by Chad Zunker
Sam followed Uncle Jerry across the street. They skipped the main entrance to the cathedral and instead trotted up some concrete steps farther down the sidewalk, where they entered through a more obscure side entrance. Uncle Jerry seemed to know exactly where he was going. He pushed open a heavy wooden door that looked hundreds of years old and quickly shut it behind them. Then he led Sam through a few dark rooms, opening and shutting more wooden doors, until Sam followed the ponytailed man up a very narrow stone stairwell that reminded him of being inside an old Renaissance castle—like something out of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. It was quiet and cold in the stairwell.
They circled up five flights of spiraling stone stairs, then finally stepped out into a dusty open-aired room that was filled with heavy ropes that crisscrossed in every direction. Sam recognized they were inside one of the tall bell towers as he spotted the giant bell hanging right in front of him. Sam stepped up to the ledge by the tower, peered out over a half wall down into the main square almost two hundred feet below. The party in the Zócalo looked even bigger from up high in the bell tower. The parade was growing longer, the marching band was getting louder, and the people were getting drunker.
Jerry lit a joint, took his shades off. “What kind of trouble you in?”
Sam turned. “Hard to say exactly. In the past few hours, I’ve been shot at by assassins, jumped from a hotel balcony and nearly broke my back, and went on a high-speed car chase through these crowded streets. If that wasn’t enough, I had to break out of a federal police building.”
“Sounds like fun,” Jerry replied, grinning, puffing.
“Maybe for you. I don’t need that kind of fun.”
“David said you needed official papers.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, I lost everything. Passport. IDs. Credit cards.”
“Gonna make it hard to get home.”
“Can you help?”
He nodded. “Sure, I know a guy. You got any cash?”
Sam shrugged. “Maybe thirty bucks.”
Uncle Jerry smirked. “I’ll bill David. Let me make a call.”
The man pulled out his phone, punched a button, and held it to his ear. Sam walked back over to the ledge by the large bell and studied the impressive celebration below. He guessed there were already ten thousand people down there partying it up and having the time of their lives. Considering his situation, he envied their carefree evening. What he wouldn’t give to rewind the clock twenty-four hours and go in a different direction. He turned around again. For the first time, Sam looked at the back of Uncle Jerry’s left hand. David had said there was a creepy tattoo of a black scorpion on it, but Sam noted that there was nothing there. Sam peeked down at the man’s right hand, which was still holding his joint. No tattoos there, either. Sam thought that Uncle Jerry could have had the tattoo removed. Although considering the man’s overall appearance, he highly doubted he would go to that kind of trouble for a scorpion tattoo.
Uncle Jerry looked up, locked eyes with Sam, who tried to play it cool. The man gave Sam a reassuring nod. Earlier Sam had noticed a black gun holster inside Uncle Jerry’s camo jacket. Something didn’t feel right. At that very moment, Sam heard the sound of the last wooden door they’d just passed through a few minutes ago, twenty feet down the spiral stone stairwell, open and then shut. Then he heard the patter of shoes quickly ascending up toward the bell tower. Full-on adrenaline pumped through his body. Someone was coming! His eyes again connected with Uncle Jerry; however, this time the military man must have noticed the sudden panic wash over Sam. Uncle Jerry stiffened, alert, reached inside his jacket for his gun.
Sam spun around, spotted the small opening beside the giant hanging bell, and then quickly jumped up on the ledge and dove through it. He heard Uncle Jerry yell something behind him. Sam got to his feet on the other side of the bell and was now standing right outside the tower, staring down over a short wrought iron railing two hundred feet or so down to the sidewalk below. He couldn’t jump for it. The fall would definitely kill him.
Sam’s eyes shifted left, where he noticed a terrace only two stories down. If he could get across the tiny ledge on this massive column without falling, he had a chance. It was a big if, but he had no choice. And he had no time to be cautious. He grabbed the railing, swung his legs over. His first huge risk was a ten-foot drop to another very narrow ledge below him that was maybe six inches wide. The only way to get there was to jump, land like a skilled gymnast on a balance beam, and then hope he could somehow grab an edge of the building with his fingers.
He heard movement inside the bell tower coming toward him.
He thought of Natalie, and then he jumped for it.
The toe of his right shoe caught the six-inch ledge at the same time that his left hand grabbed an ornate curl poking out of the column. He was literally hanging by a thread, half his body swinging wide out over the sidewalk below. He quickly pulled himself in, got his balance, and pressed himself up flat against the cathedral column. Then he began to scoot a few inches at a time around the corner of the tower. He took another peek up from where he’d jumped and spotted two faces staring down in search of him. One belonged to Uncle Jerry. The other was his new pal, Desperado, the assassin from inside the hotel suite. Had he been tricked? David?
He couldn’t even fathom that possibility. He quickly slipped around the tower corner and ducked completely out of view. He was now twenty feet above the fourth-story terrace. He found more ledges on this column, so he was able to quickly scale his way down like a rock climber.
At eight feet, he jumped, hit the terrace, and rolled.
