Three of the remaining narcos crowd a smoldering, gaping hole in the wall, scanning for adversaries. With any luck, they’ll stay there.
I advance through a pile of overturned barrels, crouching close to the floor. The outside battle drowns the crunch of debris under my feet, but have any of The Brotherhood spotted me?
I inch closer. By now, every pore in my body is filled with some combination of dirt, sweat, and blood. My wound and sweating brow add to it every second.
The gunfire grows louder, a feat I wouldn’t have thought possible. Is the battle drawing closer? No time to worry about that now. Just another reason to find Oscar as fast as I can.
A pair of narcos hang back from the wall’s blast hole, ducking behind a collapsed barrel-storage rack. They’re no more than ten meters from the pile of smashed barrels serving as my hiding spot.
An hour ago, I could have taken out these two assholes with well-placed kicks to their balls. But I’m running out of uninjured body parts to fight with. Better to use my rifle.
I aim the M4, but a heart that threatens to pound itself out of my chest sets the end of the barrel wobbling. I can’t afford to miss—not outnumbered two-to-one at pointblank range—so I pause. Thirty seconds allow my pounding heart to slow a bit.
Even here, Taekwondo techniques prove useful. Before squeezing the trigger, I rehearse the motion in my mind, mapping out the series of movements that will take out the narcos before they’ll have time to react.
With a final deep inhale and release, I look down the sights and fire off a pair of rounds into the first man’s torso. I figure the second guy will try to jump behind the edge of the storage rack for cover, so I’m swinging my rifle to that spot before the first narco hits the floor. Sure enough, the other man jumps right into my line of sight. My rifle runs out of ammo after the second trigger pull, but it doesn’t matter. The man’s cranium exploded on the first shot.
Two more down. Looks like only three are left, and they’re hunkered down at the wall’s blast site, less concerned about the gun battle behind them than the potential of a squad of federales from outside overwhelming their position.
A gap between the two narcos I just took out catches my eye. I slide round the right side of my debris pile to get a closer look…and draw up short with a gasp.
Between the narcos, an unmoving figure lies sprawled under the pile of debris. A pool of blood has collected under a mop of black hair. Dust coats the youth, but his physique is wiry and lean—just like Oscar.
CHAPTER 50
I creep forward.
Tears in my eyes render identification of the body nearly impossible. I inch closer.
Oblivious to the trio of narcos a dozen meters away, I kneel over the body. With a sense of dread, I pull the head towards me.
Thank God! It’s not—
A supernova of pain explodes in my ribcage. I tumble to my side as a boot draws back to land another blow.
The rifle slips from my limp fingers. I curl up into the fetal position, my lungs incapable of drawing in the air I so desperately need.
Rather than pummeling me again, the boot kicks the M4, sending it skittering across the floor.
“Puta!” snarls Volante. “Get up!”
The drug lord himself. Wonderful.
A tendril of oxygen reaches my lungs. The stars in my eyes begin to dissolve. My clearing vision reveals Volante preparing to launch another kick.
Before he can act, I fight to rise. A wave a lightheadedness washes over me, sending me flopping back to the floor just as I’d pulled myself up on a knee.
He lands a vicious kick on my right shoulder. A groan escapes my lips. If my scapula—shoulder bone—isn’t broken, it’s injured on a level unlike anything I’ve experienced, including my years of martial arts.
Volante stares down at me, oblivious to the noise of the continuing gun battle at the main entrance. The fighting doesn’t seem to rattle him. In fact, a maniacal gleam shines from his eyes. Has he been sampling his own product, or has the adrenaline of combat amped him up?
“I said get up!” he growls, just as the sound of gunfire tapers off.
With both arms injured, rising proves to be a challenge. I rock back and forth a few times, building momentum until I can come to a sitting position. The spike in pain caused by the motion produces a wave a nausea. I freeze a moment until the sensation passes, then fold my legs underneath me and rise on unsteady legs. Both injuries continue to send agonizing pain lancing through my torso and neck.
