Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3

by Swartwood, Robert

  “Don’t tell him.”

  Ramon says, “We’ll get to you later.”

  “Why not get to me now? You have questions, I have answers.”

  “As I said, we’ll get to you later. There’s more to you than we first thought.”

  Carlos has set our items down on the ground. He has his gun out, pointed at us.

  “Enough of this bullshit. Ramon, cuff them.”

  Okay, this is definitely not heading in an ideal direction. Time to mix things up.

  As Ramon grabs my left arm and starts to pull it back, I say, “Don’t.”

  He pauses.

  Staring at the cold brick wall, I say, “If you know what’s good for you, give us back our stuff and we’ll be on our way.”

  One of the government men snorts a laugh.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No, this is a threat. If you don’t give us back our stuff and let us be on our way, you all will have massive headaches in the morning.”

  For a moment, nobody moves. Then Ramon continues to pull back my left arm. As the plastic zip-tie touches my skin, I twist to the left, spinning into him, and with my right fist punch him in the face.

  Stunned, Ramon lets go of my arm, stumbles back. He’s still standing, though, so I wrap my left arm around his neck as I move to the right and launch myself in the air, my momentum enough to swing me around toward the two government men. My foot connects with only one of the men, right in the side of his face, but it’s enough to send him stumbling into his partner. Both feet on the ground again, I release my grip on Ramon’s neck and kick him in the back of the knees, sending him to the ground, and as he falls I somersault over him toward Carlos. Before the older man can fire off a round, I punch him once in the stomach and then push him straight back into the brick wall. The gun falls from his hand and I grab it midair, then turn and scramble to the government men who are trying to get back on their feet. I jump at the wall and use the momentum to perform a roundhouse kick at both of the men’s faces. One of the men gets knocked out. The other manages to stay upright for another moment, just long enough for me to kick him straight in the chest. Behind me, Ramon jumps to his feet and I spin, throwing another roundhouse kick in his direction. He’s expecting it, though, and ducks the kick. Before I try another kick, I remember I’m still holding a gun and aim it at Ramon.

  “Get on your knees.”

  He stares at me and says, “You’re not going to shoot me.”

  “Do you want to test that theory?”

  Ramon’s face is impassive.

  “You shot those pimps outside Miguel Dominguez’s apartment building, didn’t you? We know it was you. What were you doing there?”

  “Minding my own business.”

  Behind me, one of the government agents grunts as he tries to rise to his feet.

  I spin and throw another kick at his face. This one sends him down and out.

  I turn back to Ramon who hasn’t moved.

  “I said get down on your knees.”

  He slowly lowers himself down to the ground.

  “Now pull your gun from its holster and toss it over here.”

  He pulls the gun from its holster and tosses it at my feet.

  Keeping Carlos’s gun aimed at him, I crouch down and grab the gun and fling it onto the roof of the closest building. I step back and unburden the two government men of their guns and fling those up on the roof as well.

  I step close to Gabriela, nudge her with my elbow.

  “Get our things.”

  She doesn’t move at first, and I think maybe she’s frozen with shock. But then she shakes it off and hurries over to where Carlos placed our items. She scrambles to pick up everything, but Carlos leans forward from where he is on the ground, trying to grab her. She shrieks and jumps back.

  We don’t have time for this, so I step forward and whack Ramon with the butt of the gun. He falls to the ground. Just like I told the men, they’re all going to have massive headaches in the morning.

  Hurrying over to Gabriela, I give Carlos a whack on the side of the head with the gun and then grab Gabriela’s arm and pull her back down the alleyway.

  “My ID and passport?”

  She hands them to me as well as the disposable phone.

  “I didn’t have time to grab the photograph.”

  I shake my head, tell her not to worry about it. The ID and passport are the most important things. Not that either gives my actual name, but less documentation in the authorities’ hands, the better.

  We hurry across the street into another alleyway. The men will be giving chase in no time. We might manage to make it back to Gabriela’s car, but I’m worried about getting into a chase on the main road.

  We reach the end of the alleyway and I pause, glancing back the way we came. I can see two of them farther away, just shadows in the dark.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  Despite lights on inside, the houses along here all stand still and quiet. Of course they do. I would imagine everybody in town is still at the square.

  I pull Gabriela toward one of the nearest houses. It’s only one story tall. There’s a way to climb up to the roof from the outside. Not quite a ladder, but enough places to grip to climb up.

  As quietly as I can, I motion for Gabriela to hurry and climb up to the roof. She does it faster that I thought she would, scaling it like a pro. I stuff the gun in the waistband of my shorts and climb up after her.

  On the top of the roof there’s just enough space to lie flat. I lie there with Gabriela and wait.

  It doesn’t take long.

  Seconds later we can hear the heavy pounding of footsteps. Then the shouting of the men’s voices as they speculate where we went. One of them—Carlos?—suggests searching the houses. The men apparently agree to this idea without question because then we hear front doors opening and closing. This goes on for several minutes, the men hastily searching each house, before a woman shouts.

