Hatch kept track of the distance she had travelled by placing her hands tip to palm. Every time her right hand struck the dirt floor, she counted one foot. It was a rough system of estimation, but it helped ease the strain of forging ahead into the unknown. By her assessment of her underground trek, Hatch figured she had just passed the halfway mark.
She banged her head hard on an unseen object. Hatch ran her hand along the edge of what felt like the rim of a wood support beam. It was splintered at the center. She could still hear the coyote scraping his way along ahead of her. The weight of the ground above had collapsed at some point. Hatch blindly felt her way around the opening.
She pressed her body flat against the dirt and snaked forward in a low crawl. The tunnel walls gripped at her shoulders like a boa constrictor. Each breath filled her mouth with the dust and dirt kicked up from her exertions.
She shifted her torso and hips as she snaked her way for the next ten feet before the tunnel opened back up to its original size. Taking up a crawl, Hatch made up for lost time and quickly caught up with the coyote.
They continued unimpeded until they came upon a slight incline. The coyote stopped and Hatch ran her dirty fingertips into the worn treads of his cowboy boots, nearly jamming her knuckles.
"Just up there." It was the first time she could see his face again as light above penetrated a seam in another door, this one made of metal instead of wood.
He crawled up the rest of the way to the door and banged twice on its metal exterior. After the long silence, the noise was deafening. A few seconds later, a metal latch release signified the message had been received.
A hinge barked its request for oil as the hatch opened. The coyote's body shielded Hatch from the light pouring into the tunnel, bathing the once darkened surrounds in its pale glow. It took only a few moments for Hatch's eyes to adjust to the brightness.
A long-haired, leather-faced man stared down into the hole at Hatch. He then assaulted the coyote in a barrage of rapid Spanish. Hatch was worried the lid was going to come crashing down on her and the man who'd brought her here. Instinctively, her hand drifted back to the weapon tucked against the small of her back.
The coyote returned a volley of Spanish. The argument ended when the coyote tossed the cash-filled envelope out. The gatekeeper's long greasy hair flopped over his tanned face when he ducked to catch it. If Hatch were looking to kill these men, now would've been the perfect time to strike. But she didn't. She chose to wait.
The coyote went first. Hatch half expected them to close, or try to close, the lid on her, but apparently the money in her pocket meant more than her life. She saw the glint in the long-haired smuggler's eyes held a different intent, a lustful one, that may have contributed to his concession. Neither reason mattered. The only thing that mattered was that Hatch was now out of the tunnel and standing on Mexican soil.
The room was empty of people, minus the two smugglers. The space looked to have once been a cheaply designed bar, long since out of use. A table nearby was covered in empty and some not so empty beer bottles. A half-eaten plate of beans and rice indicated their arrival had interrupted the greasy one's dinner.
The two smugglers were shoulder to shoulder, blocking Hatch from the only door she saw. She towered five inches over both men. The coyote's right hand drifted toward the revolver on his hip.
"Don't go for yours and I won't go for mine," Hatch said.
It seemed to take the men a second to realize that a） she had a gun of her own, and b） the gun she had was already in her hand behind her back.
The coyote threw his hands up. The broken smile, worse in the light, reappeared. "Easy, pretty lady. This is just business."
Hatch slid her filth-covered right hand along the seam of her pants to the cargo pocket containing the remainder of the promised money. Hatch had another, more sizable, pouch of cash strapped along her ankle which she had no intention of sharing. The two men didn't move as Hatch retrieved the envelope. The brown stains from her encounter in the tunnel marked the white surface of the paper. She handed it over and the long-haired smuggler greedily snatched it up.
"Anything else you need?" The coyote asked.
"Did you two move a girl through here within the last day?"
The two men laughed, but it was the greasy haired man who spoke. "We run girls through here all the time."
"You'd remember this one. Red hair, pale skin. Young girl, seventeen." Hatch stared at them with her hand firmly rooted against the gun. "Ring any bells?"
"No."
"There's money in it if you cooperate." Hatch wouldn't pay that fee though. If she got a sniff these two were involved in the abduction and transport of Angela Rothman, Hatch would extract the information in a more brutal way.
"As much as I'd like to take your money, still no. And if she was anything like you, I'd remember."
Hatch read both men. Despicable as they were, neither gave any indication in their body language that they'd had contact with the teen.
Hatch stepped forward and the two men parted. Her shoulder forced the greasy haired smuggler back, almost causing him to drop the cash he was counting as she made her way to the door.
Hatch stepped into the warm night air. It smelled like a sewer line had broken nearby, but better than the hundred feet of tunnel she'd crossed to get here. She hoped to find some help, but first she needed to find a change of clothes, and a place to wash the filth from her.
Four
Splinter wood clawed Hatch's thighs as she sat on the wooden milk crate she'd used as a makeshift stool for the past couple hours. She'd allowed herself a brief reprieve from her crossing, resting but not sleeping in the alley between a bakery and a clothing shop aimed at tourists. The bakery had opened an hour ago. Hatch's filth covered clothes caught some looks from women behind the counter when she ordered.
Hatch consumed the last bite of her torta de tamal. She wiped the crumby remnants of the soft bolillo roll from her lips before washing the chicken filled tamale down with the black coffee. The nutty scent wafted into her nostrils and battled the overwhelming odor of human waste. Only one more hour until the clothing store opened. As strange as it was, at that moment, Hatch longed for her morning run. She felt off. New environments always made more sense to her after a run.
Exhaust from a passing bus swirled its noxious fumes as sunlight crept its way out from behind a building across the street. Daybreak spread across Nogales. Within seconds, Hatch felt the temperature rise, and with it, the smell of her own filth solidified her reason for remaining in her current location a little longer. A change of clothes was warranted before she presented herself at the Police Department.
Vacant eyes of the homeless wandering the alley passed over Hatch with little interest. An older man staggered along rattling a tin cup along the broken stucco of the graffiti covered alley wall. The sad tune of the thin metal against the wall's rough edges stopped abruptly. The old man's ambled gait quickened. Hatch followed the beggar with her eyes, watching him as he hurried toward the street. A rush of movement filled her view as others appeared out of nowhere. They were all drawn to a light blue ambulance pulling to a stop near the alley's opening.
As the ambulance driver exited, Hatch was surprised to see he was not wearing a paramedic's uniform. Instead, he was in a powder blue button-up, rolled to the elbow, and tight-fitting jeans. His potbelly protruded just slightly over the belt line, but his frame was thin, making him look like a half-used tube of toothpaste. She guessed him to be in his early to mid-sixties. Standing nearly six feet high, he towered over the crowd. Sun bounced off the top of his bald head giving his walnut skin an orange hue. He rubbed his neatly groomed beard, yawned, and then stretched his arms high into the air before closing the door and making his way toward the rear of his vehicle.