Hatch heard the men below making their way to the second-floor landing. It wouldn't be long before they'd be checking the roof, door locked or not.
"I don't know anything about tactics, so please forgive my question. But if we run hard, as you're telling us to do, won't that alert those men on the floor below to our whereabouts?"
"Yes. But in a matter of minutes, maybe seconds, that's not going to matter anymore, because those Devil Dogs will be breaching that access door either way.
“The way I see it, we either make a run for it and take our chances on the unknown that comes from that. Or we stand here and wait for them to come. And I already know the probable outcome that would result from that." Hatch spared them the obvious.
"And once Miguel starts running, I want you right on his heels." Hatch directed her attention to the frightened teen who in turn nodded.
A bang of metal on metal sounded from the door below. The breach had begun. And, like a sprinter at the sound of a starter pistol's pop, Hatch watched as the newspaper man ran the length of the tin roof. He hit the edge and did exactly as Hatch instructed him to do.
Hatch looked on in awe as Miguel Ayala, the Peacock Man of Nogales, pushed hard while flapping his arms wildly, and flew.
His flight path was not perfect though, and upon hitting the roof on the other side, Ayala also managed to snag himself on the clothesline stretched end to end. The line slingshotted Ayala back in the direction he had just come. It looked as though somebody had hit stop and rewind. It would've been almost comical had he not been heading directly into the path of Angela who was rapidly approaching on a collision course.
Ayala caught himself by grabbing the pole of the clothesline, immediately halting him and avoiding the impending impact with the teen.
Angela had not stepped with as much force. Either she was too weak from her ordeal or too tired. The why of which didn't matter. What did was the lack of kinetic energy created had not been enough to boost the girl's light frame enough for the distance. Angela was on a racetrack to the ground after missing the second roof by a foot.
Ayala sprinted forward toward the falling teen with no regard for himself. His arms stretched out like a wide receiver going for a game-winning touchdown pass. The clothesline that had tossed him around was now in shambles strewn about the roof. Ayala's foot tangled in the line just as he caught Angela by the waist. The rubber-coated wire of the clothesline acted as a safety harness and stopped Ayala from going over the side. The girl now clutched his neck and held on for dear life.
With great effort, Ayala pulled Angela onto the rooftop. Hatch looked on and was sure Ayala would later tell his beautiful wife Rosa about how the extra vitamins in his Propel Vitamin Water was what gave him the needed strength to pull off such an amazing feat.
Hatch held her run until Angela dangled from the side. Precious seconds were lost in the process. With the girl safely cleared from the laundry-strewn landing pad, Hatch took her first step when the door beside her burst wide.
The Glock was still ratcheted against the small of her back. In preparation for the jump, Hatch needed her hands free for the landing. Left hand, moving on instinct, swept to her back. She felt the familiar cold of its steel in her hand as three men fanned out in front of her with guns drawn and aimed.
The fourth man exited after the others and was holding a cloth to his face. The blood covered rag pressed against a gash on the top of his head, presumably from whatever the Medicine Woman struck him with. The blood ran down his forehead. The river of red was slowed by the cloth, but a narrow stream trickled its way down and connected with a nasty scar running diagonally across his face.
Hatch was caught in mid-draw. These men were not the amateur enforcers Munoz brought with him. These three men were skilled operators.
When facing death, embrace it with open arms. For it is a friend who's been with you since the beginning and now you finally get to greet each other face to face. Do it with honor. Do it with a smile on your face. Her father's words sang to Hatch as she approached her end as her father had taught her to do long before he hoped she'd ever need to use it. Hatch wasn't sure of her thoughts on what happened when she crossed over to the other side. But she did believe without question that when she did, she would see her sister and father again. She thought of them both now. And the image of them in her mind helped honor her father's command.
Hatch looked past the gunman, locking eyes with the scarred man who stood behind them, and smiled.
Hatch refused to close her eyes. A decision she'd long ago made. Hatch wanted to face her killer as the reaper's scythe swept the life from her body. She felt it only fair to embrace the way she used death's gift to fill the cages of hell.
The smile hadn't ended with the consequence she'd expected. The firing squad held their position. And Devil Dogs’ scarred master gave no command to do otherwise. The only change was in the man's face. Cruel intentions lay behind the eyes as he returned her smile with one of his own.
"I am Juan Carlos Moreno. I serve at the right hand of my employer, Hector Fuentes, and he has requested the company of your presence."
Hatch weighed her life in Shakespeare's simple yet eloquently put soliloquy on death, "To be or not be." The answer to which was a simple one.
Being interrogated by the world's most dangerous cartel leader was still a hell of a lot better than being dead.
Hatch released the Glock. The rough texture of the weapon's grip left its imprint on the palm of her left hand that was now raised in line with her right as she surrendered to her enemy. This would be the first time Hatch had been taken hostage. But the bank robbery in San Antonio was very different from the circumstances facing her now.
"On your knees."
No opportunity for heroics, Hatch complied.
"Turn around and put your hands on your head."
Hatch looked in the direction of the rooftop Ayala and Rothman had escaped to. She was scanning the debris field of laundry fluttering in the warm breeze whispering of the approaching heat of day and was relieved the two were nowhere to be seen.
An unnecessary pistol whip was delivered to the side of her head by one of the men who wielded the cold hard steel like a blackjack. Hatch's vision blurred and she fell forward onto the tin roof.
And just before she disappeared into the dark, the light of the moon danced across the top of a yellow Nissan, as it slipped away undetected.
Thirty-Three
The stagnant water a foot below Hatch's head captured the image of her blood-soaked face. The butt stroke to the side of her skull had bled steadily, as evidenced by the amount that was dried and caked across her face. It had clotted while she was unconscious.
In the few minutes since her vision had cleared, she'd taken the time to assess her circumstances. She was suspended over a round metal kiddie pool, the kind Hatch had seen in the black and white westerns her dad watched when she was young. A belt connected the top of the chair to a bolted hook on the wall behind her, keeping the chair and Hatch, who was strapped to it, held firmly at a forty-five-degree angle to the water below.
The tight restraints bit into her flesh at her wrists and ankles, the worst of which had cut open her right wrist, adding what would surely be new scars over the old one. The ripples made by her steadily dripping blood carried away the grotesque image of Hatch's face.