Border Son

by Samuel Parker

  The gunfight that erupted echoed among the hills, shattering the silence of the desert. Roberto and Miguel on one side of the cinder-block structure, Arturio, Vicente, and several other Cartel men using their trucks as shields on the other. The bunkhouse was riddled with bullets, while screams of the migrants who threw themselves on the floor were drowned out by gunfire. They were caught without hope in the cross fire.

  The shooting intensified, both parties firing blindly from behind their secure positions, relying on luck rather than aim to hit their targets. The first lull in the firefight came on as weapons were reloaded, and several of the migrants sprinted out of the bunkhouse in search of a better hiding place. The Cartel thugs, either frustrated at not getting clear shots on Roberto and Miguel, or out of simple bloodlust coursing through their veins, opened up on the fleeing men and mowed them down, gunshots ripping through their bodies that fell like rag dolls into the dirt.

  From the house, a blast from the front door echoed through the clearing and one of Arturio’s men was violently thrown against the side of the truck. He fell to the ground dead. The owner pumped another round into his shotgun and fired again.

  The Cartel, suddenly exposed on their flank, ran for cover and were left open to Roberto and Miguel, who both stepped out and fired relentlessly.

  Lead flew in every direction, undiscerning in its target, slicing into flesh and steel and dirt. The owner continued to fire, taking out Vicente’s kneecap, while a shot from Roberto finished him off in the throat. When the rifle went empty, Roberto pulled his pistol from his waist and started to shoot. His expertise with the handgun proved lethal to everyone in his sights. Each shot found its mark.

  Doc Holliday reborn.

  The Cartel members all fell, most not turning from the owner’s shots in time to react to the deadly accuracy of Roberto until it was too late.

  And then all was quiet.

  Roberto still stood as the dust and burnt gunpowder began to drift away on the breeze. His heart beat violently in his chest, the blood forcing the veins in his neck to swell, the adrenaline threatening to ooze out of his pores. He looked around.

  To his right, next to the bunkhouse, lay Miguel. His face and shirt were red with blood. Roberto couldn’t tell where he was shot, or how many times, but he knew that it didn’t matter.

  His friend was dead.

  Roberto reloaded his pistol and walked toward the trucks, now nothing more than scrap metal riddled with bullet holes. He stepped from man to man, checking for life in each one. They were all dead. But one person was missing. Arturio.

  Where was he?

  Roberto slowly walked around the last vehicle and saw the man sitting in the dirt, a gun in his right hand, attached to an arm that had been shot apart and lay limp on the ground. Arturio was struggling for breath. Roberto stepped in front of him, raised his gun, and stared at the man. He thought of the image of his uncle crucified on the gates of Iglesia de Señor de la Misericordia. He wanted Arturio to suffer, he wanted to prolong the man’s death, to gain vengeance for Felipe, and now Miguel. But it was not to be.

  Arturio breathed his last and slumped to the dirt. Dead.

  Roberto looked to the main house. Through the open front door he could see the owner lying on the floor, his boots sticking straight out onto the porch. He had no desire to investigate how many bullets the man had taken.

  He walked behind the bunkhouse to the Buick. He wanted to load Miguel’s body up and take it back to Nuevo Negaldo, but his friend was too big to move. He would have to leave him here for now. Respect for the body would come later.

  He got in the car and pulled out of the camp. Behind him, a few faces of the surviving migrants peered out in terror from the bullet-ridden bunkhouse.

  55

  Roberto reached the asphalt that stretched across the Mexican landscape, its route running parallel with the border some ten miles north. He came to a stop, the sun beating down on the hood, his eyes staring blankly out the windshield, the sweat from his forehead beading up and running down his temple. His heartbeat slowly coming back to normal after the gunfight.

  Miguel was dead. There was nothing to be done about that now. He would tell the other Los Diablos how he had fought; his brothers would honor Miguel’s memory. But for now, the magnitude of his situation came crashing over him. He had killed Salazar’s men. They would eventually find him and kill him. There was no reprieve from such action.

