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“You like to exaggerate, don’t you?” Joaquin stumbled.
Alex tightened hisgrip, silently berating himself for letting the chase get away from him.
“Let it go, Alex. Stuff happens.”
Now the guy read minds. “I should’ve stayed closer.”
“Hey, you could work out everyday and still never be able to keep up with me.” Joaquin’s laugh ended in a sound that might have been a groan. Alex walked faster.
The house smelled faintly of chicharron and corn tortillas. A baggie of pot lay on the kitchen table next to a pipe, matches and a bottle of Corona. “Poor guy, we caught him in the middle of relaxing.” Joaquin gritted his teeth, pain etched around his lips and eyes.
“Go outside. Find a place to sit down where you don’t drip on evidence.”
Joaquin backed away to the kitchen counter where he picked up a dish towel and wrapped around his arm. “I’ll stay back. I want to see the weapons.”
He staggered ahead of Alex into the living room. Diego and his partner examined a cache of weapons laid out in rows on the floor. Three AK-47s, two nine mm handguns, a couple of MAC-10s, and a silencer. Variety is the spice of life. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?”
Diego growled. “We’ll secure the perimeter and wait for the evidence unit outside.”
The smack of the screen door let Alex know what the officer thought of his question. The room was quiet except for Joaquin’s labored breathing. And something else.
A tiny, muffled sob.
Alex’s hand went to his gun. The uniforms had been so interested in the weapons they’d apparently missed another important aspect of the scene. He let his gaze sweep Suarez’s living room. Aside from a slick, leather sectional and big screen TV, the room was empty. He strained to hear movement. Joaquin pointed his weapon at the drapes behind the couch and jerked his head. Alex nodded.
The sob came from behind the curtain that covered the largest of the three front windows. Alex eased forward, his weapon ready. Joaquin took the other side.
Alex whipped the curtains open.
“Por favor. Señor.I didn’t do anything.” A girl crouched under the broken window. She spoke in Spanish. “No hice nada.Don’t kill me, please!”
“Soy policia. I won’t kill you, I promise.” Alex moved around the sofa, gun pointed at her. “Do you speak English? Get up, please.Pare, por favor.”
The girl did as he commanded and stood, her trembling hands raised over her head.“Me llamo Marta. Soy de Nuevo Laredo.”
“Habla ingles?”
“Sí.I speak little. I am Marta.”
“I got that. From Nuevo Laredo. Why are you in Miguel Suarez’s home?”
“The men with the machine guns took over the coyote’s route. They killed him and they said everyone had to pay again. I didn’t have any more money so they sold me toseñorSuarez.”
As Homeland Security had tightened up the border, the drug cartels had begun taking over the illegal alien smuggling routes, trying to control all illegal entry into the country for their own purposes. Marta’s dilemma was a reflection of a post nine-eleven border reality. “How old are you?”
Two tears trickled down the girl’s face, one on each bruised cheek. The bruises deepened from yellow to purple and green. “Fourteenaños.”
“Sit down, please.”
She dropped to the floor on her hands and knees.
“On the sofa, Marta,aquí.” Alex helped her up and led her to the sofa. Joaquin eased in next to him. “Sit here a minute while I get some help.”
He needed a lot of help. His best friend was trying not to bleed on the furniture and a traumatized girl who’d left home searching for the American dream looked like someone had used her as his personal punching bag.
The EMS unit arrived moments later, sirens and lights blazing. The paramedic insisted Joaquin needed to be transported to the hospital. “It’s more than a graze—it’s a through and through.”
“The bullet barely nicked my arm,” Joaquin insisted through clenched teeth. “I’m not getting in that ambulance. I’ll see my doctor for the antibiotics. I’m not gonna freak Lily out by making her come to the ER.”
