by Chuck Holton
A lot had changed in Boyle Heights in eight years. The government had pumped money into the neighborhood projects—new paint and landscaping were supposed to discourage the drug trade. Everything else seemed more run-down than he remembered it. And smaller.
Or maybe eight years in the military taught you that civilization didn’t end on the other side of the interstate.
When he was a kid, this place had been his whole world. He still remembered riding his bike beneath the towering palm trees to Hostetter playground, a few blocks away from the projects. He and his amigos would climb around in the bamboo thicket that edged the soccer field. In their minds, it might as well have been a trek to the jungles of South America.
Later on, things became more complicated. All the neighborhoods in East L.A. had their respective gangs, and when he was fourteen, Rip was initiated into his: the Varrio Nuevo Estrada or VNE. Suddenly it seemed that enemies were everywhere.
Rip learned quickly how to take a punch—and to give one. He knew how to handle a nine-millimeter before he got his driver’s license, and at fifteen he rode along on his first drive-by, just a mile west of where he was now jogging.
Rip pushed those memories from his mind, concentrating on his rhythm, pumping his legs and arms, breathing deliberately and deeply, feeling the sweat burning in his eyes. He couldn’t outrun his past, but it might not hurt to try.
The tree-lined street was considerably darker and quieter than the one he’d just left. Apartment complexes lined both sides of the street. The smell of tortillas frying wafted from one side of the street, a dog barked on the other.
When the sidewalk ended, he ran down the middle of the deserted street, burning his lungs with exertion. Mile marker two was the corner just ahead. He checked the split on his watch again. Seven-oh-two. Now we’re talking.
Rip had always been a strong runner, but he had definitely lost some of it on the recent string of deployments. Spending too much time trying not to get blown up. Well, that and playing Xbox with his teammates Sweeney and Buzz.
Three and a half minutes later, he came to the T intersection at Dacotah Street. The sight of his old elementary school just ahead brought back tons of memories: his first girlfriend, playing soccer at every recess.
He turned right, and the old soccer field came into view, now a baseball diamond surrounded by a high chain-link fence. A knot of kids gathered around two vehicles parked at the curb, Tejano music blaring from their souped-up sound systems.
That’s the same two cars that were drag racing on Eighth Street.
Slowing a bit as he approached, he noticed something else familiar. The colors being worn by everyone.
VNE. The old gang.
Then he saw a girl with long black hair and a supershort miniskirt leaning against a boy, apparently the driver of the yellow import. He wore baggy trousers, a white tank top, and a black VNE bandanna tied around his head.
“Gabi!”
Rip’s younger sister whirled to see who had called her name. She quickly dropped the cigarette she was holding. But that concerned him less than the object stuck in her boyfriend’s waistband.
That’s a Glock nine-millimeter pistol!
“Hey, Rip. ¿Qué pasó?”
A girl in the group hissed appreciatively at his athletic, sweat-soaked frame. “¡Ay, Papi!”
Rip ignored her. “What’s up?” Blood rose in his face, and his heart rate spiked again, but this time not from exertion. He walked to his little sister, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her away from the boy.
“Go home, Gabi. Now.” He kept his eyes on the gun, which was suddenly in the right hand of the punk with the do-rag.
“Hey!” She jerked her arm away.
The older youth pushed off from the car and leveled the gun at Rip, staring him down. “Yo, ese. You got a problem with my chica?”
Rip didn’t hesitate. His right hand snatched the pistol’s grip while his left hand slapped the barrel to one side. With a flick of his wrist, the Glock was in his hands, now pointed back at the startled youth.
“Step back, homie.” Rip glared down the barrel of the Glock. “You’ve got about two seconds to stand down or spend the rest of your life breathing through a tube. Your choice.”
The kid couldn’t be more than seventeen, with multiple facial piercings and a wispy bit of fuzz on his chin that he probably thought was a goatee. His hands shot up in surrender.
Five or six other Latinos crowded around, whistling in disbelief.
