Page 69 of The Delivery

Laura’s got us in hot steamed towels and chocolate mints before the descent and all the men in black have already started checking their phones and their guns. They slip in earpieces and exchange knowing nods while I hang onto Mo’s arm like it’s my seat float cushion and we’re landing on open water.

It’s pandemonium at the airport. There is no gate we taxi into. It’s a presidential arrival with detachable stairs and the crowd roars the second Mozey ducks his head out the door. He’s the poor kid turned celebrity, handsome, English speaking—with an American girlfriend. Mozey is a media darling, the new heartthrob of the century. The rebel artist, the longlost brother of a notorious beauty queen at death’s door who will surely die without his heroic generosity. What’s not to love? Just wait until they get all the dirty details on me, and the story will go viral.

We make our way down the stairs into the frenzy of onlookers. Mozey drags me along as reporters struggle to the rolled out carpet, trying to vie for his attention. They shout questions as the suited goons usher us toward a waiting car with tinted windows. I feel his body tense and slow when he sees the sedan. I know he must be thinking the exact same thing that I’m thinking. Behind those darkened windows that harken back to the day his life changed, may lie the very same people that tore Brisa from his mother’s arms and shattered their family. And in order to save his sister, Mozey must hide all of those painful feelings away.

I squeeze his hand to let him know that step by step I’m at his side. I hear his cry even when he’s not allowed to greet it. I share in his pain even when he has to keep it secret.

“Remember, Mo, that the connection to Brisa is more important than any revenge. We came here to save her,” I say softly to him as we reach the car, “not to punish them.”

“I know, but it kills me that they’re acting like heroes,” he says as he leans down and brushes his lips across my cheek.

Then Mozey stops and turns to the crowd. He raises our hands and points mine in the direction of the cameras.

“She said yes,” he says, gracing them all with a coy smile. He poses for the cameras like a pro, almost like he’s done this before.

We’re practically shoved into the back seat of the sedan. We slide to the middle of the long, leather seat, only to be bookended by two thugs who can barely squeeze in with us.

“Well, at least there’s photographic evidence that we landed,” I mumble under my breath.

“Yeah, they won’t kill us until after they televise the wedding,” Mozey says, a smile climbing it’s way to the surface.

There are no Miramontes in the car, only a driver.

“Do you think they understand us,” I mouth to Mo with barely a sound.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, a smile creeping in at the edge of his lips.

The car moves forward with enough momentum to throw us back against the seat cushions.

“Quit making fun, Mo. This is some serious shit. Even if they don’t intend to murder us, the surgery is dangerous.”

“It’ll be fine,” Mozey says and looks deeply into my eyes. “We’re going to lose my kidney and see that Brisa is okay. Then we can get out of here. I’ve got no intention to stay.”

The suit in the passengers seat is speaking into a walkie-talkie, relaying coordinates, probably already giving the command to get rid of me. I give up on the worrying and curl myself into his body.

“The Miramontes want to know if you would like to meet them at the hospital or if you would prefer first to lunch?” The one-in-charge says, twisted around, straining the threads of his clothes. In pretty great English. Mo and I eye each other, stunned.

“Seriously? Hospital,” Mozey says, his displeasure coming across in his voice. “I don’t think we need to waste any more time.”

We arrive at the hospital that’s already swarming with press. I knew this was news worthy in Mexico, but apparently it’s also relevant in Texas. The three guards shuffle out of the car using their big bodies as shields. We walk two feet and are greeted by more security officers. The Miramontes have spared no expense. They don’t want bad press. Or maybe they really do care about their stolen daughter. No reporters are allowed in the hospital until we get to her floor, where a controlled interview is taking place outside her room. There is professional lighting and a stationary camera attached to a dolly. What the fuck are they doing? Making a documentary?

Her father is good-looking, younger than I expected. A bit of graying at the temples, intelligent, dark eyes and an impeccable suit, red tie. Mrs. Miramontes I’ve already seen on TV, but she’s prettier up close. Her hair is styled in a bob with caramel highlights, her skirt is modest, and her mannerisms practiced and polished. Mozey stands frozen, hating them already. I manage something like an open face—a weak wave to let them know we’ve arrived. He breaks from the interview first and introduces himself in Spanish with a firm handshake. He grips Mo’s hand first and then mine. I can feel Mo’s shoulder harden to stone by my side.

There’s really no way to know if these two were in fact the ones who took her, or if they even ordered the abduction to begin with. They could just be the lucky couple that ended up with her. Bid the high price, were in the right place at the right time—yada, yada, yada. There are so many unknowns. It won’t change the fact, however, that Mozey hates them both and will take pleasure in making them feel uncomfortable.

Mr. Miramontes beckons the cameraman over after our brief introductions. I drop Mo’s hand and slink to a doorway, trying to hide my form inside and away from the limelight.

“Lana,” Mozey says, craning his neck around to see me. “Please, I can’t do this without you.”

He’s earnest, and I feel like a shithead. So much, that I even accept Mrs. Miramontes awkward hug that crushes me to her large breasts. She’s not that much older than me. I want to duck and cover, but instead, I’m forced to give a flash bulb smile for the next likely cover of Hola magazine. What a fucking horror show. We’re cavorting with the archenemy and pretending to enjoy it.

Then Mozey is pulled away from me to change into scrubs. A reunion he’s waited more than half of his life for is moments away. I think of my brother and how much he means to me. How being in it together—even when things got shitty—made life so much easier. Mozey’s been denied that all of these years. Even worse, he’s blamed himself for taking her milk and surviving. As if he had any choice as a six-year-old kid…

“Is she conscious?” I ask out of the blue. I know Mozey will recognize her; he’s spent so many years searching for her face. There’s no way she remembers him, but she’ll surely recognize herself reflected in him.

“She was sleeping, but now they will wake her,” Mrs. Miramontes says with tears dotting her eyes.

“I’ll be right here, Mo. Right outside.” I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes mine back hard enough to rub bone on bone. He’s scared. I’ve never seen him look anything less than confident.

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