El Granjero studies me. “You’re the girl who showed up the other day. Gabriela Goza, right?”
I stare him in the eyes. “Yeah, that’s me. And this is my family’s property.”
He laughs. “I know all about your family. Probably more than you do.”
I remain silent. No way will I let him bait me into a comment that might elicit another kick or punch, not while I’m so dizzy. One more serious blow and I’ll be down for the count.
“Yes, I know the Goza family.” He tucks his rifle under his arm, like a cowboy. “Your father called me, trying to negotiate his kid’s release. But what does he have that I’d want? I’m not giving him up for nothing.”
At first, I’m too stunned to speak. Is that the task Papi left to do in such a hurry?
“My father?” I say at last.
“Yeah, chica. He’s the smart one of the family. He knows better than to try to trip me up. You should have followed his lead and ignored us.”
“So he knew…?”
Volante sneers. “Told you I know more than you do. Yeah, he figured out we were here, even before we went after your brother. But he was smart enough to not to make a fuss about it. Smarter than your abuelo. Now there’s a man who wasn’t known for making good choices, especially concerning money.”
“Why? Did he borrow money from you?”
Volante laughs, a harsh, cruel bark. “He didn’t need to, chiquitita. He had all he needed—until he got stupid.”
A chill runs through my body. “What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you know? When he was a teenager, Armando was one of us…a narco. One of the best, from what I’ve heard. But he fell for a pretty face and said he wanted out. The cartel bosses told him he’d never make the kind of money he made with us, but he was like all the lovesick dogs—went on and on about how he didn’t need money, just enough to live on.”
Volante scratches the stubble on his chin. “But you know…he was right, for a while. He did good at first.” He glances around the grime and cobwebs. “But it looks like he didn’t have a head for business, huh? From what I heard, he was so focused on making his tequila perfect, he forgot the bottom line. By the time he figured out his recipe, he had too much debt to recover.”
His face darkens. “But then he saw us in town when we arrived. I’m a lot older than the last time he saw me, but you could see from his expression he recognized me. And when that happened, I knew we couldn’t leave him alive. He knew too much—names, aliases, hidden tunnels, all our drop-off spots. He could have a hundred federales here if he wanted.”
“But he didn’t!”
“He turned his back on us. He knew what that meant. We couldn’t trust him.”
“He didn’t even know you were in his old distillery. He never would have sent me out here if he’d known that.”
Volante shrugs. “Maybe. But now you’ve seen us, too.” He takes two steps forward and untucks the rifle from beneath his arm. “You’re a cutie. I’d keep you around if I could—at least long enough to have some fun. But business is business.” He raises the rifle and nestles the stock into his shoulder.
My right leg flashes out in a kick that lands straight in his groin.
He doubles over, his face screwing up in agony. I’d always wondered if my Taekwondo instincts would kick in during a moment of crises. Question answered.
I’ve disabled Volante, but at a cost. The spike of pain elicits a swirl of stars in my vision and sends the floor tipping sideways at a
n impossible angle. Before I know what’s happening, I’ve crashed onto the cement floor with a thud.
A glance over at Volante reveals a pair of evil eyes glaring my direction through a mask of pain written in his features. I have to finish him off before he kills me.
I try to stand. No go. Pain and more nausea send me careening to the floor again. I land backwards on a storage-shelf board resting at an angle atop a pile of debris, then slide down its rough surface. The fall sends a fresh jolt of pain in my lower back as I land on something sandwiched between me and the board.
The clatter of approaching footsteps echoes from the hallway leading to the main entrance. Better finish off Volante while I can, before the rest of his thugs arrive.
Struggling against pain, the gang leader raises himself onto his elbows.
My efforts to recover are less successful. The steady deterioration from my injuries has laid me out. Even rolling on my side induces an almost unbearable ripple of pain.
