Majoqui smiled at the thought that he owed all this in part to his enemy. To Gil Mason.
32
Four weeks passed since my first blink. Now I could talk and even walk a little.
The .308 round had hit me in the throat, barely missed the carotid artery, and clipped the C1 vertebrae, chipping it and causing trauma to my spinal column, before ripping out the backside of my neck. The damage and shock to my system had instantly and completely paralyzed me.
But the paralyzation was only temporary. Once the swelling and bruising to my spinal column dissipated and the shock to my system wore off, I began to slowly regain my normal bodily functions. The doctors tell me I was lucky.
I disagree.
If the bullet had been a centimeter to the left, I wouldn't be here at all. That would have been lucky.
My parents told me about the funeral. About how hundreds of police officers turned out for the service to show their support for me and my family. I couldn't yet speak when they told me. I could blink and move my neck a little, but everything from the top of my chest down was dead, as though it wasn't even there. That's how I felt at the news of my wife and baby's funeral. Numb, like it was someone else hearing it.
In the first days after going to war with God, the rage and hate and desire for revenge sustained me. But since then, I’d come to terms with reality. I would never leave this bed. And even if I did, it would all be for nothing.
Mike Braden, my lieutenant, came in later that night and told me how they caught Stitch. His name was Majoqui Cabrera and he was an MS 13 assassin. The Feds had an extensive work up on him, and once they knew who he was, they'd done a thorough audit of the dead bank manager's books and found out that he'd been laundering money for Mara. He'd also been stealing from them.
I didn't care. It didn't matter.
He would go to trial, be found guilty, sentenced to twenty years in prison, or maybe even get the death penalty, and end up dying in prison of old age. Colorado doesn't like to kill her death row inmates. Instead, she lets them live long useless lives so they can relive their glory days while eating good, watching TV, being kept warm in the winter, cool in the summer. Where they can be medicated, educated and live a life of what many in poorer countries would consider a life of leisure.
And none of it mattered. He was out of my reach and my wife and daughter were gone. The knowledge sucked away the power of my rage, leaving me feeling dull and lost.
By the second week, I could feel sensation and temperature all the way down to my toes. I couldn't walk, but I could bend a little at the waist and my arms were starting to twitch when I fought to move them, which wasn’t often. I took my first steps in week three.
And now it was week four. I’d finished my morning exercises, mostly to keep the physical therapist from haranguing me, fifteen minutes before Nathan Bale, my father-in-law, walked into the room.
He stood there in the doorway looking at me. His eyes were red and wet. He was thick and solid, built more like a cube than anything else. He'd taken state in college wrestling a few decades earlier in his life, and as he stood there, he looked as immovable as a boulder.
I stared back at him, emotions trying to battle within me, trying to find the energy to bubble to the surface, to gain some traction, some purchase, so they could claw their way back to life. I felt a warmth of rage at my loss, a spasm of guilt for not protecting his daughter and granddaughter as I had promised and as was my duty, a tingle of violence at what I would like to do to Stitch. But none of these were strong enough to break through the lethargic, chronic fatigue that had settled into my bones, making me as dead on the inside as I was on the outside.
Nathan watched me for a long while. He stood there, silent, unmoving and unmovable. Like a statue of some long ago golem, come to take me to Hell.
And then finally, he shook his head slowly and stepped into the room.
“I tried to come,” he said, “before… many times… but they wouldn’t let me see you.”
“I told them not to,” I said, my voice sounding dead to my own ears.
“But… but why?”
I just stared across the room. Not looking at him. Not speaking.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“No,” I said. “I don’t suppose you would.”
"Gil," he said. "I'm so sorry. So very very sorry." He pulled out a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped at his eyes. And in that instant, he didn't look like an impervious rock to me anymore. But only a broken man who had lost his most precious child.
I saw the shudder as it rippled from his shoulders down through his body, like water over a fall. I saw him break and crumble until he was racked with sobs. He walked over to me and smothered my hand in both of his.
I saw all of this and I didn't care.
"Pray with me, son," he said and he bowed his head, his tears dripping on my hand.
"No."
I didn't say it loud or with menace or malice. Just the simple single syllable with all the innate and final power the word held of its own accord.
"No."
And that stopped him. He looked up at me from under those bushy gray eyebrows, his eyes as blue as a newborn sky, still wet from his tears.
"What?"
I looked into those deep wells of kindness, the same eyes that had looked out at me from Jolene's face, the same as Marla’s, and I still felt nothing. No shame, no guilt, no anger, no sympathy. Nothing.
"No. I don't pray anymore."
I heard him sigh, saw his jaw clench. He looked down, blinked a few times then looked back at me.
"Don't do this, Gil."
I said nothing, just watched him. My face as dead as my family.
He shook his head. "Don't you dare do this, Gil."
"I'm only laying blame where blame is due."
"God didn't kill them. That criminal did."
"God is sovereign. Isn't that what you always say?"
He nodded, still holding my hand, tears still flowing down his cheeks.
"Yes, yes of course, but we have free will, we make our own choices."