  Why was this so complicated?

  Miguel’s death left a hole somewhere inside him. Could he have killed Miguel if it had ever come down to it? If Miguel had stood in his way to riches and power, would he have not simply removed him too?

  No.

  A voice inside him said no as soon as his mind asked the question.

  Miguel was family. A twisted family born in the streets and by the shedding of blood, but family nonetheless. He and Miguel had stood side by side against the shower of bullets from the Cartel. Only family would do that. Family was stronger than money and power. He would have taken a bullet for Miguel, just as Miguel had taken bullets for him. And Tyler, having taken the knife for him in El Paso, had become family. That’s why he did what he did. It was for honor. For family.

  The Americans thought there was no pride in the Mexican mind, but they were wrong. Dead wrong. Thinking on these things, Roberto gripped the wheel until the pressure pained his fingers and he pried them up, then punched the dashboard in fury; once, twice, again and again until his knuckles started to swell. He screamed, a barbaric yawp that carried out of the open window and echoed across the desert plain.

  But what to do now?

  He could go west, cross the border in Nogales, hide out in the US. He was a dead man in Nuevo Negaldo. Salazar would order him to be killed on sight. No matter what his brothers might do to defend him, and he knew they would die defending him, it would be just a matter of time before he would be caught unawares. Slipping into America he could make his way to Phoenix, Albuquerque, maybe even LA.

  But what about his mother?

  The sun was just overhead, the day halfway through. She would leave work tonight, drive back home, walk into her house. Would Salazar have men there, waiting inside, waiting for him to arrive? Would they seek revenge on her, using her body as a substitute? The thought snapped him back to reality.

  Roberto put the car in gear, turned east on the road, and drove like a madman toward Nuevo Negaldo. He wouldn’t leave his mother to walk into a trap. He wouldn’t run to save himself and leave her to suffer in his place.

  If he was going to his death, he would make them earn it.

  56

  Roberto drove to his mother’s home, went to his room, and pulled a milk crate from under the bed. He retrieved several boxes of ammunition, some clips, and some cash. Stuffing them into a bag, he went to the kitchen, took a pull of tequila, and ran his head under the sink. The dirt, gunpowder, and sweat from the migrant shelter poured from his skin into the sink.

  He had called his mother on the way, telling her to go to her cousin’s in Deming for a few days. She said that she would and he hoped that she would keep her word. He could hear the worry in her voice as if she was trying to leap through the phone and comfort him through the airwaves.

  “No, Mama. Do not come home. It is not safe. I will let you know when you can come home.”

  Perhaps it was a lie. The only way she would be able to come home was if he was dead, and the Cartel had proof of his body. Until then, she was in danger. They would use her to get to him, or use her for the simple fact of satiating their sadistic sensibilities. She would be safer in the north.

  The shot of liquor hit his head and calmed his nerves as he stared down at the dirty water circling the drain.

  Losing Miguel was hard. He would trade Miguel for Tyler any day. Riding back to Nuevo Negaldo without his overweight body sleeping in the passenger seat had been like trying to walk after a stroke. Nothing felt right and half your body was numb as if it were missing.
Now he was on his own, nobody to watch his back.

  His mother’s home felt like both the safest place and the most vulnerable at the same time. Roberto had no idea if Arturio or Vicente had called in Roberto’s location at the migrant shelter, or if Arturio had notified anyone else of the firefight before he died. It didn’t really matter. He was a dead man walking.

  Just like Tyler.

  Stupid choices had doomed everyone. Felipe, Miguel, his mother, himself.

  If he would have kept his head on a swivel when he had walked into the El Paso jail all those years ago, he would never have come across that gringo. Never have felt obligated. Never have been duty bound to foster the cancerous relationship that years later would send his life into this downward spiral.

