The Long Run, page 34
Two figures kneeled under the bough of oak trees lining the shore. Another figure laid in the grass between them. The brilliant LEDs across the river illuminated their faces. Sofia and Israel, he recognized. The third was a stranger. But their surface appearances didn’t matter. He saw their true forms. Conquerors from the north. Ridden down from across the river to overtake his people. They wore the same battle dress of la conquistadora. They would meet the same fate.
He stood and wiped blood and bits of flesh from his machete. More work remained.
CHAPTER 65
Sofia
“Get up!” Sofia yelled. She stood near the river’s edge amid a line of thick river grass that touched her thighs. Stiff winds rippled her hair and clothes. The river burbled and flowed a few feet beyond.
Chucho’s sudden arrival had given her and Israel and Agent Dominguez a chance to break away from La Doña. They raced towards the river before Israel collapsed. Now he laid on his side in front of her with his left elbow propped under him. He extended his right hand to grasp hers before scowling in pain. He retracted his hand and rested his limp arm across his waist.
“I can’t. I can’t,” Israel breathed. His open wound was slick with fresh blood. It trickled from his wound, tracing the curves of his pectoral muscle as it flowed towards the ground. The makeshift sling she had made fell off the moment he hit the ground.
“Dammit Izzy! You made it this far! Don’t stop now!” Fear clawed at her insides. They had traveled thousands of miles, outrunning the cartel’s spies and hired guns. And they had reconnected as a family in the process. He was her brother. How was she going to help him?
“He’s coming,” Agent Dominguez said. She stood past Israel’s feet, positioned between them and the carnage strewn across the field. Chucho strode towards them, spattered by other people’s blood. He gripped the handle of a gory machete by his side. His gaze fixed on them.
“Y’all go,” Israel said, his voice ragged and hoarse. He laid on his back and hacked a wet cough. “Both of you. Go.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Cortinas,” Agent Dominguez said. She balled her fists and held her ground. Chucho’s pace quickened to a running gallop as he rounded the overturned Land Rover.
“So… Sofie. Please. You gotta go.” Israel looked at Sofia with a droopy, weakened gaze. He was slipping away in front of her eyes. She kneeled beside him and grabbed his left hand.
“Get up! Now! Dammit!” She tugged on his hand and dug her feet into the soft soil beside the river. Her back arched and her shoulder muscles burned as she struggled to pull him towards the shore. Israel cried in pain.
Chucho’s footsteps crashed across the tall grass. He raised his machete over his head as he neared. He screamed something foreign. Agent Dominguez launched herself at him and ducked under his swinging strike. She struck him in the chest with her leading shoulder. He grunted and staggered as he absorbed her bodyweight. Though the blow failed to knock him down, it dislodged his blade. The machete tumbled and disappeared in the grass.
Chucho towered over Agent Dominguez, who seemed tiny in comparison. He pushed on her shoulders, trying to gain separation. She dug her heels into the dirt in response and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her back arched like wet lumber, refusing to yield.
“Get off me!” Chucho roared.
Sofia’s grip on Israel’s sweaty hand slipped off. She fell backward, landing hard on her back with a painful grunt. Israel was on his side again, with his left arm propping him up. He eyed her as he panted with fatigue. Then he shook his head as if clearing his mind. His uncertain gaze swung from her to Agent Dominguez. Her battle with Chucho raged on, despite his greater size. Israel looked at Sofia once more and she guessed his intentions. He was going to fight, using whatever remaining strength he had left.
“Izzy… No,” she said. But he was already pushing himself off the ground with his good arm. He screamed through clenched teeth as he faced the battle raging behind him.
Chucho had wedged an arm between his chest and Agent Dominguez. He used it as a lever to elbow her away from him. She staggered backward. Chucho grabbed her jacket lapels, pulled her towards him, and delivered a crushing head butt to the bridge of her nose. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground. Freed from her grasp, Chucho returned to searching the field.
Israel staggered towards him in a galloping run. He lowered his shoulder and caught Chucho in his sternum like a human battering ram. They fell backward under Israel’s churning momentum. He screamed as they hit the ground. Chucho freed one arm and caught Israel’s temple with a sharp elbow. His eyelids fluttered, but he remained conscious.
