The Long Run, page 10
Sofia yelped. Her initial reaction was resistance. But after Chucho’s raw display of power earlier, she knew the cost of defiance. She gave in to his rough treatment and hurried to keep pace. She cast a sideways glance at Hugo as she passed. He lowered his head and looked away.
“Outside,” Chucho said as he pushed her through the jailhouse door. She stumbled into the balmy night and fell in the grass. Her hands balled into fists around clumps of grass as the door banged shut behind her.
“Get up.”
“Where are we—”
“Get up!” Chucho reached down and gripped Sofia’s long hair. He yanked, snapping her head back. She shrieked in pain and clambered to her feet. Satisfied, he released her hair and grabbed her bicep. He pulled her along behind him as they headed towards the ranch house that served as the compound headquarters. It had slab gray walls and a tiled roof. Narcos with rifles slung over their shoulders stood on the wooden porch that ran the length of the house. They stepped aside as Chucho’s boots clomped on the heavy wooden boards. Their gazes washed over Sofia as she passed.
The home’s bright foyer contained a scatter of open boxes and paperwork. A glance inside one box revealed a pile of identification cards. Laminated men’s and women’s faces stared back at her. The cards displayed the flags of several Latin American countries. She scanned the pile for a sign of her passport before Chucho pushed her forward.
“Sit,” he said as they entered the dining room.
Once the center of family life, the circular dining table held a dusty computer and a cluster of papers on top. A scuffed black iPhone laid face up in the center. Chucho pulled out two chairs, side by side, and pointed to her to sit. They did and Chucho reached for the phone. He tapped out a phone number and set the iPhone face up between them. It rang six times before a man’s voice answered.
“Do you know what time it is?” It was an American male speaking in English. Their distorted connection made the voice unrecognizable. But he sounded groggy, as if waking from sleep.
“Time to talk,” Chucho said, also in English.
“You have to stop calling me!” the voice crackled on the phone. Sofia’s ear pricked up. The voice sounded familiar. Did she know him? Creeping fear crawled around her belly.
“The girl is here.”
“What — Are you kidding me?… Wait? Am I on speaker?”
“She would like to go home. But that’s up to you.”
“Jesus criminy… [inaudible]…”
“Hank?” Sofia said. No. It couldn’t be. If it were him, it proved his involvement in the attack. And that simply couldn’t be true. But if not him, who else? Sudden panic trembled her hands. She reached for the phone and hesitated, looking at Chucho for approval. His brow arched in curiosity as he stared back. She took his silence for tacit approval and cradled the phone with both hands. “Is that you?”
“Sweet Jesus. Ahhh…. I… I’m really sorry you got caught up in this. I really am. [inaudible] None of this was supposed to happen. Oh Lord…”
Sofia pieced together the man’s identity. His voice lacked Hank’s warmth. And he said things like “Sweet Jesus” and “criminy”. Hank didn’t speak like that. But she knew who did. The realization proved equal parts comforting and troubling.
“Mr. Carson?”
“Dammit Chucho! Take me off speaker. This is between you and me!”
“What I’m asking is simple,” Chucho said. “You go back to work. Like always.”
“Do you realize the pressure on me? I’m being investigated. They’re auditing my business, reviewing all my paperwork. An FBI agent came by my house today. My damn house! I got a red-hot poker up my ass over here!”
“That sounds uncomfortable, amigo. But my boss isn’t happy either. You’re the cook. And dinner is waiting.”
“Oh, gosh, I hate this code talk. Uh… I… I can’t cook right now… Uh… [inaudible]…” Mr. Carson’s weak voice drifted away. Sofia’s pulse quickened, fearing he might hang up. He was her first lifeline to the outside world since she arrived here. She couldn’t end the call without finding out about Hank.
“Mr. Carson! Where is Hank? Is he OK?”
“What? Oh, uh, yeah. He’s fine. Made it back this morning. I… uh…”
Despite her current dire situation, Sofia exhaled with relief.
“What about Rebekah? Is she—”
Chucho snatched the phone from her hand and held it close to his mouth.