  “What are you doing to our homes? Get out! Get out of our homes!”

  One of the government men tells the woman that they’re searching for suspects.

  The woman shouts, “Suspects for the killing that occurred here tonight?”

  The government man doesn’t answer.

  The woman shouts, “Our town is in pain and you go through our homes? Get out! Get out! Get out!”

  Other townspeople take up the chorus. They must have heard her from the square and hurried over to find out what was wrong. Soon her voice is accompanied by a half-dozen more, then a dozen more.

  “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

  It becomes a chant. A chant of a town which just suffered a great loss. Ramon and Carlos and the government men aren’t about to cause more grief. They relent and leave.

  Minutes pass, and the townspeople below start to wander away, either back to their homes or back to the square to continue grieving. Gabriela is motionless beside me. The urge to glance over the edge of the roof, to check whether the coast is clear, is strong, but we remain where we are. We lie on our backs and stare up at the clear night sky.

  Until, down on the street in front of the house, a woman speaks.

  “You can come down now.”

  Gabriela tenses.

  I turn my head and stare back at her, urge her with my eyes to remain quiet.

  The woman on the street speaks again.

  “They are gone. You are safe now. You can come down.”

  Is it a trick? Possibly. But after what just happened it doesn’t feel like a trick. The townspeople ran our pursuers out of town. No chance it was all a ruse. Besides, the woman who just spoke, she sounds like the woman who had started yelling in the first place. The woman who started the chant for the men to get out.

  I look at Gabriela once more. She looks terrified. I take a deep breath, roll over, and raise myself just enough to peek over the edge.

  The old woman with the cane stares up at me. She motions at the empty street.

&
nbsp; “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Twenty-Seven

  The old woman doesn’t move as we climb down from the roof. She just watches, leaning on her cane. Occasionally she’ll look up and down the street to ensure nobody is coming, but besides that she watches us with an almost bored expression. Then, once I’ve helped Gabriela to the ground, the old woman motions at us.

  “Follow me.”

  She turns and starts shuffling down the street and only goes several paces before she realizes we’re not following and turns back.

  “Is there a problem?”

  I survey the street to make sure it’s empty as I step forward.

  “Why should we come with you?”

  The woman leans all her weight on the cane, pursuing her lips.

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “How so?”

  “Did you not hear me tell those men to leave this town? Now they have left—I saw it with my own eyes—but there are other police still in town. They are already loading the bodies into trucks. I should be in the town square right now with everybody else mourning, but something tells me you two could use my help. So will you let me help you?”

  I glance at Gabriela, who stands there uncertain, and I turn back to the woman and nod.

  “Lead the way.”

  Because of the cane, the woman doesn’t move very fast. She veers off the street at one point and takes us between houses to the next street, then between more houses to another street. I have Gabriela walk between us, keeping the gun in my hand just in case. At one point the old woman glances back, notices the gun, and chuckles.

  Then we finally come to yet another house and the old woman opens the back door and motions us inside.

  We enter a kitchen. The smell of food lingers, causing my stomach to growl.

  The old woman lets the door close behind her as she walks past us through the kitchen and deeper into the house.

  “You should be safe here. I don’t imagine those men who chased you will come back, but if they do, I guess we will just have to run them off again.”

  She smiles at us, but then all at once her expression turns solemn. In the light it’s easier now to see the scars on her face. From her forehead to her chin, they streak her face like chasms.

  “My name is Yolanda. What are your names?”

  Neither Gabriela nor I say anything.

  Yolanda nods as if she understands the reason for our reticence. She motions us to sit on a couch as she lowers herself down onto a chair.

  Gabriela and I sit on the couch. Neither one of us speaks.

  A brown cat pads into the room. It pauses to look at us, then slinks over to the chair and jumps up onto Yolanda’s lap.

  Yolanda smiles down at the cat as she strokes its back.

  “This is Dorado.”

  Still Gabriela and I don’t speak. The house is silent, but we must not be too far away from the town square, because even inside we can hear the distant sobbing.

  The silence in the house starts to become almost too unnerving, so I decide to break it.

  “I’m sorry for what happened tonight.”

  The apology is more than just perfunctory. In many ways, I’m responsible for those dead twenty-eight people, not to mention the others who had been wounded and have since been taken to a hospital.

  Yolanda stares down at the cat as she pets it.

  “It is not the first time tragedy has befallen this town, and it will not be the last. Every time we are able to bounce back from it.”

  “Why is this town called La Miserias?”

  Yolanda pauses to give me a sidelong glance.

  “As I said, it is not the first time tragedy has befallen this town.”

  She leaves it at that for a long moment, petting the cat again, before she rests her head back on the seat and closes her eyes. I think she’s going to fall asleep, but then her eyes snap open and she looks at us again.

