by Sean Black
Romero was shaking his head. He was probably thinking the same thing as Byron. This was a job that only a group of men being held against their will, at gunpoint, would be asked to do. Any regular group of workers would have taken one look at it, turned on their heel and walked away.
‘Davis!’ Mills called. ‘Are you going to get these guys moving or are you going to stand around with your thumb up your ass all morning?’
If he’d had the choice, Byron would have selected the second option over the first. He decided not to share his preference.
Byron walked over to where Romero was standing, flanked by a praetorian guard of the larger Mexican inmates. If he hadn’t known better, Byron would have assumed Romero was a high-ranking narco trafficker or buchone rather than a semi-retired labor organizer on a fool’s errand to find his nephew. He carried the same authority as a buchone. It was a rare quality to be able to command the respect of other men by your presence. Anyone with muscle or a gun could do it. Someone with neither had to bring something a little deeper to the situation.
‘My Spanish is a rusty,’ Byron said to him, ‘and I don’t think I can afford to have instructions that aren’t completely clear for this to work. Can you translate for me?’
Romero looked past Byron to the ladders that the men had propped against the first row of pallets. ‘We need a crane. Harnesses. Hard hats.’
‘You want to go ask? Because I’m all out of goodwill with the powers that be.’
Romero followed Byron’s gaze to Mills, who was standing with the other guards, arms folded, glaring at them. ‘They’re not very happy with you,’ he said.
‘No kidding,’ said Byron. ‘I was supposed to put you in your place, remember, but we’re standing around like best buds. We finish talking and you go over asking for extra equipment, it doesn’t look good. Know what I’m saying?’
‘I do,’ said Romero. ‘But that doesn’t change my mind. I can’t put the men here in danger so that you can save face with the warden.’
Knowing that Romero wasn’t going to be persuaded, Byron stepped back. Romero walked to the small cadre of guards. Byron tuned into the conversation but Romero spoke so quietly he had to strain to catch even some of what was being said. Romero’s voice was another demonstration of power and command. The weak shouted. The powerful spoke softly.
Mills listened to what Romero had to say, arms folded. When Romero had finished, Mills didn’t say anything. Instead he called to Byron, ‘Davis, get over here.’
Byron walked over to the two men. Mills dismissed Romero ‒ ‘Get out of here.’
Romero walked away slowly, his hands tucked into his pockets. Mills glared at Byron. ‘You got sixty seconds to get these beaners organized and working.’ He nodded towards the retreating figure of Romero. ‘One second longer and I’m going to drop a round in his back and tell the warden he made a run for it.’
From the way the veins were popping on Mills’s forehead, Byron didn’t doubt the sincerity of the threat. A cynic might have assumed that dangerous work like this was the prison regime’s way of forcing a confrontation with Romero.
Byron made the walk back to Romero. He stopped in front of him. ‘I think we can do this safely with what we have.’
‘Forget it,’ said Romero.
How the hell had his life come to this? Byron wondered. He was trapped between an immovable object and, in the case of a shotgun shell being deployed, an unstoppable force.
‘How about I go up the ladder first?’ said Byron. ‘If it’s not safe, I’ll be the one who takes the fall.’
‘You go up the ladder?’ said Romero. ‘With these men here holding it?’
Byron nodded. ‘That’s right.’
Mills was still glaring in their direction. To emphasize that he was serious about his threat of what would occur if they didn’t start working, he hefted his shotgun, and racked a shell into the chamber. As sounds that concentrated a man’s mind, it was on Byron’s all-time top ten list.
‘Deal?’ Byron asked Romero.
36
With two of the Mexicans holding the ladder and a third ready to move in once he began the climb, Byron put his foot on the second rung and hauled himself up. He tested his weight, feeling for any kind of give, but the ladder was pretty solid. He kept climbing, placing his feet and hands with care. The climb was about sixteen feet. Not crazy high, but enough to make things interesting if you lost your footing or the ladder gave way when you were at the top.
