The Long Run, page 5
“Yes. Sorry.”
“Look, we don’t mind talking. But now’s not a good time. Can you text me your contact information? I’ll call you back tomorrow and we can make arrangements. Is that OK?”
“Yes. That’s fine. You all have a good night.” She ended the call and stared into the distance. A stream of headlights glowed on the interstate outside the window. She meant to discuss their son’s detention in Mexico and next steps to bring him home. But they beat her to the punch. Now she wanted to talk to Henry Jr. even more. Hear from the horse’s mouth what happened last night.
She picked up her cell phone and forwarded her contact information. Then she filled out a fresh FD-302 and filed a report to her superiors, including DSAC Charles. She included the Mexico City field office in the distribution and hit send.
Agent Dominguez slid a protein bar from her purse. Her perennial backup dinner plan. She poured a cup of coffee and hunched over her computer to continue her search for clues. Conventional wisdom stated the first seventy-two hours after a kidnapping were crucial to recovering the victim unharmed. Sofia had been missing less than twenty-four. Wherever she was, time was running out fast.
CHAPTER 6
Sofia
Sofia sat on a concrete floor inside a rectangular jail cell, along with several other women. A funky aroma of body odor and mildew filled the cell. Languid breezes through a barred window provided the only ventilation. An inky night sky, bereft of clouds filled the horizon. A wall of iron bars extending from floor to ceiling separated her from a desk and chairs. Several guards huddled there, laughing and talking.
She felt spent, wrung out like an old, wet towel. She wanted to shut her eyes and forget all that had happened. But when she tried, haunting memories of the night before brought her to tears. Andre’s pained expression after being shot. Rebekah’s trembling hands as Sofia walked away. Was it callous that not knowing Rebekah’s fate hurt more than knowing Andre’s? There was a strange peace knowing Andre couldn’t be hurt anymore. But her memories of trembling Rebekah were an emotional gut punch. So lost and afraid. Did she survive the fire? What happened to Hank? And what about her parents and brothers? They must be frantic with worry.
Memories of her mom’s ingratiating smile and her dad’s dumb jokes filled her thoughts. She missed her family, her life. Why had all this happened? Maria had heard no news in this dank cell. She squinted her eyes, forcing fresh tears down her cheek.
“You ever stop crying? Huh?” a guard said as he leaned against the bars. He watched her with twinkling eyes and a cold smirk. His name was Mario, and he was one of the men who attacked Club Bombom. He ignored the other women in the cell and focused on Sofia. Her outfit didn’t help matters. She had picked her blouse for a night at the club. Now she folded her arms to deflect his attention from its plunging neckline. “Come here, mamacita. I’ll make you feel better.” He massaged his crotch, cooing with mock lust. That delighted the other guards. They hooted and laughed and clapped their hands, egging him on.
Mario was skinny with an Adam’s apple that stuck out almost as far as his weak chin. His tapered face and slick black mullet and shrill voice gave him a slightly feminine appearance. He had been harassing Sofia all day, and she had grown to hate him. She wiped her cheeks and focused on a spot on the far wall, trying to ignore him.
“Are you feeling lonely, baby? You need a real man.” He winked and blew her a kiss.
“Then why are you here?” Sofia said, unable to resist the cutting reply.
Mario’s smile melted into a frown as the other guards burst into laughter. Their derision switched targets from Sofia to Mario. He bit his lip and sneered as they laughed. “Puta, I’ll show you what kind of man I am.” He kicked the bars between them, jolting a metallic thrum that vibrated through the concrete floor. His hands dropped to his waist as he unbuckled his belt.
“Oh shit! Oh shit!” one of the other guards whooped and pointed.
Sofia looked away, unwilling to watch. She would not give him that satisfaction. Like Sofia, the other women in the cell also turned their heads to ignore the spectacle. Sofia heard the rip of Mario’s zipper and the howls of laughter from the guards.
“Come on, baby. Look at this,” Mario said. “I’m all man. Give it a kiss.”
The exterior door opened, revealing the darkening horizon outside. Sofia swiveled her head to see the newcomer, taking care to avoid witnessing Mario’s manhood on display. Chucho stood in the doorway, his face a dour scowl. He clutched a young woman by the arm. She was rail thin with curly black hair that spilled around her head and shoulders, covering her face. She sobbed but offered no resistance. Chucho’s gaze landed on Mario.
