by Reid, Joseph
“Whoa!” I said, grabbing her wrist and yanking it away. When I spun around to face her, I didn’t let go. Although my brain registered her nakedness, I did my best not to look, to stay focused on her face. “What are you doing?”
Max looked up at me, eyes wide and inviting. “Just trying to help. Trying to say thank you.”
“What . . . what are you talking about? Get dressed.”
A sly smile crept across her face. “You’re a man, I’m a woman—”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, you’re not. You’re a sixteen-year-old girl.”
“A girl who knows what men like.” Her eyes sparkled with excitement now, and she took a step toward me, raising her other hand.
I retreated, but that pressed my back against the wall, and Max kept coming. With my left arm bound in the sling, I couldn’t stop her as she pressed her right hand flat against my chest. I squeezed her other wrist. “No.”
She struggled against my grip a moment; then her eyes flashed again, and her smile turned wild. She ducked and spun around until she was facing away from me, my arm stretched across her belly. “This better?” She bent over, pulling me with her, and started grinding herself against my crotch. “You like it this way? Wanna take me from behind?”
Letting go of Max’s wrist, I kept my arm tucked into her stomach. Then I straightened up, lifting her off the ground. Although she struggled and squirmed, I had her locked as I started toward the bed.
“This. Is. Not. Happening.” I tossed her onto the mattress, then stepped back to the bathroom, where I scooped up the towel in my free hand and flung it over her.
Max curled into a ball on the bed and looked up at me as if I’d struck her across the face. Her eyes welled up, and she began bawling. “Why—why do you hate me?”
The words were a shock. I dropped to one knee at the foot of the bed. “I don’t . . . I don’t hate you—”
“Then why don’t you want me? Want to be with me?”
She started shimmying toward me on her stomach, reaching for me with her arms, but I grabbed her shoulder and stopped her at arm’s length.
“Because it isn’t right.”
Max looked at me through cascades of tears spilling down onto her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and round—confused and scared.
I took a breath to clear the anger and stress from my voice. “But . . . I am not going to let anything hurt you. And I am not going to leave you until you’re safe. I promise you that.”
Her face melted into a sobbing mess, and she lowered it to the sheets. Her whole body shook as she cried—deep, violent breaths causing her back and sides to shudder.
As the tears subsided, though, she started to tremble, to shiver. The color blanched from her skin, and she rolled onto her side, curling into the fetal position. I rose to get her some clothes, but before I could, she began coughing. A loud, choking cough that racked her whole body in spasms. After several seconds of that, a rush of vomit spewed from her mouth.
Having not eaten anything solid for hours, the puke was entirely liquid, and the greenish puddle soaked immediately into the comforter.
I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the entire roll of paper towels.
Back at the bedside, I peeled one corner of the spread up and over her body. Then I tried using the paper towels to soak up the bile, but it was too late. I settled instead for wiping Max’s face and moving her away from the spot.
“Is there more in there?” I asked.
Back to shivering, Max seemed to nod her head.
“Let’s get you to the bathroom.” Grabbing one arm with my free hand, I stretched it across my shoulders and lifted her to her feet. She could barely stand, so I bore her weight and helped her hobble toward the toilet. We’d just gotten to the bathroom doorway when she puked again.
We spent nearly two hours on the tile floor, every muscle in Max’s body spasming to eliminate what little was left inside her. At first, giant rushes of liquid came up, but those quickly shrank to a trickle, then switched to dry heaves that left Max coughing uncontrollably.
And it didn’t only come out of that end.
Weak and weary, dripping with sweat, Max asked me to help her up onto the toilet. With just one arm, it took me a second to stand myself, and we didn’t quite get her there before she lost control.
Doubled over, still trembling, she’d started sobbing her way through apologies I told her were unnecessary. Two rounds after it seemed like there couldn’t possibly be anything left inside her, she announced she was done.
I got her up, helped her wash off, then tucked her into the clean side of the bed after stripping off the comforter. While Max shivered beneath the sheets, I started the comforter in the washing machine and then returned to the bathroom to wipe it down the best I could. In the end, it looked fine, but you could tell the smell might take a while to fade.
