by M. G Scott
Sabrina waved him over. “C’mon, we need to get through customs.”
“Right.”
They pushed their way through a wave of tourists—mostly older Americans without a sense of urgency—until they reached border control. The customs agent barely gave them a glance, stamped their passports, and waved them through.
“Follow me,” Gregory said as he powered his way toward the exit. When he found the doors, he burst into the warm, Gulf of Mexico air. Everywhere, drivers were yelling, trying to get the attention of the arriving passengers. “Taxis?” Gregory asked no one in particular.
“Over there,” Sabrina pointed to a sign, her backpack dangling over a shoulder. “We’re in luck,” Sabrina said. “Nobody’s waiting.”
A taxi pulled up within seconds and they collapsed into the backseat. “We’re on our way,” Gregory suggested as he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
Sabrina nudged herself upright. “I didn’t realize the Acapulco airport was so close to everything.”
“Yeah,” Gregory responded. “Second time down here and still amazed at how easy it is to get through.”
“Adónde vas?” the cabbie asked behind dark glasses.
“Sí, sí.” Gregory said as he fumbled for the address in his pocket. “Tres … Nuevo … Ocho … Hernán Cortes, er, the Bay.”
The cabbie nodded. “Sí. En viente y dos minutos.”
Sabrina eyed Gregory peculiarly. She wasn’t quite sure what he had said, but then the two years of high school Spanish jogged her memory. “Twenty-two minutes?”
“Ah. Si, Señorita,” the cabbie responded.
Sabrina nodded triumphantly. She touched Gregory’s knee. “Thanks for booking this. I promise to pay you back.”
He looked at her. “Absolutely not. I should be paying you. You’re the one helping me save my sister, and maybe it’ll even lead to getting my girlfriend back.”
“I’m no matchmaker, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Only hoping. … One thing I can tell you is we’re in this together. There’s no way you could do this on your own.”
“And neither could you,” Sabrina replied. No way she was going to let him talk down to her.
A smirk. “I get your point.” He reached into his bag and withdrew a small brown flask. He opened the top and thrust it at her. “Want a little?”
She sniffed the bottle. “Whiskey?”
“I need something to take the edge off.” He took a small swig.
Her face turned beet red, the anger suddenly swelling inside of her. “I will take a sip after all.”
He handed the flask to her and she immediately threw it out the open window.
Gregory’s eyes fumed with anger. “What the hell was that?”
“I thought you were done drinking. There’s no room in this cab, or this trip, for that behavior.”
“Whoa, lady.” He put up a hand. “You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”
“I just did so you better get used to it. The only way we’re going to make sure your sister is okay is if we’re both alert and smart about this, and the only way we’re going to do that is if we’re both sober.”
When Sabrina mentioned his sister, his face lightened. He shook his head. “Sabrina … you’re one of a kind.”
“I certainly hope so.” For a few minutes, nobody said a thing. Sabrina didn’t have to look at him to know he was flustered. She wondered if it made him less so when he drank.
The cabbie looked into his rearview mirror. “Hernán Cortes on Acapulco Bay, eh?” They both nodded.
“Do you think we’re doing the right thing here?” Gregory asked. “We’re walking on their home turf without a solid game plan. And without the cops involved.”
Sabrina eyed him. “I just want to find that one piece of evidence that ties everything together. That’s it. Once we have that, the FBI or whomever, can come in and handle it. Otherwise, I don’t think much is going to happen.” She sighed. “Besides, what I have so far is still circumstantial. If BioHumanity really becomes aware the police are investigating them hard, they’ll crawl into a hole.”
He turned toward her. “How do you know that?”
She really didn’t want to argue but this needed to be decided. “I don’t. But anybody in his or her right mind would do the same thing. These guys know what they’re doing. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve already paid off the law.”
“Probably,” he conceded. “But we’re only two people trying to take on a powerful corporation. They’ve got a lot of money and resources … they could squish us like a bug.”