Getting to his feet, Sam raced to the nearest door and stepped inside an empty banquet hall. He crossed through the room, hurried down a quiet hallway, until he found himself staring down over a railing from more than thirty feet into the massive church sanctuary below him. A priest was at the front, standing near the ornate gold altar while several hundred people sat in dozens of wooden rows. When Sam spotted Uncle Jerry appear in the back of the sanctuary, searching the area, he tucked back behind a wall column. He waited a few seconds and carefully peered out again. Uncle Jerry was gone. But where was Desperado? Sam had to somehow get out of the building, create space between them, and get lost in the night.
He found a set of roped-off stairs, descended carefully. A large crowd filled the lobby. Most were tourists reading the various plaques, studying the artwork, and taking selfies with all of the ancient gold statues. He did not immediately spot his pursuers inside the lobby, but Sam knew he couldn’t simply walk out. He needed extra help—something to throw the men off and buy himself some time to operate. He again needed a quick new look. He eased his way into the crowd, searching for options, and then he noticed two young men of maybe twenty hanging out by themselves against one wall and looking bored. One wore a blue ball cap with the words Cruz Azul. The other guy looked to be about Sam’s size and wore a blue-jean jacket. Sam pulled out some cash from the small wad in his pocket, stepped up to them.
“¿Habla Inglés?” Sam asked them.
They both shook their heads. Sam pointed at the blue cap on the one guy’s head and then the blue-jean jacket on the other guy and held up the cash. The young men gave each other a curious look, shrugged, nodded, took the cash, and handed over the requested items.
“Gracias,” Sam replied.
He immediately put on the cap and jacket, stepped closer to the stream of people moving in and out the main doors. He was within five feet when Desperado suddenly appeared right in front of him. Sam tried not to panic and blow his cover. Instead, he pulled the bill of the cap down even farther, blocked his eyes, held his breath, and kept a steady gait. Desperado brushed past him, their shoulders nearly touching, Sam’s heart in his throat—the man had coldly pumped a bullet into his new client! When he cleared him, Sam took a swift but cautious glance back. The assassin kept moving farther down the lobby.
As calmly as possible, Sam stepped into the exit line and walked outside
of the cathedral. He remained very close behind a large group of people who were with a tour guide, as if he belonged with them. He stayed with the group until they were at least fifty feet farther up the sidewalk. Then Sam veered off, took his first breath. He stared back up at the tall bell tower from where he’d just narrowly escaped, shook his head. None of it made any sense.
Why had Uncle Jerry betrayed him?
How was the man involved with Desperado? What was the link?
Sam knew he could no longer rely on David for help. Although he refused to believe that his boss had anything to do with this, there was clearly a breach somewhere in their communication. He’d have to go in a completely different direction. First, he had to get away from the Zócalo. He ditched the jacket and cap, hustled up the sidewalk. His brisk walk soon turned into a slight jog. The boisterous sounds of the party began to slowly fade behind him, but the intense emotions of the moment were growing even louder in his head.
The slight jog eventually shifted to a full-on sprint.
His running shoes now pounded the cracked sidewalks.
Sam ran deep into the dark streets of the foreign city.
SIXTEEN
Text: El Ángel, Paseo de la Reforma, 8:30
Sam stared at the burner phone, still breathing hard and sweating. The new text came only five minutes after he’d fled the Metropolitan Cathedral. He caught a cab at a street corner with the final remnant of cash he still had left in his pocket. He was flat broke again. He would need to put his street skills back to work if this continued much longer. He considered going back to his hotel room at the Hyatt but quickly dismissed that idea. Agent Mendoza would likely have a pair of federal agents waiting for him right outside his room door. He would have to continue to do this the hard way.
The cab driver spoke broken English but seemed to know exactly where to go when Sam passed along the info he’d received in the text message. Sam was unsure what he’d find when he got there, but he was certainly eager and hopeful that this was finally coming to a place of reckoning. He was already tired of the cryptic text messages. He was furious that there had been no follow-up to Natalie’s situation.
He wanted answers, right now. He wanted to actually talk to someone.
He again thought of David, wondered how Uncle Jerry had turned on him.
It just didn’t make sense. David would never do that. Or would he?
He watched the video of Natalie again. He needed to see her face, hear her voice, even if she was bound and frightened. He’d do whatever he needed to do to protect her.
Even give up his life.
He thought about his mom, felt a catch in his throat.
After all, Natalie was the closest thing to family he still had left.
March 7
Four months ago
They called it a harvest, where they were supposed to take about two pints of Sam’s bone marrow and then immediately transplant it into his mom. Sam wondered what would’ve happened to his mother had he never gone to look for her in the first place. She might already be dead. She might never have gotten the type of care that she did by moving to DC to be near him. Without him, she might have died alone in a hospice room back in Houston waiting for doctors to find her a bone-marrow match. He had Natalie to thank for that. When they’d first started dating, she’d helped him push past the fear and the anger that had held him hostage for so long and encouraged him to finally make the effort to reconnect with his mom. He would never have done it without her. He would never have had the courage to face his demons head-on. Lying there in bed, recovering, he felt overwhelmingly grateful. He didn’t deserve her.
He felt very emotional. Maybe it was the drugs.