By the time I returned, Max had fallen into a fitful, twitchy sleep. I spotted her small purse on the bedside table and rifled through it. Not much inside: couple of tampons, a few wadded-up bills, some gum. Nothing that gave any indication of what was causing all this.
Still, any meager hope I’d been clinging to that she was suffering from food poisoning or the flu had disappeared. She was clearly in the throes of withdrawal, but from what?
And who’d given it to her?
Max had insisted several times she didn’t have a drug dealer. Of course, she’d insisted she wasn’t on drugs, either. Was her urgency to get home more about scoring than saving Marta?
Marta.
Now there was an interesting variable. If Marta were working for the gang, could she have provided Max with the drugs?
It wasn’t immediately clear to me why the gang would want Max strung out. Maybe Marta had nothing to do with it. I’d need to press Max for answers in the morning.
I continued checking her temperature through the night. Despite all the sweats, she’d never had a fever, but I’d need to keep an eye on that. Not knowing what she’d taken, I had no idea what the rest of this withdrawal would look like, or what to research to find out. Dropping her off at some facility or a hospital still wasn’t a viable option, though. I figured the best I could do was keep pumping fluids into her and get us to Austin before the trail went cold.
I had to hope she could hang on that long.
CHAPTER 15
Monday, July 20
Max’s fitful sleeping continued into the early morning.
Before any light began creeping in, I slid out of bed and padded into the front room. I stayed there, consulting maps on the burner, until it was time to meet Grayson. Max hadn’t shown any signs of waking; still, I left her a note explaining where I’d be.
Although the sun had barely cleared the horizon, the walk was hot and sticky. Living in California, I’ve lost my tolerance for humidity, and the three blocks left sweat pouring down my brow.
The neon-colored motel was one of those new-style, reduced-service chains that catered mostly to business folks. In lieu of a restaurant, the hotel lobby had devoted the area across from registration to a series of tables and booths, flanked by a wall that looked like it had been lifted from a 7-11: refrigerated cases held drinks, snacks, and prefab sandwiches, while a credenza supported bins filled with fruit, small boxes of cereal, and various breads, along with carafes of coffee and juice.
After buying a box of Rice Krispies, a banana, and a cup of decaf tea, I chose a banquette table at the edge of the seating area that provided a modicum of privacy in the otherwise sparsely populated room.
As I ate the banana, I scoped out everyone else eating breakfast. Mostly singles, noses in their laptops, except for one group of three guys, who, by the way they were fidgeting with their briefcases, looked like they were heading to a meeting any minute.
I’d finished half my tea and had just poured the cereal when Grayson strode in, followed closely by another man I guessed was his contact. I half stood so they’d see me.
Grayson�
�s hound-dog face, tan and weathered by the sun, lit up when our eyes met. Although it was weird to see him with the cane, it gave his gait a sort of roll that accelerated as he headed my way.
“Hey, amigo.” Leaning on his good leg, he wrapped me in a hug, then touched my elbow in the sling. “You get that doin’ this?”
“Yeah. But from the looks of it, I’m still better than you. How much longer are you stuck with that thing?”
“Doc said two more months.” His face flashed a grin. “We’ll see if I can’t beat that. This here’s DFW’s finest, Sal the Pal.”
The other man stepped up. “Salvador Peña, but most people call me Chava. Everyone except him.” He tilted his head at Grayson, then thrust out his hand.
“Seth Walker,” I said, shaking it. Peña had one of those grips that threatened to break your fingers, and you could see why: the muscles of his chest and arms were so thick, they forced him to move in a stiff, wooden way. His nose and jaw were both cut at sharp angles. He had piercing blue eyes and dark hair cut almost into a Mohawk.
They headed for the food while I sat back down. Eventually they slid in across from me, Grayson palming an orange and a can of Diet Dr Pepper, while Peña had filled a bowl with oatmeal, yogurt, and berries.
