peers under it.
Cursing beneath his breath, he stands and turns toward the small window directly across from me. I hold my breath as he marches toward it and out of eyesight, praying he’ll think I’ve slipped away and am long gone.
I wish I were . . . except for Diego . . .
Another shot is fired in the living room.
Another furious screech. “Fuck. Juan.”
The man in my room freezes for two long seconds before screaming, “Juan! You’re gonna pay, motherfucker.” He charges from the room, but I can’t exhale the air I’ve been holding in my lungs quite yet.
Dios, Diego. What have you gotten us into?
“You wanted proof, compadres?” I hear him taunt. “I gave you proof. Next time you’ll think twice about breaking into my home.”
“Take hold of his other arm,” someone barks. “Arturo will deal with him.”
I count to forty before racing into the living room. Two men lay on our carpet. Manuel and Juan, two lifeless bodies to contend with. Two more victims of a world I’m now being dragged into.
I burst through the open front door and into the street, searching the darkness. Up ahead, I see them. Three men hauling my brother away.
Following them is unnecessary because I know where they’re taking him. To Arturo. The most powerful of the organized crime leaders. Or, at least he was, until the Bastard arrived in town several months ago.
For years, Loreto has been at the mercy of waring cartels. It’s location across the Gulf of California and a ship-ride away from the Mexico’s infamous Golden Triangle—a region notorious for cultivating heroine and other drugs—places Loreto in a precarious position. Sure, the bridge connecting the Baja Peninsula to Mexico’s mainland lay north in Santa Rosalia. And the ferry from Sinaloa disembarks in La Paz, which is located south of here. But the lack of direct access hasn’t stopped the cartels from filtering through Loreto. A few, the Cobras, Z-Veintidós, Sureños, and now the Bastard’s Lobos, have more of a foothold than the others.
Survival tip number one is knowing who to avoid at all costs. I stick to sections of Loreto that are safe—though no place truly is. These days, even a simple trip to the bank can turn into a huge fiasco.
Which is exactly why I can’t seek help from Ignacio Acosta, the leader of the Sureños and a man most people go to when they get caught up in cartel business.
I grimace at the mere thought of him.
Ignacio has a strong love for the opposite sex. He’s notorious for always being surrounded by beautiful women. Young women. Willing or coerced—though with Ignacio the phrase is more like “willingly coerced,” the attractiveness of his power and his money overshadowing the unattractiveness of the man himself. Only an act of God can shake off his possessiveness. Fortunately, God blessed me with quick wits, a wry sense of humor, and passion for tamales that enabled me to dodge the cartel leader’s attention during our brief albeit memorable encounter.
It happened several months ago at the bank. I had the misfortune of walking in the door as Ignacio and his men were exiting, carrying bags of cash and the acrid smell of death on their clothing. Ignacio stopped short on the steps to stare at me. I’d spun on my heels and fled, disturbed by the sight of the blood covering his pot-bellied frame. Except I wasn’t fast enough and his men stopped me a block away. I remember thinking, “Witnesses can’t talk from the grave,” and that my life was over. To my surprised horror, instead of a bullet in my head, I was asked for my phone number.
“You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen,” I was told. “Ignacio will call you with a time to meet. Don’t disappoint him.”
I scribbled down the number for my favorite tamales stand and bid his men adios. Nothing soothes the bitter taste of disappointment better than the sweet deliciousness of homemade tamales. Or at least I hoped that’d be the case with Ignacio.
I can’t risk another encounter with the deplorable man, even if it’s so.
Rumor is the only women he won’t pursue are married ones. Evidently, he has this twisted sense of morality. He won’t touch a married woman whose been blessed by the holy sanctity of the church.
Perhaps it’s this show of respect for something that has many people asking the Sureños for protection.
Or is it simple desperation?
Dios, I can relate.
Ignacio won’t do, and I scratch him off my short list of