“One moment.” Stepping back, pressing the call button, I put the device to my ear as I move away from the festivities.
“Sorry to interrupt, Officer —” I can hear papers shuffle as the squad leader whose command I’m now under searches for my last name. “Cabrera. This is Captain Cortez. I know it is rather last minute, and you have only just graduated from the academy, but we have green-lighted you for this mission because of your top standing in the last class. We are three men short, and we need you, son.”
“Yes, sir.” What else is there to say? Turning to look at all the people I’m about to disappoint. Duty calls.
“Group three, you take the rear.” Captain Cortez’s voice crackles over the walkie as we look on in the encampment. Unease prickles along my spine. The encampment seems to just be clusters of families, not the cartel, or smugglers of any kind, like the intel in the official briefing showed prior to the mission.
“Does this seem right to you?” Júlio asks from my right.
I don’t respond. Just give him a hard glare.
Another officer beside us chimes in over his shoulder. “Yeah, it does. It looks like an illegal settlement. We have to root out these roaches before they breed and spread.”
My stomach sours at his words. I knew all that protect and serve bullshit was going to go out the window. Any grace period my uncle thought I’d have ended the moment I took the uniform.
The trial by fire starts now.
“Kill the men. Keep the women and children. Let’s go.” The sharp command comes from the captain, who moves into position.
“What are we going to do with them?” Comes the harried question couched in horror. Júlio’s too naïve to hide.
“After we fuck them? Sell them, of course. How do you expect to make it on a police officer’s salary, hombre?” comes the snide reply.
I don’t allow myself to flinch as we creep towards the encampment. There was rain in this area earlier, enabling us to approach the group of what our scouts said was about three dozen people. From what I can gauge on our approach evenly split between men and women, with the children vastly outnumbering them.
No sooner than we reach the southern side of the group does the call go out. In the ensuing chaos, people either try to escape or fall to their knees in surrender.
Teens and young adults — mainly men — are dragged back. Many of them bloodied and tossed into heaps in the center of the camp.
Cries of “Souple,” along with a cacophony of other plaintive pleas of help I can’t decipher, arise from the group.
“Shut-up,” Commander Cortez kicks a teen not much younger than me in the midsection so hard that he immediately doubles over vomiting the food, the remnants of which we smelled cooking on our approach.
“There’s no call for that,” one of the older men yells from the group Commander Cortez has kneeling opposite us. Júlio and I stand guard in front of the women and the children.
His self-assurance and the way the people look at him even now leave no doubt that he governs them. Even from his humbled position, kneeling, he radiates a sense of strength.
“True.” Cortez agrees, walking over to the man. He drops to man’s level and mugs him, his face morphing into a sneer. “Just as violating our borders is uncalled for.”
“We’re just passing through.” The man’s face is impassive.
From my vantage point, I can tell his refusal to be intimidated is not sitting well with the commander.
“Hm,” Cortez rises with a swift motion, looking down at the man, who doesn’t break his stare. Whipping out his fist, he backhands the man with the butt of his Sig. Blood sprays from the side of his face as he crumbles to the side into a boneless heap.
Pandemonium spirals through the camp. Men kneeling lung forward, many springing to their feet. Several barrel forward, heedless of the fact that they are unarmed, facing an armed regiment of soldiers.
Women and children scream as man after man is cut down as bullets pepper the crowd.
“Papa.” Turning, I see a mop of cotton candy textured hair turned toward the man who confronted Cortez. The sorrowful look of the woman holding her lets me know she’s her mother. This man’s family witnessing his death viscerally reminds me of the position I was in just a few short years ago at the hands of men just like this. What I have now chosen to become to save my own life.
Acid eats through my soul as I guard women and children watching the massacre of their fathers, brothers, and uncles. I know this is a stain that will never be scrubbed from my soul.
“Good work, men,” Cortez says, wiping a smear of blood with sick satisfaction only a sociopathic sadist can revel in. His eyes immediately cast an amused, assessing glance at the women, little girls and boys.
Hand falling to one side, he smiles over at the group. His gaze resting briefly on each of the twenty or so souls.
He strides over to us. The contingent of soldiers, along with Júlio and me, falls back as he approaches like a conqueror eager to enjoy his spoils of war. Only this battle was won against unarmed men, whose only sin was trying to protect their families and lead them to a better life.
