The Long Run, page 2
Andre pressed his back into the wall as the employees rushed past all three of them. A gunman appeared after the employees, toting an AK-47. He screamed and pointed the rifle at Andre’s chest.
“Back! Back!” he yelled and motioned towards the front of the club. He was herding them into the main lobby, Sofia realized. Though for what reason?
Rebekah cried in fear. The gunman eyed her and swiveled the rifle towards her face. Andre lashed out, grabbing its handguard with one mighty hand, and swinging the rifle towards the ceiling. The muzzle flashed as it fired. Sofia and Rebekah instinctively dropped to the floor. But Andre stood firm, grimacing from the sound, and pressing the rifle into the gunman’s chest. The size difference was stark. The gunman was about Sofia’s height, with narrow shoulders and short legs. He emptied his ammo into the ceiling as Andre pushed him towards the kitchen with a roar. The gunman’s back hit the swinging doors and pushed them open. Andre completed his power play by shoving the man down. He thudded on his back with a muffled grunt as his rifle skittered away. Sofia caught sight of the kitchen through the doors. Empty and quiet. A straight shot to the rear exit was within reach. And the path was clear.
Andre stood over his fallen combatant and faced Sofia and Rebekah. His mouth opened to call to them. But any words he spoke died in a burst of gunfire. It wasn’t clear where the shots came from. Behind them from the lobby? Or someone behind the bar? Maybe from inside the kitchen. No matter. Sofia cringed at the sound. When she looked up, she saw the horror the gunfire had wrought.
Bullet holes stitched a trail from the top left corner of the kitchen door diagonal to its long edge. Andre stood in the middle of the stitching, clutching his chest. Blood jetted from between his fingers, staining everything it touched crimson. His mouth worked mechanically, up and down, as did his eyelids. He gasped and dribbled blood down his lips and chin. He pressed his back against the door and slid down, streaking the panel a glistening red. Rebekah screamed. Sofia absorbed the scene like a sponge, etching every nuance, every aspect of Andre’s pained reaction to memory. As she watched, the second gunman appeared from inside the kitchen. He stood over Andre and pointed the muzzle at his face. Sofia closed her eyes. She didn’t want to remember this.
Another shot exploded in her consciousness. Another scream from Rebekah followed.
“Move! Go!”
Sofia opened her eyes. The second gunman’s rifle was in her face now. She stared down its black barrel as he roared. He motioned towards to the front of the club. She nodded in mute compliance and stepped back, almost tripping over Rebekah. Rebekah was on her knees, screaming hysterically, with her gaze focused on Andre’s limp body.
“Oh, God! Why?! Why?!” she cried, oblivious to the new threat.
“Get up!” The gunman pointed the rifle at her, but she didn’t budge.
“Wait a minute! Please!” Sofia raised her hands as she begged for patience. Rebekah seemed catatonic with shock, and if Sofia didn’t get her attention, they would both end up as dead as Andre. The gunman pointed his rifle at Sofia’s chest. His hand gripped and re-gripped the black plastic handguard. Sweat beaded his forehead and his eyes darted between them both. What if he said no? Would he just pull the trigger?
“Make it fast!” he ordered. “Get that bitch up!”
Sofia bent beside Rebekah and held her hand. Rebekah’s anguished screams were ragged and hoarse. Sofia didn’t have time to soothe her friend’s shattered nerves. These people, whoever they were, weren’t inclined to negotiate. Sofia seized the sides of Rebekah’s face and forced her to meet her gaze. Her eyelids were moist, and her pupils dilated.
“Bekah! Listen to me! Get up! We have to go!” No recognition flickered in Rebekah’s eyes as her ceaseless wail continued. The gunman’s shadow loomed over Sofia, and his rifle barrel hovered in the corner of her eye. “Goddammit Bekah! He’s going to shoot us!”
This finally caught Rebekah’s attention. Her eyes focused on Sofia, and her screams ebbed. “OK. OK,” she said, more like a tortured gasp than normal speech. Bubbly Rebekah was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out shell.
