Pawn's Gambit

by Darin Kennedy

  Emilio’s gaze swept the rooftops. “Who the hell was that? Why was he shooting at us?”

  “You stopped that bullet,” Lena said. “Are you wearing a vest or something?”

  Bullet? “Look, you two. I promise to explain everything as soon as I can, but right now I’ve got to get you out of here.”

  Lena nodded, but Emilio remained unconvinced. “Wait,” he said. “I remember you now. You were in Carlos’ room.” He shot Lena a glance. “How do you know his name?”

  “Just listen to him,” Lena said. “He… knows things.”

  “In that case, mystery man, why don’t you tell us all what’s going on?” Vago, along with several of his boys, approached from their flank. Steven had been so intent on the threat from above, he had all but forgotten he was standing in the middle of an impending gang war.

  “Two questions. Who the hell are you, and who was that on the roof?” Vago swayed back and forth, like a cobra in a snake charmer’s basket, a menacing grin plastered across his face. “Tell us what you know and maybe you walk.” As Vago’s boys moved to surround the three of them, Steven noted the sound of more footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

  “I’d like to hear what this hombre has to say as well.” A well-muscled twenty-something Steven took to be the leader of the Salvatruchas sauntered over, flanked by at least twenty-five men and boys dressed in black and denim. Between the two gangs, Steven estimated they were surrounded by at least sixty, every last one primed for violence after the attack from above.

  The Salvatrucha chief dropped his half-burned cigarette on the ground at his feet and blew smoke in Vago’s direction. “Hell, Vago, I figured you brought the shooter. That kind of chicken shit is right up your alley.”

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell when I need second-story backup to take care of your punk ass, Cortez.” Vago took a step into Cortez’s space, any hint of smile now banished from his face. “Anyway, it wasn’t you the bastard was aiming at.”

  “What’re you trying to say?” Cortez stepped forward as well, his nose an inch from Vago’s. A thin trail of smoke escaped his pursed lips.

  Vago raised one shoulder, taunting the Salvatrucha leader with a noncommittal shrug. “After the thing with the kid’s brother this morning, nothing would surprise me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cortez stood his ground defiant, but flashed another Salvatrucha a questioning look.

  Emilio clenched his fists in silent rage. Lena stroked his arm.

  Vago’s devilish grin made a return appearance. “Besides, how would I get one of my guys up there anyway? This was Salvatrucha turf last time I checked.”

  Cortez’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his silence.

  “Sounds like the only person who knows what’s going on is this guy.” Vago’s eyes fastened on Steven. “So, mystery man, spill. What do you want with my manito here?”

  “I’m not your—”

  Lena hushed Emilio as Steven stepped between the two rival gang leaders and leveled a no-nonsense gaze at Vago. “That’s none of your business.”

  Vago bristled at Steven’s tone. “You don’t tell me what my business—”

  “I’m taking these two away from here.” Steven’s eyes narrowed. “I recommend none of you get in our way.”

  “Dammit, I am not a child.” Emilio shrugged off Lena’s hand. “I don’t need you to protect me, Lena, and I sure as hell don’t need some stranger coming down here and getting in my business.”

  He turned to face the gathered Salvatruchas. “My name is Emilio Cruz, brother of Carlos. Whoever the bastard is who killed my brother, let him step out and face me if he thinks he’s man enough.”

  For a moment, surprised amusement colored both Cortez’s and Vago’s features. Steven’s concern was echoed on Lena’s face, but he somehow kept his silence as the girl stepped forward to take a spot to Emilio’s right, her aluminum bat at the ready.

  “Now, now, chica, that won’t be necessary.” Cortez scrutinized Emilio. “All right, Little Traviezo, what’s all this about your brother?”

  “Look, Cortez. I didn’t come down here to listen to you talk out of both sides of your mouth. Bring out the bastard who killed my brother so we can get this over with.”

  Any pretense of cordiality left Cortez’s face. “Boy, you really don’t want to piss me off.” The two Salvatruchas flanking Cortez drew pistols. Steven and Emilio found themselves on the business end of two nickel-plated Colt .45’s. Cortez drew a snub-nosed Ruger from his jeans and trained its sights on Vago’s chest. “As Vago here pointed out, this is Salvatrucha turf.”

