by Young, D. L.
Ford felt her hand on his shoulder. “You’re being careful?” she asked softly.
He turned to look at her. “Yes, amor. Very careful.”
She took a deep breath. “How much longer?”
“Just three more days.”
She nodded, and with that smallest of gestures he knew. He knew she wasn’t going to leave without him. A lump formed in his throat as a wave of relief swept over him.
Three more days. And in five days they’d be at the Red River border crossing, where they’d buy visas and walk across the bridge into Oklahoma, legal and free, the nightmare behind them.
They jumped then exchanged looks at a loud knock on the door. Cade’s voice came from the hallway. “Sorry to bother you on Sunday, but they need you at the airport.”
Ford handed the baby to Esmeralda and leaned toward the door. “Right now?”
“Afraid so.”
Ford looked anxiously at the baby, then to Esmeralda. The baptism was in an hour.
“Look,” Ford said, “can’t you tell them I wasn’t home or something? Or just give me a couple hours? I’ve got someplace to be.”
“Sorry, boss. If we ain’t back there in half an hour, they’ll send somebody to look for you and me both.”
“Great timing, you sons of bitches,” Ford grumbled, leaning his forehead against the door. As he fought the urge to tell Cade to fuck off, again he felt Esmeralda’s hand on his shoulder.
“Go,” she said.
He turned and looked at her. “But Manuelito? I want to be there.”
“I know you do, amor.” She pressed her cheek into his back. “You were right,” she said. “It’s be better if we get the visas.”
***
Something’s not right.
Ford and Cade drove through a security checkpoint when they exited the highway, then another at the airport’s entrance. The checkpoints were new; neither had been there the day before. As they drove toward the hangar, the quiet, deserted airport Ford had known the past few weeks was gone. People, cars, and trucks rushed back and forth between the hangar and half a dozen large, newly-erected tents.
“What’s going on?” Ford asked.
Cade parked the Jeep and beeped the horn twice. “Beats me. I thought you knew my place in the scheme of things? Take person A to place B.” Cade watched as a group of hard-faced men passed in front of the Jeep and disappeared into one of the tents. “It ain’t no church bake sale, I can tell you that.”
Reverend Wright emerged from the hangar’s front door, flanked by two bodyguards. He grinned broadly and approached the passenger side of the Jeep. Ford hopped out to greet him.
“This is the man, boys,” Wright announced, spreading his hands wide. “This is the genius who put the hammer in the hand of the righteous.” He shook Ford’s hand vigorously. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.”
One of the bodyguards removed a bulky envelope from his vest and handed it to Ford. He took a peek inside. It was full of money.
Ford furrowed his brow. The agreed amount was there, but he was supposed to be paid on completion. “Reverend,” he said. “I don’t understand. I thought I had two more engineers to train.”
Wright waved his hand. “Change of plans, son. We needed those boys to go fix a turbine at a natgas plant. I reckon we got more than enough folks up to speed anyway.”
“No doubt, sir,” Ford said, nodding. Over the last several weeks, he’d trained enough people to operate a small country’s air force.
“Sure I can’t talk you into staying on with us?” Wright lifted his eyebrows. “We could surely use a man of your prodigious talents.”
“Thank you, Reverend. I appreciate it, but I have another commitment.”
Wright bowed his head. “I understand. But if you ever reconsider, you’ll be more than welcome.” One of the bodyguards leaned in and whispered something to Wright. The reverend tipped his hat and said, “My apologies for rushing off, but I’m sure you can see we’re quite busy today.” Wright and the bodyguards turned and entered the hangar.
Cade flashed Ford a thumbs up from the Jeep’s driver’s seat. “I guess that’s it,” he said. “Free at last.”
Ford stared at the envelope in his hand, a feeling coming over him like long-held breath, finally released.
It was over.
Somewhere behind them Ford heard a low buzzing noise that quickly grew louder. He recognized the distinctive sound of a Z12 Reaper’s props revving up for takeoff. Moments later the drone appeared and flew overhead, nose up as it climbed into a cloudless blue sky. The frenetic activity around the hangar came to a stop as everyone watched the aircraft gain altitude and slowly turn east. As the sound of the engines faded into the distance, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause, sending a shiver down Ford’s back.