Sofia helped Rebekah stand and led her to the front of the club. Dozens of people huddled there with their hands over their heads amid the overturned tumult of chairs and tables. Armed men surrounded them, leveling them with rifle barrels and icy stares. The thumping music had silenced, leaving only the tears and cries of terrified club goers. Two bouncers laid unmoving near the door, with their legs and arms splayed in grotesque positions. Pools of blood collected under their bodies. Rebekah buried her head on Sofia’s shoulder, stifling her cries. Another gunman, with a brutish round jaw and puffy eyes, glared and pointed his rifle. Sofia took Rebekah’s hands and raised them above their heads to show their compliance.
“We’re going to be OK,” Sofia whispered, though she doubted her own comforting words.
One of their attackers stepped forward. Unlike the others, he carried no rifle, though a silver holstered pistol and a long machete sat on either hip. His oily, black hair extended past his shoulders. Despite his wiry frame, he had broad, defined shoulders and thick, veiny forearms. He wore an unbuttoned leather vest and blue jeans that tucked into black snake-skin boots. A red and black tattoo of a hooded calavera covered his chest. More tattoos covered his shoulders and arms. Crevices creased his pockmarked face and obsidian eyes lurked beneath a heavy, furrowed brow. A sneer played across his lips as he surveyed the room.
“Henry Carson!” he said in English. “Come forward, cabrón, and everyone else can go!” His husky voice expanded throughout the dining room.
The mention of Hank’s name stunned Sofia. She had stayed remarkably calm throughout the attack. But now her hands shook so much she clasped them together. How did they know Hank? Why attack the club to find him? Sofia searched for her missing boyfriend. But he was nowhere in sight. He must have seen the gunmen enter the bar and ran to find help. The local police should arrive soon. She chewed her lip and stayed quiet.
“We know you’re here, Henry! Come here now!” After a few seconds of silence, he grew angry and cursed. “Whoever knows Henry Carson, come forward!” When no one responded, he seized the nearest woman by the neck. She screamed and stiff-armed the man in the chest, trying to push him away. Her cries ceased when he jammed his pistol barrel into her temple. “I’m not playing! Henry Carson better step up or I’m blowing this bitch’s brains out!”
He was going to do it. Sofia had seen enough people die. But what would happen to Hank if she spoke up? What were their intentions with him? Considering what they’d already done to find him, they couldn’t be good. The woman whimpered and closed her eyes. Sofia couldn’t stand idly by if she could stop another death from happening. No matter the results. She stepped forward. Rebekah clutched her hand to stop her leaving.
“Don’t! Don’t!” Rebekah sobbed between tears. “Please!”“I have to,” Sofia said, gently releasing Rebekah’s hand. “It’ll be OK.” Rebekah trembled and wrapped her arms around herself as Sofia stepped forward. “I know Henry Carson!” Sofia announced loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Who said that?” The long-haired man swiveled his head, his pistol barrel still pressed against the woman’s temple. Another gunman stepped behind Sofia and pushed a rifle muzzle into her back. Narcotraficantes—narcos for short. The drug running scourge of Mexico. That’s who these men were. They loved their damn guns.
“Move!” the man behind her said. They walked toward the long-haired man and stopped a few feet away. “Chucho! Here!”
Chucho released his female prisoner and faced Sofia. His gaze traveled the length of Sofia’s body before stopping at her face.
“You are his woman?”
“He’s my boyfriend,” Sofia said stiffly, ignoring Chucho’s misogynistic statement.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Chucho seized her black mane and jammed the pistol barrel under her jaw. Its blunt ridges dug into soft tissue, causing her to jerk in fear. “You better tell me or—”
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Sofia cringed against Chucho’s grip. The barrel was icy death against her skin.
“Chucho,” another gunman said, eyeing his watch. “Five minutes.”
Five minutes. Had that been the amount of the time since their arrival? Or a countdown to the police response? Maybe both. Whatever it was, it seemed to resolve Chucho’s decision.
“Bueno,” Chucho said, his eyes focused on Sofia. “If I can’t have Henry Carson, I’ll have his woman.” He lowered his pistol and grabbed Sofia’s bicep, jerking her towards the door as he strode away. “Time to go!” he yelled to his fellow gunmen.
“No!” Sofia swiveled her head in search of Rebekah. But she was out of sight now, concealed inside the terrified crowd. Sofia pulled against Chucho’s grip, digging her heels. The return of the gun barrel to her temple convinced her to cease resistance.