“Dinner is due in forty-eight hours, cabrón. If it’s finished on time, she goes home. It’s up to you.”
“Oh Lord. Don’t do this to me, Chucho. I can’t—” Henry said.
“You’re the one doing this. Not me. Here.” Chucho held out the phone, so it faced Sofia. “You tell her what’s going to happen. Hm?”
“Oh… Sweet Jesus… I…”
After a few awkward moments of inaudible breathing, the line clicked dead. Chucho scowled at the black screen with contempt and tossed the phone on the table.
Sofia eyed him, barely daring to breathe. What would happen to her if dinner wasn’t ready in forty-eight hours? And what the hell was dinner? “What was that all about? What’s going to happen if he doesn’t cook dinner?” she said. His black eyes locked on hers.
“Pray he does,” he said.
A distant dread grew in Sofia’s gut. Despite Chucho’s stoic mystery, she had an idea of what was going on. Henry owned a construction company. Hank had told her they did a lot of business in Mexico. At some point, Mr. Carson must have gotten into bed with the cartel. And like all cartels, their business involved running illegal drugs. Did Hank know? Was he involved? She clawed at memories in her subconscious, trying to remember every conversation, every visit to his home, for clues. Chucho turned his head toward the door.
“Mario!” he called. Mario sprinted inside with his rifle in both hands. “Take her back to her cell.”
Mario nodded and turned to Sofia. “Vamos.” He nudged her shoulder with the stock of his rifle. She rocked forward in her seat, too numb with worry to react. She stood after a second, harder nudge.
Mario led her from the converted house and past the guards, who, to her relief, refrained from snide comments. She trudged through the thick grass, gazing into space. Overhead, the half-moon hid behind gauzy clouds. A warm breeze caressed her skin. The night soothed Sofia’s nerves. A gentle reminder of a normal life. Whether her life continued past two days depended on Mr. Carson’s cooking.
DAY 4
Wednesday
CHAPTER 13
Israel
“Mijo. Come here… Please.” The speaker’s frail plea cracked and warbled as she spoke.Though difficult to hear, nine-year-old Israel knew to listen out for his mother’s voice. She was resting in her bedroom, surrounded by balloons and the wilting flowers of well-meaning relatives. She drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day. Sometimes she woke and called for assistance. It was Israel’s job to listen for her cries and help when possible. Papa couldn’t do it while working. Or while drunk. Israel was happy to take the job. It was July, and school was out of session. Plus, he wanted to make his mom happy. Though she hadn’t been happy for months now.
He paused his video game and stood off the floor. “Coming!” He hurried to her room at the end of the hall and arrived at her bedside. Thick pillows propped her head and shoulders up from the bed. Her eyes were closed, and she panted as if winded. “Mama?”
“Mijo,” she said as her eyes blinked open. She slid her arm out from under the covers. Her cracked, brown fingernails extended towards him. “Get me more water.”On top of her nightstand, amid a clutter of medicine and vitamin bottles, sat a lidded plastic cup with a straw poking through the top. He nodded and took the cup and retreated to the kitchen. A minute later, he returned and offered the filled cup of water to his mother. She had sat up during his departure so she could drink. Heavy bags pulled down her sad brown eyes. Patchy black hair dangled over her forehead. A thin smile turned up the corners of her mouth. She took a long drink from the cup and handed it back.
“Thank you, mijo.”
“You’re welcome.” He wiped splashed water from his hands onto his shorts and watched her lie down. “Do you need anything else?” He wasn’t anxious to return to his video game. He only played those games to avoid worrying about his mother. She studied him as the afternoon sun sank below the bedroom window. The sun’s rays revealed the auburn hidden in her straggly hair.
“I want you to go to school,” she said as a tear trickled from one eye.
“It’s summer. School’s out, mama.”
“I know,” she smiled and wiped her face. “Go back when it starts again.”
“I will.”
“Never stop. Please. I want you to grow tall and smart. Don’t drink alcohol. And don’t do drugs.”
“OK.” Mama had told him all this before in various ways. The refrain became more frequent the sicker she got. “I won’t.”
