1
Gleeson, Arizona was a ghost town. Literally. Located in southeastern Cochise County, the town, or what was left of it, had been established decades ago and renamed to Gleeson after the turn of the century. Now in its present state, the area consisted of little more than a scattering of brick walls and rusted automobile skeletons in the middle of nowhere and within sight of a single isolated dwelling half a mile away along Arizona’s quiet Highway 191.
The old diner was still operational and was a throwback to days gone by, right down to the dual, light-blue, antiquated Ethel fuel pumps still standing watch in the morning desert sun.
Inside, the diner itself was in better shape, with dozens of red vinyl bench seats, white Formica tabletops, and a dozen barstools lining the counter in front of a kitchen and grill. And in the corner, a rainbow-colored jukebox that hadn’t played a record in over a decade.
Like most days, the lonely diner was dead. There were only a few customers inside: a couple sitting in a booth near the giant window overlooking the empty highway and desert, and another single patron on one of the barstools.
In the booth, the man was noticeably older than the woman sitting opposite, perhaps in his sixties, with sun-darkened skin and heavy stubble covering an overweight chin and jawline.
The woman, with an olive-colored complexion and dark hair, was attractive. Attractive but hardened. Evident not only in her posture but in her eyes, which casually glanced around the empty diner. “Well?”
The man began to speak but stopped when the waitress appeared to refill both cups of coffee. “Your food should be coming right up.”
Once she was out of earshot, the man took a sip from his replenished cup and spoke in a deep voice. “We need more time.”
The woman’s voice was cold. “I told you. I don’t have more time.”
“There’s no choice. The tunnel has been compromised. We need to find another solution.”
“That’s not my problem.”
The man shook his head. “It’s our problem.”
The woman’s brown eyes stared intently across the table. “You have a week.”
At this, the older man grinned derisively. “Or what?”
She shrugged. “Wait a week and find out.”
The two fell silent again when the waitress reappeared with two plates. She set one down in front of each customer and straightened. “Can I get you anything else?”
The woman shook her head without looking up and waved her off. She then picked up half of her bagel and a knife and calmly applied cream cheese while her acquaintance started on his eggs.
“You need me,” he said matter-of-factly, “more than I need you.”
She took a bite and resumed her stare over the table. “Without me, your money dries up overnight.”
The older man studied her for a long moment, and instead of replying, he simply sighed. “I need more than a week. Any alternative currently available is inadequate. Adults, maybe. Children, no.”
“I already told you it’s not my problem.”
The man suddenly raised his voice. “And I’m telling you I need more time!” His face reddened as he glanced at the only other customer in the diner, who took no notice of the outburst. “More time,” he repeated, lowering his voice. “Or else.”
The woman’s expression turned sarcastic. “Or else what?”
“More time,” was all the reply she got before her frustrated colleague returned to his food.
She remained quiet, silently staring and chewing. The pressure was mounting for both of them. For her, it was a buildup of supply and the danger of holding it too long. She had product to move, or else the risk of getting caught would quickly escalate. How hard could it be to get them out of the country, whether children or not? Getting them in, she could understand, but out?
She mulled the alternative. She could find someone else, but that, too, would take time. Time to find and vet them, time to set up the process, the payments, new drop-off points. Either way presented challenges. Serious challenges. She maintained her gaze on him as she continued eating. His seeming lack of concern was beyond irritating. How had she allowed herself to put all her trust in him? Because he was connected, that’s why.
“You swore your tunnel was secure,” she fumed. “That it wouldn’t be discovered. Are you telling me you’re inept at simple bribery?"
He slowly looked up from his plate. “Qué?”
“I said–”
“I heard what you said,” growled the older man, his eyes flaring. “Maybe you need to remember…”
The woman remained still, listening.
“You need to remember…” he repeated.
Her eyes slowly narrowed. “Remember what?”
The man blinked, angrily staring across the table at her. Then he blinked again.
“What?”
He didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on her. He blinked again, slower this time, and swallowed.
The woman leaned forward. “Are you all right?”
She received no reply. The only response was a much slower blink followed by the man’s eyes closing altogether and suddenly falling forward onto his plate with a loud, messy bang.
The woman’s eyes widened, and she shot back in her seat, grasping the edge of the table with both hands. “Oh my god!”
She whirled to find the waitress, but the dining room was empty. In a panic, her eyes found the other patron who had now looked up from his plate. He turned and stared at her quizzically.
“Help!” she cried, “I need help!” She immediately slid out from the booth and rushed to the other side. Picking up her friend’s hand, she frantically searched for a pulse. She turned again to the customer who remained on his stool. “GET HELP!” she screamed.