They stepped through the entrance doors and into the balmy night. More armed narcos stood in the parking lot, guarding several jeeps. Sofia crossed her arms and grasped her shoulders to stop her trembling. Where were they taking her? What would they do to her? Chucho shoved her into the back seat of the nearest Jeep and followed behind. Two more men climbed into the front seats. A pistol and a long, curved knife protruded from the bandolier around his chest. The man in the passenger seat stuffed a pistol into his shoulder holster before he climbed in. Chucho leaned forward and called out the door. Another narco rushed to his side.
“Torch it,” Chucho said.
“No!” Sofia screamed. She lunged for her door, regardless of the men and their guns. Rebekah was still in there. Alone and terrified. Sofia’s escape ended when Chucho seized her neck and threw her back into her seat. He sneered and squeezed her throat, nearly to choking.
“You should worry about yourself right now, mija,” he said, then turned to the driver. “Let’s go.”
The Jeep lurched ahead, rumbling over the parking lot curb and across the grassy median and into the main road. Sirens in the distance excited and scared Sofia. Was that the police? Would they see the Jeep? Stop them and initiate a gunfight with her in the middle? The further they traveled, the less likely her rescue seemed. Maybe they could save Rebekah. She swiveled in her seat as they rushed through the crowded streets. Soon, they were off Boulevard Kukulcan and into Cancun proper. A clanging fire truck zipped past. She stared behind them long after darkness consumed the Jeep.
DAY 2
Monday
CHAPTER 2
Israel
Israel Cortinas stood inside an elevated boxing ring, shoulders hunched forward, shirtless in white trunks and sneakers with black boxing gloves concealing his fists. He hopped and juked and eyed the man across the ring. His name was Banging Bautista Lopez. But everyone called him Bang. Bang was juking too, matching Israel’s movements, with fat red punch mitts flanking both sides of his head.
“1, 2, 2! 1, 3, 4!” Bang said. One meant jab, two was cross, and three was hook. Four was uppercut. The punch count number system. Bang had been barking those numbers at Israel for twenty minutes as they trained. Israel responded with the appropriate combination of punches, aimed at the punch mitts. A practice meant to memorize the combinations and enhance strike accuracy. The punches landed with dull pop pop pops. Israel’s arms had grown weary, and his punches grown weaker. Old Bang didn’t miss a thing. He’d been training fighters for ten years. He knew how to motivate people. “1, 1, 3! Come on! This is for you! You wanna deliver pizzas forever?”
That one hurt. Too close. Israel tapped a fresh vein of anger. Hard enough to knock Bang out. Even though he loved Bang like a father.
POP POP POP
“Aaaayy! ¡Muy bien! I like I like!” Bang grinned.
Bang juked and bounced like the prizefighter he once was. He circled Israel with his punch mitts raised. Israel followed along, popping the mitts, and juking along with him. Slide, shift step, knees loose, shoulders angled and ready to deliver more blows. Israel’s head bobbed and weaved as Bang threw punches his way. It was the rhythm of the fight. The dance they did inside the square ring. That dance got Bang off the streets. It would keep Israel off those streets too.
“¡Oye! Bang! Your 4 o’clock!”
The voice belonged to Manny, the old man who worked the front office. He wasn’t a former fighter. Never laced a mitt in his life. But he was from the neighborhood and needed a job. So Bang took him in. Manny leaned against the ring, with his skinny old face scrunched up tight, and jerked a thumb towards the office. A businessman stood there with a gym bag hanging at his side as he stared into his phone. Bang rolled his eyes.
“Shit,” he sighed. “¡Esta bien! ¡Gracias Manny!”
It was the price Bang paid to keep the gym open. Bangz Gym sat in the heart of McAllen Texas, at the corner of despair and hope, with gleaming towers on one side and some of the poorest neighborhoods in the United States on the other. Few people in the neighborhood could afford membership dues or personal training sessions. But the bankers across the freeway? They could. Easy. Most bankers settled for thirty minutes on a treadmill. But the bolder types wanted more. Some wanted the thrill of the fight. And Bang gave them that. The bankers showed up during their lunch breaks with fifty-dollar haircuts and shiny leather shoes. They didn’t fit in with the regular crowd. The rich guys had straight noses and perfect smiles. Bang couldn’t stand them. Called them pussies. Almost spit the word on the floor.
