Border Son

by Samuel Parker

  He turned and ran between the shacks to the next street over, then started running west. He worked to get behind the last gunman. He ran, past one house, past another. Through the gap between houses, the hitman fired his weapon when Roberto raced past. Roberto kept moving, then heard the truck start up and the sound of squealing tires. The assassin was going to drive him down.

  He turned left, through another dusty yard, hopped a fence, and was now two blocks away from home. He crouched behind a Dumpster and waited. Soon, he saw the truck pull onto the street. Driving slow, the barrel of the rifle out the window, the man was checking between the gaps in the buildings.

  Roberto slowed his breath from the run. Worked to calm his beating heart.

  The truck came even with the Dumpster.

  Roberto stood, squeezed off a shot, and then fell back down.

  The truck sped up and then coasted down the street, veering off the gravel, and hit a pole. The engine kept running, but there was no movement from inside the SUV. After waiting several moments, Roberto moved up to the vehicle, gun raised, and looked through the driver’s window.

  Dead.

  One shot through the temple.

  He opened the door and pulled the body of the driver out, then walked around and removed the passenger, who had been the first to expire. He got in, backed away from the light pole, and drove back to his house. The two bodies were still on the street. One was dead, the other man was dragging himself off the road. Roberto ignored him and pulled up in front of his mother’s house. He gathered up his bag and headed out.

  In just a couple hours he had taken out a plethora of Salazar’s goons. He had no idea how many more the day would bring his way, but he was going to be ready for each and every one of them. He had to find a place to hole up, get some cover, and think about what to do next. He could never go back to his mother’s house. Not as long as Salazar ran the plaza.

  59

  His cell phone rang, and El Matacerdos pulled it from his pocket and held it to his ear.

  “Are you finished?” the voice said.

  “Yes.”

  “Any problems?”

  “No,” he said. He brought the bottle up to his lips and put it down again. He knew that the voice on the other end was going to send him off on another hit before he was done self-medicating.

  “I need you in Nuevo Negaldo.”

  El Matacerdos began to plot the route in his head. It was almost a full day’s ride. There was nothing more that he wanted but to lie on the bed, drink himself into a stupor, and sleep off the events of the past several days. No matter how many jobs he executed, it always took several nights to lose the vivid image of the kill from his memory. He had learned that the best post-execution routine was to hole up in a motel, pass out drunk, and wake up more debilitated from a hangover than the thoughts of another person murdered.

  But now he would not be able to go through the ritual.

  The boss was sending him north, to the border town.

  His boss questioned the long silence. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, I will go.”

  “I will message you tomorrow morning.”

  The phone went dead before El Matacerdos could reply.

  He gathered his things and looked around the room, making sure that all was as it should be. He would never set foot in this spot again. That was the way of the sicario. Or of the sicarios who wanted to live to old age. He took the bottle of tequila to the sink and dumped it. If he couldn’t put it in his gut today, no one would.

  He walked out of the room and got into his car, pulled out onto the road, and started the trek north.

  There was a stop to make first.

  It had been too long since he had made a visit, and even though it was against his better judgment to stop, he felt like he had to. Normally he would set up a clandestine rendezvous, but he didn’t have time. He had to get to Nuevo Negaldo as soon as possible, but going to the border town always filled his mind with a sense of fatalism. Murder and death were everywhere and it took people without prejudice. He didn’t know if he would be back. So he decided to risk it.

  About an hour northeast of Hermosillo, into the Sierra Madre, El Matacerdos pulled his car off the highway and onto a gravel road that led up to a small town. He drove slowly by the old abandoned buildings and crumbling adobes that littered the hill. The road became tighter as he ascended, the houses encroaching more and more on each side to the point that the rearview mirrors threatened to scrape the block walls. As he crested the rise, the rocky drive widened out and he parked the car. At the end of the road was a small dwelling that looked to have been pieced together from the ill-fitting bones of other houses. Through the windshield he watched and waited.

  The sun beat down on the top of the hill, and El Matacerdos was ready to turn back, when the front door opened and a small boy ran outside. He was being chased by a small dog yapping at his heels. The boy’s yelling echoed amongst the old buildings as he played with the mongrel in the street.

  El Matacerdos took the pistol from his shoulder holster and put it in the glove box. Then he opened the door, stepped out of the car, and slowly walked toward the boy. The assassin’s body cast a long shadow on the ground until it was hovering over the youth. The dog sat and stared but didn’t bark. The boy looked up.

  “Papa!” he squealed as he stood and wrapped his arms around the sicario’s waist.

  “How are you, Pepe?”

  “Good. Where have you been?”

  “I’ve told you, Pepe, never to ask.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Es nada.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to fight monsters.”

  The dog walked over and sniffed El Matacerdos’s boot, unsure if it was safe to be close to the man.

  “He is getting big, not a puppy anymore.”

  “Are you staying with us again?”

  “No, not this time.”

  The boy moaned in disapproval, but El Matacerdos shushed him.

  “Next time, when I come back, I’ll meet you in Hermosillo for raspados. But I have to go. I just wanted to see you. It’s been too long.”

  “It has, Papa.”

