"From this point forward, the less you know, the better. But let's just say, it's not that hard to border hop. Especially if you know the right people." Moss played with the cigarette in his hand as he surveyed the meager furnishings of the motel room. Twin beds, a dresser and tv, and the table where they both sat. "That's why we're here."
Moss sucked a long drag from the filtered cigarette. A curled bit of ash clung precariously from the burning ember at its end. He made no effort to tap it off, letting it hang there, until it was flung freely when he made an exasperated wave of his hand. "Why do you think I'm sitting in this shit motel, staring at you? They're going to meet me here. Before I called you, I called them."
"Wait. What? You called the cartel?" Taylor felt immediately uncomfortable with the thought of coming face to face with an actual member of the Fuentes Cartel.
"Of course, you think I'm just going to cross the border without some help?" Moss unzipped the duffel bag at his feet. He removed five stacks of cash, each banded and marked with 10K. "This fifty is for you, consider it severance pay."
Taylor thought about shoving the cash back across the ash covered table. But his conscience was silenced the second his finger touched one of the crisp, twenty-dollar bills atop the tightly packed stacks. Taylor also knew this would be the last stipend of money coming his way from his employer. Taking a page from Moss's book, Taylor realized the cash would make it easy should he need to go off the grid until the dust settled on this investigation. It wouldn't be long before the FBI dug into Taylor's background. He wasn't so sure how he'd look under the FBI's intense microscope.
Taylor grabbed a large paper bag from the nightstand. The bottle of tequila it had once contained was empty, the last glass half full in front of Moss. Taylor stuffed the cash inside and rolled it down making a paper briefcase. "How long do you have to wait?"
"They didn't give me a time. They just told me to come to the Sunnyside Motel and check into room number two. Somebody would be by to take me to the next destination."
"Did they ask you anything about the situation?"
"No." He smashed the cigarette into the top of the table and then tossed the butt to the carpet. He took a swig of the tequila sitting in a plastic cup in front of him. Cigarette smoke mixed with the booze gave his breath an unpleasant sourness.
"Then I guess this is goodbye." Taylor stood. This had to be, hands down, the most surreal business exchange of his professional life. He felt as though he were part of a noir novel his wife liked to read before bed. With it came a sense of exhilaration. A palpable fear combined to make an intoxicating elixir. He now understood the allure of the criminal world. There was some intangible high provided by living on the edge.
Even though he was actively involved in much of the criminal enterprises his employer had dabbled in over the years, all of Taylor's involvement to date had been from afar, working from his ornate office in downtown. He hadn’t been in the trenches like he was now. Strangely, Taylor liked it.
As he stood ready to leave his former employer in the seedy motel and head back to his regular life, he wondered if he'd ever have an opportunity to experience anything comparable in the future. He scooped up the bag of cash with one hand and shook Moss's with the other, "Best of luck to you, Kyle."
"Same," Moss tapped out another cigarette from the crinkled pack.
Just as Taylor reached the door to leave, there was a knock. He leaned forward and peered out through the peephole.
"Who is it?" Moss asked in almost a whisper. He brought the new cigarette to his lips and paused with his thumb on the lighter.
Taylor looked through the fish-eyed leans of the peephole again. The man on the other side of the door wore a wide brimmed hat that obscured most of his face, leaving only the bottom of his pale chin exposed. A well-tailored suit draped loosely over his thin frame. In his left hand, he held what appeared to be a wide leather briefcase comparable in shape and size to a small dog carrier. The thing Taylor found most odd, was the fact the man on the other side wore gloves.
Taylor pushed back from the door and moved over near the table. In a low whisper he described their visitor.
"Let him in."
"I don't like it. You heard me? Right? He's wearing gloves."
Moss shrugged indifference. "Maybe he's real careful. Guys like this aren't going around leaving their fingerprints all over the place. Or hell, maybe he's a damned germophobe."
Taylor's excitement from the moment before, during the cash exchange, seemed less so now in face of the surprise guest. Panic set in as the realization that he, middle-aged attorney from Phoenix, was going face to face with a member of the Fuentes Cartel, one of the deadliest crime families in the world. He didn't like that but he hoped in the brief exchange he could pass by and out and leave this behind. Taylor vowed right there and then to pick a less dangerous path to his opulence. He certainly did not want another one of these experiences, in the future or ever. The exhilaration was replaced by the fear churning in the pit of his stomach.
He looked at the plastic trashcan by the dresser and fought the urge to fill it with the contents of his stomach, which at the current moment consisted of weak coffee and a sticky bun. Fighting to keep his composure, Taylor shifted back over to the door and unlatched the chain lock and released the deadbolt. His hand rested on the cool stainless steel of the knob for a moment before he opened the door to the man outside.
Taylor stepped aside allowing him access. Once inside, the man said nothing as he took three steps to enter the room and bring himself in front of the chair where Taylor had just sat. He placed the case on the dirty table, positioning it so the latch opening faced Moss. Taylor noticed the leather case had small holes along the sides.
Moss gestured to the door with his eyes. Taylor, taking the unspoken command, realized he'd remained frozen in place after opening the door and his hand was still on the knob.
"Please shut the door." The man in the hat spoke clearly and quietly.