Feeling her way down the corridor with her fingers tracing the many watercolor prints lining the walls and knocking most off balance, she gave them a drunken tilt. Something she would fix later.
Her steps were soft and quiet, the floorboards beneath her feet as cold as the pooling shadows.
From beneath the door leading to the bedrooms, light fanned out from the crack underneath the door.
“Basilio?”
The door opened slowly in invitation, as full light spilled into the corridor.
“Mama?”
“Basilio, che cosa l'inferno voi sta facendo?” Basilio, what the hell are you doing?
When she opened the door, she found her children sitting along the couch with Basilio, who embraced his younger sisters into a huddled mass, the children crying.
Standing beside them with the point of his assault weapon leveled was a man of dark complexion, wearing military fatigues and a red-and-white keffiyeh. Attached to the barrel of the assault weapon was a suppressor that was long and thin and polished to a mirror finish.
Sitting in a chair opposite the couch with one leg crossed over the other and his hands and fingers tented before him as he rested his elbows on the armrests, sat a man who appeared marginally older than her fifteen-year-old son, who looked upon her with the calm and casualness of an old friend. He was slight of build with an unkempt beard. His eyes, dark and humorless, studied her for a long moment before he finally directed his hand to a nearby chair.
“Please,” he said, “no harm will come to the children if you do as I say. This I promise you.” The man’s voice was gentle and held a honeylike quality to his tone. His Italian was flawless. “Please.”
Vittoria pulled the fabric of her gown across her cleavage and took the seat as required. Her chin began to quiver gelatinously as she eyed the intruder. “What do you want?” she asked.
The man did not answer. He simply appraised her while bouncing the fingertips of his tented hands together in contemplation.
“We have money. You can have it all. Just take it and leave us alone.”
“This isn’t about money,” he said. “This is about… ideology.”
She stared at him as if he was a living cryptogram, her head slowly and studiously tilting to one side.
“But I need your help,” he added. “I need something only you can give me.”
She pulled the fabric of her gown tighter.
The young man nodded to his counterpart, who lowered the point of his weapon and withdrew a knife from a sheath attached to his thigh. In a deliberate motion he brought the point of the blade up and rested it beneath the underside of her chin, the action drawing a crimson bead from her slightly parted flesh, which caused her children to cry out for clemency.
“What I want from you,” the man stated in perfect Italian, “is something quite simple.” He then pointed to a mini-cam recorder sitting on a tripod across the room. The indicator light was in the ‘on’ mode, the camera running. “What I want you to do,” he said, “is to look into that camera and scream.” He then leaned forward and spoke to her in a tone laced with menace. “I said… scream.”
And that’s exactly what she did.
CHAPTER THREE
The Mexican version of a coyote was one who guided illegal aliens into US territory undetected. On this day, however, Juan Pallabos escorted an exclusive clientele who paid an admission price of $25,000—an incredibly sweet windfall — from three Arab men who wore nondescript clothing, such as non-patterned shirts and Dockers. None of them spoke or acknowledged the Mexican in any way, making Pallabos feel less significant in their presence. But for 25,000 American dollars, he could have cared less. In fact, he would have sealed his mouth shut with thread, if that’s what they wanted.
As the van moved unevenly along the desert terrain, its tires kicking rooster-tail plumes of dust in its wake, the Arabs sat quietly as the temperature soared to more than 110 degrees in the van’s interior.
Lying on the floor in the rear of the van sat an aluminum case. The shell was dull-coated silver and centered between the Arabs. If the coyote knew what he was transporting, he might have forsaken the five-figured amount. But a condition for receiving such a large amount is that he asks no questions. Therefore, not a single inquiry passed his lips.
With a great prudence Juan Pallabos maneuvered across the terrain careful not to damage an axle, and then came to an abrupt stop where the tires skidded a few feet in the soft desert sand. Through the dust-laden windshield he could see a battery of heat rising off the desert floor, and sage swaying softly with the course of a hot wind.
Saguaro and Joshua trees dotted the landscape that was colored with the reddish hues of sandstone, rather than the conventional yellow-brown of desert sand. In the distance the horizon appeared uneven in pointed caps and rises, giving it a saw-tooth appearance, which would serve as insurmountable obstacles for Pallabos’s van.
“We can go no further,” said the coyote, stepping out of the vehicle. He walked toward the horizon, appraised it, and then he removed his hat and passed a handkerchief across his brow. “The land is too uneven. My vehicle can go no further.”
The Arabs exited the van. Their shirts were tacky with sweat and their flesh slick with sheen. Carefully, two of the Arabs handled the aluminum case, one on each end, and placed it on the desert floor while the third Arab took residence next to Pallabos.
“Twelve kilometers straight ahead,” said Pallabos, pointing. “Once you get over the hills, then you will be all right. The American border is too large for the patrols to watch and maintain consistently. You should have no trouble getting across. But stay away from cartel tunnels. Drug lords no like others to use. But crossing over is very easy. And I suggest that you wait until the sun goes down, si?”
“Then drive us as far as you can.”
“No-no. No can do from here. Land is too much — how you say, difficult to cover. Must have way back, si?”
The Arab didn’t look at Pallabos, his eyes straight ahead. “We could have paid someone else much less to take us further.”
“No-no, Señor. Juan Pallabos is the best. Everybody say so. Not possible.”
The Arab mopped his brow with the back of his hand. The desert heat was much drier in his homeland, which was far more preferable than the sapping white sun that hung stingingly over his head at the moment. “Do you want more money? Is that why you stopped?” The Arab’s tone was flat, smooth, even.
“No-no, Señor. Juan Pallabos is an honest man. Van get damaged if go any further. Juan tells truth. Juan knows.”
“Then how do you expect us to travel twelve kilometers in this heat?”
Pallabos smiled, intuiting the question. “Huh, Juan brought plenty of water. Plenty of water.” He returned to the van and opened the front passenger door. Lying on the floor were six canteens filled with water. “Plenty of water, si? At night it will only take three hours to cross into United States. Three. Very easy. Juan Pallabos send many across the border. Juan Pallabos the best.”
The Arab took a long pull of air through his nostrils and released it in an equally long sigh. “Then I guess we no longer need your services.”
“Si, Juan provide. Juan the best, si?”
“Unfortunately for you, Mr. Pallabos, we cannot leave any witnesses behind. I’m sure you understand.”