The ladder had been placed so that once he reached the top, he could lean over, tie off a pallet from the adjoining stack and lower it down. He was confident he could have thrown them with enough force to clear the men holding the ladder. The problem was that the guys at the bottom might not have been as confident. If they panicked while holding the ladder, he’d be coming down a hell of a lot faster than he’d gone up.
His plan was to move along, removing the top third of each stack. Once the height was reduced, the other inmates would be able to remove the rest and he could take a break.
He reached the penultimate rung. He leaned over with the rope he had slung over his shoulder and tied off the pallet. When it was secure, he eased the pallet off the top of the stack and began to lower it to the ground. A group of three inmates rushed in to grab it. They untied the rope. He pulled it back, tied off the next and repeated the process. Gradually he inched back down the rungs of the ladder.
With half the pallets lowered, he climbed down to the floor. He rested as the ladder was moved along a row. Romero organized the removal of the lowered pallets. Outside, a group of inmates had begun to build the first of the eventual bonfires.
Byron climbed back up the ladder. Sweat was already trickling down his back, pooling in the crack of his ass. There was no doubt about it. The heat and humidity would be their greatest enemy.
At the top of the ladder, he got to work and settled into a rhythm. He planned on doing one full row. Then he would hand off to someone else.
The next man up was the tallest of the Mexican inmates in the group. Even so, he was only five ten. His lack of reach made the task harder. Byron watched him carefully. He wobbled a little as he tied off the first pallet. Romero, who had wandered inside to observe the transition, coached the man from the ground. The first pallet lowered safely, the man found his feet. Byron stepped outside to see if he could catch something resembling a breeze.
Like a bunch of weekend dads, the guards were busy directing the construction of the bonfire, ignoring the work inside. Any minute now Byron expected them to crack open a sixer of Bud and start swapping barbecue tips. He registered their relaxed attitude and smiled. Maybe the day would turn out more as he had hoped it would when he had woken that morning.
Two more men took a turn on the ladder. People could say what the hell they liked about those who made the journey from south to north across the border, but one thing they weren’t afraid of was hard work. Byron believed in border enforcement, and he wasn’t a big fan of handing out a general amnesty to people who had ignored the rules. At the same time he didn’t doubt that the majority of Mexicans who entered the US illegally came because they were prepared to work hard in order to secure a better life.
Despite the heat, the Mexicans had begun to tease one another as they worked. One of the younger, smaller men was being joshed fairly relentlessly. As he carried the pallets outside, they were catching on the ground. Byron could see that the teasing was getting him riled. Finally, he turned round and pointed at the ladder. He was volunteering. The laughter grew even louder.
The small man pushed his way to the bottom of the ladder. There was no one on it. He started to climb. One of the men tried to grab his pants leg as he began to climb. The short man kicked out. The ladder holder had to duck to avoid catching a boot in the face. The other men cheered the small man’s machismo.
He kept climbing, scrambling up at speed, powered by the cheers and jeers of the men below. Byron watched him make it to the top faster
than anyone else had so far. What he might have lacked in height and reach, he more than made up for in sheer determination.
Byron turned to see Romero, arms folded across his chest, trying to hush the other men. They were too busy enjoying the fun to pay heed to him.
The small man reached out to the next row to grab the top pallet. He had to lean over, lifting his left leg off the rung. The catcalls fell away. There was a collective holding of breath.
With the rope in his hand, he grabbed the edge of the pallet, looping the rope around it and pulling the end back towards him. He tied a slip knot and yanked the rope to tighten it. In comparison to a couple of the guys who had spent minutes fumbling with the rope, the small man had done it all in a series of fluid motions. The rope secure around the pallet, he edged back so that both feet were on the ladder rung. Byron felt a sigh of relief run through the men below.
The hard part was done.
