Page 67 of The Delivery

Our security line is a separate one. Fancy things for fancy people. We walk to the gate and board the plane, no line, no wait.

Brisa is in a hospital bed in Ciudad Juárez, and she’s fading fast. In a way she’s been waiting her whole life for Mozey just like he’s been waiting for her, but for very different reasons. I’m sure this is the last kind of reunion he ever expected. In fact, I don’t think Mozey expected a reunion; he looked for Brisa, believing he would only confirm her death.

As soon as the match was confirmed (today, at four in the morning) the Miramontes family took control of our expenses. They saw to it that we ditched my car but a man in a suit showed up at the hotel an hour later to pay me generously, in a cash exchange far exceeding its worth. This morning we were picked up in a limo, but not after being offered complimentary styling and clothing delivered to our hotel, along with fresh chrysanthemums, a decadent breakfast that included champagne. We both declined all of the services. Mozey wears all black, with a beanie and his sliver rings. I’m wearing a vintage flowered dress with tennis shoes. My hair is air-dried; Tommy would kill me. It’s our little way of sticking it to the filthy rich narcos, the media and maybe even to Mexico. This is who we are, you can either take it or leave it.

We have two drivers and a ‘security detail’ who help us maneuver through the crowd outside the hotel. Mozey is calm. But I’m terrified of these people because, hey, I’ve seen the news. I also dealt with emotional fallout and toll the drug war has had on the poor kids who grew up around it. Mozey and Brisa were lucky in a way; the narcos altered their destiny by separating them, but in exchange they lived lives that were relatively unclouded by terror and fear. Brisa because she was on the side of the ones doing the terrorizing, and Mozey because he made it to the States and never had to look behind him.

I’ve been speaking to Alexei on the phone, and he trusts Mo to keep us both safe. I’ve handed over all of my savings information to Lex so my parents can access it because I can’t imagine getting out of this alive. What about the recuperation time? Once they’ve gotten what they need, they’ll pull the foot on the bill, and Mo will just bleed to death while I stand by helplessly and watch.

Our flight attendant looks like a movie star with perky breasts and a white-tooth, blinding smile. I’m nervous about her bending over because her short skirt isn’t going to cover much.

“Algo de beber?” she asks, and I try to smile. I fail unprecedentedly as even my mouth muscles are shaking, and I can barely contain the tears. I squeeze Mozey’s hand like it’s my anchor and taking off in this plane is equivalent to flying away from a safe and normal life.

“Relax, he tells me. We’ll be surrounded by press. There’s no way they’ll snuff us when we’ve already garnered this much media attention.”

He’s right to an extent. Our exodus from Mexico City was a tornado of reporters. People were still gathered at the wall where he painted the mural. Mozey was smart in that he plastered that beautiful thing on Paseo de la Reforma, the most emblematic street in the whole damn country. Rumor is they will remove it intact and house it in a museum. The message was simple, I am Ana María’s sibling. She wasn’t abandoned; she was kidnapped. I will give her my organ.

It was a story board of sorts, laid out like a graphic novel. Mozey’s mom, Valeria, wrapping Brisa carefully to her bosom. The harrowing ride on the monster train, the lack of food and of shelter, freezing when it was raining, Valeria feeding Brisa breast milk. The coyotes, the suffocating truck. The narcos tearing through Valeria’s clothing to get to the child. Mozey in the back of the truck, being held back by a stranger, his eyes frantic, wide as saucers. The panic written on all three of their faces enough to rip your heart out.

Then a message stating he would be a match, that he would have done anything for his little sister then, that he still would today. His signature, his social media information, his first totally public and open stance. He unveiled himself completely for one last chance at saving her.

Sometime last night, I became the very public girlfriend, “the RussianAmerican novia, who appears more mature,” was one headline I read. So at this point, we’re just waiting for a news source to reveal that I was Mozey’s social worker, supervising his rehabilitation. I’ll be painted as a pariah and blacklisted from working.

“Drink this,” Mozey says, handing me a Coke laced with a generous wedge of lime and the contents of two mini bottles.

“I think it’s too early. Aren’t you having one too?”

He smiles at me like he’s slightly amused.

“Lana, baby. I’m not the one shaking. Besides, I’m supposed to, you know, take it easy on these organs.”

I smile weakly back at him and resist the urge to crawl into his lap. We are surrounded on the aircraft by six escorts provided by the Miramonte’s very own, special security forces. Whatever the fuck that means. They all look like thugs in cheap JC Penny suits to me. They’re hidden behind RayBan sunglasses, fingering their guns and their mobile phones like new toys on Christmas morning.

Laura, our sexy hostess, has returned with a platter laden with caviar, figs and cheese. She’s got a bottle of champagne like we’re celebrating an engagement or a job promotion. Happy Sweet Sixteen! As soon as we harvest all your organs for a sister who you no longer even know, we’ll set your remains on fire and bury you in a shallow grave!

Welcome to Mexico! Big smile and a wink, would you like some more ice in your drink? I decide that she’s one of them and refuse to look her in the eye.

I think Mozey is riding high on finally finding Brisa after a lifetime of looking. Reunification plus the instantaneous fame has got his serotonin levels soaring. He can no longer smell the danger or sense the heavy footsteps of mortality lurking around the corner. I have to be the sane one— watch both of our backs for signs of trouble.

CHAPTER 31

Last night in the hotel we didn’t make love. We just held each other in the dark and whispered. I told him about how I’d seen the photos of those nine bodies hanging from an overpass in Laredo, that and heard stories of gruesome beheadings, missing girls and narcos paying for your wedding. So that after the ceremony, they could take your new wife, gang rape her, strangle her with her veil and then drown her in the hot tub.

Mozey accused me of being inflammatory and making up stories. I don’t have to make shit up. We had a girl at Pathways who described in horrific detail, her aunt and uncle’s deadly wedding reception in Ciudad Juárez.

It was during this same pillow talk full of fear and excitement that Mozey asked me to marry him. I thought he was joking, and what a bad joke it was, coming straight after my story.

“Ha. Funny, Mo. Are we pretending? Will it be a pretend wedding for the newspapers and magazines or the other kind of papers? The ones you need to get back into the States.” I rolled away from him and crossed my hands over my chest, more hurt than I’d ever been.

Mozey rolled me back and pulled me in close, surrounding me with his chest, curling his body protectively over me.

“Lana, you drive me fucking insane. I can’t imagine a sane life without you.”

He rolled off the bed a little too enthusiastically and hit the floor with a thump.

“Ouch!”

“Will we live here in the Marriot or you’ll just hang in deportation detention, while I chill upstate serving time for conspiracy and child molestation?”

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