Sahara Dawn

by David F. Berens

  Juana showed Chris into the cramped bedroom and pointed towards a chair at a small desk. He took a seat and the girl sat on the bed. She took a half-smoked joint from an ashtray and lit it up again. After a long drag, she held it out in Chris’s direction. He shook his head to decline. Juana smiled.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “You can call me James.”

  “Yeah, but what’s your name?”

  Chris smiled back. She was clearly no stranger to this sort of thing.

  “James is all you’re getting. And anyway, I have much more to offer you than my name. I just need a few photos of your boy. I was told he looks a lot like his father.”

  The glint in Juana’s eyes disappeared. It seemed she didn’t think the man in question deserved that title or any of the endearment that went with it.

  “And I need a short recorded statement. Someone should have told you what to say already. Once I get that, you’ll have the funds to keep you in weed for years.”

  “Sure,” Juana said, shrugging. “I need to see the money though.”

  Chris took out a large envelope, which he opened to reveal the top few $20 bills. Juana tried not to seem impressed. She pulled out her phone and said: “what’s your number?”

  Chris held up a number on his own phone.

  “You’ll give me your number but not your name?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  There was no need to tell Juana this was a burner phone that would be used for the sole purpose of storing her photos and statement. He swiped to a voice recording app.

  “Just say your first name, the name of the warden, and what happened to you. Okay?”

  Juana nodded. She leaned towards the phone as Chris held it out. She said everything she was asked to and more, going into graphic detail that wasn’t necessary but might help Chris when he played the recording to the warden.

  “Thank you,” Chris said. “You’ll be helping someone a lot, and you’ll make Ruiz sweat once he knows this information could end up being passed to people in high places. By all accounts, he’s one of those men who enjoys his reputation as a pillar of society. If he’s not going to take responsibility for his child, he should at least suffer the guilt and shame.”

  “I don’t really care,” Juana replied. “Just give me the money.”

  Chris handed over the envelope. He was happy to get this wrapped up without any further small talk. Juana quickly took out roughly half the money and stuffed it into a drawer, leaving the rest in the envelope. It was an odd move, and Chris guessed she was going to split it with someone whom she planned to lie to about the amount. But it wasn’t any of his business what happened to the money now. He nodded at the girl and walked out of the door.

  The cold, hard steel of a muzzle pressed against his temple. He stopped dead. His pulse quickened, but his mind stayed calm. He took in the room, assessing the situation and the tools he could use to escape it.

  “Do you think I need the hassle of ruining a prison warden’s life?” Juana said from behind him. “He would come after me. He would have someone put a bullet in my head. That’s why my friend here is going to put a bullet in your head.”

  “Phone,” Antonio growled.

  “It’s in my pocket,” Chris said calmly. “You can take it from my cold, dead body after you’ve killed me.”

  The man pushed the gun harder into Chris’s flesh.

  “What’s the problem?” Chris continued. “I’m defenseless and you’re ready to shoot. Just take me out then you can get what you need. Simple.”

  “Phone!” Antonio said again, agitated. His nervousness contrasted with Chris’s smooth demeanor.

  “Except it’s not simple,” Chris continued. “Because this is Mexico City, not some province run by a cartel. People know the address I was heading to, and the police will find my blood on the walls. You’ll spend your life behind bars for getting involved in something that I guess doesn’t even really concern you. Who are you, her landlord? Roommate?”

  There was a moment of silence and Antonio was clearly conflicted.

  “And by the way,” she’s going to lie to you about how much cash I gave her.”

  Antonio twisted his head sharply to look at Juana. Chris took his chance.

  He slammed an elbow into the man’s rib cage with brutal force, hearing one of the ribs crack. As the guy bent double, Chris rammed the same elbow into the back of his head. Antonio crumpled to the ground and the weapon skidded across the floor.