What had he gotten himself into? Rip had a feeling this was going to end badly. What could he do? Shoot the punk? That’d set a great example for his little sister.
“Whoa, whoa, hang on a minute, vato.” Gabi put up a hand to stave off the confrontation. “Rip, this is my homie Chaco. Chaco, this is my hermano. Rip was VNE back in the day, before he went off to the Army.”
The mood changed quickly, the tension melting like butter in a hot skillet. A few of the gang members grinned nervously. Feeling like an idiot, Rip thumbed the Glock’s magazine release and dropped the seventeen-round clip into his left hand. Then he jerked the pistol’s slide to the rear, ejecting the round in the chamber.
He handed the empty pistol back to Chaco. “Put it away, ese. It’s not a toy.”
The scruffy teen regained his tough facade. “You get that big mouth in the Army?” Chaco hissed.
“Nope.” Rip turned away from the punk. “I picked it up on the block.” He put a hand on Gabi’s shoulder. “Come on. We need to talk.”
Nobody followed as they walked away. They went several blocks before either of them spoke.
“Mom sent you out to find me?” Gabi asked quietly.
Rip stopped and looked at her. “No, she didn’t; I was going for a run. But she said you were supposed to be home by dark. Look, are you trying to worry Mami to death?”
Gabi dropped her head and stared at her shoes. “No. She worries too much.”
“Sure she does. Her thirteen-year-old daughter is out around midnight on a school night, running with the VNE, playing kissy-face with some punk who thinks you—and his Glock 19—are toys. What does she have to worry about?” Rip stooped and tossed the pistol’s magazine into a storm drain.
They walked for another minute in silence.
“That was a really cool move, bro.”
Fury welled up inside of him. He wanted to grab Gabi and shake some sense into her. “No, it wasn’t, Gabi. It wasn’t cool. It was stupid. And so is your hanging with the VNE.”
She seemed genuinely surprised. “What are you talking about? It was good enough for you, wasn’t it?”
Rip put his fists to his temples in frustration. “Being in a gang almost got me killed, girl! And I know how they treat their chicas.” He flipped the hem of Gabi’s miniskirt. “And what are you telling them by wearing this, huh?”
He shook his head. “Look, I know you want the boys to like you, but that’s not the way to do it. You don’t understand how a guy’s mind works. You wear that, you’re telling them you’re in play, you know?”
Gabi looked hurt. “But Chaco loves me.”
He snorted. “He might love parts of you, but not the way you think.” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with my little sister.
He stopped on the sidewalk leading up to the front door of their apartment. “Gabi, the VNE is a dead-end street. Take it from me. Stay away from them!”
His sister’s face was passive as she pushed past him up the steps. Before opening the door, she turned to him. “Sometimes a girl has to make her own mistakes.”
The screen door slapped shut. Rip just stared after his sister for a moment, trying to decide if he should follow her inside.
He turned and started running again. Another mile might cool his emotions. But as he ran, a thought punched him in the gut.
Mistakes. Just like your father.
Panama City. Panama. 1103 hours
“YOU SHOULD NOT do this thing, mija.”
&
nbsp; Fernanda Lerida shifted her cell phone to the opposite ear and smiled at the concern in her mother’s voice. “It will be fine, Mama. Really! This is the chance of a lifetime.” She motioned for the taxi driver to stop.
“Traveling with three men? And in the jungle, no less. It is not becoming of a young lady from a family such as ours, dear one.”
As if I’d never set foot in the jungle. Fernanda shook her head as the taxi rolled to a halt. Oh, how she had come to hate her mother’s constant reminders of her social status.
“I won’t be the only girl. Hedi is going too.” She grinned at the tall blonde in the seat next to her.
“She is the student from Germany who arrived in Panama last month?”
“Right. She’s with me now. Anyway, Carlos will look out for me, and Professor Quintero is …”
She knew the professor’s status as one of the top entomologists on the planet wouldn’t leave her mother nearly as impressed as Fernanda was. “He’s a highly respected biologist and has years of experience in the jungle. We’ll be fine.”