“Shit,” Mario squeaked. He hurried to push his member back in his pants, but the damage was done.
“Open the gate,” Chucho ordered.
“Sí, Chucho,” Mario said and zipped up his pants before he unlocked the cell door.
Chucho dragged the girl to the open door and pushed her inside. She stumbled and caught herself from falling before skittering to the wall and curling into a ball. Heavy sobs racked her torso. Her features remained concealed under the mass of curly hair.
Chucho closed the door and switched his focus to Mario. Mario stepped back until his shoulders pressed against the wall. He dropped his head and focused his gaze elsewhere. But there was no escaping Chucho’s glare. He stepped within inches of Mario, who faced him with a hopeful grin. Chucho responded with a powerful right hand across Mario’s face. The crunching slap echoed around the cell. Mario’s knees buckled from the impact, almost dropping him to the floor. He clutched his face and looked up at Chucho with reddened eyes. The other guards shrank like schoolchildren being scolded by their teacher.
“This is what you do when I’m gone? Huh?” Chucho sneered. “Play like children on the playground? What if someone had attacked us? What then? You keep playing like children? Huh?”
He went quiet. The only sound was the dull buzz of insects and the rustling trees outside. All eyes were on Chucho. He stepped closer to the men. They leaned backward in response.
“We don’t play with the merchandise!” Chucho gestured towards Sofia and the other women imprisoned behind the bars.
A lump rose in Sofia’s throat. Mario’s comeuppance had been gratifying. But she didn’t appreciate being compared to products on a store shelf. Unlike the developed world, narcos still viewed women as chattel. Hearing it spoken aloud made Sofia’s blood boil. She bit her lip to the point of pain to stay quiet.
“We have a job to do!” Flecks of spit sprayed from Chucho’s lips. “Do you understand?”
“Sí, Chucho!”
“Sí.”
“Entiendo, Chucho.”
The guards professed their compliance, and when they finished, Chucho focused on Mario. He stepped close to him, almost nose to nose, and peered into his eyes.
“If I see you playing again. If I find out you touched those women. I will chop off your balls and push them down your throat with a broom handle. Understand?” Chucho’s black eyes were vacant, as if he were staring into open space. Sofia shivered. She didn’t doubt his sincerity.
Mario choked out a muffled apology. “Lo siento, Chucho. It won’t happen again.”
“U Buluc Chabtan, ti’ prometo,” Chucho grumbled. Sofia didn’t understand the language. Not entirely. Whatever he spoke shared the Spanish word for promise. Prometo. As in, I promise. Lo prometo. She stumbled on the rest. The clicking consonants reminded her of the indigenous peoples who still dotted this peninsula. Whatever its full meaning, the statement had a marked effect on Mario. He blanched and his jaw slackened as he gave a minute nod. Satisfied by the response, Chucho faced the other men and balled his fists. “Why are you all here? Huh? There’s work outside! Stop playing like little girls!”
The other guards hurried to comply. A chance to escape Chucho’s wrath. They slung their rifles over their shoulders and headed for the door. Mario followed, holding his reddened cheek with one hand. He focused on the floor as he passed Sofia.
Another guard named Hugo stood also and reached for his rifle. He was paunchy with short stubbled hair and he, alone among the guards, had never laughed at Mario’s antics. Chucho stopped him with his icy gaze.
“Not you. You stay here and guard the women. Perrito.” A grin crinkled Chucho’s thin lips. Though, to Sofia, his tepid smirk struck her more like a sneer. Hugo nodded acceptance. Chucho glared at Sofia, as if inspired by a sudden thought, before following his men outside.
The tension eased from the cell. Only Hugo, Sofia, and the rest of the female prisoners remained. Hugo had a doughy round face and dull brown eyes. Like the other guards, he wore civilian clothes and was well armed with a rifle and a holstered pistol on his hip. He glanced towards Sofia and then away, as if afraid doing so would inspire Chucho’s wrath. He shuffled towards the desk and leaned his rifle against the wall.
