The Long Run, page 4
“Fuck.” Israel thought of the televised ruins of the bar. And the Uzi toting soldiers guarding it. Sofia’s remains might be in that blackened crater. Burned to ashes like charcoal at the bottom of a big damn grill. He winced at the thought.
They reached the front door and Oscar stopped short. He turned and froze Israel with a hard look.
“Mom is pretty upset.”
It was all he had to say. Tía Rosa, Israel’s aunt, was a warm, giving person. Always ready with the gentle hugs and empathetic tears. Israel couldn’t imagine her pain now. He nodded his understanding. Not that he needed reminding. He lived there for three years. Tía Rosa and Tío Pedro were like his parents. Especially Tía Rosa. She got him out of the gang. Maybe saved his life.
Oscar pushed open the door. A small foyer led to a dining room and hallway. No one was in sight, but the dull murmur of voices filled the home. The same as Israel remembered. Same floral wallpaper and wooden floors. Same smell. The aroma of food and incense. A lived-in home. The smell of family in Israel’s memory. Same photos on the wall, too. Well, not all the same. There were new photos too. Oscar and Osiel held their high school diplomas and wore purple cloaks and square hats with dangling tassels. Big smiles. Beside their photo was one of Sofia holding her diploma as well. Still had braces then. She got those braces just before the family kicked him out.
A giant TV hung above the fireplace in the family room. He and Sofia and Oscar and Osiel watched Disney movies on it when they were kids. It seemed a lifetime ago since Israel first walked through the door. The memories crashed into him as if fresh. When young Oscar and Osiel picked on Sofia, it was him she turned to for backup. They built a cushion fort once and used rolled socks as weapons. His favorite childhood memories happened in that house, with Sofia at his side. His chest heaved with emotion. He hated the way he left this home. He hated the look of pain on Tía Rosa’s face. The pain he caused.
The news guy standing on the lawn outside appeared on the television screen, with the volume down low. It felt unreal. Like he wandered into a movie set. Tía Rosa was sitting on the couch. A cushion rested on her lap as she talked on the phone. She sobbed as she spoke, with one hand covering her forehead. Snippets of her conversation told him she was accepting well wishes from some relation. Osiel and Tío Pedro stood in the back of the room, talking. Tío Pedro noticed Israel and waved him over. Israel braced himself for the meeting.
“Tío. Osiel. I’m sorry. I had to come.” Two years had passed since he last saw his uncle. Their parting wasn’t on the best of terms. He needed to explain why he was there. To defend his presence. But all worries about his reception melted the instant Tío Pedro reached out and hugged him. The emotional embrace—with an emphatic back slap—declared no explanation was needed.
“Gracias. I’m glad you’re here, Israel. It’s good to see you.” His moist red eyes glistened with tears. “What have you heard?” Tío Pedro was an engineer. Wastewater. Worked for the city at the plant down the street. As always, he dispensed with chit chat.
“Oscar told me the cops think its cartel related. Drug deal gone bad. They just picked the wrong bar that night.”
Tío Pedro drew a deep breath. “It’s… It’s hard to know. They haven’t found her yet. They told us her friend survived. A girl named Rebekah. She’s in a hospital. Smoke inhalation. Police can’t ask her about Sofia.” His voice choked to a halt as he fought back tears.
“Mijo…”
Tía Rosa’s voice occupied a happy place in Israel’s memories. Her ever-present smiles and laughter. But when she spoke now, it wasn’t the same. It was thin and weak, as if sifted through a filter of suffering. Her long brown hair was unkempt, and her clothes rumpled. She clutched a photo of Sofia and frowned in sadness and pain.
He kneeled and wrapped one arm around her. Her heavy sobs warmed his shoulder. Fresh tears trickled down her face when she pulled away.
“I knew you would come, mijo.”
“I had to.”
“Thank you,” she said and grasped his hand.
The wayward child had returned. A lot of water had passed under their shared bridge. But none of that mattered now. He was there for Sofia. They all were.
“How are you doing?” Another one of those throwaway sayings people used in troubled times. How would anybody be doing knowing their child was missing?