To her surprise, the other man merely stared back at her. What was wrong with him?! Was the other man stupid?! She opened her mouth to scream again but was abruptly interrupted when the room moved. She blinked and shook her head. Peering around intently, the room suddenly moved again, this time the entire diner, and more dramatically. The woman closed her eyes and steadied herself for a long moment before reopening them, but it was worse.
To her frustration, the other customer staring back at her wasn’t reacting. Bald and burly with a beard, he gazed back at her as her view of the dining room began to tilt sideways.
From his seat, Mike Mansfield watched as the woman gradually slumped to the ground like a giant bag of sand, almost folding on her way down, accompanied by a loud thwap when her head hit the linoleum floor.
He remained staring for a few moments before the door to the kitchen swung open and the waitress stuck her head out. Curiously, she looked at the table and then the floor before turning to Mansfield.
“Took longer than I thought.”
He nodded and turned back to consume the last bite of his breakfast. “How long will they be out?”
Wanda Rutlidge crossed her arms as she emerged and stared down at the woman. “With as much as I gave them, at least an hour, maybe two.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and withdrew a small bottle, tossing it back to him.
Mansfield caught the bottle. “Glad you didn’t get our orders mixed up.”
Wanda reached behind herself to untie the apron, simultaneously looking up when the front door of the diner opened and someone entered. He was older, tall, and strong. He was pulling something behind him—a large red appliance dolly.
Once inside, the man turned and headed toward her and Mansfield, continuing past them and stopping in front of the two unconscious patrons. Charlie Hurd briefly looked them over before turning to Wanda. “Do I have time for breakfast?”
She grinned sarcastically and folded the apron. “No.”
Mansfield approached and stepped over the unconscious woman, leaning onto the table with two hands and searching outside for any surprises.
2
They moved quickly. Hurd and Mansfield laid the dolly flat and lowered the older male on top, then repeatedly wrapped the thick nylon strap around him.
Wanda turned and walked back through the swinging kitchen door. Moving past the grill, she gave a quick wink to the cook, who watched her pass with a grin on his unshaven face.
Reaching the back door, she stepped out into the morning sun and peered around, finding the woman she was looking for to her left, sitting on an upturned crate and calmly smoking a cigarette. Dressed in a light green dress and sporting a hairdo that reminded her of Polly Holliday, Wanda smiled at the woman and handed back the apron. “Thank you.”
The older woman nodded cooly and took another drag. “Happy to help.”
Wanda scanned the rear of the restaurant before traveling a few steps past the door to the corner of the building, where she observed Mansfield and Hurd with their unconscious cargo at the rear of the man’s Mercedes.
Wanda turned back. “This never happened, right?”
The waitress rose from her crate and dropped her cigarette, mashing it out with the tip of her shoe. “What never happened, dear?” She then strolled to the back door and pulled it open. “They were crappy tippers anyway.”
Both unconscious customers were placed into the trunk together. First the man, then the woman, before Mansfield climbed into the front seat of the Mercedes with the man’s keys.
Hurd drove the woman’s car, a large Toyota Sequoia SUV, while Wanda walked briskly to Mansfield’s 2002 three-quarter-ton Chevy Suburban. Together, all three backed up the vehicles and departed in tandem.
***
The drive wasn’t far, just a few miles north on the highway before reaching an obscured dirt road. Mansfield verified no other cars were in sight as he turned off. First Mansfield, then Hurd, followed by Wanda, one after another and at least a hundred feet apart, slowed to minimize dust.
Less than a mile from the highway, they each descended into a deep ravine and disappeared from view, where they eventually stopped near a cluster of large desert willow trees lining the dry embankment. They parked each vehicle under its own tree.
Directly in front of them, a fourth vehicle was already present, and standing next to it were two men. Drawn and silent, both gradually ambled forward as Mansfield stepped out of his vehicle.
Wanda waited in the Suburban without exiting, watching Mansfield and Hurd. From her vantage point, Wanda could see that two large holes had been dug nearby, with two shovels lying beside them. And in front of her, next to the fourth vehicle, lay multiple rolls of camouflage netting on the ground.
Together, all four men converged around the back of the Mercedes.
3
The woman awoke first, disoriented and lazily rolling her head before eventually opening her eyes.
It was clear she didn’t understand what she was seeing at first, but as the blurriness cleared, she made out the frame of a large, burly man standing over her.
She blinked and lowered her gaze, peering down at herself. She was in a sitting position… on the ground…with her colleague positioned next to her, still unconscious. The woman rolled her head to the other side and saw part of what she was leaning against—the bumper of a car.