No, he told himself. He wouldn’t dwell on it. Guilt was a luxury for the safe and well-fed, and there was no place for guilt in the cruel western desert of the Republic. There was only escape by any means possible.
“You hungry?” Cade asked. “How about some tacos? I’m buying.”
Ford checked the clock on the Jeep’s dashboard. Even if he rushed home, the baptism would be over long before he arrived.
“Sure,” he replied absently, taking one last glance to the spot in the sky where he’d last seen the Reaper.
Minutes later the two men sat on the rooftop patio of El Caballero Perdedor, a Tex-Mex eatery in Fort Stockton’s largely abandoned downtown. They were the only customers in the seating area consisting of two bench tables, covered by a large canopy that blocked the blistering midday sun. The server brought over two bottles of beer, frosty cold and dripping with condensation.
“These are on me,” Cade said, clinking his bottle against Ford’s. “You got your envelope today, and I got mine.”
Ford sipped the beer, only half-listening as he pictured the drone, flying somewhere overhead. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I said you’re not the only one getting away from those wackos. My six-month contract was up today.”
Cade lifted the bottle and finished half the beer in a single swallow. He shook his head and scowled. “Goddamn monsters, those people. The things I could tell you I’ve seen…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head again, harder this time, like he was trying to dislodge a memory stuck in his mind. He took another long drink.
It then occurred to Ford that Cade might know something about the drone’s mission. “Do you know where that drone was—?”
There was a sudden rumbling noise that sounded like a distant thunderclap. The table vibrated and Ford grabbed his beer bottle to keep it from tipping over. He stood, moved to the edge of the rooftop, and peered eastward toward the sound. Several miles away, a gray-brown cloud shot up from the ground. Ford’s blood ran cold as he realized what was happening.
Cade hadn’t moved. He stared blankly at the table. “Baptists, Methodists, Lutherans,” Cade said. “Wright calls ‘em all heretics. But Catholics, he’s got a special hate for them. ‘Them Mary-worshippers would feel the wrath of the righteous.’ Said it with a goddamn smile on his face, the sick son of a bitch.” Cade leaned over and spit on the floor.
What was the target? Ford tried to form the words, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. His body jolted as a second missile hit the same location, sending pieces of buildings and house-sized chunks of earth high into the air.
Ford stood, unable to move. He felt the life drain out of his body as the faraway smoke dissipated, revealing the utter devastation of several square blocks. At the center of the destruction, a pile of smoking rubble had replaced La Iglesia San Felipe, where moments before, a crowded sanctuary had been celebrating a baptism.
Juarez Square
“Me?” Diego asked. “What does El Carnicero want with me?”
Pedro shrugged. “I don’t know, guey. He just told me to come get you. And best not keep him waiting.”
Diego swallowed. He shouldn’
t have opened the door.
“Your brother around?” Pedro asked, stepping closer. He craned his neck to look behind Diego into the apartment.
“He’s at work.” Diego backed away from the older boy and closed the door halfway.
Pedro smiled. “What’s the matter, little Diego? You scared without big brother here to protect your ass?”
“Para nada,” Diego shot back, raising his chin, trying to look older and braver than his fifteen years.
“Sure you’re not scared,” Pedro mocked.
Diego knew the older boy was baiting him (Pedro wasn’t the cleverest kid in El Cuatro), but even so he couldn’t close the door and hide in the house. That was the kind of thing a scared kid would do.
He swung the door all the way open. “Let’s go.”
The sun blazed down mercilessly from a cloudless sky, baking El Cuatro’s streets with the dry furnace-heat of a south Texas summer. The streets were mostly empty, the locals taking refuge from the midday sun indoors, waiting for the long shadows of late afternoon to bring a few degrees of relief. A scattering of junkies wandered about like zombies, looking for a fix. Beads of sweat formed on Diego’s forearms then quickly evaporated, leaving his skin sticky with salt. He followed the older boy along the cracked, uneven sidewalk toward the south side of town.