“I know—”
The cabbie briefly caught Sabrina’s attention as the mobile phone rattled next to him. He answered it in Spanish as he weaved in and out of traffic.
“If we find anything, who should we tell?”
“Detective Urbina, from Lincoln City,” she replied confidently. “He’s the only one I trust right now, especially after being there for me at the hospital.”
The cabbie took off his shades. Those eyes! Suddenly, a sense of fear interrupted inside of her, as if she had seen them before. But where?
She jerked her head toward Gregory but he was lost in thought. She looked past him toward a gritty Acapulco street on display out the window. They were nowhere near the tidy roads she had expected the cabbie to take. She discretely nudged Gregory’s arm, but hard. “Something’s wrong,” she whispered in his ear and then pointed out the window. For a moment, she didn’t think what she said registered. She was going to nudge him again but then he jerked his head forward. “Cabbie, where are we?” he asked suspiciously.
Instead of answering, the cabbie yanked the steering wheel right—toward the curb—and slammed on the brakes.
“What are you doing?” Gregory asked angrily.
The cabbie powered down the window next to Gregory. Sabrina eyed a car slowly moving by in the opposite direction. Suddenly, two gunshots fired from the car—blistering her ears. She shot a glance out the back window, trying to catch the identity of the driver, but all she saw were taillights as it sped away. She looked over at Gregory who had slumped over and gone deftly silent. Blood was dripping down his cheek and onto his shirt. She grabbed his face and turned it toward her. His eyes were still wide open, his thoughts frozen in time from just a minute ago. That’s when she noticed the small hole over his right ear.
Sabrina screamed like never before—even as a little girl—as the shock of the moment blew through her. “Oh God! No!” She grabbed Gregory’s wrist and checked for life. Nothing. She turned toward the cabbie who seemed to remain strangely calm. “Who just shot at us?” she asked frantically.
The cabbie spun toward her. “Associates of mine. I have many in Mexico.” His English was perfect now, the Mexican accent gone.
“What … are you talking about?” Her heart beat rapidly, not sure what he was telling her.
“Let’s just say I call on them when the time is right.” He gazed at her triumphantly. “You are a very lucky woman, you know that?”
“How so?” She would’ve said more but she was busy processing his voice. She had heard it before. And then it hit her—the coroner’s office.
“Your friend just took a bullet meant for you.”
“You!” she said hysterically. “You tried to kill me on the highway, back in Oregon. That was you!” She couldn’t stop thinking about Gregory. He needed a hospital. Now.
“You seem to be filling in all the blanks,” he replied flatly.
“Why are you killing everybody I know? What do you want?”
“I want your life,” he replied coldly. Suddenly, the window next to Gregory closed.
She focused on the bullet hole nestled in the passenger door just to the right of her. He was right—she had been lucky. She eyed the door. It was locked.
“I wouldn’t try that if I were you.”
Was she out of options? She just couldn’t die now—not with this madman, in this t
axi, in Mexico. She just couldn’t. Not after how close she was to figuring this all out. “I don’t get it. You have the journal. Isn’t that what you wanted? Why do you keep coming after me?”
“Because you won’t quit. As much as I wanted to kill you earlier, I couldn’t until I had control of the journal. Now that I do, you’re disposable.”
“Really? Was that stupid black book really worth killing Eric Sanchez over?” She was scared to death but for some reason her mouth was working overtime.
“Yes,” he stated matter-of-factly, “when what’s written in there can bring down everything my client is working for.”
“You mean BioHumanity?”
He looked agitated. “I don’t mean anything. Nor is it your business.”
“But they have to be—” And then she understood. He was deflecting her away, refusing to talk about it. She wondered why. “You killed Mona, didn’t you?”
“That was more messy than I would’ve liked,” he admitted. “But when they pay you a bonus, you do what you have to do.”
It made her sick just thinking about it. “Is this how you make your living?”
