The Long Run, page 16
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Israel said, with equal parts irritation and stubbornness. He hated being pushed around by the police when he was a gang member. And this guy wasn’t just a cop. He was something more. Fermin was athletic and street smart. And he could fight.
“Oh,” Fermin said, rising to his feet. He glared at Israel and clenched his fists. “I think you will.” The move surprised Israel. There was no need for this. But the streets taught him not to refuse a challenge. He returned Fermin’s glare and rose to meet him. Their cellmates moved away, anticipating a confrontation.
Israel and Fermin studied each other as they assumed fighting stances. Fermin was about Israel’s height and build. Though much older, he had combat skills. He wouldn’t be an easy knockout. Israel’s heart wasn’t in this confrontation. That wasn’t why he was here. Though he had bungled the entire operation and got tossed inside a jail cell, he couldn’t give up on Sofia. For what? Fermin was right. A fight made no sense. Still, he couldn’t back down now. Not here in front of everyone.
“I came here looking for someone,” he said, eyeing his opponent.
“Yeah? And how did you end up here?” Fermin said, his fists clenched and ready under his chin.
“Same as you. I found the narcos instead.”
“You mean you found the wrong narcos, don’t you? You came here to make a buy. Maybe con them too and they figured it out?”
“No!” Israel said, his blood hot from the accusation. “I don’t do that—”
Fermin’s first punch almost caught Israel by surprise. A right jab that brushed past his jaw, followed by a left cross. The punches were precise and thrown with compressed power. Like a spring uncoiled. Had they landed, they might have put Israel on his ass. Unlike their last fight, however, Israel was ready and able to respond. He leaned away from the jab and ducked under the cross. The attack had been a gamble. A calculated risk to land another quick knockout. The downside was Fermin’s exposed ribs. Israel exploited the opportunity. He rose with a flurry of shots to Fermin’s midsection. Fermin staggered backwards but kept his balance and fighting stance. It was a momentary surprise, nothing more. But now his opponent knew Israel could fight, too. It wouldn’t be an easy match for either of them.
“So,” Fermin said, picking up their conversation while still in his fighter’s pose, “you don’t sell drugs anymore, eh? Then who were you looking for?”
“None of your damn business,” Israel growled. He knew he should tell Fermin. What did it matter? But Israel’s blood was up. The last twenty-four hours had been a humiliating kick in the balls. He wasn’t angry at his opponent. Fermin was a stand-in for Juan, La Doña, and Chucho. Especially Chucho. The man who took Sofia. Those were the people he imagined as he watched Fermin bob and weave in front of him.
“OK,” Fermin said, then followed with another combination that Israel evaded. It surprised Israel that Fermin followed his first failed combo with another. He was out of tricks to play. Israel attacked with a few crosses of his own. See how well his opponent could duck and weave. But his combination ended when Fermin hooked Israel’s extended bicep with both arms and pulled. In the same motion, Fermin’s leg swept Israel’s feet out from under him. The maneuver cost Israel his balance, sending him tumbling to the floor. Fermin twisted around as Israel fell and landed on top of him. He sat on Israel’s chest and cocked his arm to deliver another knockout blow. Though stunned by his sudden takedown, Israel regrouped quickly. He raised his arms to block the punch and more that followed. This wasn’t boxing. This was more like a street brawl.
“Hit him!” a guard yelled outside the cell. They had abandoned the soccer match in favor of the boxing match next door. They hooted and clapped as they watched.
