by Keri Lake
“Exilio? What is that? A gang?”
“They’re foot soldiers. Kids, mostly, but they have ties to bigger cartels. And if you piss one of them off, they will come for payment.” She sniffles, looking away toward the window beside her. “He won’t let this go.”
“Hey.” I tip my head to get her attention while keeping an eye on the road. “Promise me you’ll go to the police about this, okay? Don’t let him get away with this. Your father is an important man in this city.”
“He’s a puppet.”
I’m taken aback by her words. They’re far too wise for a teenager who shouldn’t know that level of corruption yet. Then again, I never grew up with a politician for a father. Mine pulled strings like any other criminal. “He can keep him from hurting you again, though. Puppet, or not, he’s your father.”
She doesn’t appear to be convinced, but nods, anyway, and points toward the windshield. “The house on the corner there.”
Even in darkness, I can see it’s a nice three-story home, with a private fence and lights strung over a cedar pergola in the back.
A few seconds pass before she sets her hand to the car door. “Father … if you hadn’t been there … he would’ve ...” It’s starting to seep its way into her sobriety, and soon, it’ll be all she sees when she closes her eyes.
I only hope I was able to stop it before it went too far. Leaning toward her, I wrap my arms around her, giving her the opportunity to cry before she has to explain the evening to her parents. “If you need me to go with you ...”
Her head rubs across my chest as she shakes it. “It’s okay. You’ve done enough for me. Thank you again.” She finally pushes away and opens the car door.
For the next minute or so, I wait to watch her slip through the front door of her house, then put the car in drive.
My head is swimming in a number of thoughts on the drive back toward the rectory, so I flip on the radio to clear the chaos.
“In the wake of Machete Mac’s murder, witnesses have come forward with new information that may link the late MMA fighter to a cartel operating out of Southern California and Mexicali. Authorities are investigating claims that Mac’s execution was allegedly carried out by one of the members, who has been identified from the FBI’s Most Wanted List. We’ll keep you updated as more information becomes available.”
I knew it. It wasn’t coincidence that I saw Mac’s name written down on Javier’s notepad. He had it written down for a reason.
35
IVY
Glancing around the quiet neighborhood, I press the doorbell to the rectory, hoping I heard the church secretary correctly when she said only one priest lived here, during my call earlier. Damon told me he lived right behind Our Lady of Guadalupe, and I’m praying I’ve got the house right, otherwise some poor sap is going to hate me for ringing the doorbell at midnight. I wanted to surprise him, but I’m the one surprised on finding he’s not home at this hour.
Peeking to the side, I notice one of the lower windows is cracked, just a bit. There’s a folding chair set against the house, and I can easily use it to climb inside , from the looks of it.
What the hell is wrong with Damon, leaving his house open for intruders like me? Being a rectory doesn’t make him exempt from burglary, and after the recent attacks he’s mentioned, it doesn’t make sense he’d take a chance like that.
The rusty chair creaks as I unfold it just below the window. One light shake makes me a little uncertain that it’s sturdy enough to hold me, but I only need a quick boost, and I can pull myself inside. Foot set on the chair, I take one hop upwards, reaching up for the window ledge, and push the window open a bit wider. Takes a few hops to break it loose from whatever has it stuck. Once it’s widened, I climb fully onto the rickety old chair, ignoring how it wobbles beneath my weight, and with both hands on the window sill, I try to steady myself. As soon as I give a light pull on the sill, a sort of pre-lift, the chair tips to the ground beneath me, leaving me to dangle from the window.
A small shriek escapes me while my shoes scramble for purchase against the vinyl siding of the house. I manage to gain my footing and hoist myself up, climbing the side of the house, until I’m able to pull myself in through the window.
Muscles shaking, I flop like a seal, half in and out, until the balance is broken, and I fall headfirst onto what feels like the soft brush of carpet below me.
Groaning at what is surely carpet burn on my cheek, I crawl deeper into the darkness of the room, patting around the floor for furniture. My fingers hit a hard surface, and I trail my hands over the smoothness, until I feel the dangling chain of a lamp. One click, and the room comes into view.
Small and plain, it seems fitting for Damon, but none of his things appear to be in this room, which is starting to give me hives at the thought that I might have the wrong house. Once upright again, I tread carefully from the room, eyes scanning for movement, ears piqued for any noise that might not be Damon. A click from somewhere behind me skates down my spine, and I pause, turning toward the room I just left.
Voices strum a panic in my chest, and eyes wide, I search for a place to hide. The bathroom across from me serves as my cover, from where I watch strangers emerge from the bedroom.
How the hell …
Did they come through the window, like me?
I’m certain I have the wrong house now. Shit.
“¡Silencio! El padre está dormido.” A boy, perhaps fourteen, or fifteen, years old, leads a small group of about a dozen men, women and children down the hallway, each of them clutching bags and personal belongings that crinkle and make noise.
I’ve no idea what he said, but I did catch el padre, which I know means father. As in Father Damon?
