Emerald Street

by Felicia Rogers

“The local men would never agree to forceful random attacks, so the list makes them feel morally justified in their actions.”

  “Was there ever a real list?”

  The chains rattled as he shrugged his bony shoulders. “Who knows? All that matters is that the mythical list was hidden in a descriptive box and given to one member of the local Christian group. Every few months, the box rotated to a new individual.” He leaned his head against the stone, moss-covered wall; his eyelids fluttered. “That is why the doctor was shot. The box was reported in his ownership. He should be more careful who he hires.” The man yawned. “People should be more diligent in who they trust.”

  Soft snores emitted from his cell, and his chin drooped. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

  Until he'd spoken, she’d thought herself alone. Even though her companion was incapacitated, her heart soared with the knowledge of company.

  She stretched out on a wooden bunk, placed her hands together, and prayed. “Thank you, God, for my new friend…”

  ****

  After searching Raylyn’s apartment, Jack’s guilt grew. Alfonzo suggested another trip to the police station, and Jack firmly agreed. The chief personally took their report but made sure to promise no results.

  Two days passed. The Sunday morning church bells called the faithful to worship.

  Jack paced in the narthex. His father and Tabitha settled in one of the rear pews. The minister’s words failed to penetrate his mind, and he found himself outside beneath a tree on his knees.

  He clasped his hands and pleaded. “Heavenly Father, please protect her—“

  “Psst.”

  Jack squeezed his lids tighter.

  “Psssst!”

  He lifted one lid a fraction.

  “Psssssst!”

  A woman with straight black hair framing her youthful face squeezed her lids, clenched her fists, and continued to make the annoying sound.

  “Are you trying to get my attention?” he asked.

  She jumped, and her lids flew open.

  “Well?”

  “Y-yes, I must speak with you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Not here. It is too dangerous.”

  “Then where?”

  No answer was forthcoming; instead she turned and ran. He hurried to keep up, his prosthesis hampering his progress.

  Around the corner of a building, he lost sight of her. A hand snaked out and grabbed him.

  “Come.”

  They entered an abandoned building. No light drifted in through the dusty windowpanes.

  “There is not much time. Do not speak, just listen. I worked for Alfonzo in the past. Man offered me money if I pass information. I agree. I tell him someone bring Alfonzo a wooden box. This seemed important to him. He offered more money for description. I need money. My son sick.”

  “So you told someone about a box. So what?” Jack crossed his arms over his chest.

  “So what! So what! That is the box that hold the names of Christian leaders in San Cristóbal. With that box, a man could create an army and battle the leaders in mass. The people are more willing to injure if they know their exact enemy.”

  He scratched his head.

  “You still do not understand!” She blew air from her cheeks, placed her hand on her hip, and fanned her flushed face. “Juan Guerrero has the box in his forest camp, and he is inciting a war! He must be stopped.”

  “Look, right now I have my own problems. A friend—”

  “I know! Your friend is at this compound.”

  He grabbed her arms. She cringed, and he loosened his grip. “How do I find her?”

  “The compound is buried deep in the mountains close to the village of San Juan Chamula.”

  Jack stepped back, his heart beating painfully against his ribs.

  The woman refused to speak with Alfonzo. Her moral convictions would only make her go so far. Jack repeated the information she’d shared back to her. Once he had it memorized, she slipped into the shadows of the building, and he rushed home.

  Inside his apartment he pulled a drawer from the desk; contents spilled across the Spanish tile. Paper and pen in hand, he quickly wrote. Cramps assaulted his muscles, and he flexed his fingers.

  He read his notes and rewrote them more legibly. He grabbed a bottle of water from the kitchenette. After a sip, he threw the bottle against the wall. The liquid gurgled as it drained onto the floor.

  He gripped the counter until his knuckles whitened. The young woman had hinted that the fastest and easiest way to access the compound was by helicopter. Helicopter! Why couldn’t it have been by donkey or camel? Or riding on the back of some super bug?