This young man didn’t fit the image of a cartel gunman in Sofia’s estimation. Though her experience with such men was brief, it was explosive. Most were crude and violent. But not this one. He was quiet with a sad hound-dog face. He sat and pulled a book from the desk drawer. It had a brightly colored illustrated cover. A comic book. A graphic novel, her brother would correct her. The cover depicted a superhero—armored head to toe in gleaming metallic armor—battling some foe. To Sofia, that was a comic book. He spread it open in front of him and rested his chin on his propped arms as he read.
She coughed a dry hack and massaged her throat. She hadn’t eaten all day. And the jug of water she received that morning had long since emptied. Her lips smacked against each other in search of moisture.
“Excuse me,” she said, to get Hugo’s attention.
“Huh?” he grunted and turned to face her.
“Can I get some water? ¿Por favor?” She held the jug high for him to see. He sighed and pushed away from the desk. He took the jug and began walking to the door when Sofia stopped him. “Oh, and I think she needs one, too.” She pointed to the sobbing girl that Chucho had tossed inside the cell minutes earlier. Hugo looked at her with heavy eyes and sighed before nodding in agreement. He disappeared outside, closing the door behind him.
He seemed an odd choice for a cartel gunman. She wondered how he chose this path in life. The answer lay in the dozen huddled women arrayed around the cell. They were a hodgepodge of immigrants from around Latin and South America: Guatemala, El Salvador, Venezuela. The sole unifying factor between them was the desire for a better life. South of the United States border, the destitute had two choices in life. Escape or crime. Sofia could forgive no one who hurt others. But she understood the forces that drove them to it.
Hugo returned, hefting two full jugs of water. He handed them to Sofia, who kept hers and turned to offer the other to the sobbing girl.
“Uh, hello? Miss?” she whispered. But the girl continued crying without a word or even raising her head. She only gripped her knees tighter and buried her head deeper. Sofia attempted her entreaty twice more, again to no response. Whatever trauma befell the girl needed time to work out. The pain might never subside. “I’m going to leave this. If you want to talk, I’ll be right here. OK?” She left the jug beside the girl and returned to her spot against the wall.
Hugo returned to his post as well. He sat at his desk and rested his head in his propped hands. He scanned across the pages of the comic book open in front of him. Amid all the laughter and anger earlier, he had never spoken a word. Just watched, with those big morose eyes and hound-dog face.
Sofia had lived a privileged reality that none of her cell mates knew or understood. It was a comfortable existence, with ready food and warm beds. Like most Americans, her family could take time off, enjoy bountiful meals, and plan for peaceful futures. But Hugo’s future, and those of her cellmates, were far murkier. The women stared through the barred window at the swaying trees beyond. Maybe envisioning the lives they pursued before being snatched by the cartel. As someone studying immigration law, Sofia knew well Mexico’s tortured narcotics history. Here, local law enforcement was in bed with the cartels. Either because of greed or their own private terror. Regardless, it abandoned the common folk to fend for themselves. Those that fought back ended up headless or swinging under an overpass.
No one was coming to rescue her.
CHAPTER 7
Israel
The La Paloma Colonia occupied sixteen blocks of hard scrabble turf in downtown McAllen. Unlike the gentrified neighborhoods in the nearby historic district, most homes in La Paloma were original build. Weathered clapboard houses sat on concrete blocks. Torn and rusty chain-link fence surrounded them. Towering cypress, ash, and oak trees carpeted the neighborhood in pervasive shade. Thin lawns of patchy gray green grass struggled to survive underneath. The neighborhood was timeworn before Israel was born.
He arrived in La Paloma after nightfall. After window shades had dropped and kitchen lights had extinguished. Past bedtime for the earnest, blue-collar families of the neighborhood. The only people outside now were members of Hermandad Unida. The gang Israel and Gustavo had joined as lonely twelve-year-olds. Both were products of broken homes. Gustavo’s father had caught a lifetime prison sentence. Israel’s family was broken by his mother’s cancer and his father’s alcoholism. They became carnales, brothers in all but blood. When Israel left, Gustavo cursed him and renewed his allegiance to the gang. Israel lost touch with Gustavo and the underworld ever since. He tried to forget everything he knew. Even deleted all his contacts. Gustavo warned Israel not to come back. But he had no choice. Gustavo was still in the gang. And he had information and contacts in Cancun that Israel needed. He hoped the meeting was friendly.