  A twinge of pride hit Steven as Emilio stepped in front of Lena, though the irrelevance of this action wasn’t lost on him. With Salvatruchas and Blues on all sides, if the bullets started to fly, none of them would survive.

  “Look.” Emilio’s voice cracked. “I didn’t—”

  “Tread careful, kid,” Cortez said, “and show some respect.”

  Emilio’s fists clenched, but he managed to keep a passably civil tone. “I got no problem with you, Cortez. All I want is Alvarado. I thought you of all people would understand.” Emilio’s voice was confident and strong, but the beads of sweat running down his face told another story. Cortez clasped Emilio’s shoulder with his free hand in an almost fatherly gesture.

  “I feel you, Cruz. Somebody offed my brother, you bet I’d be standing right here mouthing off to whoever’d listen. If I knew who capped El Traviezo, I’d be more than happy to introduce you, believe me, but if you’re looking for Alvarado, we’ve got a problem.”

  “And what’s that?” Emilio spoke in as even a tone as he could muster.

  “Alvarado’s dead. Drive by, last week. In the ground three days.” Cortez offered an unaffected shrug. “He’s not your man.”

  “But…” Emilio stammered, “I thought…”

  Vago took advantage of the moment to change the rules. Before anyone could react, a pistol appeared in his hand, its barrel positioned three inches from Cortez’s left eye.

  “A Desert Eagle can shoot through a foot of solid brick. I can’t wait to see what it does to your skull.” Vago rested the tip of his handheld Howitzer on Cortez’s brow. “Now, you and your boys put your shit away.”

  A sense of dread blossomed at Steven’s core. The two modern-day gunslingers stood transfixed in the momentary standoff, each vigilant for the slightest sign of weakness in their opponent. After several tense seconds, Cortez inclined his head and his two lieutenants leveled their weapons at Vago’s chest. The surrounding Salvatruchas drew weapons on various members of Vago’s gang, and within seconds, both sides were fully armed and ready for war. The invincibility of youth coupled with the haze of fear was a recipe for disaster. The only reason gunfire hadn’t erupted, Steven guessed, was that no one wanted to be the first to fire. The concept of mutual assured destruction, the fodder for countless Cold War era movies, drifted across his thoughts. The deadlock stretched on for seconds that seemed like hours, and tensions on both side boiled.

  Cortez’s impassive stare betrayed no emotion while Vago’s ashen features spoke volumes. Emilio somehow managed to keep his cool, and more remarkably, his tongue. Only Lena’s trembling hands betrayed her mask of bold defiance. With the four principles caught at an impasse, the figure that prompted Steven to action was actually a bit player in their little drama.

  In the periphery of his vision, Steven glimpsed a black bandana-topped fourteen-year-old kid on the verge of hyperventilation, his quivering pistol trained on Vago’s right ear. The boy squinted and turned his head to the side like a toddler about to pop a balloon. Steven brought the shield before him, and with no idea how he was going to survive the next thirty seconds, commenced upon the only course of action left to him.

  “Pike.”

  The eight-foot weapon appeared in his right hand, the smooth poplar warm to the touch, its tip gleaming in the sunlight. Steven took a deep breath, unsure if it would be his
last.

  “Uncloak.”

  At his command, the cloak dissipated, leaving his pike and shield revealed to a crowd of astonished faces. Within seconds, every eye and weapon was trained on him, the standoff between the rival gangs momentarily forgotten. Steven smiled ruefully, remembering the old joke about bringing a knife to a gunfight. Then, for the second time in as many days, a whispered word he barely knew left his lips.

  “Phalanx.”

  12

  Phalanx

  Steven disappeared in a flash of blinding white light. The crack of gunfire filled the air, followed by a mix of disoriented shouts and mumbled curses. As the collective vision of the crowd cleared, they found Emilio and Lena encircled by eight armored warriors, their interlocking full-length shields and upraised pikes resembling an armadillo’s scales armed with porcupine quills. Their garb was uniform: white tunics trimmed with silver under a vest of fine chain mail, tan pantaloons, an intricate helm of silver metal, sturdy leather boots of russet color and gauntlets of leather and steel. Their most interesting commonality, though, was that they all bore the same face.

