by J. B. Turner
Her stomach tightened. She kept on walking, unsure what to do.
Think, for God’s sake.
Perez’s mind raced. It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. She sensed they were no longer here just to warn her. But what the hell did they want?
Were they fucking with her? Did they want her to pass on a message to Leon?
She wondered if she should just stop in the middle of the sidewalk, turn around, and walk right up to them. Perhaps confront them. Make a scene in front of passersby. Start screaming, Rape!
But guys like that wouldn’t be fazed if bystanders got involved. They’d just shoot the innocents or pistol-whip them. They didn’t care. What about if she ran into a bar? A restaurant? But she pictured them heading inside, dragging her out, and killing her or anyone that resisted.
Something was seriously wrong.
Her stomach began to cramp. Panic setting in.
Oh my God, I can’t bear this!
Were they just waiting to pounce?
Leon’s apartment was only three hundred, maybe four hundred, yards away. She realized she wouldn’t get there in time. But if they were going to harm her, why not do it right now, with her in their sights? What the hell was going on? Were they waiting until she was at the apartment? Away from the main traffic in Gowanus?
The more she thought about what to do, the more conflicted she became. She was faced with a simple, terrible dilemma. Fight or flight? But what about the consequences for her family back in Mexico? She knew MS-13 had links to that part of the world as well as El Salvador, where the founding members had come from. To other gangs. Organizations. Hempstead was full of guys like that. She also knew they would have insiders, maybe baggage handlers, who worked at JFK. Maybe some that had access to her records? Her parents’ home? What about them?
Perez pulled out her cell phone and decided she had to call Leon. She thought she was going to pass out from the tension. She could almost feel the men’s eyes on her. His phone rang once.
A woman’s voice at the other end of the line said, “Camila Perez?”
Perez wondered who was using Leon’s cell phone. She assumed it had to be a coworker. “I’m sorry, who’s this?”
“Camila, this is FBI assistant director Martha Meyerstein.”
“I—I’m sorry . . . I’m looking to speak to my fiancé, Leon. It’s urgent.”
“Listen to me, Camila. Leon is in trouble. Deep trouble. And we need to speak to you urgently.”
Perez’s heart sank. “What?”
“Camila, you need to pay attention. Leon is not OK. We’ve got a serious situation here.”
Perez wondered if they’d found out about his addiction. “Is he sick? Is he OK?”
“Leon is fighting for his life. He is receiving medical attention. But he is under arrest. Do you understand?”
Perez felt herself go into what felt like shock.
“Camila, are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“We need to talk. And I mean right now. This is a grave situation. But you probably realize that already.”
The news crashed through her head like a ten-ton truck. She felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“You will soon. Where are you?”
“I’m in Brooklyn.”
“We’ve been trying to find you.”
“I’d like to speak to Leon first.”
“You will. But we need to speak to you. Face-to-face. I’m concerned for your safety.”
Perez turned and saw that the pickup had pulled up at the side of the road. She wondered whether to trust the woman claiming to be a Fed on the other end of the line. “I don’t know who you are. How do I know you’re from the FBI?”
“Camila, I’m assuming you know that Leon has been leading a double life. We believe he’s been compromised. Seriously compromised. I saw the track marks on his arms. We didn’t have any idea. No one in the New York field office did. But he’s in over his head. He told me everything.”
Perez closed her eyes, wanting to burst out crying.
“He took an overdose. I think we got to him in time. What else do you want to know?”
Perez said, “Is he going to live?”
“He’s conscious. He’s in the hospital.”
“I need to see him.”
“You will. Where are you? We can’t get a fix on your cell phone.”
“Leon advised me to get a VPN. Apparently it masks location.” Which meant that wasn’t how the guys in the pickup had found her.
“Switch it off, Camila. We need to know where you are.”
Perez did as she was told. “OK, turned it off.”
“Alright, just a second . . .” A few moments later, Meyerstein said, “OK, we got a precise fix. I’ve got some people en route. Federal agents. They’ll get you here safely.”
“I’m scared.”
“Look, we’ll figure it all out. We need to know what damage has been done.”
“I’m scared about what’s going to happen to Leon. He’s not a bad person. I don’t want him to go to jail.”
“I can’t make any promises. But he needs to cooperate to stand a chance.”
“He will. He just needs help. A lot of help.”
“And he’ll get it. We’ll get him professional help. To be honest, the fact that the New York field office was oblivious to his problem is negligent on their part. So it’s not just Leon with problems, let me tell you.”
Perez felt tears in her eyes. “I’ve got my own problem. A real problem. Right now.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I’m so scared.”
“No reason to be scared. We’ll figure it out.”
“You don’t understand. Please listen to me, I think I’m in danger. There are two men following me. I think they’re MS-13.”
“Do you mean they’re following you right now?”
“Correct. They called me earlier. They seemed to be watching me this afternoon when I was on Long Island.”
“What’s the license plate?”
Perez had memorized it and gave the details. “I think they’re in a gang. Gang tattoos. And I’m worried they might kill me or my family in Mexico. I think these are the guys Leon might be involved with. Getting drugs from. They’re blackmailing him.”