  Life on the streets in Nuevo Negaldo was never easy, and many of his crew had died quickly and suddenly, usually from making poor choices—stealing from Salazar, snitching to the policía. They had it coming. They knew the moment that they had signed their death warrants. But to think that his fate was sealed when Tyler took that knife in the back was a kick to the gut. It was out of his control, and in Mexico, if you didn’t have control, you lived and died by the whim of another.

  Roberto had fought and bled for control. He knew the rules of the neighborhood, the plaza. He picked up the bottle of booze and threw it against the wall, its glass shattering into a million pieces. He turned off the water, grabbed his bag, and went out the front door, his head swimming with thoughts of cause and effect, the linear progression of fate, of unwanted circumstances, of duty-bound codes of honor, of the thoughts that philosophers pondered for thousands of years.

  He was just as distracted as he stepped outside the front door as he had been when he had walked into the El Paso jail. So distracted that he didn’t notice the truck turn onto his street without braking, its passenger window down, a gun pointed at him. He only came to when the first shot echoed through the neighborhood.

  57

  Hey . . . you . . .”

  The voice was heavily accented and the words came out cautiously. Edward opened his eyes and looked over at the two men seated next to the rock wall. They had their bags cushioning their backs and the look on their faces said they simply wanted to talk.

  “You,” one of them said, “norteamericano?”

  Ed stared back at them. The two said several words in Spanish between each other and smiled large, toothy grins.

  “Sí,” Tyler said, then spoke to his father. “They wanted to know if we’re American.”

  “Where are they from?” Ed asked.

  “Qué?” the man asked.

  Tyler sat down next to Ed and spoke to the men in Spanish. The conversation went back and forth and Ed was surprised at this hidden skill his son had.

  “They’re from Guatemala,” Tyler eventually said. “He’s Juan. The other one is Luis.”

  Luis spoke to Tyler with a flurry of words and Tyler answered back. The two started laughing hysterically.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “Wants to know what we are doing here.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him I brought you out here looking for a wife.”

  Edward grunted and Juan started spitting words again.

  “He wants to know if we’re related.”

  “He’s my son . . . ,” Ed said, looking at the two men. “Son.” He repeated the word slowly as if the speed would aid understanding.

  “They know,” Tyler said.

  Luis pulled an old wallet out of his back pocket and took a photograph out. He looked at it reverently and then passed it over to Edward, speaking rapidly.

  “That’s his boy,” Tyler translated. “He is back in Coban with his mother.”

  Edward studied the picture and then handed it back with a nod. Luis kept the conversation going and Tyler translated it to his father in English.

  “They crossed over into Mexico a couple weeks ago. Then, took the train north. The beast—”

  “Beast?” Ed asked.

  “It’s what they call the freight trains that run north. They pile up on the cars and ride them as far as they can.”

  Tyler prompted Luis and he continued.

  “There were three of them when they started out from Coban, but one of them didn’t make it. He fell asleep on top of the train car and rolled off.” Ed watched as the two men made the sign of the cross at the mention of the incident. “They assume he’s dead. He was Juan’s brother. This is the third time they have made this trip.

  “They were going to cross near Laredo or Juarez but thought they’d have a better chance away from those places. They have heard the stories. All the murders.”

  “Where are they headed?” Ed asked.

  “Atlanta. Construction gigs.”

  “What’s his son’s name?”

  “His son?”

  “In the photograph, what’s his son’s name?”

  Luis responded with a sentimental tone. “Carlos.”

  “It must be hard, leaving him . . . ,” Edward said before he realized what he uttered. Tyler translated the words that more than likely stung his own mouth. Why would his own father be concerned about another man leaving his son behind?

  “Yes,” Tyler translated. “But he is a growing boy, and eats too much. So he goes to work. What father would he be if he didn’t support his son. It’s from him that his boy will learn about family, responsibility. He goes as an example to him.”