  Chris stumbled sideways as the man thrust his shoulder forward and put all his weight into the tackle. Antonio pumped his legs and carried Chris towards a far wall, which he hit with a thud. Suddenly, shockingly, he realized he was being bitten. The man had sunk his teeth into Chris’s cheek. He could smell tobacco and booze on the guy’s breath as he tried to push him off. The teeth were sinking deeper.

  Antonio finally released his bite and swung a punch to Chris’s stomach. Chris was amazed at how powerless it was. He’d had enough of this guy.

  He forced Antonio’s naked torso away from him with his left hand while the man tried to go in for another bite. But Chris had made enough room for himself. He swung an uppercut that snapped the man’s head back violently. The blow had extra sting to it as payback for the biting. It was a wretched move and the guy now deserved everything he got.

  And what he got was a left hook that dislocated his jaw. His body went limp as he crashed to the ground. His head bounced off the floor, and for a few seconds he was out cold. During those few seconds, Chris looked at the boy on the sofa and noticed he seemed as undisturbed by the violence around him as he was by the horror on TV.

  “Jorge Ruiz will not come after you,” Chris told Juana as he caught his breath. “I’ll make sure of it. It will be part of our deal.”

  The girl seemed shell shocked. She had clearly had more faith in Antonio than he deserved. She looked down at her collaborator lying on the floor.

  “You said this would be easy,” Antonio whimpered at Juana after opening his eyes. “I still want half the money!”

  “You couldn’t even get the phone, you ass!” Juana barked back. Chris shook his head with contempt at the pathetic attempt of two amateurs to pull off a heist. He strode over and picked the gun off the floor, then he let himself out of the apartment.

  8 Twice Shy

  Tsu Kim sat across the long, formica-covered table from the younger woman who spoke no English. The girl was cute in spite of her jailhouse-dyed blonde hair. The only conversation Tsu could get from her was her name, Delicia Flores. Though the girl wouldn’t, or couldn’t, speak, Tsu got the distinct impression that she was here because she’d gotten messed up with some bad people who had brought her down with them. Even in prison, gang lines held and you were either with one gang or against them—there was no middle ground inside these walls.

  Early on, Tsu simply pretended not to understand the rules or the language and kept her head down. For a time, the other inmates mostly ignored her. Her beauty, though she hated to admit it, would normally attract the attention of anyone, and especially inmates who were bored, full of lust, and looking for a target. But there was something in her eyes that told those who stared at her that they would be taking on more than they bargained for.

  That meant they turned their attention to Delicia. It started as cat-calls and dirty nicknames for the girl, but quickly escalated into threats of physical and sexual harm toward her. The guards seemed uninterested and paid no mind to the growing problem. Not long after the emotional abuse had begun, Tsu overheard a plan to grab the girl after lunch, using the general lunchtime commotion for cover. The plan was for a group of them, five or six, to take their turns abusing Delicia. Knowing the trauma the girl would suffer, along with the fact that the attackers couldn’t leave her alive afterwards, Tsu decided she had to intervene.

  When lunch came around, she made sure she sat opposite the blonde girl. While casually moving food around her plate with no inte
ntion of eating, she slyly nudged Delicia’s foot under the table. The girl squeaked and jumped, frightened by the contact. Tsu whispered in Spanish, telling the girl she was in danger but that it was going to be okay. That she would protect her.

  Tears formed in the girl’s eyes. She knew she would be targeted one day, and was in no way certain that Tsu could do anything to stop what was about to happen. The girl stood up, wiping tears from her cheeks. She slid her tray across the table and turned toward the trash bins. Tsu watched as five others got up and fell in line behind. She quietly rose with her own tray and followed them. Delicia dumped her uneaten food into the first trash can and walked past an armed guard who was chatting it up with one of the inmate dishwashers.

  As she turned into the hallway, the group of attackers each sped up to chase her into the hall. Tsu pretended to trip on her own feet, carefully aiming the edge of her tray into the kidney of the inmate in front of her. She dug it in hard. The woman screeched and clutched around her back as she crumpled into a heap on the floor. She was gasping for air, and she would be pissing blood for a week.

