Page 466 of Devil’s Disciples

I turned toward the dressing room. “Thank you, but I think I’ll look around.”

During my shopping sprees, I freed myself from the fear of deportation. I dreamed of the places I’d go and the things I’d do if I was a US citizen.

The things that most Americans took for granted were the objects of my dreams. Pizza in New York City. Skiing in Aspen. Gawking at Mount Rushmore. Peering into the depth of the Grand Canyon. Eating beignets in the French Quarter. Experiencing Disneyland. Climbing Pike’s Peak.

When I was exhausted of seeing the sights on a national level, I’d reduce myself to walking the beaches of Southern California without fear. Driving the entire length of the Pacific Coastal Highway. Dancing in the best clubs in Los Angeles.

Returning to a country that was plagued with drug-related violence, political corruption, and an economy so poor that nearly fifty percent of the population lived in poverty scared me senseless.

Shopping for clothes that I’d never buy tickled my senses. If only for a little while, I was free to frolic about and do the things I always dreamed of.

I placed the dress on the hanger and carried it from the dressing room.

Upon seeing me she extended an outstretched arm. “I can take care of that.”

“That’s okay, I’m going to look around a bit more,” I said. “I’ll put it back.”

She offered a smile of appreciation.

If everyone who encountered me knew I was an illegal immigrant, I wondered how many of them would be as kind and appreciative as they were. Ten percent? Twenty? Five? My status as a citizen didn’t change the person I was.

Yet.

I couldn’t help but wonder if the sales clerk who was so eager to help me would be as enthusiastic if my forehead was stamped “Illegal Immigrant.” If we were easily identified by a permanently affixed bracelet or a tattoo on our wrists.

How many would turn their noses up?

While many my age hoped for fame or fortune, I dreamt of living in a world where we were free to travel from continent to continent without restriction. Where a person chose to call home was a choice they made, not something they were branded with at birth.

My grandparents migrated from Spain to Mexico. Had they remained in Spain, gaining US citizenship would be an easy task for me. Spaniards were granted citizenship with ease, but because my ancestors chose to move to Mexico, becoming a US citizen was impossible. The only way for me to remain in the country was to do so illegally.

So, I spent my days glancing over my shoulder. Fearing the person behind me was either one of Angel’s many thugs or an Immigration Agent, I lived wondering if each day in San Diego would be my last.

The only thing I could think of to compare it to would be if a reformed bank robber was forced to live in a city where all the residents were active-duty police officers specializing in investigating bank robberies.

I hung the dress on the rack and meandered through the store, briefly touching what caught my eye as I passed by. Each article of clothing allowed me to escape—if only for a moment—to a place where I could wear it without fear of being forced to relocate to the crime-ridden country I didn’t consider my home.

I left as I always did, with my hands empty and my mind filled with dreams.

172

Reno

With outdated license plates that couldn’t be traced to anyone, Crip and I rode through the residential area like we were on a Sunday afternoon sight-seeing tour. A few blocks from Manos’ home, we came to a stop at an intersection.

Crip glanced over his right shoulder. “I’m not very fucking excited about this.”

“I’m not, either.”

He revved his engine and checked the traffic light. “For the sake of all involved, I hope this doesn’t go to hell.”

“You know I’ll do this alone,” I said. “I got us in this mess and—”

“I’d have shot those sons-of-bitches, too.” He nodded toward the road ahead. “Let’s get this over with.”

I accelerated up the block and turned onto the street that led to Manos’ home. He didn’t sell drugs out of a shack in Oceanside like his underlings. He lived in a home overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It wasn’t a mansion with marble columns and three-tier fountains in the driveway, but it was a nice ranch home with a hand-laid brick drive and a beach view.

Filled with the same nervous energy that plagued me when we searched homes in Iraq, I came to a stop in the center of his circular driveway.