The sun yielded to night, painting the sky in a dazzling orange blaze. A deep purple like that of the light bounced off the main doors and lingered before giving way to moonless black. The three kitchen workers had long since finished their smoke break. In fact, they'd had time for two more in the interim hours before nightfall. Headlights from the arriving patrons flooded the dirt lot behind Club de Fuego. Hatch remained in her sprawled position on the rickety landing.
She had made minor adjustments to her body's position during the five and a half hours she waited. These shifts alleviated the discomfort from the rough treads of the elevated walk where she lay. Being in one spot for long periods of time was a staple of her training and experience during her military service. Embrace the suck, ex-boyfriend and former Navy SEAL Alden Cruise's mantra, which he’d picked up while at the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL Training in Coronado. It was Hatch's next destination if she found Angela Rothman and punished those responsible for her abduction.
Rhythmic pulsing resonated through the concrete walls. The club's logo lighted edges flickered, casting their scarlet glow on the black backdrop, giving it the effect of being engulfed in flame. A pigeon stopped by for a visit. It rested its feast, a bit of bread from a tortilla shell, beside the heel of Hatch's boot. It went about picking at the morsel with no regard for present company, as if Hatch didn't exist. Fitting, since according to the police and medical reports out of Hawk's Landing, Colorado, she didn't. Servicewoman's Life Cut Down During Home Invasion, the title of the Denver Post article had read. In it her death was surmised in two sentences: "Rachel Hatch, age 35, died in the fire. Cause of death is ruled asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation."
She watched the club's logo burn bright. She thought about the fires that had ravaged her own life, each one catapulting her life forward in a totally new trajectory. All different. One left her right arm permanently scarred. The second ripped her from her family and the one man she ever truly loved. The last stopped her from saving a traumatized teen from the monsters she currently sought. All of them led her to the here and now. Fractured points in time pieced together to form the mosaic-stained glass that was her life. Blood from the wicked and the innocent tainted each pane with its unique hue. Hatch looked out at the club and wondered what the next addition to her life's tapestry would look like.
A line formed and the parking lot filled rapidly. There didn't appear to be any type of dress code, which was good because Hatch didn't have too many wardrobe options. The people arriving, most of them at least, were well-dressed but casual.
Several large doormen controlled access to the club. Red velvet ropes now lined the walk leading to the two oversized door guards. They stood facing the crowd with thick arms folded across their broad chests. Their backs faced the second set of doors. Four polished brass stanchions connected by the same red velvet ropes quarantined off a six-foot space in front of the second doors. In the dark, Hatch could now see the neon sign above the door, which read VIP.
Two dark vans with blacked out windows pulled up, panel-side toward the back of the club. Each of the front passenger side doors swung open and similarly dressed men in black fatigue pants and t-shirts of matching color stepped out. She could see the glint of steel peeking out from the front waistband of the closest man. The armed men yanked the back doors open and barked commands at the occupants inside.
Five girls exited, three from the first van and two from the second. Both vans then drove off. They didn't go far, only pulling around to the back and parking away from the other vehicles in the lot. The two paramilitary men ushered the girls to the club's rear entrance, bookending the single file procession.
The girls' heads were down with their hands crossed in front of their midline in what looked like prayer. Plastic zip ties bound them together and told anybody paying attention the truth of their circumstances. But none of the employees lingering near the rear of the club even raised an eye in the direction of the slaves passing by. Likely, they were either complicit by their indifference or indentured to the cartel themselves. Either way, this backdoor entrance garnered no attention. Except from Hatch.
With their heads down, the girls' long hair obscured any chance of getting a visual of any of their faces to confirm whether Angela was among them.
As the last girl passed through, the cone of light projected out from the club's open door and Hatch caught a shimmer of red.
Fourteen
Hatch navigated the metal staircase to the sandy ground below. The abandoned water tower projected its shadow in the direction of the club painting an already dark path even darker. Hatch used it to approach the back corner where she'd seen the wait staff taking their smoke breaks undetected.
She stood still at the edge of the shadow. Hatch looked toward the growing line of people filling the red velvet roped corral. Blend, even when you stand out. His battle-tested life lessons served as his lasting gift. Her dad's words came back to her now with more frequency. The connection they'd shared in life only grew stronger in death. His guiding hand on her shoulder pushed her a fraction this way or that, enabling her to dodge some of life's hurdles. And in Hatch's life, those hurdles often came by way of bullets.
Hatch twisted the front of her white shirt into a knot above her belly, exposing the flattened hardpack of her abs. She flared the back, making sure the Glock's jagged lines remained obscured. Satisfied it was still safely tucked from view, she continued her rapid alterations. Hatch pulled down the sleeve on her damaged arm, masking the scars. She mussed her hair. The dirt and grime she'd accumulated acted as a natural hair putty.