"Gotta do something about those clothes." He investigated the van. "It's tight but you can use it to change if you want."
Hatch thought on the offer for a second. And in that second, Azul must've seen the hint of concern at voluntarily getting into a stranger's van. Some things are just universal.
"I'll stand outside and keep watch."
Hatch decided this was the best of all options right now. Plus, it gave her the opportunity to transfer her personal items, cash, and, most importantly, the gun. "That'd be great, thanks."
"Just be careful not to damage any of the items. Those will find their way to families in need."
"Don't worry, I move like a cat."
Hatch climbed into the back of the van. Azul closed the doors. And in the seconds that followed, Hatch listened hard. Nothing. No click of the door's lock. No start of the engine. She didn't waste any time disrobing. Hatch ran a couple of the wet wipes over her body before slipping on the new clothes. The fit was good. The clothes had the rough feel of being air dried. She doubted they'd ever been touched by fabric softener.
She bagged up the dirty clothes and the pile of dirty wet wipes before exiting.
"A perfect fit," Azul beamed. He eyed the bag containing the clothes she crossed the border in and offered, "If you want, I can wash these for you. No trouble."
"Not necessary. I was just going to toss them."
"Toss them? Those stains can be washed out. If you're not going to keep them, I'd gladly take them," he eyed the bag's contents, "I'm sure I could find somebody who would benefit."
"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."
"No need to apologize." He stretched out a long arm and received Hatch's odorous offering and chuckled. "Maybe I'll even wear them? You look to be about my size."
He tucked the bag containing Hatch's clothes underneath an empty shelf and closed the rear doors of the ambulance. "Where are you heading now?"
"The police."
He looked concerned.
Hatch didn't want to involve this man in any way beyond their current exchange and so offered a dismissive wave. "No, it's nothing. I'm just looking for a friend of mine. Kind of a wild night." Hatch did her best impression of a party going American who let a night of drinking spin wildly out of control. Not convinced her performance was up to par, she hoped it would be enough to close the door on the conversation.
A question formed on his lips and she could tell he didn't buy her story, or at least part of it. But the question never came. Instead, Azul made another offer. "It's a couple miles walk to the station. I've got nowhere to be, and I would be more than happy to give you a ride."
He'd kept his word when she changed in the back, staying outside and keeping watch. Getting in a van and driving away was another crossroads in the establishment of trust. She shot a glance at the ambulance.
Her hand now clean, she shook Azul's. "Let's ride."
Five
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!"