She reached out and stroked his thick, black hair. “You’re a good boy. I hope you become a good man.”
Israel nodded.
Satisfied, she covered herself in her blanket and closed her eyes. He watched her drift into unconsciousness before retreating to his Xbox. His lonely sanctuary from mama’s sadness.
Israel awoke on the top bunk of a metal bunk bed. He rubbed his bleary eyes and stared at the ceiling. He hadn’t dreamed of mama in a long time. Years maybe. Why now? Tía Rosa would say it meant mama’s spirit was watching him. Worried about his safety and attempting to provide guidance. He didn’t believe that. Not that mama would approve of him coming to Cancun. Hell no. But he did a lot of stupid shit in the gangs, and she hadn’t appeared in his dreams then. No. This was only a coincidence. He shook his head and scanned the room.
The barebones room housed four bunk beds and eight strangers. Nothing more. Rays of sunlight poured inside from a horizontal window slotted high on the wall. At this early hour, most of the residents of Hostel Mágico were still asleep. He tossed a thin sheet from his body and lowered himself to the floor. After a quick shower, he grabbed his backpack and moved to the dining room. He snagged three hard-boiled eggs, three slices of toast, and a cup of coffee and carried them to a plastic folded table. Sitting with his back to the far wall gave him a clear view of the lobby and the front desk beyond. A humpbacked old man worked the till. He closed it and shuffled off to perform some other tasks, leaving the desk unmanned.
Israel considered his upcoming moves as he ate. The Border Boys took Sofia. Finding them was another problem. If he interpreted the ledger right, some bagmen would come to retrieve this hostel’s missing collection. When they arrived, he would follow them. With some luck, they might lead him to the Border Boys’ base.
He was chewing egg number three when two men entering the lobby seized his attention. They had the look. It wasn’t their jeans and muscle shirts that interested him. It was the tats that covered their arms and the air of menace about them. An aura meant to command respect. Israel perfected that look years ago. These guys had it too.
They leaned against the counter and whistled to get the old man’s attention. They scanned the room while they waited. Their eyes narrowed on Israel. Judging if he was a rival. Israel was glad for the long sleeves that covered his tattoos. He lowered his head and focused on his food. If they marked him as a foe, there would be trouble. His worries faded when the old man reappeared. He glared at the narcos and told them something unheard. Their conversation grew heated.
“That was last week, viejo!” a gangster said, and slapped the counter in anger.
“That’s too much. I can’t keep paying if—”
One narco rounded the counter and pushed him away from the till. The narco punched a key, and the bottom drawer popped open. He rifled through the drawer, peeling pesos out of slots, and cackled.
“What are you talking about, viejo? Look here!” He waved a stack of bills at the man. “You’ve got plenty. Stop bitching. It isn’t so much.”
The narco rejoined his sidekick, who took the cash and stuffed it into a pouch secured around his waist. They shared a laugh and exited the building.
Israel shoved the last of his food in his mouth, grabbed his backpack, and stood. He was out the door seconds later and scanning the sidewalk in both directions. He spotted the narcos up ahead and headed east. Israel shouldered his backpack and settled into the thin crowd to keep pace.
They visited a few more businesses as he followed. Every time they did, Israel concealed himself behind a wall or other obstacle. Soon, they arrived at a flea market. Tiendas and carnecerías were already open and receiving brisk trade. The gangsters walked from store to store, collecting their payments and stuffing them in their pouch.
The market reminded Israel of the firefight the day before. In the crush of shoppers, he felt vulnerable. He scanned the crowd, monitoring for potential threats. He patted his hip, feeling the comforting bulk of the nine-millimeter tucked in its holster. As his hand lifted away, another hand clamped on his, forcing it down. Before he could react, a gun barrel pressed into the small of his back, freezing him in place.
“What do you got?” a man whispered into his ear.
“Who—”
“What you got, cabrón? I ain’t asking again.”
Israel swallowed hard. He’d been careful, keeping one eye on the crowd in search of threats while tailing the bagmen. This guy was a ghost.