The small man pulled the rope, and the top pallet began to move. He gave it another yank and it slid further. A third pull and it was free. Halfway down, he lowered the pallet the rest of the way. It was collected below, to cheers from the other men.
The rope unhitched, the small man pulled it back up. He set himself to retrieve the next pallet. He lifted his left foot from the rung he was standing on and leaned over. He reached, the rope in his hand, for the next pallet.
His right foot slipped out from under him. His arms windmilled. The rope slipped from his hand. He grabbed for the ladder. He missed. Gravity and his own weight ripped his right hand from the upper rung.
Byron and the other men could only watch as he fell backwards and tumbled to the floor. He made a noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a scream.
He came to rest face down, the top of his skull pointing towards the sunlight streaming in through the open doors.
He didn’t move.
37
It was the worst kind of fall. A slip. From height. With no time to adjust the body’s position relative to the ground. And a hard, unrelenting surface waiting at the bottom.
The men crowded round him. No one tried to move him. Byron wasn’t sure if they knew better or whether they worried that this kind of bad fortune might be infectious. An inmate knelt next to the small man. ‘Arturo?’
He didn’t respond.
Two guards pushed through the small group of inmates. ‘Shit,’ one said. They at least had the decency to look shocked. The blood had drained from the face of the younger guard. He hunkered next to Arturo, laid down his shotgun and reached out a hand to check for a pulse.
The shotgun was less than a foot away from Byron. He could bend down, pretend to be helping, and come back up with it before the guard knew what had happened. As opportunities went they didn’t get much better.
And yet …
Byron’s gaze flicked from the shotgun to the injured man and back again. His mind raced as he ran through his options, breaking them down at the fork in each branch to a workable sequence.
Grab the shotgun from the floor. Rack it, pivot and step back. Point it at the guard’s head. If he reaches for it, pull the trigger. If he doesn’t, hustle him outside. Keep his body between yours and the other guards.
Find the nearest truck and get the guards to throw the hostage the keys. Go in via the passenger door. Move him into the driver’s seat. Stay low to use the engine block as cover and make sure they can’t fire through the windshield.
Drive out. Ram the gates if he had to. Stay on the road, ride his luck. If a roadblock showed, or a cop, go off road. The truck was more than capable of eating up miles of bleak, but flat, Texas desert-scrub landscape. Once they were well clear of a highway he could ditch the guard and take over the driving. He could likewise ditch the truck as he neared the border and make the crossing on foot.
Afterwards, assuming he got that far, it would be a simple matter of covering as much distance in as short a time as possible. Every escape followed the same basic formula. The more ground you covered from the point of escape, the greater your chance of avoiding recapture.
But …
‘I found a pulse,’ the guard said, looking up at his colleague.
Byron reprimanded himself for the disappointment that flashed into his mind at those words. A dead Arturo would have closed the deal.
‘Turn him over,’ said the other guard.
‘No. Don’t move him just yet,’ Byron said, getting down onto his knees next to the guard and taking a closer look at the injured man. He lowered himself further so that his cheek was pressed against the concrete.
There was no bleeding from Arturo’s ears, nose or mouth that Byron could see. No spatters of blood on the floor. Arturo let out a low moan. Another good sign under the circumstances. His eyes flickered open. He started to turn his head. Byron reached out a hand and placed it gently on Arturo’s shoulder. ‘Stay still.’ He glanced at the guard next to him, the shotgun between them. ‘We need an ambulance.’
‘Ambulances cost money.’ Mills was standing in the doorway, hands on hips, silhouetted by the blazing sun.
‘If we don’t get him to a hospital he could die,’ Byron told him.
Mills spat a wad of chewing tobacco onto the floor. ‘You can use one of the trucks. Put him in back.’
Byron knew that a truck wouldn’t cut it. It wasn’t just that they needed something with an engine and a set of wheels: they needed the specialist knowledge and expertise inside the ambulance. They needed paramedics with the correct equipment. People who knew how to transport someone with a spinal injury. Even then there was no guarantee that Arturo would make it. It had been a bad fall. All kinds of bad.