Staying low, I peek around the corner and see the group come to a stop at a door, before they enter another room. Crouching, I shuffle after them, noticing they’ve left the door slightly cracked—enough for me to peek in.
The boy stands before a bookshelf, where he removes one of the books, and the wall moves to the side.
The entire wall.
Like something straight out of a James Bond movie, or something.
As he herds the group into a dark passage through the wall, I wonder if I’m dreaming this. Maybe I fell off that chair outside and cracked my head, or something.
Once they’re all shuffled inside, he once again says something in Spanish, but all I understand is mañana: tomorrow.
Something happens tomorrow.
Scrambling back to my hiding spot, I breathe quietly, watching the boy pad back toward the bedroom and disappear on the other side of the bed.
As if he fell into an alternate universe, or something.
Mentally counting back from thirty, I give the kid a few seconds to make his escape, then crawl across the room in time to see the door of the nightstand swing shut, and all is silent again. Aside from some specks of dirt on the carpet, there’s not a whole lot of evidence that a dozen people just traipsed through the room.
Another few seconds, and I crawl toward the nightstand, opening it to find a gaping hole and a ladder.
No shit. A tunnel that really does seem to be a portal into another world.
Human smuggling right here in this house.
Peering down into the hole, I try to make out what lies at the bottom, and run my hand over the smooth, cold dirt walls.
“Ivy?”
At the sound of the familiar voice, I scream and tumble backward onto my ass, and land staring up at Damon.
“What are you doing here?”
Pressing a finger to my lips, I attempt to quiet him and wave him on, to the room with the bookshelf wall. “A whole group. Families of men, women, children—they came out of that hole in the nightstand, and he took them here, into this room.”
“Who? Who’s he?”
“A boy. Maybe fifteen, max. Anyway, he removed one of the books on that shelf, and the whole damn wall moved!”
“You saw this?”
“Which book?”
“The red one. But don’t touch it! What if they’re not friendly!”
“This is my personal space. If someone is here, I want to know about it.”
“I thought you knew! The kid whispered something about el padre. Was all in Spanish, so I couldn’t make out anything else.”
“That’s all you gathered?”
“He said something about tomorrow.”
Before I can stop him, Damon strides across the room, while I wait by the door, like a chicken. He removes the red book, setting the wall into motion.
The passageway is dark, and when he peers in, before glancing back at me with a frown, I have to believe it’s empty. I pad across to his side and stare down at the alcove.
“There’s no one in here,” he says.
“Give me your phone.” When he does, I point the flashlight to the left, where a gap in the wall reveals the entrance to another passage, one that appears to extend well beyond the light’s reach. “This must be some kind of Underground Railroad, or something.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought that tunnel was used for smuggling drugs. I can deal with refugees.”
“Yeah, except, if this operation gets busted, it’s going to look like you run the show.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I’ve got bigger fish to fry right now. Like trying to figure out how the hell you got here.”
“Bus? There’s a stop right out in front of the church. Runs until midnight. And where have you been at this hour?”
“A party.”
I raise my brows at that, and a blossom of red snags my attention. I didn’t notice the stain before, set against his black shirt, but up close, I can see where it looks darker, wet. I reach out a hand to touch it, and a sticky redness coats my fingertips. “Damon? Is this your blood?”
“Saw a robbery and followed the thieves to a party, where I proceeded to stop a rape from happening and pistol-whipped a gang member, who happens to be associated with the Sinoloa cartel. Got stabbed somewhere along the way. You see? Bigger fish.”
“Um. Shit.” I drop down to a knee, lifting his shirt to see a good-sized wound still oozing blood. “We have to clean this up. Jesus, Damon, you might need stitches.”
“I pulled the knife myself. Wasn’t as deep as I thought.”
“Well, it’s certainly not shallow.” I take his hand and force him to press into the wound to staunch the blood. “Into the bathroom. Let’s clean this up.” Leading the way, I glance back to see he’s half-heartedly holding his wound. “Pressure, Damon.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I may not look the part, but I’m a bit more hard core than this.”
“How so?”
“It’s not the first time I’ve been stabbed.”
Over the last couple of weeks, he’s revealed bits and pieces of his former life. Small little anecdotes that serve as a major contrast to the man I know now. “I know that. You don’t think I know that?”
“Let me grab something. I’ll meet you in the bathroom.”
With a nod, I keep on, and rummage through his cupboards for alcohol, swabs, and butterfly band-aids, which I can’t find. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the man is probably going to have to make a trip to the ER, because that wound needs sealing, and there’s no way in hell I can stomach it.
When he returns, I immediately get to work, cleaning up the wound, praying it won’t be as deep as I thought just moments ago. It is. I can see the deep red meat of his viscera that tickles the back of my throat, begging me to toss my last meal.
“Damon, this is pretty deep.”
“It’s not. Trust me. I’ve seen deep wounds before.” From his pocket, he pulls a white bottle, with Gorilla Glue on the label. “I’ll show you a neat trick.”
Mouth gaping, I watch as he presses the edges of his wound together and runs the glue down the seam, fingers set apart to avoid touching it.