Volante staggers to his feet and grins, the fox preparing to raid the henhouse.
He draws a wicked hunting knife from a scabbard at his side. “And now, puta, it’s time for you to join your abuelo.”
CHAPTER 51
I try to rise, but the slightest movement sends debilitating pain through both arms.
Volante advances, his grin growing wider.
With the last of my strength, I reach around to my jeans’ rear waistband and withdraw the pistol I stashed there after my encounter with Scarface at the convenience store this afternoon.
Volante has just begun to register surprise when I empty the sidearm’s magazine into his chest and head. The maelstrom of bullets launches him backwards into a bloody heap on the floor.
I fall back, exhausted. A new level of pain threatens to overwhelm me.
The stomping of boots from the hallway grows louder—more narcos. How will the snake react, now that its head has been cut off? Probably not well. Even if the Sinaloa rats have somehow managed to overpower Volante’s crew, that outcome suggests no brighter outcome for me. Either way, I’ll be raped and murdered.
Pushing through this thought is a flood of anguish for my brother. I wish there were some way to tell Oscar I tried my best to rescue him.
A rushing noise fills my ears, blocking out all sounds except those of my shallow, rapid breaths.
One of the three narcos guarding the gap in the wall stands and fires. He starts to yell, but incoming rounds cut him to ribbons. His two compadres raise their hands in the air in an apparent surrender. Seems an odd tactic. Wouldn’t the Sinaloa Cartel narcos shoot them down whether they give up or fight?
My vision begins to fade.
Dark forms pass through the hole in the wall and slam the surrendering narcos to the ground. I turn my head, no longer willing to watch the scene play out. They’ll find me soon enough, and before long, I’ll wish I was dead. And then they’ll grant that wish.
The clatter of narcos approaching down the hallway reaches the aging-room’s entrance. More dark forms enter.
Wait…
These aren’t narcos. They’re federales! But who could have called them? Carlos and Miguel agreed that doing so would put Oscar’s life in peril, so none of us had informed the federal police.
Maybe Volante was right to be worried. Perhaps Abuelo contacted them, a last service before meeting his untimely end.
My senses decline. Before I lose consciousness, federales spot my bloody form among the wreckage and stream towards me.
Who is that in the middle of them? I wipe the dirt from my eyes and stare. It looks like Papi, but it can’t be, can it?
The police officers’ shouted conversations devolve into indistinguishable chatter, and my world fades to black.
CHAPTER 52
I awake to find myself on an ambulance gurney. A line of plastic tubing runs from an IV pole into my right arm—that one that wasn’t shot.
Speaking of arms…I flex both of them. Whatever medicine the IV line contains is topnotch. The pain has been reduced from flames of agony to a dull discomfort. Still, I’m paranoid to move too much.
I shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs. I raise my head a few centimeters off the stretcher. The gurney is located outside the distillery’s main entrance, about thirty meters back. It’s still nighttime, and a throng of police cars and emergency vehicles have crowded onto the cleared path between the agave fields. Rotating red-and-blue lights lend the scene a carnival-like quality.
Floodlights illuminate a sight straight from a World War II battlefield. Under the lights’ stark glare, plastic sheets cover bodies arrayed in and around the building. The main entrance looks to have taken a beating from the exchange of gunfire.
Oscar! Has he been located? And what about Miguel?
A female officer strides within a meter or two.
“Officer,” I call out, surprised at how feeble my voice has become.
Her annoyed expression disappears when she sees who’s calling her. She veers over to my side and rests her hand on my uninjured shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. I need to know about my brother. Have they found him?” I’m not sure whether or not I truly want to know the answer.
“Oscar Goza?”
“Yes!”
“I’m sorry, but there’s no news. We’ve searched the distillery top to bottom but haven’t found him…” She ends the sentence in a manner suggesting she cut herself short. Was she about to finish with “alive or dead”?