There were times to save money. This wasn’t one of them.
Byron opened his mouth to explain some of this. Not that he believed the guards didn’t know it. It was more that they didn’t care. Especially once they had got past the initial shock.
Someone stepped between Byron and the guard. It was Romero. He reached over to place his open palm on Arturo’s back, then grabbed the shotgun from the floor. The guard attending to Arturo went to snatch it back. Romero straightened up, and slammed the butt of the gun into the guard’s face, breaking his nose. He racked a round into the chamber, spun round and pointed at the other guard’s chest.
‘Even an old man like me can’t miss from seven feet,’ he said.
Two inmates grabbed the guard with the broken nose and hauled him to his feet. They took his cuffs from his utility belt and locked his hands behind his back. Other inmates swarmed around his partner and stripped him of the handgun tucked into his holster.
In the doorway, Mills shouldered his shotgun. It was too late. He couldn’t risk taking a shot now. Not without killing one of his own men. Even if he could take the shot, the inmates had two guns. Plus numbers. ‘Put down the guns, and release the officers. Right now,’ he said.
He managed to squeeze more authority into his voice than Byron would have guessed he’d be able to muster. Romero handed the shotgun to one of the younger inmates. His movements were smooth. One thing was for sure, that wasn’t the first time he’d handled a shotgun. Maybe the impression he gave of being a frail old man had been an act all along. Or maybe watching a man about to die in front of him had given him a burst of energy.
Whatever the reason, when Byron had been imagining an escape, this wasn’t the scenario he would have picked.
‘Okay,’ said Romero. ‘They can go and you can have your guns back. But first I want an ambulance for Arturo. If he dies before it gets here, or before he gets to hospital, it will be bad for your men here.’
Mills turned to the other guards. They were holding at gunpoint the inmates who’d been building the fire. ‘Order an ambulance. Tell ’em one of the guards has been hurt.’
‘Thank you,’ said Romero.
38
The most dangerous moments of a stand-off are at the start. Fingers drop to triggers. Muscles tense. Adrenalin surges. Someone can fire a round without mak
ing a conscious decision to do so.
At the other end of the gun barrel, fight or flight can kick in. Even if the person under threat doesn’t run, or try to resist, they can get twitchy. Sudden movement can draw a bullet. Byron had once seen a Swedish NGO worker in Kabul shot by a Talib because she’d suddenly decided to power down her cell phone without having been asked to do so. The tips of her fingers had slid into her jeans pocket as her cell trilled with an incoming text and the nervy Talib had taken her out with a three-round burst to her chest.
It had taught Byron an important lesson. If you were going to make a move, be decisive and commit to it. If you weren’t, and that was almost always the best option available to you, it was best to stay where you were.
Thankfully, they were now past the tense initial stage. Ten minutes had passed. Fingers had straightened along trigger guards. Barrels had been lowered. Cigarette smoke filled the air. Pockets of whispered conversation had sprung up. Gunpoint had become the new normal.
Byron was still kneeling next to Arturo. He was doing the only thing he could: he was trying to keep the injured man calm and still. It was not an easy task. As the first shards of shock and concussion cleared, pain moved in. Sharp and searing. Arturo’s instinct was to move, to find a position that offered some relief.
Romero was pacing back and forth in front of the injured man. Byron suspected that he had no plan beyond getting Arturo to hospital. He hoped he was wrong. What Romero needed was an exit strategy. There was no way that what he had done would go unanswered either by Mills or Castro. You could challenge authority. You might even win the battle. Winning the war was a whole other matter.
Byron motioned Romero over. The old man walked across and squatted next to him.
‘How is he?’ Romero asked Byron.
‘Alive. Breathing. But that might not mean much if there’s internal bleeding.’
Romero sighed. ‘This is my fault.’