Anxious minutes passed as Diego fretted over what El Carnicero, the local narco boss, might want with him. But the more he thought about it, the less he worried.
Pedro had always been a prankster. He probably just needed a goalie for a soccer game and he thought it would be fun to mess with Diego’s head. Yes, that had to be it. A soccer game.
“I’m glad your brother wasn’t home, guey,” Pedro said. “Lorenzo never woulda let you come with me.” He shook his finger in mock disapproval. “‘Now you be a good boy like me and stay away from those narcos.’”
Diego winced at the insult, but covered it with a chuckle. “He thinks he’s my dad. I can take care of myself.”
As Diego followed he noticed the older boy’s shoes. They were new and white and store-bought, so much nicer than his own thin-soled hand-me-downs from Lorenzo. Pedro was getting paid.
They cut through an abandoned warehouse and then down a narrow alley crowded with taco stands and street peddlers whose wares were laid out on dirty, frayed blankets. Flimsy sun-yellowed tarps shaded the vendors as they sat about, moving as little as possible in the oppressive heat, waiting for the afternoon crowds to return. The boys picked their way through the alley.
“Don Pedro!” an old man shouted, rising from his stool to shake the older boy’s hand.
A short round woman chopping cilantro wiped her hands on her apron and handed Pedro a bundle of tacos wrapped in foil. “This is for your jefe. Tacos al pastor, his favorite.” She smiled, silver teeth gleaming as she handed him another. “And these are for you. Chorizo con queso, just the way you like it.”
More vendors fawned over them, offering smiles and more free food. An old man, seeing Diego empty-handed, gave the younger boy a paper cone of cherry-flavored crushed ice and patted him on the shoulder. “This is my pleasure, young man. My pleasure.” Diego looked at the man for a moment. He was the same cranky old fart who only a week earlier had threatened Diego with an ice pick for smiling at his granddaughter. Now he was all smiles and ass-kisses.
Pedro nodded at Diego and winked, as if he were reading the younger boy’s thoughts. “Nice to have friends people respect, isn’t it?”
Respect. The word echoed in Diego’s head. Pedro the joker had that rare commodity every kid in El Cuatro coveted: the respect of the street.
The boys exited the alley and a narcobot passed in front of them. The green, trashcan-shaped machine rolled along the sidewalk, its red eye scanning for customers. The expression he’d heard countless times popped into Diego’s head. Looking for pot? Find a green bot.
He paused and pondered the machine as he bit into the sweet, deliciously cold crushed ice. It was an old Ono-Hiroshi R57, a sturdy factory bot converted to sell weed. Diego pictured its innards: the large dispensing basket packed with plastic-wrapped ounces and half-ounces, the impenetrable cash box, the deadly defensive systems, ready to fry anyone who tried to do anything but insert bills into its money slots.
“Hey, you trying to get your huevos fried or what?” Pedro called. The older boy motioned for him to follow. “Hurry up, he gets pissed when people are late.”
They continued walking, and as they approached the river at the edge of town, the sinking feeling Diego had back at the apartment returned. All around him were crumbling brick buildings and empty lots. There were no places to play soccer in this part of town.
A minute later they arrived at the river and the big bridge. A pair of stray dogs sniffed through clumps of weeds growing up through large fissures in the concrete, but otherwise the bridge was empty.
Pedro leaned over the handrail and peered down at the trickle of greenish water in the muddy riverbed. He scratched his chin. “Puta madre, ever wonder why they built such a big bridge over such a tiny piss of a river?”
Diego swallowed a snicker. “It wasn’t always like this. There used to be cars on this bridge every day, packed bumper to bumper.” He pointed to the dilapidated buildings at the bridge’s center. “Over there they had men with guns checking papers, dogs sniffing for weed, cameras taking pictures of everybody’s face when they crossed over.”
“The fuck you say.” Pedro looked at the Diego like he was crazy.