  Pilots in Chiapas were probably in short supply, or the missionary board wouldn’t have requested he fill the role. What was he going to do?

  The door rattled and his father, Tabitha, Alfonzo, and Manuel entered.

  “Where did you go? I came all this way to visit you, and every time I turn around, you're hiding somewhere.” Tabitha crossed her arms over her chest and drummed her red-lacquered nails on her forearm.

  Jack ignored her pose and thrust his notes at Alfonzo. The doctor narrowed his eyes and pursued the content. Finished, he asked, “Is this true?”

  “That’s what the girl said.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “She said she had worked for you in the past.”

  “Describe her.”

  Jack gave a lengthy description, and Alfonzo’s frown deepened.

  “She talked about a box.”

  “Si, the Amber Box.”

  “She said it contains a list with—”

  The force of Alfonzo’s punch against the wall rattled the dishes in the cabinets. “There is no list!”

  “But—”

  He massaged his fist and plopped on the couch. “The farce of the list was created to give the radicals a focus. So they would place all their attention on obtaining it rather than wreaking havoc on our people. But now that they have the box, when they reveal that it is empty, what will they do?”

  “They will pretend they have the list and incite their army to strike whomever they wish.”

  “This is my fault. The box has been in my possession numerous times, but I became complacent. I let my guard falter.”

  Jack patted his shoulder and said the empty words, “You couldn’t have known.”

  Alfonzo paced. He halted and faced Jack. His father, Tabitha, and Manuel stepped aside as he asked, “What now?”

  “Now we rescue Raylyn and retrieve the box.”

  “But how? The location described will not be easily reached.”

  “I have a plan.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The jail reeked of unwashed bodies and excrement. Shutters covering the metal bars were opened twice a day, allowing a cool breeze to waft through. Raylyn shivered with cold and cringed from the distributing odors.

  “The stench is foul.”

  Raylyn agreed with her jail-mate, glad he’d started talking again.

  “I guess I’ll die in this hole.”

  “Don’t—“

  “Don’t what? Say that? Don’t talk about death? How can I not? We’re stuck here. No one is coming. I expected them to sacrifice me long ago or at least use me for some purpose, but still I hang here, rotting. Once I was a hefty man. I was Juan’s muscle. One mistake was all it took for me to fall from grace…” The man spoke until weariness overcame him.

  Raylyn’s own eyelids grew heavy with his monotone voice. Weak from lack of nutrition, she found herself sleeping more and more. Perhaps their plan to kill her quickly had changed, and now they intended to starve her.

  Keys rattled, and the door squeaked. She managed to stand shakily to her feet.

  “Do you like your new accommodations?”

  She didn’t reply. Juan narrowed his eyes, and his hand rose. Her head thumped into the wall with the unexpected strike.

  Defiantly, she lifted her chin
and said, “No, I don’t think I do.”

  His head fell back with raucous laughter.

  She shook out her greasy hair and glared at him. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “I have considered it.”

  He moved forward, and she stepped back.

  “It seems such a waste to deprive the world of your beauty, but sometimes sacrifices must be made.”

  A loud burst of grating laughter filled the room.

  Juan spun. “You! Why are you still alive?”

  “Because Jorge didn’t have the guts to do your bidding.”

  Juan stalked from her cell, slamming the door and cursing as he climbed the stairs. Raylyn sagged against the wooden bedframe, happy her cellmate had angered Juan enough to make him leave.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you…” she said, pausing when she realized she didn’t know her cellmate’s name.

  “Josue. My name is Josue.”

  ****

  Jack paced until he thought he’d worn a hole in the carpet. The flight was late.

  “Son, pacing ain’t gonna make them come any sooner.” Jeb Williams laid his arm along the back of the airport chairs and stretched out his legs. The wide-brimmed hat he enjoyed wearing lay at a jaunty angle, bringing back childhood memories.