A nod.
The thought she was up against a professional killer suddenly petrified her more than she already was, if that was possible.
“Killing has no effect on you, does it?” she asked, her voice shaking with every word.
“Okay. We’re done with the little chitchat.” Mannheim pulled a revolver from an aluminum case sitting on the passenger seat. Sabrina swallowed hard. She was sitting in death’s doorway and there was no way out.
Or was there?
“We need to finish some business,” Mannheim said as he screwed a silencer in place.
She put her hand on the front seat, trying to judge how much room she had. There might be just enough, she thought. She took a deep breath.
It would have to be now.
She pointed out her window. “The police!” He followed her glance. She snapped her right leg in an arc, a move any kick-boxer would know, toward the killer’s head. Realizing she had tricked him, he turned back as her foot slammed into his cheek, sending him crashing into the door, the revolver bouncing off the dashboard and onto the seat. As if she had practiced the move a hundred times, she swooped over the seat and grabbed the gun.
His eyes shot open. He had been outsmarted.
“Now it’s your turn,” she said coldly. She hesitated only briefly and then shot him—not once, but three times—her hand jerking back with each pull of the trigger.
She had killed him.
Chapter 47
Blood was spattered everywhere—on Sabrina, both bodies, the seat, and the windshield.
Her ears still ringing, she stared at the limp body slumped between the window and the dashboard. Her hand was shaking uncontrollably, refusing to let go of the gun or even point it away from the assassin.
Common sense crept back to Sabrina. Was he really dead? She had to be sure. She dropped the gun and reached over the seat—his wrist would give her a sign.
No pulse.
The warm Mexican sun made her nauseous. The dark vinyl seats were warm to the touch, and the bodies—a pool of blood forming beside them—were producing a sickening odor she had only smelled once before. But here it was, sending her into a dark anxiety she never wanted to experience again. She reached over the driver and popped the locks on the door. She needed fresh air. Now.
Her mind was spinning. Could she really stand outside a car with two dead bodies in it? She peered out the window. It was a sparsely populated street but that wouldn’t last long, especially if the locals knew what had transpired. She closed her eyes. Stay strong, she thought. But how could she, or anyone for that matter, after all that happened? She was sitting in a car with two dead men—one she had killed and the other she had gotten killed. The guilt was unbearable. She had pushed herself to get involved, and then Carla and Gina, then Brieman, and now Gregory. She was in over her head and three of those four had paid the ultimate price for her stubbornness. She should’ve told Urbina everything she knew on that ride back from the hospital. Why be so feeble? A single tear raced down her cheek. Not bothering to wipe it away, it dripped onto her shirt. The sense of normalcy she had hoped for after moving from New York was as far away as ever.
The sound of sirens shook her back to reality. She looked out the blood-spattered window. The reflection of the flashing lights could be seen in the distance, maybe two blocks ahead. Were they coming for her? For this?
There was no way she could wait for that answer. Not in this country. She could be held for days, maybe weeks, while they figured things out—while her own investigation grew stale. She had to move on, if not for her livelihood, then for the memory of Eric, Mona, Carla, Gregory, and who knows how many others they disposed of.
She flung open the door and slid from the back seat, the humid air engulfing her like a blanket. Wait. She needed protection. Reaching in, she grabbed the gun she had dropped only minutes earlier, wiped the spattered blood off the barrel, and put it in her backpack. Shielding her eyes, she looked up and down both ends of the street. She needed to get away. Now. She spotted a small alley a hundred yards back of the car.
She ran—like she had never run before.
Panting heavily, Sabrina slowed to a walk, guiding her tired legs toward the harbor. Sweat was pouring from her face but she didn’t care. For the moment she was alive, yet she felt only one step ahead of death.