  Tsu caught herself with both hands and used her arms as springs to shove herself toward the next woman. Her right shoulder hit that inmate in the side of her knee, twisting it out of position. Tsu could hear a tearing sound before more screaming filled the air. Two down, three to go. She rolled forward into the hall and saw that three attackers were circling Delicia like sharks. Tsu made a quick threat assessment of the women and chose her first target. Known to the other inmates as Red, the tall, Russian woman with unfortunate tattoos reached out with both hands, grabbing at Delicia. Tsu slipped to the floor, kicking out with her right leg. The sweep connected with Red around her ankles and the woman tumbled to the ground, her nose slamming into the concrete.

  The crack of her face on the floor was like a firecracker going off, and she didn’t move. Tsu guessed she might either be unconscious or even dead from the impact, so she turned to the next woman. An inmate whom she knew called herself “L’il Brat” was staring wide-eyed at her fallen leader, her mouth open in shock. Tsu didn’t wait for her to recover. With cat-like speed, she sprung up onto her feet and into the air. She landed a roundhouse kick to Brat’s face. Several of the woman’s teeth flew out around her in a spray of blood, and she tumbled backward into the remaining attacker. They both hit the floor in a tangle and Brat whimpered something, grabbing at her jaw. The other woman—whom Tsu didn’t recognize—unwrapped herself from the mess and took off running. Brat looked down at Red, who was coming to, groaning as she lifted herself up. Brat glanced up at Tsu. Her eyes were struggling with the age old-decision: fight or flight. Tsu raised her hands and clenched her fists. Brat yelped and took off running.

  Tsu locked eyes with Red and her calmness turned to fear. She had rarely seen eyes like this. This woman had nothing left to lose. She ran at Tsu, screaming. Tsu batted aside her first swing, but Red’s full weight crushed her against the wall, knocking the wind out of her. She then felt a searing pain under her ribs. She knew immediately that Red had a razor blade and had stuck it up her loose-fitting uniform, slicing at the skin. A headbutt rattled Tsu’s skull and caused her head to bounce off the wall. Through blurred vision, she could see that the Russian was trying to get the blade to her throat. She was so close that Tsu could smell tobacco on her breath. She knew that if the woman dug the blade in hard enough and landed in the right place, even a small blade could cause fatal damage.

  Red’s nails were digging into the skin on Tsu’s neck, and the Russian was growling with determination. She had lost the plot, and she had a lust for death in her eyes. Tsu had seen it before. What’s more, the woman was strong. The two were locked in a wrestle, struggling to gain control. Red’s wide and bloodshot eyes were an inch from Tsu’s. Her nails were digging in deep, and she was getting the upper hand. Tsu had fought many highly trained fighters, male and female, but no training was a substitute for pure hatred. It may be because she had barely eaten for days or hadn’t been working out like she should have, but she somehow felt weak. She couldn’t match this big woman for strength.

  Determination disappeared from Tsu’s face. Her eyes suddenly grew desperate and sad with the look of someone who knows they have lost. In a place where many have little hope to begin with, people suddenly find they accept death easily, and Red knew it. The look of hopelessness in Tsu’s eyes was something she had seen before. What she didn’t know was that this look was something Tsu had practiced. It was something she had done multiple times. Giving up and submitting, however, was something she had never done. She wasn’t about to start now.

  The momentary sense of security that this sight had given Red created the opportunity Tsu was looking for. She pushed the woman back with her left hand, just enough to create some space. Then, with crushing speed, she thrust her knee into the Russian’s solar plexus where the ribs meet, knowing that impact in this area of complex nerve fibers would cause the diaphragm to spasm and soften the woman’s defenses as her body dealt with the blow. A millisecond later, she landed a stiff palm-heel strike right under the chin, a technique that puts severe pressure on the neck and spine. The Russian dropped like a stone.

  The guard who had been flirting at the cafeteria door burst through and saw Tsu and Delicia casually walking down the hall away from the scene.

  “Hey, you two. Stop! What happened here?” he called in Spanish, his hand outstretched toward Red’s prone body.