Israel had to break Fermin’s hold. He had a single advantage to exploit. One of Israel’s feet had landed near the wall when he fell. He planted the foot against the concrete as he blocked another blow. Then he twisted and pushed off the wall. Fermin teetered and waved his arms as he struggled to keep his balance. But Israel continued pushing until he threw his opponent off. Fermin landed on his back with a hard grunt. Israel scuttled off the floor and reversed positions with his opponent. Now he sat on Fermin’s chest and rained punches of his own, though Fermin evaded everything. Between punches, Fermin twisted left and right and pushed up with his legs, trying to break Israel’s hold. Israel didn’t have any ground combat training, like Jiu-Jitsu. Only traditional boxing. Fermin was a skilled floor fighter. If Fermin threw him, he could do much worse than rain punches. He could choke Israel out. It was a matter of time. Israel moved the fight to equal ground. He rolled off Fermin and stood, assuming his accustomed fighter’s stance. Fermin clambered to his feet and gave Israel an understanding grin.“That’s smart. Why don’t you tell me already, eh? We could fight all—”
It was Israel’s turn for the surprise attack. He stepped forward with a furious roundhouse that connected with Fermin’s cheek. An unseen uppercut from Fermin popped Israel’s lower jaw at the same time. A mutual surprise attack that landed amid a crack of lightning outside. The twin blows staggered each fighter, dropping them to the floor. A celebratory roar erupted from the guards while the rest of the hostages watched in muted fear. Israel and his opponent sat on their asses, sucking in exhausted breaths. Many fights lasted seconds. Some bouts dragged for minutes. This fight felt like an eternity. Israel’s energy and anger were spent.
“My cousin… someone kidnapped her. I came to find her,” he said, panting hard.
Fermin’s eyes narrowed as he studied Israel. He rubbed his chin and lips. A bloody streak extended from the back of his thumb to the tip of his index finger.
“You got a powerful right,” he grinned through bloodied teeth.
“Thanks,” Israel said. Fermin’s right was no slouch either. Israel’s jaw, still sore from Juan’s and Fermin’s previous punches, ached even more. “You too.”
“Your cousin, huh? Is she Mexican?”
“No. We’re from McAllen. Texas,” he said, adding the state because he doubted Fermin knew Israel’s hometown. “She was in Cancun on vacation. Some cartel gunmen kidnapped her from a dance club.”
“From a dance club? That’s bold.” Fermin shook his head.
“Yeah.”
“And you came here to rescue her? You’re either crazy or in love.”
Israel shrugged his shoulders. He was tired of people telling him that. Whatever feelings he had for Sofia were for him alone.
As the spectacle of the fight faded, the guards returned to their game. Rifles hung on their shoulders or rested on their laps. One narco fingered his rifle as he watched the television. It appeared Fermin’s suspicions of Israel had subsided. But Israel wanted to prove he was not a narco.
“I know what you think about me,” Israel said. “But I never kidnapped anyone or killed people.”“You think you’re so different from them? Hm? You’re not. I caught hundreds of gangsters when I was a policeman. Most were kids trying to survive. No moms, no dads, no hope. The only difference between you and them is your country has opportunity. A chance at life. Those kids had nothing. I can’t hate them for joining a gang when they were kids.” His gaze lingered on the guards for a few seconds. Then he scooted back to the wall and reclaimed his spot under the window. “It’s what they do as adults that I hate. The Good Lord gave us free will. They could choose not to kill. They chose different.”
Israel followed Fermin’s lead and returned to his place. They settled into an uncomfortable silence, watching the cheering guards.
“So,” Israel said, “we’re OK?”
“Yes, we’re OK. You’re no gangster. Not anymore,” he sighed. “And anyway, you can fight. You’re tough. You can help me.”
“Help you with what?”
“Getting out of here.”
“You have a plan?”
“Not yet. Just keeping my eyes open. Waiting for an opportunity.”
“What will you do if you get out?”
Fermin stared past the prison cell and the hooting guards, as if focused on something outside. Storm driven wind whipped through the window, fluttering Fermin’s long hair and collar.
“You’re not the only one looking for someone you love.”
CHAPTER 24
Agent Dominguez
A thick stack of papers stuffed inside two black binders sat on Agent Dominguez’s desk. The copy of the DEA’s investigation into Carson Engineering she had requested. She hadn’t expected it to arrive in physical form. They couldn’t email her a pdf or Word document? She sighed and pushed it aside and set her dinner in its place. A cold chicken salad sandwich and a tall bottle of juice. The uninspiring leftovers found in the closed cafeteria downstairs. Exhausted from her long day, she didn’t feel like cracking open that binder. Besides, she had picked up on a lead more tantalizing than Henry Carson Sr.