  Tabitha’s voice grated. “I don’t understand why I have to go home. Don’t you want me here? I know your friend is missing, but why can’t the authorities deal with it? Raylyn is all you ever talk about.” Tabitha straightened his jacket collar. “I came here so we could discuss us. Cindy Watson told me about your uncle, and—“

  “She told you about the inheritance?” Jack asked, finally understanding Tabitha’s motivation for the lengthy trip.

  “She might’ve mentioned it once, but—“

  He removed her hands from his shirt and led her to a cushiony plastic chair in the airport terminal. “I love Raylyn, and I plan on marryin’ her, so there is no need for you to stay. Go home.”

  Her glossy pink lip protruded. He resumed his position by the gate.

  “What a flight!” came Rory’s British-accented voice as he strolled through the opening.

  Olin, Tina, and two others straggled behind.

  Rory clasped his hand. “Great to see you again, old chap.”

  “Yeah, I just wish it was under better circumstances.”

  Rory didn’t comment; instead a bulky African-American man stepped forward and offered his hand.

  “I’m Gabriel Romariza, but you can call me Gabe. This here is Hank Hannagan, and you already know Olin and Tina Jones.”

  “Yes. It’s nice to meet you. This here is my father, Jeb Williams, and that’s Tabitha—“

  “I was just leaving.” She rolled her bag toward a row of seats farther away.

  “A story for later?” asked Rory.

  “Not one worth telling.” Jack fought the pang of regret as he said, “We have a van outside.”

  The group collected their luggage and hurried to the waiting vehicle.

  Jack climbed behind the wheel and gunned the motor. As he sped along the highway, dodging people and traffic, he explained what he knew.

  “Alfonzo has found a few local converts who have been to the compound. They sketched out a map of the grounds and surrounding area. They also gave us a rough estimate on adversaries and available weapons.”

  “Has my tech arrived?” asked Olin.

  “Yesterday.”

  The van screeched to a halt outside Alfonzo’s home. His father waved goodbye and made a beeline along the narrow sidewalk toward Jack’s apartment. Jack watched him round the corner as Manuel exited the quaint hacienda and escorted them to the interior courtyard.

  Alfonzo stepped from the native foliage with his hand extended. Introductions complete, he escorted them to a table. Maps scattered the stone surface.

  “Sorry to rush your arrival, but time is of the essence. If Raylyn is still alive, she has been in the hands of her captors for almost a week. Sources say Juan is fond of torturing his prisoners and sometimes starving them, that is, if he doesn’t kill them immediately.”

  Jack hovered at the edge of the group. These five people were his last earthly hope. The police had been informed of the compound and had agreed to investigate, but not straightaway.

  Due to the location being near the Mayan village of San Juan Chamula, they couldn’t just charge in. The village functioned separately from the government. Non-Mayans and non-Catholics weren’t allowed to live in the area. Visitors were warned that the town might not be safe.

  Gabe, Hank, and Olin studied the information collected by the ghetto informants. Rory urged Jack to sit with him on a wrought-iron bench.

  “So you finally found her, and everything was going well and now…”

  Jack clasped his hands together, his voice hoarse with emotion as he said, “And now someone else has their hands on her.”

  Rory nodded and said, “We’re here to help you to the best of our human abilities.”

  “I know.”

  Rory patted him on the back. “Very good, then. Let’s go over and see what the crew has planned out.”

  Olin laid a transparent sheet of paper over one of the colored maps. Code entered, he opened his briefcase. A computer keyboard and screen nestled in the velvety cushion.

  Tina said, “In recent months, several warehouses in San Cristóbal have been raided and emptied of their contents.”

  The computer screen flashed a black-and-white image.

  “What’s that?” asked Jack.

  Olin explained, “Satellite footage shows a convoy of trucks leaving San Cristóbal and driving through here.” Olin highlighted a road on the map, leading through the village of San Juan Chamula. “The best we can ascertain is that Juan is the leader of a paramilitary group who has been hitting the warehouses, stealing supplies, and trucking them to his camp through these mountains.”