“Nine-millimeter.”
“Take it out. Slow. Keep it hidden and hand it to me.”
Israel considered his options. If he was fast enough, he could twist away and knock the gun aside before it fired. Maybe drop and roll. Too quick for the ghost to react. It might work if—
“Ah ah,” the voice tutted. “Don’t think about it. You give me your gun, or you die. That’s it.”
Israel gritted his teeth but did as he was told. He slid his hand under his shirt and unclipped the holster and palmed the pistol grip.
“Slow,” the voice breathed.
Israel gently lifted the pistol from the holster and rotated it, so the barrel laid in his palm. The man slid the gun from Israel’s hand and tucked it into his waistband. Israel cursed under his breath. His only protection, gone. He had been a fool. Two cartel bagmen were robbed and murdered yesterday. Of course, the cartel would send another narco to shadow their replacements the next day. A backup plan for the backup plan. Somebody might fool the cartel once, but they never fooled them twice.
“Now what?” Israel said.
“Walk straight ahead. Towards the exit.”
Israel walked forward with the stranger pressed behind him. The gun barrel never wavered, always pushed into his spine.
“To the right,” the voice said.
They passed several vendors and emerged on the sidewalk outside the market. Traffic zoomed past, oblivious to his danger. The stranger whistled, loud enough to make Israel jerk. The gun barrel pressed in tighter when he did. A black Ford Crown Victoria pulled up beside them. A rear door opened, and another man walked in front of Israel. His square jaw was as thick as his muscular neck. He glared at Israel and snorted.
“Give him your bag,” the ghost behind Israel said.
Israel slid his backpack off his shoulder and handed it to the square-jawed man, who tossed it through the car’s open passenger window.
“Now get in,” the ghost said. “Middle seat.”
Israel glanced left and right. But the slab of muscle in front of him and the gun pressed into his back convinced him escape was unwise. He climbed inside and scooted into the middle seat. Another narco, as big as the other guy and twice as ugly, sat in the far seat. The ghost took the other seat beside Israel. He grinned when they made eye contact. Gold-capped teeth glinted reflected sunlight. A dark brown, bony hand pushed a pistol into Israel’s ribs. The car sped away from the curb and joined the noisy street.
“Where are you taking me?” Israel said.
“Juan!” the ghost said, ignoring Israel and looking towards the square-jawed man who had taken the front passenger seat.
Juan swiveled in his seat, glared at Israel, and punched him hard in the jaw with one meaty paw. Stars exploded in Israel’s eyes, and he slumped in his seat. Somehow, he retained consciousness and raised his fists.
“What the hell? What happened to One-Punch Juan?” the ghost laughed.
Juan gritted his teeth and scowled. Ugly man held Israel’s arms down. Still, it took three more punches to turn out Israel’s lights.
CHAPTER 14
Agent Dominguez
Clouds of gnats swarmed around Agent Dominguez’s head. She swatted at the cloud, knowing her efforts were pointless, but feeling compelled to do something, regardless. The cloud passed around her waving hand like water around a rock and continued their harassment.
“They’re thick as molasses down by the river,” a man named Gene said. A bright green plastic construction helmet topped his head and an orange vest hung over his broad chest. The garish colors stood out like a shore beacon to a ship at sea. Which was the desired effect in an active construction zone. His faded jeans tucked into filthy leather boots caked in layers of dried Texas mud. They crossed a dirt road—pitted by the wide treads of cranes that traversed the site—and stepped onto wooden pathways laid on the moist earth beside the Rio Grande River. “Watch your step, ma’am.”
Agent Dominguez averted a thick clump of knee-high river grass as she navigated from one wooden plank to another. Unaware of the conditions, she hadn’t dressed for the occasion, instead wearing her standard slacks, button-down shirt, and loafers. The security guard who met her at the gate handed her an orange vest, yellow helmet, and thick rubber boots. Her condition for entry into the Carson Engineering worksite. The mismatched boots—one green seven, the other a black seven and a half—caused one foot to shift inside the boot as she walked. She adjusted her gait and soldiered on.
