her against the wall. He continued to speak in Spanish. He was close enough for her to hear. And the words weren't kind and compassionate. Drunk bitch was thrown in somewhere. It didn't matter what he said or wanted. The minute he'd opened the door, he became another obstacle in a long list that stood in the way of Hatch and the girl she’d vowed to bring home.
If there'd been one lesson she'd learned from her father about obstacles, it was to overcome them by all means possible. He told her once, no matter how remote, explore all avenues until you find a way around. A young Hatch had asked, "what if you can't?" Her father's answer was, then you kick it in.
The smoke emptied from the ragman's mouth filling her nostrils as he put his other hand on her and shoved her hard. Two mistakes he made. First, pushing Hatch without blading his stance, leaving him completely off-balance. The second was putting a hand on Hatch in the first place.
Hatch capitalized on both mistakes in the seconds that followed. She spun her body redirecting the ragman's energy to the wall where Hatch had been leaning. With both hands on Hatch, his momentum sent him headfirst into the hard concrete. She assisted the wall's efforts in rendering him unconscious by slamming her left elbow into the back of his skull. The ragman collapsed in a heap at her feet. Hatch used her body to temporarily block the crumpled man from view as she broke the lightbulb above the door.