  Tina continued, “However, we are only guessing about Guerrero’s involvement. No satellite has captured Juan participating in any of these criminal activities.”

  Olin flashed grainy photos across the screen. Manuel stood and pointed a trembling finger.

  “Th-that is, is…”

  Alfonzo finished his brother’s statement. “Jorge Rojas. He has lived in the ghetto for over two years.”

  “The ghetto sports the perfect location for gathering intelligence on the local businesses. From here, Jorge could scout the warehouses’ security,” inserted Hank.

  Alfonzo dropped into a seat and cradled his head. “He stirred trouble amongst some of our more liberal brothers, but he wasn’t violent. Just a lot of talk—”

  “Against Christians,” supplied Jack. He shared the conversation Raylyn had overheard at the party.

  Manuel said, “And you think you know a person.”

  Olin brought them back on track. “Jorge Rojas is the leader of the thieves and these men.”

  Snapshots filled the screen, and the courtyard filled with Manuel’s gasps.

  “I take it you know these men?” asked Rory.

  “Si, they are our brothers.”

  Jack had to get away. He’d volunteered for the missionary work to help brothers and fellow disciples, only to find himself thrust into a pit of snakes and a plethora of Judas wannabes.

  He turned to leave, but Gabe stepped in front of him. “I don’t know you, but if there is one thing I do know, it’s the nature of a runner.”

  Jack resented the implication that he was a quitter and opened his mouth to say so, only to be interrupted.

  “Rory gathered us together to help you. I don’t know what loyalty means to you, but I know what it means to him and to me. It means I’ll stick by Rory’s side until he peels me away. Now he’s offering to do that for you. We’ve got a plan, but I won’t lie and say it ain’t dangerous, because it is. His wife liked to have birthed a brick when he told her he was coming here to rescue your girl, so you better stick around and share in the
information.”

  Thoroughly rebuked for his momentary weakness, Jack followed Gabe back to the group. Olin leaned over the table, drawing more lines on the map.

  “These are the routes most often traveled by the convoy. I’ve arranged a truck. The next raid is planned in two days. As the convoy leaves town, we will attach ourselves to the end and follow them to the compound.”

  “Won’t the last vehicle figure out that we don’t belong?” asked Jack.

  “Perhaps. But don’t worry. Olin has a plan.” Tina planted a kiss on Olin’s brow, and the tiny man blushed.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Juan Guerrero, doctor, traitor, and psycho, didn’t return that day or the next. Her time of imprisonment now totaled seven days. Josue grew weaker each day. Their conversation, which he'd peppered with witty humor, had come to a standstill. Now she was lucky if he mumbled a few incoherent words.

  Activity outside the prison walls increased. Trucks and jeeps entered and exited at all hours of the day and night. Unmarked crates were unloaded and stored in army-green canvas tents.

  Occasionally, when someone sauntered past, they would drop food between her bars. Once, a bottle of water tumbled inside. The liquid burned her cracked lips, but still she consumed the contents.

  She halved each treat. After gobbling her share, she attempted to share with Josue. She had rigged a long pole from a piece of her bedframe and attached a portion of a biscuit to the end. Leveraging her side, so as to put the opposite end near Josue’s mouth, had been quite a challenge, but she’d managed successfully until he bumped it with his head.

  Tears had coursed her filthy face at the loss. He claimed the sabotage was intentional. If he ate now, the pain of starving would only intensify. Raylyn accepted the feeble excuses and prayed she wouldn’t give up hope until her last breath.

  “It’s to happen soon.”

  The sudden clear voice of Josue surprised her. “What?”

  “The attack. Too many trucks coming in.” His body was racked by a fit of coughing.

  “Josue, maybe I’ve waited too long to ask this, but do you know where you’re going wh-when you die?”