Israel parked his car at a nearby gas station. He pulled a hoodie over his head and stepped into the warm muggy night. He avoided crunching on dead leaves and tall grass as he avoided pools of lamplight.
Voices sounded in the distance. Around the corner. Israel hunched low beneath a row of bushes. Two men emerged in the shadows. They walked side by side. No weapons in sight. There was no need. This was their home turf. Their barrio. Israel eyed them like the cops who eyeballed him when he passed. Young Hispanic males. Tattoos. Driven look, like hungry dogs in need of a bone. Walking after dark in a known gang stronghold.
Israel scurried towards a stand of trees and shimmied behind a shed. It was a tight fit between the wooden wall and fence. Lots of bugs and wormy things in the wet mildew at his feet. He sucked in a breath and pushed through, careful to avoid making noise. A rat skittered across his shoes. He closed his eyes and ignored it. His hands spread along the wooden wall of the shed, feeling his way to the end. And then he was out. He crouch-walked to the side of the house and peeked over the fence. Both men had passed, their paths unbroken.
Gustavo’s home was the dark gray one-story across the street. Israel hoped he still lived there. No one was in sight. The men on patrol continued their tour, facing the other direction. He hurried across the street and pressed his back against a giant oak whose thick trunk had broken through a chain-link fence. He peeled the fence carefully back and squirmed through. Leaves covered the backyard. A barrel BBQ pit sat next to the house. No backyard lights to brighten the area.
He stood still, listening for house visitors. Gangsters often partied long into the night. Swilling beer and sparking joints. Blowing off the steam of their criminal lives. Gangsters didn’t have normal friends. Their friends were in the life too. It was all they knew. But the night air was silent save for buzzing cicadas.
Israel padded to the back window and peeked inside. The blue glow of a television set in the living room filtered through the dark kitchen.
Someone walked into view, and Israel crouched low. The man was shirtless, with white shorts that touched his knees. Various tattoos adorned his smooth, hairless chest. He drank from a can of beer and slapped his flat belly. His bald head glowed a dull blue from the television’s reflection. He glanced towards the kitchen. His square face featured two glowering eyes pinched close together. A bulldog face. He was built like a bulldog too, with his short height and narrow, muscular shoulders.
Gustavo.
Israel wondered how to get his attention from the safety of the shadows. He couldn’t knock on the door. What if someone else was inside? Israel looked around for other options. He spotted a hulking dead branch hanging from the oak tree. No longer connected to the tree, just caught in the canopy below it. He tiptoed. A few more inches and he grasped a stem. He pulled hard, snapping the dead stalk free. The branch tumbled and shattered on the ground below, missing Israel by inches as he hustled to the darkness behind the garage.
The kitchen light flipped on, and the back door opened. Gustavo peered out, his eyes arching left and right. He stepped outside with a gleaming pistol in his right hand. His search narrowed on the fragments of branch on the ground. He shook his head and moved towards the house. Israel couldn’t wait any longer.
“Tavo!” It was a whispered shout, Israel’s attempt to catch Gustavo’s attention without too much noise. It worked too well. Gustavo wheeled with the pistol raised chest high.
“Who’s there?”
Israel stuck his hands out from the corner of the garage. They glowed in the light pouring from the large kitchen window.
“Don’t shoot. It’s Israel.” He poked his head out to show his face. Gustavo had mastered the art of controlling his emotions. A trick of the trade, to avoid revealing too much to the police or to competitors. But his stern face broke into bewilderment as recognition dawned. His narrowed eyes snapped wide before he regained his composure.
“The fuck? You almost got shot, fool.” He shook his head and kept his voice low. “Get your dumb ass inside before someone sees you.”
Israel eased past Gustavo into the kitchen. Gustavo glared at him like he had kicked his dog. No hellos, even though their last goodbye had been years before. Israel passed through the kitchen and entered the living room. Messy casual, the same as he remembered. Pizza boxes stacked on the dinner table. Empty beer cans filled the trash. The air was damp with marijuana smoke. Gustavo closed the door and turned off the kitchen light.