Shielding her eyes from the blazing Acapulco sun, she turned every which way, looking up and down the unfamiliar city blocks. Less than twelve hours ago, she had vaguely researched where the Heart Center was and, for some reason, this felt right. By her count, she must’ve run at least a mile from the gritty neighborhood and the taxi she left behind, for this section of the city was vastly different. Gone were the piles of trash, the homeless, and the run-down storefronts. The city was now a sea of modern capitalism set along a glistening blue harbor—brick, glass, and stainless-steel buildings dotted the streets as if shiny new toys for wealthy corporations. Carefully designed street lamps and sandy-white brick ways completed the vibe. Just across the street, the water in the Acapulco Bay glittered under the cloudless sky. On any other day, she would have been happy to stand and stare for hours at the whitecap waves, but today was not that day.
Her anxiety intensified. There was nowhere to turn, nobody to help her unload the incredible burden she felt. And maybe worst of all: She still needed to find the smoking gun or every nightmare she had survived would be for naught.
Was it possible her intuition was wrong?
She eyed a pier entrance just on the other side of the road. Painted grayish blue, it extended for hundreds of feet into the Gulf. For whatever reason, a sense of tranquility seemed to float over the pier. Maybe it was the seagulls zigzagging back and forth, maybe it was the couple romantically enjoying the view. Whatever it was, it seemed to beckon her. Skipping down a set of cobblestone steps, she hiked across the wooden boardwalk. When she hit the end of the pier, she placed her hand over a metal railing and took in the view for a few seconds.
Something suddenly seemed to make sense to her: She should end it all right here.
She leaned over the railing, pushing her torso as far as she could toward the water. She hung there, watching the waves crash back and forth. It was so tempting to just slip into the sea and let the weight of her burdens drift away from her soul.
Why not? she thought. Four lives were gone because of her.
The temptation grew stronger, her arms shaking from holding her body in such an awkward position. She eyed the water, concentrating on a point of impact.
A thought occurred to her, making her laugh, almost uncontrollably. She hadn’t been there for her sister and now—maybe—this was the price she had to pay. If she hadn’t been so busy with her own life that morning, she could’ve walked down to the lobby with her—just like she did every day.
If she had, her sister
Tonya would still be alive today.
She was sure of it.
Chapter 48
Three months earlier, the April morning started just like any other weekday. Sabrina was dabbling in the kitchen of her Manhattan apartment, adding her own twist to a soup du jour recipe she had fallen for years ago—just as she did every morning before heading into the culinary institute to teach.
“Hey Sabrina!” Tonya shouted over her sister’s food processor. “Are you ready?”
“Not yet, sis. I’ll see you down in ten.” They were headed to Central Park for a short morning jog. “I got a bit of inspiration I want to see through.”
“Okay. I’ll warm up a bit and see you in the lobby.”
“Right.”
Ten minutes later, Sabrina gave the soup a once over with her spoon and then tasted it: Hmmm, she thought. What a rich, savory taste.
She looked at the clock above the oven. Shit. Her sister was going to kill her. She grabbed a pencil and jotted down the recipe of her new concoction, and then rushed out the door. As she hurried down six flights, she wondered what a squirt of citrus juice would do to the soup, and for a second, considered going back and adding it. Not now, she decided. Her body was screaming for exercise—especially after how late she had worked the night before at the institute. Running with her sister was the only way to burn off calories and the stress of a long day, especially since she was long retired from college gymnastics.
Sabrina rounded the fourth floor. Noises briefly distracted her but she thought nothing of it. Any number of sounds came from the rickety old building that had just been renovated into condos.
She heard the noises again.
It made her more alert as she hit the third floor landing. Were her steps causing the muffled taps? She softened her steps. Maybe that would make a difference, she thought.
It didn’t. The taps turned into soft chatter and then she heard rhythmic scraping. Sabrina rolled her eyes. The familiar sounds of adolescent love. She returned to her normal trot. As she landed on the second floor, she wondered how kids picked places to explore their sexual desires. She just hoped they were somewhat dressed, saving the embarrassment they would all share.