Israel slid his good arm around Chucho’s neck before he could break free, pinning one of his hands against the ground. Chucho gagged for air. His free arm swung, and both legs kicked like a feral animal clamped between a predator’s fangs. They dealt hammer blows to Israel’s sides and head. Still, Israel hung on, tightening his chokehold. Fresh blood poured from his shoulder wound.
Sofia stood and approached within a couple of feet. A helpless bystander to a fight that might determine whether she lived or died. She wasn’t a fighter. She wanted to help people, not hurt them. Agent Dominguez laid unconscious on the ground. And Israel was fighting at half-strength with a bullet wound crippling one arm. Could he beat Chucho in his condition? She shuffled forward, grasping her hands in fear and uncertainty. Her foot bumped into something hard hidden in the grass.
It was a machete. The one Chucho held when he ran towards them. Gory bits of La Doña’s neck caked the blade.
Sounds of struggle pulled Sofia’s attention back to the fight. Israel arched his back and tilted his head into the ground to avoid Chucho’s swinging fist. Chucho gave up the attack and plunged his hand into his jeans pocket. It reappeared holding something metallic. He clicked a button on its side. A short blade swung out from the pocketknife’s handle.
“Izzy! Look out!”
Chucho swung the knife down towards Israel’s exposed torso. It plunged into his flesh, just below the ribcage. Israel screamed and released Chucho’s neck. Chucho rolled away and stood while Israel stared in amazement at the knife handle protruding from his torso. Blood oozed from the wound and rolled across his belly. Chucho glared at him before turning to search the grass.
The machete. Sofia bent down and picked it up by the handle. Sticky semi-dry blood pulled at her fingertips. Revulsion rocked her insides, but she gripped it with both hands and pointed it at Chucho. He eyed it for a moment before meeting her gaze. He scanned her like he did in the jail cell. Sizing her up. A thin smile cracked his bloody lips. He didn’t think she could do it. And neither did she. He stepped towards her, never breaking eye contact. The machete’s weight seemed to triple with every step. He approached within grabbing distance of the trembling blade. He could have snatched it from her hands. But he didn’t.
He stood upright, making no effort to defend himself. His arms spread wide, palms upward, and looked to the heavens. “Kin juntúul prueba, Buluc Chabtan! Ba’ax kin kuxtal. Ba’ax wa kíimil,” he said in a deep, prayerful voice.
Sofia gulped. What was he saying? Something about a test. Was this a game? A ploy? She should run him through while she had the chance. If he took the machete, he’d use it to kill them. But she couldn’t stab him with it either. To plunge a blade into another person’s guts. It was beyond her. A tear leaked from her eye as she spoke.
“I’ll do it! I will!”
“If the Gods will it.” His eyes closed, still facing the sky. “It is not yours to decide.”
“What?”
“I must prove myself worthy. They wield the blade. Not you.”
It was a twisted joke. She’d had enough of his cruelty. From Cancun to Reynosa, he’d tormented their steps, narrowly missing them several times. He had them now. Toying with them like a cat batting a trapped mouse.
Memories of Rebekah and Andre filled her mind. Rebekah’s boozy giggling laughs. Andre’s shy smile. The gunfire that took his life. He’d saved them. Carried them both to safety when the gunfire started at Club Bombom. The thousand-yard stare in Rebekah’s terrified eyes when Sofia walked away. Chucho caused all that pain. Enough to saturate her body and mind. She never thought she could hate someone. But she hated Chucho. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks.
Over Chucho’s shoulder, she noticed Israel writhing in pain, holding his wounded side. Chucho had done that too.
To her brother.
She didn’t notice herself screaming when she ran forward. Nor did she notice the lack of tremble in her hands. The disconnected moment happened to someone else in her mind. She could never drive a foot long machete into a man’s belly. Or scream in his face as he stared in shock and bewilderment. Somebody else did that. But when Chucho staggered backward—with the machete protruding above his belly button—she realized it was her hands that released the handle. She backed away as he slumped to his knees. He stared at her and then at the sky.