“Look, we don’t mind talking. But now’s not a good time. Can you text me your contact information? I’ll call you back tomorrow and we can make arrangements. Is that OK?”
“Yes. That’s fine. You all have a good night.” She ended the call and stared into the distance. A stream of headlights glowed on the interstate outside the window. She meant to discuss their son’s detention in Mexico and next steps to bring him home. But they beat her to the punch. Now she wanted to talk to Henry Jr. even more. Hear from the horse’s mouth what happened last night.
She picked up her cell phone and forwarded her contact information. Then she filled out a fresh FD-302 and filed a report to her superiors, including DSAC Charles. She included the Mexico City field office in the distribution and hit send.
Agent Dominguez slid a protein bar from her purse. Her perennial backup dinner plan. She poured a cup of coffee and hunched over her computer to continue her search for clues. Conventional wisdom stated the first seventy-two hours after a kidnapping were crucial to recovering the victim unharmed. Sofia had been missing less than twenty-four. Wherever she was, time was running out fast.
CHAPTER 6
Sofia
Sofia sat on a concrete floor inside a rectangular jail cell, along with several other women. A funky aroma of body odor and mildew filled the cell. Languid breezes through a barred window provided the only ventilation. An inky night sky, bereft of clouds filled the horizon. A wall of iron bars extending from floor to ceiling separated her from a desk and chairs. Several guards huddled there, laughing and talking.
She felt spent, wrung out like an old, wet towel. She wanted to shut her eyes and forget all that had happened. But when she tried, haunting memories of the night before brought her to tears. Andre’s pained expression after being shot. Rebekah’s trembling hands as Sofia walked away. Was it callous that not knowing Rebekah’s fate hurt more than knowing Andre’s? There was a strange peace knowing Andre couldn’t be hurt anymore. But her memories of trembling Rebekah were an emotional gut punch. So lost and afraid. Did she survive the fire? What happened to Hank? And what about her parents and brothers? They must be frantic with worry.
Memories of her mom’s ingratiating smile and her dad’s dumb jokes filled her thoughts. She missed her family, her life. Why had all this happened? Maria had heard no news in this dank cell. She squinted her eyes, forcing fresh tears down her cheek.
“You ever stop crying? Huh?” a guard said as he leaned against the bars. He watched her with twinkling eyes and a cold smirk. His name was Mario, and he was one of the men who attacked Club Bombom. He ignored the other women in the cell and focused on Sofia. Her outfit didn’t help matters. She had picked her blouse for a night at the club. Now she folded her arms to deflect his attention from its plunging neckline. “Come here, mamacita. I’ll make you feel better.” He massaged his crotch, cooing with mock lust. That delighted the other guards. They hooted and laughed and clapped their hands, egging him on.
Mario was skinny with an Adam’s apple that stuck out almost as far as his weak chin. His tapered face and slick black mullet and shrill voice gave him a slightly feminine appearance. He had been harassing Sofia all day, and she had grown to hate him. She wiped her cheeks and focused on a spot on the far wall, trying to ignore him.
“Are you feeling lonely, baby? You need a real man.” He winked and blew her a kiss.
“Then why are you here?” Sofia said, unable to resist the cutting reply.
Mario’s smile melted into a frown as the other guards burst into laughter. Their derision switched targets from Sofia to Mario. He bit his lip and sneered as they laughed. “Puta, I’ll show you what kind of man I am.” He kicked the bars between them, jolting a metallic thrum that vibrated through the concrete floor. His hands dropped to his waist as he unbuckled his belt.
“Oh shit! Oh shit!” one of the other guards whooped and pointed.
Sofia looked away, unwilling to watch. She would not give him that satisfaction. Like Sofia, the other women in the cell also turned their heads to ignore the spectacle. Sofia heard the rip of Mario’s zipper and the howls of laughter from the guards.
“Come on, baby. Look at this,” Mario said. “I’m all man. Give it a kiss.”
The exterior door opened, revealing the darkening horizon outside. Sofia swiveled her head to see the newcomer, taking care to avoid witnessing Mario’s manhood on display. Chucho stood in the doorway, his face a dour scowl. He clutched a young woman by the arm. She was rail thin with curly black hair that spilled around her head and shoulders, covering her face. She sobbed but offered no resistance. Chucho’s gaze landed on Mario.