“I do not care if Carlos is your cousin. He is an immature boy. What is that noise in the background?”
“We’re headed to Avenida Central to pick up a few last-minute things.”
Her mother’s voice went from concerned to almost hysterical. “Avenida Central? What are you doing there? What could you possibly need in the Chorrillo District, the worst part of the city! The only people who—”
“Er … just a minute, Mama.” She put the phone on the seat and asked the driver, “¿Cuánto?”
“Dos cincuenta.”
She quickly fished three bills from her purse and handed it to him as she opened the door.
“Gracias, amigas,” the man said appreciatively as the girls slid out.
“Don’t forget your daypack, Hedi!” Fernanda reached in, retrieved the bag, handed it to her friend, then closed the door.
She turned back to her mother, who was still ranting. “Calm down, Mama. We’re here because there’s an Army Surplus store that sells camping supplies. Believe it or not, they don’t have stores like that in Albrook Mall or the Multicentro Plaza downtown.”
Her mother sighed. “Fernanda, this voyage … this island … it is a very, very bad place. You do not remember the Noriega years. You were too young. But during that time, we heard stories about the things that went on in the penitentiaries on Isla Coiba … unspeakable things. Many men who were sent there never returned.”
Fernanda plugged her other ear as a brightly painted bus blasted its horn at the taxi, still sitting where they’d left it. Not that the car could have moved if it wanted to. Late morning traffic in Panama City was like a car wreck and a parade put together.
She and Hedi ducked into a shoe store where it was marginally quieter. “I’m sure it was terrible, but the prisons were closed down in 2004. Today the island is uninhabited, except for a small number of park rangers and environmental police. Oh, Mama! The island is almost completely covered with virgin triple-canopy forest. Do you know what that means?”
“The dead should be left in peace, dear.”
Her mother wasn’t listening. As usual. “That’s just superstition talking. That island may very well hold the secrets to the cure for cancer or AIDS! If it hadn’t been for the prisons there, the whole island would probably be inhabited by now. The prisoners actually saved the island from development.”
“Perhaps, but you will miss the coffee harvest this year. We need you in the office to do the accounting, especially now that your father is gone. The coffee business this year … has not been doing so well.”
Here it comes. When all else fails, pile on the guilt. It was pointless to argue. Fernanda stifled her anger. It wasn’t fair to use Papa’s death as a way to control her, but that was what her mother had always been good at—control.
“Papa would have encouraged me to go. I will only miss one week, and then I’ll be there. I promise. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, Mama, and I am not going to miss it.”
Fernanda hoped her voice sounded more resolute than she felt, but she needed to stand up for herself. Papa would have liked that too.
A short silence on the other end of the line stood between them. Then her mother sighed. “Do what you must, mija. I will pray without ceasing. Please be careful.”
“Claro, Mama. I will.” She pushed the disconnect button, dropped the phone into her purse, then covered her face with her hands. Why did every conversation with her mother leave her exhausted?
“Everything all right?” Hedi patted her on the arm.
Fernanda dropped her hands and took a deep breath. “Yes. Sorry about that. My mother has a very strong personality. She knows what everyone should do and never hesitates to tell them.”
Hedi smiled. “Ja. I have an aunt in Munich like that. She should have been running a company instead of a family.”
Fernanda chuckled. “My mother does both.”
Outside, the wonderful smell of vendors roasting meat mixed with the acrid odor of too many people, too close together. Street vendors crowded along the sidewalk on Avenida Central, mostly hawking variations of the same products: souvenir jewelry, cell phone accessories, and cheap hats.
Fernanda and Hedi walked south toward where the taxi driver said they would find the surplus store. Within half a block, Avenida Central became a pedestrian-only street, and throngs of shoppers replaced the noisy traffic. They passed two very short brown women dressed in brightly colored dresses and beaded leggings, with red scarves on their heads.