“Ta fallé… wáaj?” he said, spitting phlegm from his lips. “Why?”
Sofia’s body shook. It was a deep, shuddering tremor that began in her belly and traveled throughout her body. When it reached her head, she fell to her knees and vomited. She hacked and wiped her mouth. How could she have done that? It was her. And it wasn’t. She sat upright, eye level with Chucho. He watched her with an incredulous gaze.
She lashed out, slapping him hard across the face. “That was for Andre!” Though the slap satisfied Sofia’s repressed rage, it seemed to do little to Chucho, who gasped as he sucked air. Two more slaps followed. “And those are for Bekah and Izzy!” She stood, shaking her aching hand, and stumbled away. She heard Chucho’s raspy voice behind her, chanting his foreign language as if in prayer.
Israel’s writhing had ceased. He stared straight up into the sky. Fear gripped Sofia. Had he died? She ran to his side and dropped to her knees and held the sides of his head. “Izzy!” His dilated pupils focused on her, quieting her fears.
“Sofie.” Israel’s thin voice rasped. “Is he dead?”
“Almost.” Sofia glanced at Chucho. He pressed his forehead to the ground as his chanting grew fainter. The outline of the machete’s tip, black against the blazing LEDs across the river, bulged from his back.
“Good.”
Agent Dominguez appeared from behind, lurching with an unsteady gait. Dried blood caked her nose and mouth. She dropped to her knees beside them. Her eyes were bloodshot and her nose crooked. She shook her head and focused on Israel. “We’ll get you home.”
He nodded and panted. His skin felt clammy to Sofia’s touch. He wouldn’t make it home alive without urgent medical aid. She took his hands in hers and squeezed.
“Agent Dominguez!” a voice carried across the bubbling river. “Agent Dominguez!” A McAllen police officer stood on the far riverbank, bathed in the worksite’s brilliant lights with both hands cupped around his mouth. Two more officers stood beside him. Agent Dominguez sat on her knees and waved both arms.
“Here! I’m here!”
“Help is coming!” the officer yelled and pointed behind them.
Distant sirens sounded on the Mexican highway. The canopy of trees beside them reflected the emergency lights approaching.
“Hang on, Izzy,” Sofia pleaded. “Please.” His face was drained of color. A death mask under construction.
Israel glanced towards Chucho. He was lying on his side, gripping the machete handle with both hands. His eyes and mouth were closed. Israel looked back at Sofia with a thin, ghostly smile.
“At least… you’ll make it home.”
Sofia refused to leave Israel’s side, even after the paramedics arrived and loaded him into the ambulance. During the ride, his eyes closed and didn’t reopen.
FOUR MONTHS LATER
CHAPTER 66
Israel
“How do those feel? They good?” Bang said.
He watched Israel strap on a pair of thick boxing gloves in a crowded locker room. They were colored bright blue and edged in canary yellow, like the trunks he wore that almost touched his knees. Israel chose the colors after a gray-haired detective told him he was true-blue. Said it was an old-time saying. Meant unswerving loyalty and dedication to a person or cause. Israel guessed that described him all right and adopted that nickname when he signed up for his first amateur fight. Israel “True Blue” Cortinas. His dad didn’t like it. Said Israel needed a Hispanic nickname. His dad suggested “El Martillo” while wielding a claw hammer from his dusty toolbox. Dad wasn’t a clever man. Israel ignored the suggestion and stuck with True Blue.
A referee in a black-and-white striped shirt leaned inside the locker room door. “Fifteen minutes!” he called to the assembled boxers, trainers, and assorted other support staff. The countdown to the evening’s first fight had begun. By luck, they had assigned Israel to the opening match against another first-timer named Cedric “The Deadrick” Washington.
“Yeah,” Israel said. “They’re good.” He hopped nimbly in his boxing shoes, with his toes barely touching the floor. His mitts popped against each other in a steady, nervous beat. Cedric stretched on the floor at the opposite end of the locker room. He was a big dude, with well-defined scapular muscles that bulged as he strained.