  “Now, go back inside. The dog could use some shade. He is thirsty.”

  The boy did as he was instructed, and the dog followed him into the house.

  El Matacerdos turned and went back to his car. He got in, retrieved the gun from the glove box, and put it in his holster. As he turned the car around to head down the hill, he saw his son step out the front door of the house and into the street. He drove off, and soon the house disappeared into the mix of history on the hilltop.

  He drove north toward the monsters to be slain in Nuevo Negaldo.

  60

  Roberto had been born in the US and had spent his first years of life in El Paso, but he was Mexican at heart and the land south of the border was where he felt at home. His mother had loved him, still loved him, and he would do anything to protect her.

  But as for him, he would not run. He would not leave.

  She had worked to provide him a home his whole life. His father had disappeared while Roberto was still in utero. From the beginning it had just been the two of them. He was left to his own devices most of the time, and when they moved across the border to Nuevo Negaldo to take care of his grandmother, he had been left alone most days while his mother earned a paycheck.

  Soon, he had found new people who wanted to treat him like family.

  “Hey, kid,” a voice had yelled to him one afternoon.

  “Yes?”

  “Come over here.”

  Roberto crossed from the vacant lot where he had been kicking an old soccer ball against the wall of a cinder-block building. There were three men—boys most likely, but to Roberto they seemed so old—leaning against a rusted sedan, their pants hung low, white tank tops that were as spotless as the robes of the altar boys at church. They had ink up and down their arms in designs that were so complex that
Roberto had to cross his eyes to make them out.

  “Look at him, Adan, he’s so small,” one of the men said.

  “Shut it, Chavez,” Adan said before turning his eyes on Roberto. He was clearly the leader of this small group. “You like football, little muchacho?”

  Roberto nodded his head.

  “That ball . . . it’s not really that good, is it? It’s older than Chavez.”

  Roberto found himself trying to shield his ball from their eyes, suddenly ashamed by the apparent sign of poverty it showed to the world.

  “Here, I got something for you,” Adan said. He reached into the car and pulled out a brand-new Adidas soccer ball. It was colored red, green, and white. Roberto’s eyes widened. He dropped his tattered old ball and took the new one in his hands. He didn’t know what to say.

  “Go on,” Adan said, “try it out.”

  Roberto turned and dribbled the ball back to the lot. After kicking it around, he turned back to the street, but the men were gone. At home that night, he hid the new ball under the bed. He didn’t know what his mother would say about it, and he didn’t want to run the risk of having her make him give it back.

  It seemed so benign at the time, but now as Roberto cruised through the streets of Nuevo Negaldo in the shot-up Cartel SUV, the passenger seat covered in blood, his mind went back to that moment. That was the moment he had decided on this life. He had sold his future for a soccer ball.

  Adan returned a week later with a jersey for him, and he could have it if he could do a little job for him. It had been small favors to start, no big deal. Running messages, keeping track of strange people walking through the neighborhood. Roberto loved doing things for Adan.

  Soon, the jobs started to get bigger, more dangerous. But what could he do? Adan was his friend, had provided such nice things. And that was how he became a member of Los Diablos. It was a slow slide into this life, and it had broken his mother’s heart.

  When she came home one night, her hair greased by the fryer at work and her clothes stained, and he was sitting on his bed with a new set of duds that looked like a cholo uniform, she almost killed him. She was furious and he had run out of the house and headed to Adan’s.

  “Go home, ’Berto,” Adan said. His mentor had company and the last thing he wanted was a kid around. “Come back tomorrow.”

  Roberto slunk back home, walked in through the door, and saw his mother crying at the table. He didn’t go up to her, just inched toward the back room and crawled into bed.

  How many nights had she cried for him?

  And now he had destroyed everything she had worked for here in Mexico. He had to fix this, not for himself, but for her. He had to keep her safe, and somehow make it safe for her to come home.

  He would go see Adan.

  Roberto pulled the SUV off the road and into a garage. Two men shut the door behind him. He stepped out of the truck and walked to the back room, the men behind him whistling at the Escalade that he had arrived in. In the back, Adan was sitting at a table with a large stack of bills in front of him, a pistol on the counter, and two women lying inebriated on a couch in the corner.

  “’Berto!” he said.

  “Adan,” Roberto said. “I got some trouble on me, bro.”

  “What is it?”

  “Out here, follow me.”

  Adan stood, grabbed the pistol, and tucked it into his back. He followed Roberto out to the garage. Adan’s eyes lit up in shock when he saw the truck. He knew whose it was instantly.

  “No, no, no, no . . . ,” Adan said, the realization that Roberto just started a war with the Cartel slowly washing over his face.

  “I got you a present,” Roberto said, tossing the keys to Adan.

  61

  Adan stood staring at the SUV in his garage and then started yelling at several men standing around in grease monkey suits.

  “Strip it down. All of it,” Adan said. “Now!”

  The men got moving. They each grabbed tools to start tearing the vehicle apart and chopping it down into what would hopefully be smaller, untraceable parts. Adan then turned to Roberto, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him back into his office. He told the women to leave and threw Roberto down into a chair.