“Camila, we’ve got a fix on your location, and I can see you’re nearly at Leon’s apartment. Gowanus. Eleventh Street. Get yourself inside.”
Perez felt herself beginning to panic the closer she got. “I’m scared. I don’t think I’ll make it in time. They pulled over. And now they’re just watching me.”
“Stay calm.”
“But I’m not calm. I’m frightened.”
“Listen to me, can you get into a bar or restaurant where there are people?”
“You don’t know what these guys are like. They’re crazy. MS-13, I think.”
“OK . . . Are you listening?”
“Yeah, I’m listening.”
“Camila, we know where you are. But you need to get away from those guys. Fast. We don’t know how they’ll react.”
“So what the hell should I do?!”
“Try not to panic. Find a place where you can stay out of sight. But you need to move.”
Perez ended the call and turned away from the guys in the car. She pressed the cell phone to her ear, as if taking a routine call. Her heart was pounding like a pneumatic drill. She was wearing comfortable sneakers. Thankfully no heels. She felt a surge of adrenaline. She was scared witless.
Do it, Camila! Do it now!
She took off and ran. Sprinted headlong down the busy street. Turned onto a sketchy road lined with industrial shops and garages. Down a lane and across the street and into a bar. Past the shocked drinkers. “There are two guys chasing me!” she yelled.
The drinkers just stared at her as she ran through the back. Then through the kitchen, bumping into a cook.
“Hey, what the fuck, lady?”
Perez barged out of a back door and down a dark side street.
A couple of girls were smoking cigarettes.
“What’s the matter, hon?” one girl said.
Perez ran past her as if possessed. Her heart felt like it was going to burst. She was gasping for air as she sprinted past the canal. The pale moon reflected on the dark water. She ran across a bridge and down another street, praying she had given them the slip.
A quick glance back showed the truck was on her tail. Just over 150 yards or so behind her. And closing. She wasn’t going to outrun them. She needed to hide.
Perez ran across the road in front of a car. The vehicle had to brake hard to avoid her. She continued, heart rate nearly at the max. Adrenaline was rushing through her body. She felt as if every sense were switched on. Down a dark road. She felt frantic. She was being hunted. Like an animal.
A hipster girl had her hands in the air as if in submission. “Slow down, girl, what’s wrong?”
“Call the police!”
The girl stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.
Perez tore down the street, past industrial buildings, and through an open space. She ran toward a warehouse cloaked in darkness. She felt a sense of dread. Gnawing at her guts. She felt sick. Where was she running to? Why was she running? And it dawned on her. Had she made the wrong choice? Maybe she should have hidden in the bar. With other people. Stayed with the crowds. Maybe they could have protected her. But she didn’t want to endanger innocent people. She knew the guys who were chasing her. They were crazy. They would shoot up a place if they needed to. Killing was no big deal to them. Oh God, what was she going to do? Where were the cops? Where was Leon? Where was she? She was lost. All alone. God, no!
A cyclist cut across her path and screamed, “You fucking idiot, look where you’re going!”
Perez kicked down a wooden fence and ran behind the building. She bounded up some stairs connected to a loading bay. She barged through a door, already hanging off its hinges. She banged into some pallets as she ran through a huge dark, cavernous space. The smell of piss and excrement. Graffitied walls. She wanted to gag. But she kept running.
She ran to the far side of the warehouse. She barged through a door. Then up more stairs. Two at a time. And along a windowless corridor.
Perez felt she was spiraling into a nightmare in the long-forgotten canal-front warehouse. She pushed on through double swing doors on an upper floor. She didn’t want to die in such a place. In such circumstances. She wasn’t going to let them kill her. She was going to fight to stay alive.
She was panting hard as she ran down corridor after corridor. She needed to focus. She needed to think. She needed a place to hide. Think! She would hide until the FBI could find her. But how long would that be? She had to trust that they were on their way and would get to her.
She crunched through broken glass and slipped, feeling a sharp jab in her hand. She was bleeding, but there was no time to do anything about it. She headed down another corridor, guessing that she was in the office space of an old factory or storage depot.
Think, damn it, think!
Perez stopped for a second. She froze. Somewhere down below, maybe on the ground floor, footsteps echoed on the concrete floors. They were closing in. They had her trapped.
She climbed up more stairs. She prayed they couldn’t see the trail of blood in the dark space. But occasionally chinks of light from broken windows allowed some moonlight to seep in, bathing the interior with an ethereal glow.
The place was freaking her out. The guys following her were freaking her out.
She didn’t know whether to climb higher or try to slip out without them catching her. Perhaps down separate stairs. Should she just jump out of a fucking window and be done with it? Should she try and get up onto the roof? Perhaps lock it so they couldn’t get up. But the chances were that once it was opened, that was that. They could get up too.
Perez racked her brains. Her mind was frozen in fear. Unable to process her thoughts. She wanted to arm herself. But with what?
Move!
She swiveled her head. Watching, listening. Her eyes were becoming more accustomed to the darkness. She saw a door down the corridor.
Perez took a deep breath. And she bolted down the corridor. Through the heavy wooden door and up more stairs. Through another set of doors and along a creaking corridor.