“Hey,” Bang said. “Let’s warm up. Huh?” He had laced on his punch mitts and began hopping in place. He raised one mitt as a target. “Ándale.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Israel shifted focus from Cedric’s muscles to Bang’s punch mitts. He hunched and exhaled and lashed out a right hand that popped Bang’s left mitt.
“Yeah, there you go, ese,” Bang grinned. He was in his element inside a gym, training his fighters. Not like when he donned a suit and tie for his last court appearance a month ago. Israel sat in the front row and listened to proceedings he didn’t understand. But the gist afterward was that prosecutors had let Bang off lightly. Time served and probation for his stunt with Gustavo and Hank. Bang’s long history of community service had played a large role in his sentencing.
Gustavo hadn’t been so lucky. He faced a ten-year sentence for assault, though prosecutors had offered a one-year plea. His lawyer said he could be out in six months. Now he sat at home with a bracelet on his ankle, pondering whether to accept his fate.
Israel’s flashing hands continued pummeling the punch mitts for several minutes until he felt warm and loose and Cedric’s back muscles had faded from his mind. Bang lowered his mitts and hooted appreciation.
“You hit like a freight train, Blue.” He glanced at Israel’s waist. “How’s it feel?”
It was a common refrain. Bang worried endlessly about Israel’s healed injuries. It was a blessing that the shoulder wounds weren’t worse. The bullet punctured nothing but flesh, and the wounds healed fast and clean. The knife wound to his belly was another matter. It had cleaved through his epidermal layers and pierced his lower intestine. Doctors performed emergency surgery at Regional Hospital Del Rio. He almost died during the ambulance ride there. He had gone into hypovolemic shock and needed surgery to repair his injured bowel. Pain meds knocked him out a full week.
During lucid moments, he answered questions from suspicious Mexican police. Several bodies littered an airport runway, and he and Sofia were involved. The police threatened to keep them in the country for months to complete their investigation. But a gratuitous amount of evidence at the scene pointed to self-defense. One sympathetic policeman said the dead were only gangsters. Not humans. He and Sofia stepped on American soil three weeks after her kidnapping at Club Bombom.
“I’m all right Bang. I’m ready.”
“All right. Get your headgear on.” Bang removed his mitts and helped Israel slide into a clunky padded face cage that protected his temples, cheeks, and jaw. Israel hated wearing the thing. It obstructed his view and looked stupid as shit. But Bang wouldn’t take any argument. “You want brain damage on your first fight, pendejo?” he said.
They exited the locker room after Cedric and his crew. Sofia was outside the door, waiting to greet him. Seeing her waiting impatiently for him to step out didn’t surprise him. In the months since their return, their relationship had settled into the big brother-little sister dynamic it should always have been. She was his biggest cheerleader.
“Izzy!” she yelled. She ran beside him and matched his pace as he and Bang strode down the bare concourse leading to the main arena. Her phone was open and pointed to his face. “Guess who texted me!”
Israel squinted, absorbing a text message thread showing on the screen. Distracted by the arena’s clamor, he couldn’t make out the messages. But the contact’s name listed at the top grabbed his attention.
Dominica.
“Is that—”
“Yes!” Sofia squealed. “She texted me an hour ago. She and her dad made it across the border near El Paso a couple of weeks ago. They found my number this morning.”
They had been on the run for four months. Israel couldn’t imagine the hardships they faced along the way. Even with Chucho out of the picture. They must have a great story to tell.
“She said to tell you hi.” Sofia batted her eyes. “They’ll be down here in a couple of weeks. Her dad says there are more jobs in the Valley than in El Paso.”
“That’s great!” He and Fermin had developed a battle-hardened bond during their brief friendship. They had separated too soon.
“I gotta go. We’re sitting in the third row.” She gave Israel a supportive hug and raced ahead, her sandals slapping the concourse.
Israel returned his thoughts to the fight. He passed under an empty grandstand and approached the boxing ring in the center. It was amateur fight night at the McAllen Convention Center, and the crowd was sparse. Mostly family and friends, Bang had told him. But there were some influential people too. Boxing managers and writers looking for the next big thing. If Israel wanted to box full-time, he needed to impress.