“Thanks for meeting me out here,” I said, keeping my voice down. Nodding at their food choices, I added, “Sorry the menu’s not more glamorous.”
“I suggested Ricky’s,” Grayson said to Peña, then turned to me. “Little diner off 35E. Best place in Dallas to get huevos rancheros and biscuits and gravy under the same roof.”
Peña grunted as he mixed the contents of the bowl with a plastic spoon that looked tiny in his hand. “My arteries thank you,” he said to me. His voice lacked Grayson’s Texas twang but sounded like he’d smoked for years. “Ricky’s gravy is like liquid butter.”
“First things first,” Grayson said. “I solved your automobile problem.” He produced a car key and slid it across the table. “My ex is off visitin’ her folks for a week, so I asked if I could borrow it.”
Peña’s face burst into a large grin. “Man, I heard your divorce was friendly, but that’s some pretty messed-up shit right there.”
Grayson ignored him. “It’s just a little Hyundai. It ain’t gonna set any speed records or anything, but it’ll get you to Austin and back. Just bring it home in one piece.”
We exchanged a little more small talk until Grayson finally said, “Sal here is Dallas’s expert on street gangs. This group you say you’re up against, what are they like?”
“Nasty.” I recounted the attacks at LAX, my house, and Las Cruces. I described their weapons, the tattoos. I shared Franklin’s observation that they carried away their casualties. “The FBI doesn’t know who they are.”
“You hear ’em talk?” Peña asked between bites.
“Yeah. They used some kind of foreign language.”
He cracked another smile. “Like French?”
I shook my head. “No. It didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard before.”
“Were there any glottalized consonants?”
I blinked several times, having absolutely no idea what he meant.
Peña made a couple of noises that sounded like pa and key, with each preceded by a sort of popping noise from the back of his throat, almost like he was working to clear it.
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
He nodded slightly, before looking down and taking a scoop from his oatmeal. “Then you, my friend, have a big problem.”
“What’s that?” I asked. “Who am I up against?”
“El Segundo Ejército Guerrillero de los Pobres. The Second Guerrilla Army of the Poor.”
“Should I have heard of them?”
“Probably not. Think of them as Gangland 3.0. How much you know about gang activity?”
“Little to nothing,” I said.
“How much you know about Mexico and Central America?”
“About the same.” My cheeks warmed at the confession; although I’d been to Asia and Europe plenty of times for business, I’d never made it south of the border.
Peña turned to Grayson. “Jeez, I thought you said this guy was smart.” Then he leaned back in his seat, his face growing serious. “When you’re talking about gangs in the United States, I mean, we could go all the way back to the 1700s, 1800s. The Irish in New York. Later the Italians. But practically speaking, things really kicked off in the fifties and sixties. Social unrest, housing projects, white flight from the cities. All that led to the formation of black gangs like the Crips and the Bloods.”
“I’ve heard of them,” I said, smiling meekly.
Peña nodded back. “In addition, you’ve always had some Mexican gangs, and some that were mixed race, like 18th Street. Back in the day, all the gangs, they robbed people, got into fights, slung some drugs. But when we get to the 1980s, boom.” He tapped a fist on the table, making everything vibrate. “Cocaine. Crack. Demand skyrockets, and suddenly all these guys have major reasons to fight over territory. Things start to get ugly. So what do we do?” Peña shrugged. “We throw gas on the fire. As if it wasn’t bad enough, there’s this superpopular, hyperaddictive drug out on the streets, and we go and impose minimum sentencing for drug offenses. That sends all the juvie bangers away to big-boy prison for piddly shit. You ever been inside one?”
I shook my head.
“In there, it’s like banger boot camp. Guys got nothing to do all day but lift weights and figure out how to be better criminals. So locking them up just made things worse. Gangs got more organized, more serious. And they made new friends inside: the cartels have people locked up, too. Suddenly, manufacturing is talking to retail, and we see a spike in the influx of drugs like we’ve never seen before.”