The man before her didn’t speak. He remained silent while the woman’s mind continued to sharpen, observing the slow look of dread on her face as she made out the three additional men behind him.
“Where am I?” she slurred. She attempted to move but her limbs were bound. Frantic, she tried again, forcefully this time, yet still unsuccessful. “What the hell is happening?”
The figure before her knelt down onto one knee and leaned in. “What do you think is happening?”
The woman’s eyes grew fearful, and she looked around in panic. Her attention turned on her partner, who, with his eyes still closed, was now exuding the sound of faint moaning.
“What are you doing?!” she cried, which merely assisted in rousing her partner.
Mike Mansfield didn’t answer. Instead, he remained on his knee and watched the unconscious man’s head begin to bob and roll. Strangely enough, when he eventually opened his eyes, the man didn’t appear shocked by his surroundings.
Sluggishly, he licked his lips and swallowed as he peered at the blurry image in front of him, and surprisingly to Mansfield, made no attempt to speak.
Beside him, the woman continued to struggle, trying once again to wrest her hands free from behind her back. But it was fruitless. Zip ties were incredibly strong.
Leaning with his arms across his bent knee, Mansfield studied both of them. "We've been watching you for a long time, so neither one of you should be shocked at the situation, considering your line of work.”
When neither responded, Mansfield simply asked, “How many?”
The older man on the ground turned his head to look around, peering past the woman and spotting the handle of a shovel lying on the ground. His eyes intensified and he turned back to Mansfield. “I have friends.”
Mansfield allowed a wry grin to spread across his face. “Good for you. Friends are important.”
“They’ll find you,” he growled in his accented voice. “And they will do far worse.”
Mansfield was unfazed. “Maybe,” he said with a tilt of his head. “Maybe not. Something tells me that you, my friend, are expendable. And that there’s probably a dozen more eager to take your place when you don’t turn up. Very eager and extremely ambitious. Am I right?”
The man’s expression darkened.
Mansfield then turned to the woman. “Same for you, I’m guessing. After all, that’s the nature of the business.”
The woman snarled and suddenly lurched forward, spitting at Mansfield.
He paid no attention and instead reached behind himself to retrieve two pictures from his back pocket. He held them up together—handheld photographs of two young girls not more than eleven or twelve. “Recognize either of these kids?”
Neither captive responded. They barely glanced at the pictures before gazing back at Mansfield and then to the men behind him.
The second man was older. Probably in his seventies and a good twenty years older than the burly man in front of them, he stood with a stonelike expression. He was dressed in light khaki-colored fatigues, with white hair and full mustache beneath a matching Boonie hat.
Several steps behind him were two more men standing next to one another, neither appeared as intimidating in size or frame. But their faces more than made up for it. Long, pained, and resolute.
“Care to take a guess at who the men are behind me?” Mansfield asked.
Neither answered.
Still holding up the photographs, Mansfield said, “They’re the fathers of these two girls.”
The woman on the ground motioned toward the pictures. “I have no idea who they are.”
“Neither do I,” spat her partner.
Mike Mansfield calmly exhaled and returned the pictures to his pocket. “We’ve already found their bodies. What took us so long… was finding you.”
The captured man turned and looked back at the shovel on the ground. “You won’t get away with it,” he sneered. “If my people don’t find you, your own police will.”
Mansfield’s grin returned. “That’s the funny thing about police officers,” he replied. “They don’t like people like you. People who hurt children. Neither do the Border Patrol, the FBI, or State Police. No one, really. In fact, they all hate you.” Mansfield pushed off his knee and rose to his feet. “And they won’t be in any hurry to find out what happened to the likes of you two.” Raising his head and scanning the open desert around them, Mansfield continued, “Besides, we’re on private property here. A friend of a friend, you might say. No one is going to be looking for you out here.” He glanced at the bundles of camouflage netting on the ground, then up at the trees overhead. “And your cars probably won’t be spotted for months, if not years. Maybe not ever.”
The woman was now shaking as he spoke, staring up at Mansfield through panic-stricken eyes, while the man next to her remained at least somewhat cogent. “I can give you money,” he said nervously. “I can give you names. I can give you whatever you want. Anything!”
Mansfield raised an eyebrow at the offer. “Really? Anything?”
“Yes,” the man pleaded. “Anything at all!”
Mansfield remained quiet, studying their scuzzy captives for a long moment, before finally responding as he turned around. “Can you give these fathers justice?”
The man’s eyes widened, staring up at the two fathers, who merely glared back in solemn quietude.
Mansfield turned back with a smirk. “Something tells me you can.” ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2025 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