  “What did those men want with you?”

  We say nothing.

  “I sent those men away. I am hiding you in my home. I think the least you can do is be honest with me.”

  I’m not sure what to say at first. I don’t quite agree that the least we can do for this woman is be honest with her, but before I can even argue that point, Gabriela opens her mouth.

  “We are journalists.”

  This clearly wasn’t what the old woman was expecting to hear. She sets the cat aside as she leans forward in her seat.

  “Is that right?”

  Gabriela nods.

  “We came here to write about what happened. One of the men recognized me and tried to catch us.”

  Yolanda’s gaze flicks from Gabriela to me.

  “I saw what you did to those men. Based on how quickly you moved, you do not strike me as a writer.”

  I say nothing.

  Gabriela asks, “Is it true what they say happened?”

  Yolanda says, “I suppose that depends on what they say happened.”

  “They say that Fernando Sanchez Morales wanted retribution for what happened to Ernesto Diaz last night.”

  Yolanda doesn’t answer right away. The cat sits at her feet, watching us. Yolanda leans down and picks up the cat and places it back on her lap and starts petting it again. She seems lost in a trance before she blinks and slowly nods.

  “That is what one of the men said before they opened fire. When men like those come to kill, they do so with a purpose more than just killing. They want to make a point. And they make sure their point is known.”

  I ask, “How can they get away with that?”

  Yolanda smiles.

  “You are not from around here, are you?”

  She squints at me.

  “You sound American. Are you American? If you are American, then I cannot imagine you write for any newspaper in this country.”

  I say nothing. Gabriela says nothing. Yolanda issues a heavy sigh and goes back to petting the cat.

  “The cartels can do whatever it is they please, especially in towns like this one. We have no local law enforcement. We are just common people. We do not have much money, so politicians do not care about us. When President Cortez entered office last year, he promised to do something about the cartel violence. He ran on that platform. The cartels did everything they could to try to stop him—they even murdered his son and his son’s family—but he still won.”

  Yolanda nods to herself, still petting the cat.

  “Many years ago the people in towns like this stood up to the cartels. They called themselves autodefensas. They were tired of the cartels coming into their towns and doing whatever they pleased. They started to fight back.”

  I ask, “What happened?”

  Gabriela answers.

  “They were eventually disbanded. The movement became too large, too unruly. Some of the men started acting just as bad as the cartels. They would steal from the people. Some raped women. In some cases, cartel members even joined the groups so that they could be on the inside. Nobody knew who was in charge. The government needed to step in. They said that those who wanted to still fight against the cartels could do so but they would need to join the Army and register their weapons. Many of them did, while a few refused. Those were arrested.”

  I glance at Yolanda.

  “Where did this happen?”

  The old woman says, “It started in Michoacán. But a few similar groups popped up around the country in different states. There are more regular citizens than there are cartel members. But the cartel has a lot of money, and they have a lot of weapons, which makes it difficult for a town such as ours to fight back.”

  There’s a silence. The only sounds are the continued sobbing out in the town square and the cat purring on Yolanda’s lap.

  The old woman watches me. For a moment, it feels like Gabriela isn’t even in the room with us, that the cat isn’t even there, and it’s just Yolanda and myself.

  The woman says, “I wonder when it will happen agai
n.”

  “When what will happen again?”

  “When Morales will feel the need to prove a point. When he will send more men to kill the people of this town. Tonight is not the first time it has happened, and it most certainly will not be the last. I wonder when it will happen again. I wonder … I wonder how many people will die next time.”

  Twenty-Eight

  I drive us back to the city.

  Gabriela is too shaken to drive. At least, that’s the impression I get. She doesn’t say it so much as displays it with her actions. Her hand trembled when she gave me her keys, and when she slipped inside the car she slumped down in her seat and stared out her window and didn’t say anything.

  A half hour has passed since we left La Miserias and it’s at least another half hour to go before we hit the city.

  I clear my throat.

  “How do you feel?”

  Gabriela doesn’t answer.

  I let it go for another minute, just driving, trying to figure out what I can possibly say to the girl to get her to come around.

  But then she shifts in her seat and looks at me.

  “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

  Her voice is so soft I can barely hear it over the tires humming on the highway.

  “You don’t think you can do what anymore?”

  “Just … this.”

  She motions at the car’s dashboard, as if that explains everything. Which in a way it does. I know exactly what she means, but I want to hear her say the words.

  “What’s this?”

  She takes a heavy breath, staring hard at me now.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. I thought I could do it—I’d done it for months already without any problems—but after tonight …”

  She shakes her head as her voice fades away. She leans back in her seat, places her head against the headrest. Doesn’t say anything else.

  I check the rearview mirror once again to make sure we’re not being followed.

  “Earlier today teenagers with guns came at us. Do you not remember that happening?”

  She issues a soft, desperate laugh.