“It hurts my heart, mijo.” She squeezed her eyes shut and clutched her chest. “Like someone ripped it out of my chest.” She sucked in a deep, halting breath. “She’s my baby. Why dear Lord?”
Her pain became his, as if transferred by osmosis. Israel may still be a criminal if it weren’t for Tía Rosa. That gangsters caused this pain, hurt him most of all. He would do anything to help her.
“She’s coming home, Tía. I promise,” he said through a throat constricted and dried like cotton.
Tía Rosa nodded in agreement, though too overwhelmed to speak. Another deep breath and then she recited a prayer under her breath. He stayed with her, holding her hand. There was strength in numbers.
Besides the immediate pain of Sofia’s disappearance, a question nagged in Israel’s mind. The attack on the club made little sense in Cancun. The Los Cabrones cartel controlled the Yucatan. Their leader, Junior Gabriel, kept things quiet. Shootouts and kidnappings were common in the wild borderland towns or in the small mountain cities of Sinaloa where the weed was grown. But not in Cancun. The Mexican government drew the line in tourist areas. Too many American dollars were at stake.
A woman wearing a dark blue suit entered the house and strode into the family room unannounced. She stopped under the television set and waved one hand for quiet.
“Excuse me, everyone. I have some news.” She clasped her hands at her waist and spoke with a disarming smile and a gentle voice. Israel’s first thought was that she was a police spokeswoman. Like one of the suits outside. Her straight black hair touched her shoulders in a neat, conservative hairstyle. She carried herself like an athlete and had a runner’s square jaw and sinewy neck. “My name is Special Agent Alana Dominguez, with the FBI. Because your daughter was involved in an attack that occurred outside the United States, McAllen PD has requested our help. My job is to liaise with the Mexico City FBI office, local PD, and FBI headquarters during this investigation.”
Tío Pedro, the twins, and Israel all stepped closer; their interest captured the moment she said FBI.
“I just got an update from Cancun PD,” she continued, her bright smile fading into business mode. “They’ve been collecting reports from survivors all morning. Apparently, when the gunmen arrived, they demanded to talk to Henry Carson.”
A collective gasp sounded in the room.
“That was your daughter’s boyfriend, correct?” Agent Dominguez said.
“Yes,” Tía Rosa said.
“Well, Mr. Carson wasn’t in the building when the gunmen arrived. They got frustrated and started threatening hostages. There’s a possibility they shot one or more of them. We haven’t confirmed that.” She delivered the news with an unblinking gaze, preferring to rip off the band-aid rather than peeling it painfully back.
“Oh… sweet Jesus.” Tía Rosa’s words caught in her throat.
“Who did they shoot?” Tío Pedro said. He stood rigid like a two by four, his hands dropped at his sides, as if unable to ward off further blows.
“Two security guards, for sure. That’s all we know for now. Cancun PD is still putting the pieces together.”
“What about Sofia? Where is my daughter?” Tía Rosa’s voice boomed in a sudden burst of frantic energy.
“Multiple survivors have reported that a woman matching your daughter’s description told the gunmen she was Henry Carson’s girlfriend. The gunmen then led her from the building.”
“They kidnapped her?” The words tumbled out of Israel’s mouth unbidden.
Agent Dominguez’s gaze narrowed on Israel. It caused a faint unease inside him. Like the days he spent loitering in the street with his gangster friends.
“Yes, sir. Witnesses described the man who took her as having long black hair and wearing a leather vest. They exited the front door, and that’s the last anyone saw.”
“Oh God. Oh God.” Tía Rosa crossed her chest and muttered a prayer.
“Do you know which cartel did this?” Israel said.
Agent Dominguez studied him for a moment, like all cops did. He didn’t flinch as he waited for an answer.
“Cancun PD thinks it was Los Cabrones. They control that region. But we can’t rule out other possibilities. The kidnapper had a large, hooded calavera tattoo covering his chest. That doesn’t match any specific gangland tattoos we know of, but we’re looking into it.