Israel Cortinas. She had jotted that name in her notes. A reformed gangster, Hank Carson had told her. Maybe reformed. Maybe not. But judging by Israel’s father’s comments, and her own knowledge of sexual predators, Israel had become her primary target of investigation.
“He loves that girl too much,” Fernando had said. “He would never hurt her.”
Israel’s father’s words echoed in her mind. A plea for understanding that unlocked nothing but suspicion. If she could find Israel, he could answer many questions. Maybe remove him from suspicion. But he was nowhere to be found. She asked the local police to issue a BOLO for Israel Cortinas and his 1999 Chevy Cavalier a few hours ago. She also requested a warrant to map his phone’s GPS coordinates. After that, she requested the US Customs service to check the Passenger Name Records for all flights departing every international airport in Texas for the previous four days. Another request went out to search rental cars records in the same time period. Automated systems or not, those requests needed time to return a hit.
She rubbed her temples and sighed. Another long night. Another pot of coffee to percolate in the break room. But she couldn’t go home. Not yet. Not while Sofia Martinez remained missing. What were her current living arrangements? Certainly not as comfortable as hers. Especially with a hurricane plowing into the Yucatan. Agent Dominguez’s weather app displayed a radar image populated with angry reds and apoplectic purples churning off the coast of Mexico. It had just made landfall in Cozumel. A fearless reporter’s thick raincoat flapped in roaring gusts of wind as he reported from Cozumel International Airport. Unless Sofia’s kidnappers had transported her further inland, she was likely experiencing similar conditions. Or soon would. So, Agent Dominguez would keep working, keep searching for clues until her body said no more.
She reached for her phone and scanned her notes. Pizza delivery. That’s how Israel made his money these days. But his father didn’t know for which restaurant. An alcoholic father and a deceased mother. Guilty or not, he’d had a rough upbringing.
She picked up the phone and began calling all the local pizza delivery restaurants in a five-mile radius surrounding Israel’s home. One by one, she scratched them off the list of potential employers. Near the end of the list, she found it.
“Garcia’s Pizza House,” a man's voice said on the phone. “Would you like to try out our ten topping Mex-travaganza pizza?”
“No, thank you. Can I speak to the manager, please?”
“Speaking.”
“Hello sir, my name is Special Agent Alana Dominguez with the FBI. I was hoping you could confirm—”
“Uh, huh. I bet you are,” he said before the line clicked dead.
“Dammit,” she cursed and redialed the numbers. It wasn’t the first hang up she received. She couldn’t blame them. Someone claiming to be FBI calling this late at night could only mean one thing to a jaded restaurant manager. But the hang ups irritated her, regardless. A few trills followed before the phone line picked up.
“Garcia’s Pizza House,” the manager said. “Would you like to try—”
“Sir, I only need you to confirm the name of an employee. I can go down there and show you my credentials, but I’d rather save the trip,” she said, checking out the time on the computer screen. Almost ten o’clock now. A heavy sigh followed on the receiver.
“Yeah. I guess I can do that. Agent.”
“Do you have an employee named Israel Cortinas?”
“Huh,” he snorted. “Yeah, I do. Actually, I don’t know. Maybe not.”
“What do you mean?” Agent Dominguez said, simultaneously thrilled to have gotten an affirmative response and irritated by the shifting reply.
“He hasn’t reported to work in a couple of days, and he doesn’t pick up his phone. I don’t know when he’s coming back, and I got a mountain of pizzas to move. I need people I can depend on.”
“Did he give you any reason for his absence?”
“Yeah. He said he had a family emergency. I don’t mind helping my people. But they gotta keep me in the loop.”
“I understand. Did he say where he was going?”
“No, he didn’t. It was a quick phone call. He sounded out of breath.”
Damn. Agent Dominguez clenched her free hand. Another dead end. “OK. Well, if you see him, please have him call me.” She gave the manager her contact info and waited on the phone as he read back her name and number.