“Shit,” Mario squeaked. He hurried to push his member back in his pants, but the damage was done.
“Open the gate,” Chucho ordered.
“Sí, Chucho,” Mario said and zipped up his pants before he unlocked the cell door.
Chucho dragged the girl to the open door and pushed her inside. She stumbled and caught herself from falling before skittering to the wall and curling into a ball. Heavy sobs racked her torso. Her features remained concealed under the mass of curly hair.
Chucho closed the door and switched his focus to Mario. Mario stepped back until his shoulders pressed against the wall. He dropped his head and focused his gaze elsewhere. But there was no escaping Chucho’s glare. He stepped within inches of Mario, who faced him with a hopeful grin. Chucho responded with a powerful right hand across Mario’s face. The crunching slap echoed around the cell. Mario’s knees buckled from the impact, almost dropping him to the floor. He clutched his face and looked up at Chucho with reddened eyes. The other guards shrank like schoolchildren being scolded by their teacher.
“This is what you do when I’m gone? Huh?” Chucho sneered. “Play like children on the playground? What if someone had attacked us? What then? You keep playing like children? Huh?”
He went quiet. The only sound was the dull buzz of insects and the rustling trees outside. All eyes were on Chucho. He stepped closer to the men. They leaned backward in response.
“We don’t play with the merchandise!” Chucho gestured towards Sofia and the other women imprisoned behind the bars.
A lump rose in Sofia’s throat. Mario’s comeuppance had been gratifying. But she didn’t appreciate being compared to products on a store shelf. Unlike the developed world, narcos still viewed women as chattel. Hearing it spoken aloud made Sofia’s blood boil. She bit her lip to the point of pain to stay quiet.
“We have a job to do!” Flecks of spit sprayed from Chucho’s lips. “Do you understand?”
“Sí, Chucho!”
“Sí.”
“Entiendo, Chucho.”
The guards professed their compliance, and when they finished, Chucho focused on Mario. He stepped close to him, almost nose to nose, and peered into his eyes.
“If I see you playing again. If I find out you touched those women. I will chop off your balls and push them down your throat with a broom handle. Understand?” Chucho’s black eyes were vacant, as if he were staring into open space. Sofia shivered. She didn’t doubt his sincerity.
Mario choked out a muffled apology. “Lo siento, Chucho. It won’t happen again.”
“U Buluc Chabtan, ti’ prometo,” Chucho grumbled. Sofia didn’t understand the language. Not entirely. Whatever he spoke shared the Spanish word for promise. Prometo. As in, I promise. Lo prometo. She stumbled on the rest. The clicking consonants reminded her of the indigenous peoples who still dotted this peninsula. Whatever its full meaning, the statement had a marked effect on Mario. He blanched and his jaw slackened as he gave a minute nod. Satisfied by the response, Chucho faced the other men and balled his fists. “Why are you all here? Huh? There’s work outside! Stop playing like little girls!”
The other guards hurried to comply. A chance to escape Chucho’s wrath. They slung their rifles over their shoulders and headed for the door. Mario followed, holding his reddened cheek with one hand. He focused on the floor as he passed Sofia.
Another guard named Hugo stood also and reached for his rifle. He was paunchy with short stubbled hair and he, alone among the guards, had never laughed at Mario’s antics. Chucho stopped him with his icy gaze.
“Not you. You stay here and guard the women. Perrito.” A grin crinkled Chucho’s thin lips. Though, to Sofia, his tepid smirk struck her more like a sneer. Hugo nodded acceptance. Chucho glared at Sofia, as if inspired by a sudden thought, before following his men outside.
The tension eased from the cell. Only Hugo, Sofia, and the rest of the female prisoners remained. Hugo had a doughy round face and dull brown eyes. Like the other guards, he wore civilian clothes and was well armed with a rifle and a holstered pistol on his hip. He glanced towards Sofia and then away, as if afraid doing so would inspire Chucho’s wrath. He shuffled towards the desk and leaned his rifle against the wall.