“It’s not perfect, but it avoids stitches.”
“How many times, exactly, have you been stabbed?”
“Enough that I’m pretty confident about the glue.” When he releases his skin, the wound remains stuck together. “Voila! All good.”
Bending forward, I examine the thin shiny layer over his skin and run my finger down the seam to see it’s already dry. “Wow. Now, what if it gets infected? All the bacteria is sealed in there.”
“Then, I guess it’ll be one more time a knife penetrates my flesh.”
Swallowing back the urge to vomit, I clear my throat and step away from his wound. “That’s all you. I want nothing to do with that process.”
“Well, then, hopefully you cleaned it well, and we can move on.”
I place a square of gauze over his wound, testing to make sure the cotton doesn’t stick to it, and seal the edges with tape. “We should probably close that bookshelf, huh?”
With a nod, he exits the bathroom, running his hand over the gauze at his side, and I take a moment to admire the flex of his muscles that tighten and expand in his back with the movement. “So, what happens now? With the kid you pistol-whipped?”
“He recognized me, but I don’t think he’ll be speaking any time soon.”
“You hope.”
“Yes. I hope.” He sets the book back on the shelf, allowing the door to slide shut again. “Now, do you mind telling me why you decided to go against my direct order to stay away from here?”
“Yes. For one, you’re my Father, but you’re not my dad. And second, I missed you.”
“And I miss you, but—”
I press my finger to those lips I want to kiss right now. “We’ll leave it at that. It’s dangerous, I get it. But there isn’t a cartel in the world that can keep me from what I want most.”
His finger brushes across my forehead, and he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “And what is it you want most?”
“You need your cock stroked, is that it?”
“That’d be nice right about now.” He smiles, pressing his lips to mine in a breath-stealing kiss.
“And if there’s an audience behind this bookcase?”
“Let them bear witness to the glory of the feast. For I tell you, none of those men who were invited shall taste my banquet.”
With a smile, I wrap my arms around his neck and feel his palms grip tight to my ass. “Is that a Bible verse, or are you talking filthy jealous boyfriend right now?”
“Both. Parable of the Banquet.”
“I like it.” Pushing up on tiptoes, I kiss him, feeling the tension in his muscles ease as he holds me against the wall.
“I need you right now, Ivy. I’m glad you came.”
Toying with his hairline, I take in his words, imagining the level of stress he must be feeling to admit that. “Me too.”
36
DAMON
The worst thing about pissing off dangerous criminals isn’t so much the likelihood of death, but the wait in between. I sit in the confessional booth, waiting for the penitent on the other side to settle, my mind everywhere else but here.
“Hello, Padre.” Gordon’s familiar voice comes as a bit of a relief, the kind of distraction that might just keep me from grinding my fingernails against the walls of this stuffy hardwood box.
“Good evening. What brings you to confession?”
“There’s, uh … some things I got on my mind.”
“Proceed.”
He gives the sign of the cross and clears his throat. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”
“Tell me what’s troubling you.”
“My grandson. He, um … he got hurt real bad.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I know I should be with him right now. In case he takes a turn for the worst. But all I can think about is hunting down the dirty rott
en prick who bashed his face in.”
My blood goes cold, and for a second, I almost think he senses the drop in temperature. Throat dry, I try to swallow past the lump and shift on the bench.
“I spent all night thinking about what I would do to the son of a … if I got my hands on him. Vile, tortuous things.”
“Do you know who hurt him?”
“Not yet. Word is, the slick bastard left with Ariceli. Pummeled my boy and took off with his girl.”
“No idea who it could be, though?”
“Does it matter? Fact is, I’m drowning right now. My head isn’t right. That kid is all I got. He’s a good boy. Didn’t deserve that.”
Perhaps he doesn’t know his boy as well as he thinks he does.
“And so, it’s these violent thoughts of retribution that bring you to confession?”
“No. I came to get something off my chest. I’ve been thinking these last couple days about where I went wrong with Miguel. I was hard on his father. Raised my hand more times than I didn’t. Been the same with Miguel.”
“The beauty of parenthood is that it’s never too late to change.” The words slip from my mouth without any thought. My mind is still trying to tease out whether, or not, he knows it’s me and is merely playing me right now.
“You don’t think I ruined that boy already?”
Perhaps he’s banking I’ll slip and respond as if I have any knowledge about what his boy is like. “I don’t know if you did. All I’m saying is if you’ve made mistakes, you can always try to reconcile.”
“You’re smart, Father. That’s good advice. Glad I came to talk to you tonight. So, what’s my sentence for this one?”
“I don’t believe the trials of parenthood call for penance. If that were the case, I’d be hearing confessions until midnight.”
“Well, you have a good night.” The creaking of wood on the other side is the signal that he’s leaving.
I need air. The box has officially become too tight, too suffocating.
I open the door to find Gordon standing alongside Ariceli, and the fear coloring her face is enough to make me approach them. He grips her arm, and she wrenches it free.