Hedi nodded toward the women. “Are those the kind of Indians your family hires to pick coffee?”
“No, these are Kuna Indians. They live on islands on the Caribbean side of Panama. My family lives in Boquete, in the mountains near Costa Rica. The Indians there call themselves Guaymi. They’re very different from the Kuna.”
“This is amazing. I never—Oh!” Hedi cried out as she spun around and went sprawling to the pavement.
Fernanda whirled to see two young men running away from them. “Hey!” Anger ignited within, and she started to give chase but quickly thought better of it. She turned back to Hedi, who was collecting the contents of her daypack from the sidewalk.
“What happened?”
Hedi was flustered. “I … I felt something tugging at my bag, and when I turned around, I guess I tripped.” She pushed her blond hair behind one ear with a shaky hand. “I’m okay, though. Ach. It scared me.”
Several onlookers encouraged them to call the police. Fernanda waved them off as she helped her friend to her feet. “Did they steal anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
They looked up to see two policemen in olive drab fatigues coming toward them. Fernanda had a short conversation with them in Spanish, and the men hurried off in the direction the two thieves had taken.
“What did they say?” Hedi asked as they started off again.
“That they’ve been having problems with pickpockets in this area recently. They said we should be more careful and offered to escort us to the surplus store. I told them that wouldn’t be necessary.”
Hedi snorted. “They probably wanted a date.”
“Maybe.” Fernanda giggled. “Your long blond hair and blue eyes really stand out around here.”
“Are you kidding? I’d give anything to be thin and exotic looking like you are. And your green eyes are prettier than mine. Besides, I’m built like a rugby player.”
“Well, Miss Rugby Player, the next time somebody tries to open your bag, tackle them!”
Hedi stuck her chin out. “I just might. Maybe I’ll tackle us some cute policemen while I’m at it.”
They laughed and locked arms as they continued down the busy street, passing a row of women selling lottery tickets. Hedi stopped to examine some of them. “Whose picture is on these tickets?”
Fernanda squinted at the tiny picture. “I think it’s Jesus, or maybe one of the saints.”
“On a lottery ticket? Why?”
Fernanda smirked. “I guess for good luck. It’s part of the Catholic culture of Latin America.”
“So you’re Catholic?”
Fernanda smiled. “Well, no, actually my family is Protestant, thanks to some missionaries who came to Chiriquí years ago.”
“Wow. In Germany, nobody goes to church. Well, almost nobody. The churches near where I live are somewhat like museums—full of old, pretty things, but kind of cold and boring.”
“Really? So you don’t go to church?”
“Never. You?”
“Sure, when I can. School has been keeping me pretty busy lately, but there’s a great church near the Albrook Mall I like a lot.”
Fernanda looked up at a huge red sign on the building across the street. “Here’s our store, amiga. Do you still have the list Professor Quintero gave us?”
“I think so.” Hedi fished in her bag and pulled out a folded note card. “Here it is.”
Thirty minutes later, they exited the store with new backpacks, machetes, and various other items for the trip.
“Hey,” Hedi said, “let’s skip the taxi and ride a Diablo Rojo back to campus.”
Fernanda groaned. “Nooo! I hate those horrible buses. They’re so smelly and obnoxious.”
“Come on. I’ve dated several guys like that, but it doesn’t mean they weren’t fun! Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Fernanda looked into the bag she was carrying. “If this gear is any indication, we’re going to be in for plenty of adventure on this trip.”
Fort Bragg, North Carolina. 2100 hours
A HAND FIRMLY SQUEEZED Rip’s shoulder, but he didn’t turn around. His attention focused on the twin green circles defining his field of vision, all that was afforded by the AN/PVS 15 night-vision goggles mounted on his ballistic helmet.
Through them, he could easily make out the dirty, battered door three feet in front of him. A shiny new padlock hung from the hasp above the knob.
The squeeze said that the rest of the team behind him was ready. Rip crept forward to the door and carefully molded the puttylike C2 explosive charge onto the lock.