  Reality blurred as Steven coped with seeing the world through eight pairs of eyes. Like trying to watch an entire bank of televisions at once, the eightfold divergence overwhelmed his senses. His very consciousness unraveling, an image of Katherine’s face flashed across his mind’s eye—so real he could smell the lingering scent of her perfume, those eyes full of love suddenly backlit by the twin headlamps of the speeding Chevy Suburban.

  “No.” A switch went off in Steven’s head and the disparate thoughts of his eight minds congealed back into a single awareness. What had been discordant noise now played through his collective mind like a well-rehearsed orchestra as the small army surrounding them opened fire.

  Every banger with a clear shot unloaded their weapons at the eight anachronistic newcomers. The circle of Pawns, in turn, closed ranks and brought their shields up to defend against the barrage of bullets. This violent display of firepower lasted for over a minute, eventually dwindling to a sound reminiscent of the last kernels in a bag of microwave popcorn.

  Other than a couple of gang members who were hit as their rounds ricocheted off the circle of impenetrable shields, not a single bullet found its mark. The silence that followed was as striking as the preceding pandemonium. The sixty or so men and boys stood agape, staring mystified at what was most likely the strangest sight any of them would ever see. For the moment, any division between the Salvatruchas and Vago’s boys was swept away by the recognition they were facing something beyond their ken.

  The brief stalemate ended in a symphony of martial expression. The four Pawns at the cardinal points of the circle closed tight around Lena and Emilio while the remaining four moved to engage the two gangs. The first vaulted into the air, spinning the eight-foot pole arm about his head like the blades of a helicopter. He landed amidst a group of Salvatruchas and disarmed nine before any could get off a shot. The second, alternating between shield and pike, bludgeoned a path through the mass of bodies, avoiding the bullets of the few who retained the mental capacity to fire their weapons. The third ran interference for the inner circle, incapacitating anyone brave or stupid enough to come within range of his pike’s gleaming tip. The fourth rushed Vago and Cortez, the spear-axe tip of his weapon a flashing silver arc. Their weapons clattered on the pavement and the two men howled in unison, clutching their hands in pain.

  “What the hell is this?” Vago bellowed, the confidence in his voice a distant memory.

  In answer, the Pawn engaging the two gang leaders brought the point of his pike to rest at Vago’s midsection and spoke in a voice both Steven’s and not Steven’s at all. “You were warned not to interfere in things that do not concern you and are fortunate to still have both your hands. Now, I am leaving with Emilio and Lena. Stay clear of our path and hold your tongue, Miguel Fausto Vasquez, or I may be forced to teach you more about actions and their consequences.”

  Shaken by the use of his proper name, Vago didn’t say a word. All that moved were his eyes, their rapid beat reminiscent of a fox trying to find a way out of the hen house. Cortez followed Steven’s admonition as well and kept his silence, his cold stare almost as unnerving as Vago’s shifting gaze.

  One of the Pawns defending Lena and Emilio turned inward to check on the two teenagers. His voice resuming its normal tone, Steven asked, “Are you two okay?”

  Lena looked up from her crouched position on the ground and nodded. Emilio looked himself over and signaled he was all right as well. Steven took a moment to survey the situation through his eight-fold perspective before helping Lena to her feet.

  “We’re going to get the two of you out of here.” The Pawn took Lena by the hand and led her and Emilio through the crowd. The seven remaining Pawns configured themselves into a moving wall surrounding their brother and the two teens. The mob parted as they went, most of them too befuddled to do anything other than watch in silence as the tightly defended circle passed through their ranks. The Pawn holding Lena’s hand smiled, though the moment of self-satisfaction lasted but a second.

  “Stop.” Within the circle of Pawns, Emilio stopped in his tracks, effectively halting the entire procession. “Doesn’t anybody understand?”

  He turned to one of the Pawns. “I get it. Something big is going down, and somehow I’m tangled up in it. That’s why you’re here. I appreciate you pulling my can out of the fire, but I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.”

  “Emilio.” Steven tried to calm the fuming teenager. “Listen—”

  “No, you listen,” Emilio said. “My brother was murdered today, and you expect me to walk away. Pretend like it never happened? I didn’t come all the way down here to run like some whipped dog. The bastard who killed my brother is here somewhere, and I’m not leaving till he has the balls to come out and face me.”