“Soft bastard wore his suit.” Bang side-eyed the banker. He unstrapped his punch mitts and handed them to Israel. “Put these up for me, alright?”
Israel tucked the mitts between his arms and chest and nodded. Before Bang left, he gave Israel the hard look. Straight into his eyes. This look said shut up and listen.
“You got money to eat?”
“I’m good Bang. I got a job, remember?”
Not long ago he hadn’t. Israel joined the gym eight months earlier to stay off the streets and out of the lonely home he shared with his alcoholic father. While lifting weights and running on the treadmill, Israel noticed Bang training boxers. He spent hours coaching them and leading them through the steps. He seemed like the kind of mentor Israel never had in his life. So, one morning, he and Bang sat talking about boxing and life in general and Israel was hooked. The next day, he took his first lesson. Bang took a liking to him quick. They spoke the same language and had the same past. Close enough anyway. When Israel lost his job, Bang let him stay on until another job arrived.
“OK. Work the speed bag. You got some weak noodle arms.” Bang’s black goatee parted with a wide grin. He patted Israel’s shoulder before climbing through the ropes and hopping off the platform. His gruff persona dissolved as he approached the client and shook his hand.
“Mr. Sanders! Nice to meet you!” Bang said, as silky smooth as any car salesman.
Bang said he’d never leave the neighborhood. This was home. He learned to fight on these streets. He learned to box later. A banner hung from the rafters above Israel’s head. A picture of Bang in his youth occupied the center of the banner. He hunched forward, glaring at the camera, shirtless, with boxing gloves on. A tattoo in gothic print covered his right pectoral muscle. It read La Dinamita, the nickname for his idol, Juan Manuel Márquez. Large print below the picture read ‘Banging’ Bautista Lopez, Junior Welterweight, 2001 Texas and National Golden Gloves winner. 2012 Team USA Olympics alternate.
Bang told Israel his speed and instincts were good enough to compete on a national level. But Israel was a street brawler. He knew nothing about the art of boxing. So Bang took him in. Though, at twenty, Israel was off to a late start. Very late. But not impossible. He studied the banner as he carried the punch mitts to a rack along the far wall.
A speed bag dangled underneath a shelf mounted in one corner of the gym. A large screen television, tuned to the local news, hung on the wall above the shelf. A matched pair of starched male and female news readers spoke about some robbery. Bang installed the TV to satisfy the bankers. They watched news like junkies mainlined heroin. Not like they could hear anything in that noisy gym. Only people close to the TV could hear it. They watched it all the same. But the news didn’t interest Israel. He had work to do. Champions didn’t watch TV. They trained.
He worked the bag, striking it with various combinations for several minutes. The bag slapped the underside of the shelf with a steady dungada dungada dungada. Soon he had a nice rhythm and a moist sheen of sweat covering his back. He battered the bag until a breaking news report on the television caught his attention.
“A group of local UT-RGV students on vacation were among those present during a brazen attack on a night club in Cancun.”
Israel snatched the bag to still its thumping and listened close.
“Cancun police say a group of cartel gunmen burst into Club Bombom Saturday night. Details are still sketchy, but police say shots were fired, and the attackers set fire to the club to cover their tracks. Police said several people escaped the blaze, but they believed there were multiple fatalities in the wreckage.”
Israel jumped away from the speed bag and stared at the television screen. Video of a wrecked and blackened building appeared on screen. Tendrils of smoke wafted from the ruins. A blackened sign hanging on the building read: Club Bombom. Mexican soldiers toting automatic rifles ringed the parking lot. Sunlight glinted off their sunglasses.
“Police identified the students as Rebekah Cooper, Andre Jones, Henry Carson, and Sofia Martinez. All four attend classes at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. Andre Jones is a starter for the varsity basketball team.”
Sofia’s name hit Israel like a lightning bolt. The video disappeared, replaced by the starched female newsreader. Photos of the abducted students appeared with their names listed below them. Sofia Martinez’s photo showed her wearing the maroon cap and gown she wore at her high school graduation. The photo twisted Israel’s stomach in knots. She had the same intense brown eyes and straight black hair that he remembered from their youth. The same full lips and wry smile. The same smile she gave him four days earlier.