Israel nodded understanding. Calaveras were tattoos of sugar skulls; the colorfully decorated skulls used in Latin American memorials. They held a deeper meaning than mere decoration. Sugar skulls connected the living to the dead and were ubiquitous in Day of the Dead ceremonies. He had seen plenty of calavera tattoos in his time in the gangs. But never one so large and obvious.
“I want to stress; local authorities do not believe Sofia Martinez died in the fire. She is most likely still alive.”
“Most likely?” Tío Pedro said with an incredulous frown.
“We’re not God, sir. We can’t see everything. But when narcos kidnap citizens, it’s usually for ransom. They’ve issued no demands yet, but that could be coming.”
“Why haven’t they contacted us? Called us or sent us a ransom note. Something like that?” Osiel said.
“That’s if they’re trying to keep it quiet and not alert authorities. That’s not the case here. Everyone already knows. They might contact the authorities in Mexico. But,” she said, and pulled a card out of her breast pocket, “if someone does contact you, call me first and we’ll check on it. Someone might take advantage of the situation. Claim they have your daughter and demand money.”
Tío Pedro stared into space, as if focused on engineering a fix to an intractable problem. But some part of him heard the agent’s words, and he nodded understanding. He took her card and handed it to Osiel.
“I’ll contact you if I hear anything else.” She gave a curt smile and turned towards the door. Her sandals clicked on the tiled floor.
“Agent Dominguez!” Israel followed her into the foyer, out of earshot of the family.
“Yes?” She swiveled and faced Israel.
“What—” he said, then paused to ensure no one could hear them. “What are the odds of bringing her home?” Israel’s time in the gangs had taught him much about how the Mexican cartels operated. The Mexican police were riddled with corruption and drug money. He once placed a five-hundred-dollar bribe in the hands of a Mexican soldier himself. If the cartels didn’t want an investigation to happen, it didn’t.
She scanned him from head to toe with a quick glance. “Something tells me you have a good idea already. So I’ll tell you straight. The cartels control things down there. Odds are the police and the Mexican army are working with them. But it’s not impossible. The United States government wields a lot of power in Mexico. We’ll turn the screws. Keep the pressure on. The Mexican government doesn’t like bad press that hurts tourism. But it takes time. For now, if you all want to be proactive, I suggest contacting your senator’s and congressman’s offices. Hell, call the local news. Make some noise.”
“That’s it?”
She shrugged. “Just sit tight and pray.”
She turned to leave, and the front door clicked shut behind her. Israel stood alone with his thoughts, turning over the agent’s words in his mind. Sitting and waiting wasn’t his strong suit. He made a vow in that instant. Depending on grandstanding politicians in the US and Mexico would produce nothing but Sofia’s death. He was going to Cancun. He would find her and bring her back.
Israel said goodbye to the family and headed to the car. Before he left for Mexico, he needed a few things. Needed to tell his dad he was leaving. And he needed to talk to his old friend, Gustavo.
CHAPTER 5
Agent Dominguez
The McAllen skyline twinkled in the late afternoon dusk outside the plate-glass windows of the FBI field office. Inside, Special Agent Alana Dominguez sat at her desk working on the Club Bombom case file. She opened an FD-302—the form for recording the results of an interview—and transcribed her notes of her meetings that day. She had met with the families of Sofia Martinez, Rebekah Cooper, and Andre Wallace. Her conversation with Andre’s family had been the hardest. She had told Andre’s parents not to lose hope. But odds were high that Andre’s corpse was inside that burned out night club. Andre’s mother seemed catatonic—swamped by grief—and could barely speak. Agent Dominguez ground her teeth. She hated feeling helpless. It wasn’t just her job. It was a calling. As a kid, she dreamed of catching the bad guys and helping the little guys. She could do nothing for Andre or Rebekah. But Sofia was still out there, somewhere. And Agent Dominguez would be damned if she didn’t bring her back home.
“This case has eyes on it,” Special Agent in Charge Junior Charles—the head of the McAllen field office—had told her when she received the Club Bombom case. “Include me in your reports.”