“Okay, thanks. And there was a guy with me. He was shot. I bandaged him up and left him in the fermentation room.”
She screws up her face in concentration. “There are a lot of wounded people in there. But I think I know who you’re talking about. Miguel Rosa?”
“That’s him.”
“They took him straight to the hospital…about thirty minutes ago.”
“So he’s alive?” I ask.
A worried light enters the officer’s eye. She uses her hand to brush a strand of hair out of my face. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
That’s police-speak for no. I swallow the biggest-ever lump in my throat. His death hits me harder than I would have guessed. A lot harder.
The police woman glances around. “I’ll get the doctor, now that you’re awake.”
“No, it’s okay.”
But the officer has already left.
I’m not waiting around for a physical exam. What if Volante buried Oscar somewhere in the agave fields? The Los Zetas Cartel did that a few years ago, figuring the technique would ensure their ransom demands would be met. If that’s Oscar’s predicament, he may have only hours to live. Or minutes. I can’t wait to see how long the police will take before sending someone to look for him.
I struggle to rise sit-up style, avoiding the use of my arms. After unbuckling the straps on my legs and detaching the IV needle from my arm, I lower myself down to the dirt path.
I scan the enormous agave fields. The glare of floodlights penetrate to only a few dozen meters. Beyond that, moonlight creates a foreboding pattern of light and obsidian shadows. Racing through those hectares at random will never work.
Time to think like Volante. If I were a cartel leader, where would I stash a hostage? What spot would be both secure and difficult to find?
Flat, monotonous agave fields cover most of the terrain around here. Not a good place to keep someone out of sight. I cast my mind outwards, performing a mental inventory of the land I’ve explored since birth.
What about the lava tubes at the base of the volcanic foothills? Those leftover tunnels from the volcanos’ active days would make an ideal hiding spot. They’re not very big, but they don’t need to be. After all, how much room would a scrawny, bound-and-gagged teenager require?
Those tubes lie a good five kilometers to the south. It will take a while to get there, especially in my weakened condition. I turn to get help from the police but halt mid-stride. These are federal agents, not the
local corrupt ones. They’ll be brimming with confidence and will scarcely take the theories of a wounded civilian seriously.
I can’t take the chance they’ll pack me off to the hospital. I turn back towards the foothills and set off. The path leads me into a nearby field. Within seconds, the floodlights’ glow has faded, leaving me trudging along in the dark.
Once my eyes adjust to the reduced lighting, the panoramic landscape shines silver in the moon’s glow. After a handful of minutes, my arms begin to throb. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, after all.
My feet grow heavier with each step. They plod along, slower with each pace.
Then my lips draw together in grim determination. After losing Carlos and Miguel, I’m not going to lose my brother, too—not if I can help it. In a week, I won’t remember how tired and sore I am at this moment, but I’ll live with the results of this search the rest of my life.
I quicken my pace.
After a quarter hour, my breath comes in short bursts. In a daze, I recoil from the sharp point of a piña leaf jabbing my arm and stagger sideways before regaining my balance.
The foothills…they’re still so far away, and I’m already exhausted. I lower my gaze, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
Raising my eyes again to get my bearings, I freeze. A lithe figure with a thick shock of hair is bounding across the agave fields, headed in my direction.
I duck behind the closest agave plant, waiting for the man to pass.
But it’s not a man…not really.
It’s…
“Oscar!” I cry out. “Over here!” I wave my arms frantically, then recoil from the ache the motion produces. Not smart, but I’m too happy to care.
He spots me. “Gaby? Gaby!”
He launches into a sprint, as do I. Like a scene from a sappy movie, we fall into each other’s arms and wrap in a tight embrace, silent for a full minute in the midst of agave farmland.
At last, we pull apart.
I study Oscar’s face. Wouldn’t have thought it possible, but it’s leaner than before. Otherwise, he looks unharmed.
“I was so worried,” I tell him. “How did you escape?”
The Rebel of Goza Page 14