This young man didn’t fit the image of a cartel gunman in Sofia’s estimation. Though her experience with such men was brief, it was explosive. Most were crude and violent. But not this one. He was quiet with a sad hound-dog face. He sat and pulled a book from the desk drawer. It had a brightly colored illustrated cover. A comic book. A graphic novel, her brother would correct her. The cover depicted a superhero—armored head to toe in gleaming metallic armor—battling some foe. To Sofia, that was a comic book. He spread it open in front of him and rested his chin on his propped arms as he read.
She coughed a dry hack and massaged her throat. She hadn’t eaten all day. And the jug of water she received that morning had long since emptied. Her lips smacked against each other in search of moisture.
“Excuse me,” she said, to get Hugo’s attention.
“Huh?” he grunted and turned to face her.
“Can I get some water? ¿Por favor?” She held the jug high for him to see. He sighed and pushed away from the desk. He took the jug and began walking to the door when Sofia stopped him. “Oh, and I think she needs one, too.” She pointed to the sobbing girl that Chucho had tossed inside the cell minutes earlier. Hugo looked at her with heavy eyes and sighed before nodding in agreement. He disappeared outside, closing the door behind him.
He seemed an odd choice for a cartel gunman. She wondered how he chose this path in life. The answer lay in the dozen huddled women arrayed around the cell. They were a hodgepodge of immigrants from around Latin and South America: Guatemala, El Salvador, Venezuela. The sole unifying factor between them was the desire for a better life. South of the United States border, the destitute had two choices in life. Escape or crime. Sofia could forgive no one who hurt others. But she understood the forces that drove them to it.
Hugo returned, hefting two full jugs of water. He handed them to Sofia, who kept hers and turned to offer the other to the sobbing girl.
“Uh, hello? Miss?” she whispered. But the girl continued crying without a word or even raising her head. She only gripped her knees tighter and buried her head deeper. Sofia attempted her entreaty twice more, again to no response. Whatever trauma befell the girl needed time to work out. The pain might never subside. “I’m going to leave this. If you want to talk, I’ll be right here. OK?” She left the jug beside the girl and returned to her spot against the wall.
Hugo returned to his post as well. He sat at his desk and rested his head in his propped hands. He scanned across the pages of the comic book open in front of him. Amid all the laughter and anger earlier, he had never spoken a word. Just watched, with those big morose eyes and hound-dog face.
Sofia had lived a privileged reality that none of her cell mates knew or understood. It was a comfortable existence, with ready food and warm beds. Like most Americans, her family could take time off, enjoy bountiful meals, and plan for peaceful futures. But Hugo’s future, and those of her cellmates, were far murkier. The women stared through the barred window at the swaying trees beyond. Maybe envisioning the lives they pursued before being snatched by the cartel. As someone studying immigration law, Sofia knew well Mexico’s tortured narcotics history. Here, local law enforcement was in bed with the cartels. Either because of greed or their own private terror. Regardless, it abandoned the common folk to fend for themselves. Those that fought back ended up headless or swinging under an overpass.
No one was coming to rescue her.
CHAPTER 7
Israel
The La Paloma Colonia occupied sixteen blocks of hard scrabble turf in downtown McAllen. Unlike the gentrified neighborhoods in the nearby historic district, most homes in La Paloma were original build. Weathered clapboard houses sat on concrete blocks. Torn and rusty chain-link fence surrounded them. Towering cypress, ash, and oak trees carpeted the neighborhood in pervasive shade. Thin lawns of patchy gray green grass struggled to survive underneath. The neighborhood was timeworn before Israel was born.
He arrived in La Paloma after nightfall. After window shades had dropped and kitchen lights had extinguished. Past bedtime for the earnest, blue-collar families of the neighborhood. The only people outside now were members of Hermandad Unida. The gang Israel and Gustavo had joined as lonely twelve-year-olds. Both were products of broken homes. Gustavo’s father had caught a lifetime prison sentence. Israel’s family was broken by his mother’s cancer and his father’s alcoholism. They became carnales, brothers in all but blood. When Israel left, Gustavo cursed him and renewed his allegiance to the gang. Israel lost touch with Gustavo and the underworld ever since. He tried to forget everything he knew. Even deleted all his contacts. Gustavo warned Israel not to come back. But he had no choice. Gustavo was still in the gang. And he had information and contacts in Cancun that Israel needed. He hoped the meeting was friendly.