A drug cartel had kidnapped a beautiful, young American woman. That was chum in the water for local news. National media took notice also, and so had FBI Director Alan Mitchell. There were a few layers of bureaucracy between her and SAC Charles. Normally, he would be the last to see her reports. The fact he wanted to be included directly put special pressure on her. It was pressure she relished.
“Of course,” she had replied.
Locating Henry Carson hadn’t taken long. He was being questioned in a Cancun police station when she received the assignment. He had escaped the carnage when he stepped outside to make a call before the gunmen arrived. Lucky him. Not so lucky for his friends.
One family remained to talk to. Henry Carson Sr. owned Carson Engineering, a local construction company. Agent Dominguez scrolled through the FBI database, eyeing all the hits coming back from her search request.
Turned out Carson Engineering had prior history with the federal government. The government had awarded them a contract to build a section of the border wall the new President wanted erected all along the US-Mexico border. Carson Engineering’s contract covered the bottom tip of Texas, running west to east from McAllen to the Gulf of Mexico. A sizable chunk of land and a massive contract to match.
But that wasn’t all. The DEA had recently closed an investigation into his company’s business dealings. They had received intel from an undisclosed source that Mr. Carson was in business with the cartels. The DEA spent a few months auditing Carson Engineering’s accounting and logbooks. They closed the investigation after finding nothing suspicious. Agent Dominguez knew well the deluge of conspiracy theories and ax grinder lies the federal government received daily. They knew bullshit allegations when they saw them. That the DEA pursued this investigation at all tingled Agent Dominguez’s instincts. She filed a request to get a copy of the DEA’s report. Maybe there was nothing to find. Maybe there was. Regardless, Agent Dominguez wanted to see for herself.
A ripple of cracks sounded as she arched her back. They echoed across the open floor plan she shared with dozens of other agents, most of whom had already gone home. Fatigue had settled into her aching joints. Working late was a regular occurrence for her, a fact that played hell with her social life. She hadn’t been on a date in months. Or was it a year? Not since her last boyfriend tired of her workaholic schedule. She took a deep breath and returned to her glowing computer screen.
Mr. Carson’s file included his personal mobile phone number. She picked up her cell phone and punched in the numbers. After two rings, the call picked up.
“Hello?” a male voice said.
“Hello. Is this Henry Carson?”
“Yes. Who am I speaking to?”
“My name is Special Agent Alana Dominguez, with the FBI. I’m investigating the attack on Club Bombom. Do you have time to talk?”
“Hello Agent Dominguez. You know Hank escaped unharmed.”
“Yes, I do. But I’m putting together a timeline of the attack, including what led everyone there.”
“Oh, well, he was on vacation with friends.”
“OK, so this wasn’t business related?”
“No, not at all.”
“Well, can you tell me if—”
“Ma’am, uh, Agent, I’m sorry. I’m driving home now. Can we do this later?”
“Of course. I can call back in an hour. Or maybe come by your office tomorrow. What works best for you?”
“One second—” his voice cut out and the muffled sounds of discussion in the background filtered through the phone. Agent Dominguez couldn’t make out the conversation, but it sounded animated and between two or more voices. When Henry Carson returned, he cleared his throat. “Well, I have Hank in the truck with me. I just picked him up from the airport. I’d like to give him some time to rest before—”
“Your son is home?” Agent Dominguez blurted. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since Henry Carson Jr. witnessed the attack on Club Bombom. Forensic teams were still picking through the debris and identifying bodies. The attackers had called for him by name. Why the hell had Cancun PD released him and cleared him to travel already?
“Yes. His plane landed about half an hour ago.”
Agent Dominguez sat in silence, too stunned to speak. But she processed the information quickly. She guessed at some possibilities that resulted in Hank’s premature release. Mexican law enforcement was notorious for taking bribes. Perhaps his wealthy family paid a hefty price. Or maybe the rumors of their involvement with the cartels were true. Pure dumb luck was also a possibility. A paperwork error by an overworked and underpaid administrator. Those types of things happened in the United States too, and frighteningly often.
“Are you there?” Henry Carson said.