At his bedside, Natalie leaned over to him.
“How’re you feeling?” she asked.
“A little sore. But okay. How is she?”
“We don’t know yet. They haven’t finished on her end.”
He sighed. “This has to work, Natalie.”
“It will, Sam. Don’t worry.”
“She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s all I’ve got.”
“She’s not going anywhere. Have faith.”
“I’m trying, believe me.”
Natalie pushed Sam in a wheelchair to see his mom a few hours later. She was in a private hospital room with her name, Nancy Weber, on the door, and being monitored very closely. The doctor had come by earlier and told them they felt everything went well. Now it was up to her body to behave the way they wanted and expected. The next twenty-four hours were critical. His mom was awake and wanted to see him. Natalie pushed him up close to her bed. He didn’t need the wheelchair and felt embarrassed by it, but the doctor made him promise to wait until at least the next day before he started walking around.
“Mom?” Sam said, touching her arm.
She looked skinny as hell, even worse than yesterday. Barely any color in her cheeks.
Her eyes slowly fluttered open.
“Samuel,” she said, gave a weak smile.
“How’re you doing?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Let’s get the hell out of here and go to Vegas.”
He chuckled. “Not yet. You need to rest.”
“Can I at least get a cigarette?”
Sam frowned. “No, Mom. No more smoking!”
“Then just let me die.”
“Not a chance.”
She put her hand on top of his, squeezed. “I’m just teasing. But I sure could use a cheeseburger. Maybe some fries?”
Natalie said, “I’ll go check with the nurse.”
“Thank you, sweetie,” his mom said.
Natalie stepped out of the room. His mom looked over at him.
“Have I told you to marry her, Samuel?”
“Almost every day for as long as I can remember.”
She frowned at him. “Then what the hell are you waiting for?”
Sam grinned. “Let’s just get through this first, okay?”
“Don’t use me as your excuse,” she chastised him.
“I’m not, I swear.”
“Good. I never want you to let your dying mom hold you back. I already did enough of that in your life.” She sighed, grimaced. “I feel bad even putting you through this ordeal.”
“Don’t. I’ll be up and running around again by tomorrow.”
“You’d better be, or I’ll give Dr. Wilson hell.”
“You’ll be giving him hell no matter what.”
“True.”
“You will be up again soon, too. Everything went well.”
She smiled, patted his hand. “I sure hope so. I don’t want to miss your wedding.”
He rolled his eyes, shook his head. “Come on, Mom. Stop already.”
She squeezed his hand, her eyes growing wet. “Thank you, Samuel. I really mean it. I don’t deserve this from you. I don’t deserve much of anything.”
“You don’t deserve cancer, either. So stop talking that way.”
“Well, that’s debatable.” She swallowed, pressed her dry lips together, her pale forehead wrinkling. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
She again pressed her lips together, as if this was something more serious, and she was contemplating just how to say it to him. “It’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time, from the first day you showed up in Houston, but I never felt quite right about it. Honestly, I was afraid you’d get angry at me all over again.”
“You’re in the hospital battling cancer and recovering from transplant surgery. How angry could I really get with you right now?”
He smiled, tried to be reassuring. She smiled, too, but he could still sense some hesitancy. About that time, the doctor appeared in the room, breaking the moment, ready to give them an update on her situation.
Sam leaned into his mom, said, “We can talk about this later, okay?”
“Okay.”
Sam had no idea he’d never get the chance to finish the conversation.
SEVENTEEN
El Ángel was a huge monument in the middle of a major roundabout in the heart of Mexico City. A giant gold statue of a goddess stood at the top of a one-hundred-foot column. The whole monument glowed under bright lights in the dark night. When the cab driver finally dropped him off on the sidewalk across the street, Sam noticed there were several others meandering about around the base of the monument. He stepped out, suddenly felt very vulnerable once again. He had no money, no ID, and was likely wanted by both the federal police and assassins. Standing out in the wide open for very long was not at all comfortable.
Hands stuffed in his pockets, he trotted across the street. Slowly circling the monument, he wondered who would show up and from where. He walked past a young couple strolling hand in hand. A family with two little girls was taking pictures. An older man in a brown jacket stood off by himself, staring at one of the smaller statues around the base. Sam watched him for a moment, wondered. But the man never turned to look at Sam. He was not the guy.
Sam made a full circle around the base of the monument, checked the time on the cell phone. The digital numbers read exactly 8:30 p.m. He looked up and noticed the woman. She wore a gray trench coat and marched quickly across the street directly toward Sam. When she got closer, he put it together. She was the same woman from the federal building—the agent who had given him the police windbreaker with the burner phone in the pocket. Although he now doubted she really worked for the federal police. So who was she? He guessed she was in her midthirties, with straight black hair that fell just below her shoulders.
“Sam,” she acknowledged, stepping within five feet.
“Who are you?” Sam asked, already feeling pissed off.
“If you want to see Natalie alive again, you must complete your assignment within the next twenty-four hours.”
The mention of Natalie caused him to ball up his fist.
She noticed, smiled. “You should control your emotions, Sam,” the woman suggested, a quick nod across the street from where she’d just appeared.