  Tsu squeezed Delicia’s elbow and the girl answered, “Don’t know. She must’ve tripped on something.”

  At that moment, Red rolled over, her face a bloody mess around her nose, and howled. The guard knelt down and called for a medic on his radio. Tsu jerked Delicia away and they continued down the hall without looking back.

  9 One Mistake

  Chris Collins could not help but feel some apprehension as his taxi stirred up a cloud of dust on the long, winding dirt road up to the Cárcel de Alvaro Obregón Salido’s single, rolling gate. A twenty-foot high chain link fence with an evil-looking coil of razor wire stretched at least two hundred feet to the left and right of the gate. Fifteen feet beyond that, another fence wrapped with a similar bunch of wire at the top created a long empty moat between them with tall concrete towers situated at forty-foot intervals. Though he could see a few guards around, he suspected that there were plenty of men with guns in each tower, waiting to shoot anyone who attempted to cross that moat.

  He was pretty sure he was safe and wouldn’t disappear here, but if he was gone for more than seventy-two hours, he had left special instructions for Ned to deal with it. The warden was obviously not the most honest man in the business, given his indiscretions with Juana, but Chris felt secure enough to meet the man on his own turf.

  Jorge Ruiz did not wear fancy suits to work. In fact, in twenty-two years as warden of the Cárcel de Alvaro Obregón Salido, he had only ever worn two uniforms. Most days, they didn’t need cleaning, he simply took them off at the end of the day and hung them up in his closet where they waited for the next morning. Today, however, he’d had blood, mud, and piss flung at him all before lunch. This would be a day, he would have to pull out his second uniform before clocking out for the night.

  To top it all off, he now had a smug-looking white man in a crisp white shirt sitting across his desk, claiming to be CIA. Jorge had ordered his secretary to check the man’s background, but she had no clue how to do that. He nearly shoved her out of his office before she could protest.

  “Thank you for taking time out of your day to meet with me Señor Ruiz,” the man said, steepling his fingers and pressing them against his lips. “I know how busy you must be.”

  If only the man had seen his soiled uniform from earlier, he thought. He shrugged his shoulders, brushing aside the small talk. Though he didn’t have anything pressing on his plate today, he did not relish the thought of chit-chatting with the man all day.

  “Why are you here, Mr., um,” Jorge looked down at a s
crap of paper on his desk, “Collins?”

  Chris had phoned earlier in the week with a bogus story about some intel the CIA had on a recent prison break. Two men had waltzed out of the gate dressed in uniforms they had somehow had smuggled in from the outside. Jorge didn’t need the CIA to tell him how stupid it was, and he had already fired everyone who had worked that day. The prisoners, one of whom was a check-forger, the other having beaten his wife severely, were still at large. Jorge put them at a five on a scale of one to ten in assessing their danger to society.

  The man, who looked like he’d stepped off the set of a movie, leaned forward.

  “Jorge,” he said.

  “Let’s stick with Señor Ruiz, please.”

  The man seemed nonplussed by the gentle rebuke, and smiled.

  “Of course, Señor Ruiz.”

  “Good, now what do you want? You are right to assume I am a busy man so please make it quick. Tell me what you’ve got on the escape.”

  “I think we both know I’m not here to discuss your recent, embarrassing loss of the two prisoners.”

  Jorge felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and failed to keep the blood from rushing into his face. The man named Chris Collins pulled two photographs from his shirt pocket and slid them across the desk. A lump formed in Jorge’s throat and he found it suddenly difficult to swallow.

  The man tapped a photo showing a young boy. “Good looking kid, don’t you think?”

  Jorge said nothing. He slid the photo aside, revealing the photo of a woman underneath it. “And his mother is pretty as well.”

  The warden did not look up, but he did not touch the photographs. He kept his face impassive, a stone facade giving away nothing. He shrugged.

  “Why are you showing me these?”

  “Let’s talk about why I’m really here,” the man leaned back in his chair, not removing the photos. “You have a prisoner here, a woman.”