“You didn’t know this is a border bridge? ¿Un puente de la frontera? We’re standing in the States, and over there is Mexico.”
The older boy made a face. “Shit, I know that,” he snapped, though his eyes lacked the conviction of his voice. “I ain’t no genius like you, but I know that much.” He turned and started across the bridge. Diego followed.
As they approached the Mexican side a yellow narcobot appeared a couple blocks to the south. It rolled to a stop, paused, then turned onto a street and disappeared from view.
Buy meth from a yella and you’ll be a happy fella.
Yellow bot turf was meth turf. And meth turf was narco turf.
Diego’s stomach tied itself into knots. There wasn’t going to be a soccer game.
***
Turn around and run away.
The thought repeated itself over and over in Diego’s head as the boys approached a small fabric store. He forced his legs to keep following, fighting down the animal urge to flee from danger, trying to ignore his pounding heart. You didn’t bail on a meeting with El Carnicero. Not if you wanted to live another day.
The boys passed through the door-less entrance; the front room was packed with large bolts of cloth of all colors, strewn about in messy piles that reminded Diego of a child’s discarded crayons. Two women working on treadle sewing machines in the corner glanced up at them for a moment, then returned to their garments without saying a word or breaking the steady rhythm of their pedaling.
“Through here,” Pedro said, his voice low, expression serious. No longer Pedro the joker.
Diego followed him into a small back room, empty except for two folding chairs on opposite sides of a card table.
The older boy closed the door and motioned to the far chair. Diego sat.
Minutes passed and neither boy spoke. Diego tried to slow his breathing, tried to hang onto the fading hope it was all an elaborate scare-prank.
He started at the sound of the door flying open. Two large men strode into the room, shotguns strapped to their backs. Sharp eyes, hard faces. Bodyguards. Pedro quickly got out of their way, moving to the corner of the room. One of the men pulled out a weapon sniffer and waved it over Diego’s body with quick, practiced precision. He nodded to the other bodyguard, who then turned to the doorway and said, “Todo bien, jefe.”
A short, pudgy man with plain clothes entered the room. Diego stared and blinked. He’d been expecting someone the size of a wrestler to stomp through the door, a
man who fit the larger than life reputation. Could this really be him, this man who looked more like a taco vendor than a narco boss?
A glance at Pedro’s anxious expression erased his doubts.
Diego chewed on his lower lip as El Carnicero sat across from him and looked him over.
“My God, you’re whiter than a gringo,” the narco boss said. He tossed a coin at Pedro. “Go get our guest a soda.” The boy hustled out of the room.
“Your friend says you know a lot about robots.”
Diego’s throat was tight and dry. “Yes, sir.” He worried what Pedro, who was always prone to exaggeration, might have said.
“Who taught you? Your father?”
“My brother taught me,” he said. “He fixes bots for the university. My dad lives in California last I heard.”
“And your mom?”
Diego looked at the floor. “She got sick and died last year.”
The narco boss stroked his razor stubble and nodded sympathetically. “I lost my parents when I was young. Cried my self to sleep for years, missing mami y papi.” He raised his eyebrows. “I hear you fixed Father Sanchez’s robots better than new.”
Pedro returned and placed a can of soda on the table in front of Diego. El Carnicero looked up at the boy, annoyed. “What about mine?” Pedro’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. The narco boss flipped another coin at the boy, who caught it and scrambled away to fetch another drink. El Carnicero cracked a smile and the bodyguards chuckled.
“We were talking about robots,” he said, turning his attention back to Diego. “Do you know why I like them so much?”
Diego shook his head. The soda can dripped with condensation in the dank heat of the small room.
“Robots don’t skim money from me, they don’t smoke the inventory, and they work a corner until every junkie spends his last peso. Those little machines work the streets better than people ever did. Way better.”
Diego forgot his fear for a moment, losing himself in the man’s easygoing charm. But then he stiffened again, reminding himself the kind-faced man sitting across from him had earned, with countless brutalities, the nickname El Carnicero, the Butcher.