“Okay, I get all that,” I said. “But how does that get us to the Guerrillas of the Poor, or whatever they’re called?”
Peña raised a hand. “Hang on. We’re almost there. So, we’ve got all these bad guys banging around, and someone in Washington gets a genius idea: ‘Hey, some of these fuckers are foreign nationals. Let’s ship ’em back where they came from.’ So we started deporting them. But where were we sending them? To countries with shitty infrastructure and lots of poor, disenfranchised youth. It was like saying, ‘Let’s get rid of the mosquitos’ and dumping them in a swamp. You got gangs like MS-13—that’s Mara Salvatrucha—going back to El Salvador and essentially taking over down there.”
Peña pushed his oatmeal bowl away.
“That’s the general framework. Your boys, they’re Guatemalan. And that’s its own kettle of fish. CIA decided back in the fifties that Guatemala might go Communist, so we installed a guy we thought would be friendly to us. Shockingly, he wasn’t a very nice guy to his own people, and that left an opening for the army—who we’d trained, of course—to take over. When the Guatemalans got tired of death squads and forced disappearances, they fought back. Small groups, like the Guerrilla Army of the Poor, started a civil war that didn’t fully end until ’96. Since then, the politics have been relatively stable, but the country’s still a mess. Average age is, like, twenty. Average income’s about five grand a year. So you’ve got tons of young people, desperate for economic opportunity. Guess who steps in?”
“The gangs and cartels,” I said.
Peña’s mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “Now you’re getting it. The Zetas Cartel owns the southern tip of Mexico, along the border with Guatemala. They see that Guatemalan cities are overrun by local gangs, maras, who keep the general populace indoors and afraid. So the Zetas put the maras on the payroll, and, boom, they control most of the country.”
“So the Guerrillas have gone from fighting the government to working for the Zetas Cartel?”
“Nope. We’re not talking about the Guerrilla Army of the Poor from the civil war. After the war ended, those original Guerrillas folded up shop and became a political party. You’re dealing with the Second Guerrilla Army of the Poor.” Peñ
a pointed to his cheekbones. “Those facial tattoos you saw—traditional Mayan tattoos. Those weird sounds you heard”—he made the popping noises again—“Mayan dialects.”
I shook my head, not understanding.
“See,” Peña said, “the Mayas are the group down there that’s gotten shafted the worst by everybody. They’re, like, forty percent of the population, but they tend to be rural and poor. They’re scattered in all these different tribes. So they’ve been easy pickings. Everyone who’s come into power in Guatemala has picked on the Maya. Killed them, taken their land. But in the last year or two, it seems like they’ve finally had enough. They adopted the old Guerrilla name to try and gain popular support, and now they’re standing up to the Zetas, and the Zetas-controlled maras.”
“But if these are Mayan freedom fighters or whatever, why are they here, shooting at me and Max? That makes no sense.”
Peña chuckled, as if he were truly enjoying this. “Life’s complicated. You want to fight the Zetas, you need firepower. Firepower costs money. You need money . . .” He cocked his head at me.
“You commit crimes?”
“Not just any crimes. We figure they’re backed by one of the other cartels.”
“Which one?”
“Who knows?” Peña shrugged. “Zetas own the eastern half of Mexico. The Sinaloa Cartel owns most of the center and west, but you’ve also got the Juárez group, Tijuana, La Familia. All of ’em would love to take a bite out of the Zetas, or at least keep the Zetas busy. So we figure one or more of them are funneling money and weapons to the Second Guerrillas. It’s the only way they could have come on so hard, so fast.”
“You’ve been up against them?” I asked.
Nodding, Peña said, “Yep. I think every city in Texas has had at least one big incident. Three months ago, we raided a house we thought was full of them. Had a half-an-hour shooting match that cut two cruisers to ribbons and sent five officers to the hospital. Turned out it was just three guys in there. We hauled one of them in, tried to interrogate him. Normally, bangers resist, but it’s all a bunch of macho bullshit. Eventually, you break through it. Not this guy. He was, like, military-level silent—name, rank, serial number.