  “Is this why they wanted you?” Adan asked. “Is this why I have Salazar’s men calling me asking about you?”

  “No. This crew showed up at my house.”

  “Where’s Miguel?”

  “Miguel is dead.”

  Adan looked confused and dumbfounded, but then regained his composure. “What?”

  Roberto told him the story, about how they found Felipe strung up in front of the church, how they had driven out to the migrant shelter, how Arturio and Vicente had shown up, the gunfight, and how Miguel had died.

  “Two? You had two gunfights today?”

  Roberto nodded. His eyes steely with bravado, just as he had learned from Adan.

  “Why are they after you?”

  Roberto didn’t say a word. Adan pulled out his pistol and aimed it at Roberto’s chest.

  “Tell me, pendejo! Salazar is going to be coming down on everyone because of you, so you better tell me right now why I shouldn’t just kill you myself. You ran that hit job with Miguel, what happened?”

  “We picked up two guys. We drove them out of town and shot them.”

  “They anyone to us?”

  “One was to me.”

  “Who?”

  “Tyler Kazmierski.”

  Adan’s gun hand started to shake as the frustration built up inside of him. He knew the story. He had heard how Tyler had taken a shank for Roberto back in the jail. It was why Adan agreed to give the gringo a chance, but he had never been 100 percent on board. Tyler was North American, for one thing.

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?” Adan said.

  Roberto shook his head as he stared down the barrel of Adan’s pistol. Soon he saw the gun lower and he could feel the cramping in his guts loosen. Adan turned and walked over to the far wall and looked out the window that opened out to the junk lot behind the building. The wire mesh covering over the glass gave the room a vague prison vibe. Roberto had known Adan long enough not to interrupt him while he was thinking. Either Adan would turn around and shoot him, or he would turn around and tell him what to do. Either option was a probability, and Roberto waited for that deciding moment to find out which it was going to be. He saw Adan’s shoulders slump and his body turn.

  “You put us in a bad spot, bro,” Adan said. “The plaza is heating up. Word is that Salazar is getting squeezed by El Aguila. And Juarez is looking at taking over Nuevo Negaldo. El Aguila isn’t going to let that happen. Salazar will either have to clear them out, or he’ll get replaced. This business with Tyler, it just makes Salazar look weaker. That’s where we might have a break.”

  Roberto listened. Adan went on with his stream of consciousness.

  “Tyler knows where he dumped that load. That missing load. He stole it. You know it, and I know it. Salazar knows it. But if we get our hands on it, we can probably use it to leverage our way out of this. Either that, or we are going to have to go to war with Salazar, which puts us on the side of Juarez. But Juarez ain’t going to take the plaza, ain’t no way.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We find Tyler. We find that load. And we get it back to El Aguila. It will show that we are on his side. Then we hope that Salazar gets replaced. Either way, he’s gunning for us.”

  “Tyler is already norte.”

  Adan turned back to the window and let out a long exhale.

  “Then we’re all dead men.”

  62

  Camilla did not know what to do but cry.

  Her brother was dead.

  Her son had told her to stay out of Nuevo Negaldo or she might be next.

  Her hope of Roberto being redeemed was dashed.

  She wept for him, for them all, like La Llorona weeping for her drowned children.

  She could only imagine b
y what method Felipe had been killed. She knew the creative streak the Cartel had for killing people. She did not ask Roberto how it happened. She wanted to remember Felipe as she did—smiling, wearing his clerical collar and black shirt, his white cowboy hat pulled low over his brow. His dark eyes displaying a warmth that was all but absent in many of the men in town.

  And now her son was lost too. She could tell it in his voice, by his words. He was scared. No, he would never admit it. His cholo façade always told the world not to mess with him, that he was one to stay clear of, to “back away from or you’ll get cut, pendejos,” but it never worked on her. She still saw the baby, the toddler, the inquisitive boy that Roberto used to be whenever he looked at her.

  What was going to happen to him?

  Roberto had told her to go to Deming. He pleaded and begged her to do so, as if he already knew that she would not listen to him. How could she leave him on his own at a time like this? How could she just abandon him when he was obviously in such desperate need of help? She would not leave, had no intention of leaving, but she would not go home tonight. That much she would listen to.

  It had grown dark as she sat in the back room at La Casa de Irma, her eyes dry for the time being, the customers all gone for the night. She locked up the building and went to her car. Next to it was the truck of the American who went to Mexico to help his son. A parent much like her. Exactly like her. Where was he now? Was he dead too?

  She had no emotion left for him. For Edward. He seemed like a good guy. A good man. But his name and his son’s name were now a poison in her mind. She thought that Roberto was doing an act of mercy for Tyler, but in the end it had cost the life of those she loved. She loved her family and it was hard for her to feel like this stranger’s boy was worth it.

  Camilla went to the truck and opened the door. Above the visor on the passenger side, she grabbed the motel key that she had stashed there and put it in her pocket. She closed the door, got in her car, and drove across the street. She parked in the space in front of the room Edward had rented and went inside. Since she couldn’t go home, she thought she might as well use this spot. It was free, and it would let her stay minutes away from Roberto if he called and needed her.