  The conversation ended when Tyler stood up and walked away, leaving Edward and the two Guatemalans unable to do anything but stare at each other. Ed watched his son walk down the path that had brought them up the mountain. He got to his feet and followed him. Twenty yards from the makeshift camp, Tyler was leaning against a rock looking out over where they had come.

  Ed walked up and again struggled with knowing how to start a conversation. “Why did you tell Roberto about Denver?”

  Tyler looked back at him, his eyes set hard, but didn’t say anything.

  “Why that? It just . . .”

  “What?”

  “I’m just wondering why you would talk about that.”

  Tyler folded his arms and grimaced when the movement caused a pain to shoot in his shoulder. He looked to be considering his words carefully.

  “In jail, you have a lot of time to talk. Not much else to do. After I got out of the hospital, Roberto made sure I wasn’t messed with in there. We got to talking, ’bout this and that. He asked me if I ran with anyone. I said no. He then asked if no one ever had my back.”

  Tyler spit on the ground, then continued.

  “It just came out. I said one time, I got real scared. Long time ago, when I was a kid. Mom had taken off. So we went to Denver. At the end of the day, I thought you took off too. I thought that was it. I remember that feeling. Feeling . . . hopeless. I had no idea what was going to happen. For that brief moment, I thought I was forever alone. Then . . .”

  “Then what?” Ed asked.

  “Then you were there. You hadn’t left. You didn’t take off. I felt like at that moment, that one moment, you had my back. That we were going to be okay.”

  Ed didn’t say anything.

  “I miss that, you know? I miss having that feeling.”

  Tyler stood up, and walked past his dad back up to the camp, leaving Ed with a hole in his gut for all the years that had passed between them.

  58

  Mercy is a dangerous proposition.

  By staying the hand of justice, it’s more than likely you’ll get repeated acts of violence by the guilty. Mercy means trusting your enemy won’t return in the middle of the night to bash your skull in. Mercy gives power away. It’s a daily act of suicide against your best interest—all in the hope that the world would be made anew.

  The only thing more dangerous than mercy on this particular day was Roberto Ibanez with his pistol, and he was doing everything but bestowing mercy.

  If he had been a cowboy in the
Old West, a marshal, a lawman, his legend would have been born on this day. In El Paso, way back, the infamous “four dead in five seconds gunfight” had turned Marshall Dallas Stoudemire into folklore. Wyatt Earp at the O.K. Corral. Heraclio Bernal, the Thunderbolt of Sinaloa. Roberto Ibanez would have joined their ranks by nightfall.

  But he was just a poor Mexican gangbanger on a backstreet in a border town facing down armed gunmen of the Cartel. The world would not remember him.

  The first shot buzzed his ear and ricocheted off the front of his mother’s house. Instantly he had his pistol out and fired at the passing truck, his bullet finding its mark on the gunman. He ran for cover to the stone wall bordering the yard as the truck zoomed past, hit the brakes, and came to rest sideways fifty feet away. The driver and rear doors opened and three men jumped out, each with automatic rifles. They began firing on Roberto’s location. The stone wall was turning to dust with each impact, a huge cloud forming in the street as the men kept up the assault until their magazines were empty.

  At the lull, Roberto ran across the street, his arm outstretched, firing as he went. He clipped one of his attackers in the neck, the man falling back against the vehicle as he desperately clawed at his throat, the blood leaking beneath his balaclava. His next shot hit the second gunman in the shoulder, spinning him around and down onto the pavement. Roberto missed the final man by fractions as he took cover against the wall of the neighbor’s shack.

  The lone attacker had reloaded and waited for a sign. Roberto did the same. Two men catching their breath, waiting to see what the other would do. Across the street, Roberto could see his bag lying on the ground in front of his house. He had only the bullets that were left in his clip.

  He was lucky that most of Salazar’s lackeys didn’t know how to shoot. Their lessons had come from movies and television. They shot up targets while half drunk on tequila and were more focused on imagery and bravado than discipline and accuracy. Roberto knew it didn’t take a hail of gunfire to kill a man, just one meticulously placed shot.