“Hey!” the manager called, catching her before she could hang up the phone. “What is this about? Is Israel in trouble?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t discuss agency matters with the public. Thanks for your help though,” she said, and ended the call. Another task completed. One less for in the morning. Garcia’s Pizza House. She entered the name in her case file and returned to her notes.
Another name caught her eye. Gustavo Arriaga. The name of Israel’s old friend given to her by his father. A former, and perhaps still, gangster friend of Israel’s. She set down her phone and opened her desktop computer. She navigated to the FBI database, typed in Gustavo’s name, and hit enter.
A list populated her screen. There were links to police reports, court records, auto registrations, a mortgage loan, jailhouse manifests, and so on. She went to the police reports first. It was a laundry list of street level crime. Public intoxication, misdemeanor assault, even one for loitering. But nothing too serious. The building blocks of a budding young criminal. But the records ended several years ago. Even Israel had a more recent charge. She checked for convictions. Sure enough, the misdemeanor assault charge had landed him a year in juvenile detention. Tough to commit new crimes in lockup. Though not impossible, she noted.
Gustavo had stayed clean, or at least out of the police crosshairs, since his release. She could find no record of employment, though he held the deed to a home in the La Paloma Colonia district, an impoverished neighborhood where gang roots ran deep. He was paying his bills somehow because there were no debt collections or bankruptcies on his financial records. She noted his home address on her phone. He might be the last person to speak to Israel before his disappearance. She would pay him a visit in the morning. She opened her case file and updated Israel’s info, adding a note about Gustavo and his link to Israel.
As she was about to shut down her computer for the night, her hand swiped a metal pencil holder from her desk, scattering a mess of pens and pencils and paper clips on the floor. She cursed and bent down to clean up the mess. As she worked, an email notification appeared on her screen. The email was an automated reply from US Customs regarding her request. It read:
[US CUSTOMS] RFI-04528400010
Manifest request: United Flight 8278, Departing HAR 090221 @0915. Arrival Destination CAN 090221 @1520.
Subject request: ISRAEL CORTINAS. Confirmed boarding via US PASS 132673008.
The notification hovered on the computer screen for a few seconds before dissolving.
She sat upright and placed the refilled pencil holder on her desk, oblivious to her missed notification. Agent Dominguez hit the Shut Down command button, and the computer closed all open programs, including the email manager and her unread email. She gathered her belongings and headed downstairs and bid the night watchman a good evening as she headed for home. Her bones ached and her head throbbed. If she hurried, she could sneak in a hot soaking bath before bed. If she was lucky, she might get four or five hours of sleep before returning in the morning.
CHAPTER 25
Sofia
Sleep found Sofia despite her restless anxiety. She curled into a ball at the base of the cell bars and drifted into a dream-filled slumber. Images of her family filled her mind. There was mama standing in front of the cooktop, wearing an ankle length dress and sandals, and flipping steaming tortillas with her bare hands as she shouted at the twins carousing in the living room. Papa shuffled through the front door, dropping his leather satchel on a side table, and pouring his post-work tumbler of whiskey. The memories skipped forward to Hank. How he charmed her with his broad Irish smile and twinkling green eyes. They were an item two weeks after their first meeting.
A supportive family, college, and a budding romance. A solid foundation for a young life. Hank’s smile dissolved as Chucho’s fearsome, pockmarked face took its place. He sneered, and Sofia recoiled. Her leg spasmed as she snapped awake.
“Gah!” she blurted. She sat up, breathing hard. Sweat beaded her forehead.
A clap of thunder accompanied her start. Lightning illuminated the raging storm outside. Trees shook and crashed, and sheets of rain blew through the window, painting one corner of the concrete cell a dark gray. Dominica sat beside her, wide awake and watching her with a knitted brow. Their cellmates huddled at the base of the opposite wall, avoiding the rain.
“Are you OK?” Dominica asked, concern etched her face. Whether for Sofia or for fear of the storm, Sofia didn’t know. Perhaps a mixture of both.
“Yes,” Sofia said, her gaze transfixed by the light show outside.
