But his normal circle of protection couldn’t be trusted to accompany him on this trip. No one could. He’d made this visit three times in the past six months, and he’d run into trouble on a few occasions, but nothing serious. He’d been very, very lucky so far.
There were so few cars in Las Marías that he stopped when he heard an engine, slipping into the shadows to let the vehicle rumble by. Pressed against the dilapidated wood boards of a building less than one block from his destination, he turned his head to flatten himself as much as possible as the car passed.
A few seconds ticked by, and the car slowed.
He swore under his breath. He was old, and past his prime for street fighting. But the engine revved again and the old heap continued on its way, so Alonso did, too.
Around the corner he stepped into a littered alley, rats skittering at the sound of his footsteps. It grew darker as he moved deeper to the side door of a stucco-sided warehouse, pausing to listen for the car, or anyone who might have followed him.
Only his breath. His heartbeat.
One was quick, the other, sadly, getting slower every day. The cancer that invaded his body was taking its toll, no matter how much he tried to deny it. Just as it had for Caridad, his beloved wife, time was running out. And he had yet to finish the most important project of all. When he was done, to the victor went the spoils.
Well, to the boy.
He sheathed his knife so he could slip a key into the padlock on the metal side door. Silently he unlocked it and opened the door just enough to slide inside.
He paused in the musty darkness, giving his eyes a moment to adjust when he closed the door behind him. When he could see shadows, he rolled an empty barrel he kept near the opening against the door, standing it up so that he’d hear it scrape the floor if someone tried to get in. There was no internal lock; that would just be a signal that something extremely valuable was in this “abandoned” warehouse.
A rat scratched the rafters, but other than that the place was silent.
Alonso felt his way to the left, his fingers scraping the rotting wood of empty shelves. Five more steps, then four to the right until he reached the crates. He touched one, following the lines of the splintered wood until he found the opening. He reached for the crowbar he’d left on a shelf last time and just as his fingers closed over it, the scuff of metal on concrete echoed through the warehouse.
The door was shoved open so quickly that he didn’t have time to get his dagger. He dove to the floor, crawling between two crates, the crowbar in his grip.
A hushed whisper, a low male laugh. The rough tones of barrio Spanish.
They knew he was in here, or suspected it. And even if they didn’t find him, would they find what he was hiding?
He couldn’t risk making a sound by reaching for his weapon. So he waited, dead still.
A crate moved across the floor, gritty dirt against ce ment. Feet scuffled, and a few words were exchanged in hushed whispers. If they had a light, he’d know it by now. And he’d be dead, or killing one of them.
“Que hay aquí?”
What was in here? More money than any of these maracuchos had ever seen in their lives.
Listening to the slow and steady beat of his pulse, Alonso waited.
One of them kicked a crate and called the others. “Pesado.”
Of course it was heavy; it was full of gold. He swallowed, keeping his mouth closed so his tongue didn’t click on the dry roof of his mouth.
He heard the sound of their moving one of the crates, discussing how to open it.
A motor revved, and a shout from the street stopped everything. “Anda! Anda!”
Yes. Go. Now.
The first prickle of relief started in his chest as one of them moved to the door. Then another. Then the third. They spoke, too quiet for him to make out the words. A little laughter. Another shout from the street.
They left the door open when they ran out, which gave out the tiniest bit of light. He waited, listening for the sound of the engine to fade away before he carefully pushed himself up from his hiding place. He took a