I was in no mood for a debate, no mood for anything. I just wanted to be left alone, forever.
"Either He made it happen or He allowed it to happen, I don't care which, my wife and daughter are still dead. I hate Him for it." I looked into his eyes, my stare and voice equally neutral. "You should too."
He squeezed my hand and I felt the bones grind together. I didn't return the grip at all.
He sniffed, wiped at his eyes with the handkerchief.
"This is grief talking. I understand."
"You understand nothing."
"Gil, this isn't God's fault."
"I want you to leave now."
"No, son, not until we've talked this through, not until you understand."
With my free hand I pressed the buzzer for the nurse. She entered the room, a smile on her lips.
"I want him to leave," I said.
She looked at my father-in-law.
"Sir?" she said.
He gripped my hand again and again I was limp, unresponsive.
"Gil, what you are doing is wrong. You have no right to blame God. No right to be angry with Him. Instead you should be leaning on Him, seeking comfort in the knowledge that you will be with Jolene and Marla again one day. Be thankful that they are Christians and that God has made a way for us to be reunited with them."
"Be thankful? Thankful? To the God that sat by and watched while my little girl and my wife were slaughtered right in front of my eyes? Slaughtered while I was helpless to stop it? You need to leave now."
I looked at the nurse.
She put a light hand on Nathan's shoulder.
"Sir, would you come with me please?"
"Okay," said Nathan. "Okay, only I want you to think on this. It's not okay to be angry with the God of the Universe. It doesn't matter what you might think or what you might believe. Even in your grief. God is God. He's real. H
e's loving and merciful and kind. But He is also powerful. And He doesn't take kindly to being blamed for things that are not His fault."
He let go of my hand and it flopped back onto the bed. He turned and started to let the nurse lead him away.
"He could have saved them," I said. "He could have, but He didn't. I'll never forgive Him for that. No matter what you say."
I saw Nathan pause.
"I'll pray for you," he said.
"I don't want you to."
He looked back at me for just a second and I saw more tears streaming down his face. "Free will," he said and then walked with the nurse out of the room and down the hall.
33
Majoqui was the model prisoner. He was revered by his fellow inmates for having killed cops and hated by the guards for the same reason. He had been quiet, peaceful, humble even for his entire stay.
That was about to change.
Majoqui had healed. He had begun the infiltration of Mara into the state of Colorado. Already his brothers had begun the fear campaign against the Bloods, the Crips, and several of the Hispanic gangs.
Majoqui had originally planned on staying longer, but decided his personal touch would be required to truly take over the crime institutions of the state. There were people that needed killing.
It was ten-thirty, fifteen minutes before lockdown. There were maybe thirty or so inmates milling about the day room. Most were dressed in orange, the customary color of the felon. But a few were dressed in red, like Majoqui. Red signified danger; as in assault or escape risk. When you were in red, you wore shackles anytime you were outside of the day room.
The Cherokee County Jail was less than ten years old and built along the lines of most modern correctional facilities. There was nothing like it in San Salvador, or any of the countries he frequented. There was simply no way for him to escape these walls. Even if he had every member of Mara from all over the world attacking at the same time, he doubted they would be victorious. No, the only way to escape was to do so from outside.
Majoqui considered himself a simple man. And as a simple man he believed in using what had worked in the past.
He was sitting at a round table, a chess board painted on its surface. There were three other inmates sitting with him. They were playing cards for commissary items. Majoqui had a full house in his hand and a homemade shiv hidden in the crotch of his underwear. The black man sitting next to him was named Jamal and had some form of mild mental condition. He was slow. Back home Majoqui would have called him a retard, but here in the states he found that word to be frowned on. “Mentally challenged,” they called it.
Majoqui picked up his plastic cup of coffee. The coffee was not hot, but only Majoqui knew that. He raised the bet, then looked up to make sure everyone was intent upon their cards and the small paper chits used in place of the actual food stores from their commissary stocks. Gambling was against the jail's rules. When he saw no one was looking at him he threw the contents of his cup into his own face. He jerked to his feet in mock outrage, glaring at the gentle giant still sitting next to him.
"Jamal, you puta, nobody does that to me!"
Jamal looked up stupidly and Majoqui punched him in the face and then dove into him. Jamal wrapped him in his arms and they both fell to the floor, rolling.
Inmates started screaming and pounding on doors and tables. The day room erupted into a frenzy of clamor. No one interfered or tried to break them up.
Majoqui waited until he heard the sally port door open, then he reached into his pants and pulled out the make-shift knife. He turned the sharpened piece of metal on himself and plunged it into his side, away from needed organs, where the love handle would be if he had one. He yelled and flailed, breaking Jamal's grip, just as deputies reached them.
"He stabbed me," he screamed, as he dropped the knife onto the concrete floor. Only, with his wired jaw, it came out "shabbed me". Majoqui fell onto his back and writhed in agony as deputies jumped on top of the dumbfounded Jamal.
One deputy scooped up the knife while two more forced Majoqui's arms behind his back and cuffed him.