Suddenly, her right foot plunged through a rotten floorboard, a rusty nail ripping through her skin.
Perez felt an eruption of shooting pain in her leg. She clenched her teeth, sucking up the pain, tears spilling down her face. She would not cry out. Slowly she extricated herself from the rotten floorboard and got up. She headed into a huge cavernous concrete space again. She wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
At the far end of the space, she could make out a plasterboard wall. It looked like part of it had been ripped out, maybe by squatters. She squeezed behind it, back to the brick wall. It was a tight, dusty space. She edged sideways, like a crab, deeper behind the plasterboard. Eventually, she squeezed past a concrete pillar, then crouched down behind it, tasting salty tears, bleeding onto the dusty brick floor. As a hiding spot, this was the best she could do.
The sound of her rapid breathing was all she heard.
Perez closed her eyes. She wanted to cry. For Leon to turn up and hold her. Tell her he was going to get clean. And it was all going to be OK. He wasn’t going to go to jail. But she needed to stay strong. She needed to hang in there. Tough it out. Her mother was tough. Perez would just have to be resilient, like her. She needed to find that inner strength.
She tried to reassure herself. The Feds were on their way. That was good. It was just a matter of minutes; hopefully she could hang on.
Perez’s breathing became shallower. The only sound was of her beating heart. Time seemed to have stopped. Seconds were lifetimes. So many lifetimes.
Her mind flashed back to when she was a child. She could see herself playing hide-and-seek with her friends. Hiding in a loft space of an abandoned building. She remembered the mixture of tension and fear, knowing she might be discovered at any moment.
A droplet of blood seeped from her leg onto the stone floor. She wondered where the men were. Were they closing in? Then again, maybe they would miss her?
Suddenly, she heard them.
The sound of scuffed footsteps. Low voices. Maybe just outside in the corridor. She heard a door squeak open. Creaking wooden floorboards. It was them. She couldn’t believe they had found her.
Perez closed her eyes tighter, sensed them close. Looking around. Trying to detect any movement or noise. Hunting their prey.
“She’s not far,” one Hispanic voice said.
The other said, “Yeah, the bitch is here. I can smell her. Real close.”
“We know you’re here, bitch. I can almost taste you. We’ll find you. You’re in here somewhere. And we’ve got all the time in the world. What the fuck you thinking about? Running away like that? We just wanted to talk to you. We wouldn’t hurt you.”
Perez felt herself shaking. She shut her eyes tight and began to pray.
Twenty-Six
The convoy of SUVs was speeding through the streets of Gowanus, Brooklyn, closing in on Camila Perez’s location. Reznick was sitting up front in the lead vehicle, three other Feds in the back. More Feds in the two following cars. Reznick checked his iPhone, which showed Camila’s precise location, a warehouse.
The driver said, “One mile.”
Reznick turned to the Feds in the back seat. “Block off this road. If the cops or anyone asks on whose authority, this comes from FBI HQ.”
A surly-looking Fed said, “We don’t report to you, Jon.”
“I’m not asking you to report to me. I’m asking you guys to make sure we don’t turn this into a social media circus, news crews turning up.”
The guy averted his gaze. He was clearly not happy having Reznick with
them.
Reznick looked at the rest of the agents. “Just so we’re clear. I’m not giving orders. But I’ve been given specific instructions by Assistant Director Meyerstein. She wants me in first. You got a problem, you speak to her. Which one of you guys wants to volunteer to get their head blown off by being the first in?”
A deafening silence.
“So, I’m leading on this. You got a problem, speak to her.”
The Fed said nothing but was clearly seething that the usual rules of engagement and protocol weren’t being observed.
“My advice?” Reznick said. “Send in two teams of three through separate entrances in two minutes. I’ll get in first and see if I can find these bastards. I’ll report if I get a visual.”
The Fed said, “I’ve never met you. I had no idea that we operated like this. I think we need to establish clear authority.”
“You need to pay attention. Assistant Director Meyerstein gave me authority. Take it up with her.”
The Fed said, “This little outing is going to follow FBI standard operating procedure.”
“You need to get out more, pal.”
“Fuck you, I’m going in with you. We all are.”
Reznick stared at the intransigent Fed. “Listen, we can discuss all this bullshit until the cows come home. My orders come from the top. I go in first. I just want a minute’s head start to see if I can locate them. Get a visual. SWAT is on their way. Just keep the perimeter in place. And make sure they don’t slip through the dragnet.”
“This is irregular.”
“Not half as irregular as your colleague Leon Cortez.” Reznick didn’t mention that Cortez had overdosed; the news was being kept under wraps while they investigated his connections. “You wanna talk about that?”
The guy just sat and stared, lost for words.
“You wanna talk about how he compromised FBI activities?” Reznick looked at the other agents, who just stared blankly back at him. “No? Thought not.”
Reznick was livid as they turned onto a narrow road leading toward the warehouse. He was used to being part of a tight-knit Delta crew who took orders, gave orders, and operated as a team. He couldn’t handle pettiness. He wanted to get the job done. And then get out of there.