  Emilio moved from Pawn to Pawn within the circle, attempting to free himself from his cell of flesh, bone, and steel, but each time was denied by Steven’s apologetic but unyielding stare. Emilio, however, was having none of it. His efforts to leave escalated till it became clear he was willing to fight his way out if it came to that.

  With a heavy heart, Steven willed one of the Pawns to step out of Emilio’s way and watched with eightfold dread as the defenseless boy left the safety of the circle.

  Emilio made a beeline through the crowd, ignoring Blues and Salvatruchas alike, and headed straight for Cortez. An unbidden image of the boy grabbing a rattlesnake by the tail and holding it up to his face flashed across Steven’s mind’s eye.

  Neither Cortez nor Vago had moved from the spot where Steven disarmed them minutes before. Either of them walking away would have been seen as a sign of weakness. More than that, however, Steven suspected that they, like everyone else present, were merely waiting to see what would happen next.

  “So, Cortez,” Emilio said, “if this Alvarado kid didn’t kill Carlos, who did?”

  Dumbfounded by the boy’s sheer audacity, Steven half-expected Cortez to gut him on the spot, and was surprised when the Salvatrucha leader’s face broke into a wide smile.

  “I got to admit, boy,” Cortez said, “you got some brass ones. I see a lot of your brother in you.” His smile faded. “Look. My boys know better than to even breathe without checking in first. They sure as hell wouldn’t cap somebody, especially somebody I respected as much as your brother, unless the order came directly from me.”

  “You’re lying,” Emilio said. “Vago told me he heard one of your boys bragging about it today. He said Carlos was Alvarado’s initiation. He said…” Emilio paused and looked back and forth from Cortez to Vago. Cortez glared back, indignant but calm, while Vago avoided Emilio’s gaze completely. “Vago?”

  Vago peered up from beneath his blue bandana, his head cocked to one side as if he were about to speak, but remained silent. All confusion left Emilio’s face as his eyes narrowed and his lips parted to reveal a feral snarl. He charged t
he man his brother had called friend.

  Vago’s gaze swept the surrounding blacktop. Spotting his Desert Eagle lying a few feet away, he dove for the weapon, but came up short as Emilio caught him mid-leap, plowing his shoulder into Vago’s exposed flank.

  “You bastard.” The two of them went to ground, a tangle of arms and legs. Emilio soon gained the upper hand, swinging his winded opponent’s arm behind his back in a hold similar to the one he’d used before. Planting his knee in the small of Vago’s back, Emilio ground his face into the asphalt. Cortez motioned for his Salvatruchas to stay out of the fight while the Blues watched impotent as their leader’s face was pummeled into the ground again and again. A pair of them moved to pull Emilio off their leader, but retreated when they found their way blocked by a pair of crossed pikes. Vago fought back for as long as he was able, bucking and kicking in an attempt to break the young wrestler’s grip, but the winner of the fight was never in doubt.

  Emilio came to his feet and stood over Vago’s limp form, his chest heaving with rage and adrenaline. He slid his foot under the man’s ribcage and flipped him onto his back.

  “Wake up, pendejo.”

  After a few seconds, Vago came around. He glared up at Emilio through the bloody pulp that minutes before had been his right eyebrow, but said nothing.

  “Why?” Emilio hissed through clenched teeth.

  Still dazed, Vago sputtered through broken teeth. “Man… I swear… I didn’t…”

  “Don’t lie to me.” Emilio dropkicked Vago’s already bruised flank.

  Vago spat a thick stream of blood onto the asphalt as Emilio knelt to retrieve the Blue leader’s weapon. The Desert Eagle swallowed his hand as he leveled the handheld cannon at Vago’s head. “You and I both know what this gun can do. I got no problem ending you right here, right now, so listen up ‘cause I’m only gonna ask you this once. Did you kill Carlos?”

  Vago stared listless at Emilio for several seconds before turning his head to look up at the gathered Blues and Salvatruchas. Faces from both sides bore the same questioning expression. Vago spat out another mouthful of blood, but kept his silence. Despite the battering his face had taken, Steven could see the man’s mental wheels turning in earnest.