It took several minutes for the deputies to get all of the other inmates into their cells, and by that time, an impressive amount of blood had leaked out of Majoqui. He continued to moan until the nurse showed up.
"Please, I'm dying," he groaned and then pretended to pass out.
The nurse called for a gurney and then radioed the sergeant on duty to tell him they would need an ambulance.
Inwardly, Majoqui grinned. Of course it would be more difficult this time, they knew what he had done and would take precautions. And because they thought they knew what he was capable of, those precautions would be extensive. Only they would still underestimate him, because they had no idea what he was really capable of.
Within a half hour, he was in an ambulance and on his way to the closest level-two trauma center in the area. Two deputies were in the ambulance beside him with a third following in a patrol car. Both of his wrists were cuffed to the gurney. He moaned quietly, still acting nearly unconscious.
The paramedics continued their work as the lights flashed and the siren wailed. They inserted needles and tubes into his arms and the back of his hands. They attached round, sticky patches, with little metal knobs in their centers, to his chest, arms and legs. They started an IV drip and began monitoring his heart and other vital signs. In the cramped space of the rescue unit, the paramedic’s bodies blocked him from the deputies view.
Majoqui could unlock handcuffs with the end of a rat-tail comb, a paper clip, even a toothpick. Tonight he used two springs he had obtained over the past three weeks from ink pens he'd stolen from deputies at the jail. It had taken several days of patient work to twist and twine the thin metal coils into straight tools that would be sufficient to pick the locks. He'd hidden them beneath a nail, one on each hand. The jail deputies had been careful to double lock the restraints, making them more difficult to defeat. Add to that the fact that they were in a moving, speeding vehicle that was juking and jagging its way through intersections and traffic, with paramedics jostling for position and bumping against him repeatedly. And so Majoqui did not let it affect his pride that it took him almost thirty seconds to pry the springs from his nails, unwind them and unlock the handcuffs, freeing his hands to do what they were about to do.
The deputy on his right wore a level three duty holster, which meant it had three safeties to defeat before the gun could be removed. The deputy on his left wore a simple snap holster, much easier to conquer. Majoqui waited. His brothers from Mara should, arrive at any time.
He watched through slit lids as they took a corner. Something hit them hard and fast as they entered the intersection.
It was time.
The impact threw the paramedic onto him, obscuring him from the deputy's view. The deputy himself was also thrown, but into the back of the paramedic. Majoqui reached under the paramedic's arm, turned into him at the same time, and gripped the butt of the deputy's gun. With his pinky finger, he popped the safety snap, and as the ambulance fishtailed and spun, he leaned back, the gun sliding smoothly free.
Majoqui had hoped neither deputy would notice, but both reacted instantly. The one on his right was reaching for his weapon when the bullet struck him in the mouth. It was a .45 causing horrible damage.
The second deputy was trying to push the paramedic out of his way, but in the cramped quarters it was nearly impossible. Majoqui reached around the paramedic and fired three times into the deputy's groin and pelvic area. The deputy screamed and continued to scream as he crumpled against the wall and then onto the floor. Majoqui shot both paramedics, one bullet each through their heads, then sat up and shot the writhing deputy through the eye.
The driver of the rescue unit slammed on the brakes, throwing Majoqui off the gurney and into the forward wall. The impact made him dizzy, but he shook his head and aimed through the small open section between his compartment and the driver's. He was too la
te. The driver had jumped out the door and worse, he'd taken the keys with him.
Majoqui quickly stripped the gun from the dead deputy's level three holster and collected his extra magazines as well. He found a cell phone on the cop's belt and took it as well.
The patrol car tailing them had stopped about fifteen yards back. He would be calling in reinforcements. Majoqui opened the side door and slipped out. Instantly the patrol car's spot light found him. As it did, the occupants of the car that had crashed into the ambulance opened fire on the cruiser. Majoqui himself pumped three bullets in the direction of the patrol car's windshield, then ducked back inside as sparks flew from the side of the rescue rig.
Another car came screeching up to the patrol vehicle and automatic gunfire raked the windows and body of the car.
Majoqui jumped out of the ambulance, starting for the first of the cars, when gunfire sounded behind him. Something hot and deadly burned past his face and he reflexively fell to the asphalt. Rolling up to the front tire, he peered around in time to see a state trooper outside of another patrol car, sporting an AR-15 that was aimed at him. Majoqui ducked back just as a supersonic bullet flattened the tire.
A hail of gunfire flew at the trooper from Majoqui's support vehicles, forcing the officer to retreat to the back of his car for cover. Majoqui would have to cross directly through the line of fire to get to his brothers in Mara. He would have to wait until the trooper was either hit or in the process of reloading. But more sirens were coming fast and every second counted.
Majoqui made the decision to change his plan of escape. He fired two rounds at the trooper and ran across the street and up against a house. He slid around the corner and into a row of bushes. The bushes offered him some amount of concealment as he made his way to the north.
This was a residential area and he ran for several blocks, staying as much in shadow as possible. Once he was a reasonable distance away, he started trying door handles. Being the suburbs instead of downtown he found the front latch unlocked on the fourth house he tried.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 57