Dog turns to watch the hallway, chest heaving. “Get her.”
I knock first. “Marisol?” No answer. Just stifled sobbing.
“It's Tama, girl. I’m here. You’re safe now.” Still no answer, so I kick the door. One hit and it pops open.
She’s curled on the floor, hoodie wrapped tight around her, knees hugged to her chest. Her lip is split. There’s a bruise blooming along her jaw, fresh and purple.
Her eyes lock on mine and go wide. Disbelief is written across her face, like hope is something she forgot existed.
I crouch down, reach out slowly like I’m taming a scared animal. “It’s me,” I whisper. “I told you. You’re safe now.”
She lunges straight into my chest, burying her face in my shoulder.
Her fingers clutch my black hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.
And then she sobs. Gut-deep, shaking, shattering sobs. Each one cuts deeper than the last.
I wrap my arms around her and rock us gently. She’s small, but the weight of what they tried to do to her feels heavier than anything I’ve ever carried.
“She’s okay,” I say aloud. Maybe to myself. Maybe to Dog. Maybe to whatever god was watching.
Saint drags the last thug, barely conscious, by the back of his shirt into the alley. His boots scrape against broken glass. The guy’s moaning, blood drooling from the corner of his mouth, but he’s not dead, yet.
Danny kicks open the dumpster lid like it owes him money. It slams against the brick wall with a heavy bang. The smell that wafts out makes even Smoke gag.
“You sure you want to light it here?” Saint asks.
Smoke doesn’t answer. Just pulls out another homemade Molotov, shakes it like a prayer, and lights the rag with a silver Zippo.
Whoosh.
The second fire catches hard, licking up the sides of the trash pile, casting wild shadows that dance across the graffiti-tagged walls.
The bastard Saint dragged out tries to crawl away, groaning in Spanish. Something about “no sabía”I didn’t know.Like that excuses it.
Dog stands over him, arms crossed, fists still trembling. “We done here?” he growls, voice low, stained with hate. His knuckles are split and bleeding. He doesn't notice. Or care.
I kneel inside the trailer, right where the first guy dropped. His body’s twitching, nerves still firing even though his brain’s long gone. I ignore him.
There, on the sticky linoleum, is a wallet, half-tucked under a busted leg of the coffee table. I flip it open.
ID says Flaco Menendez. I don’t give a shit who hethinkshe is.
Inside the billfold is a black card with red trim, simple, ominous. A crimson fang stamped over two skulls. Cartel sigil.
Sangres del Diablo.
Street-tier enforcers for something meaner and older than the gangs we used to fight.
My lip curls.
“Almost,” I mutter.
I step outside, hold the wallet up to the firelight, and spit on it.
Hard. The saliva sizzles on the edge of the burning dumpster like it knows where it belongs.
Then I toss the whole thing in.