Israel parked his car at a nearby gas station. He pulled a hoodie over his head and stepped into the warm muggy night. He avoided crunching on dead leaves and tall grass as he avoided pools of lamplight.
Voices sounded in the distance. Around the corner. Israel hunched low beneath a row of bushes. Two men emerged in the shadows. They walked side by side. No weapons in sight. There was no need. This was their home turf. Their barrio. Israel eyed them like the cops who eyeballed him when he passed. Young Hispanic males. Tattoos. Driven look, like hungry dogs in need of a bone. Walking after dark in a known gang stronghold.
Israel scurried towards a stand of trees and shimmied behind a shed. It was a tight fit between the wooden wall and fence. Lots of bugs and wormy things in the wet mildew at his feet. He sucked in a breath and pushed through, careful to avoid making noise. A rat skittered across his shoes. He closed his eyes and ignored it. His hands spread along the wooden wall of the shed, feeling his way to the end. And then he was out. He crouch-walked to the side of the house and peeked over the fence. Both men had passed, their paths unbroken.
Gustavo’s home was the dark gray one-story across the street. Israel hoped he still lived there. No one was in sight. The men on patrol continued their tour, facing the other direction. He hurried across the street and pressed his back against a giant oak whose thick trunk had broken through a chain-link fence. He peeled the fence carefully back and squirmed through. Leaves covered the backyard. A barrel BBQ pit sat next to the house. No backyard lights to brighten the area.
He stood still, listening for house visitors. Gangsters often partied long into the night. Swilling beer and sparking joints. Blowing off the steam of their criminal lives. Gangsters didn’t have normal friends. Their friends were in the life too. It was all they knew. But the night air was silent save for buzzing cicadas.
Israel padded to the back window and peeked inside. The blue glow of a television set in the living room filtered through the dark kitchen.
Someone walked into view, and Israel crouched low. The man was shirtless, with white shorts that touched his knees. Various tattoos adorned his smooth, hairless chest. He drank from a can of beer and slapped his flat belly. His bald head glowed a dull blue from the television’s reflection. He glanced towards the kitchen. His square face featured two glowering eyes pinched close together. A bulldog face. He was built like a bulldog too, with his short height and narrow, muscular shoulders.
Gustavo.
Israel wondered how to get his attention from the safety of the shadows. He couldn’t knock on the door. What if someone else was inside? Israel looked around for other options. He spotted a hulking dead branch hanging from the oak tree. No longer connected to the tree, just caught in the canopy below it. He tiptoed. A few more inches and he grasped a stem. He pulled hard, snapping the dead stalk free. The branch tumbled and shattered on the ground below, missing Israel by inches as he hustled to the darkness behind the garage.
The kitchen light flipped on, and the back door opened. Gustavo peered out, his eyes arching left and right. He stepped outside with a gleaming pistol in his right hand. His search narrowed on the fragments of branch on the ground. He shook his head and moved towards the house. Israel couldn’t wait any longer.
“Tavo!” It was a whispered shout, Israel’s attempt to catch Gustavo’s attention without too much noise. It worked too well. Gustavo wheeled with the pistol raised chest high.
“Who’s there?”
Israel stuck his hands out from the corner of the garage. They glowed in the light pouring from the large kitchen window.
“Don’t shoot. It’s Israel.” He poked his head out to show his face. Gustavo had mastered the art of controlling his emotions. A trick of the trade, to avoid revealing too much to the police or to competitors. But his stern face broke into bewilderment as recognition dawned. His narrowed eyes snapped wide before he regained his composure.
“The fuck? You almost got shot, fool.” He shook his head and kept his voice low. “Get your dumb ass inside before someone sees you.”
Israel eased past Gustavo into the kitchen. Gustavo glared at him like he had kicked his dog. No hellos, even though their last goodbye had been years before. Israel passed through the kitchen and entered the living room. Messy casual, the same as he remembered. Pizza boxes stacked on the dinner table. Empty beer cans filled the trash. The air was damp with marijuana smoke. Gustavo closed the door and turned off the kitchen light.
