Shotcaller blinked as the car’s trunk opened. Dazzled by the shift from total darkness he squinted up at the man who loomed above him, his squat body silhouetted against the bright, unrelenting sunshine.
The MS-13 boss was still struggling to come to terms with what had happened. It was his people who dished out the beatings. His people who stuffed their battered bodies into the trunk of a car before driving somewhere quiet to dispose of the evidence.
But not this time.
His body was a mass of pain. He had been dropped by a heavy blow to his liver that had left him writhing on the ground in his backyard when he had gone to investigate a noise outside. What had followed was brutal and relentless. He had been hit so hard and so many times, with such targeted ferocity, that it had been hard to believe it was one man hitting him and not half a dozen.
The last thing he remembered before blacking out was looking down at his blood lacing the lawn, scarlet splashed over the vivid green, like an old painting. He’d come to a short time afterwards in the trunk of what he was sure was one of his own cars.
It wasn’t the first time it had been used for such a purpose. But he had never imagined that he would be the one taking the ride.
He had survived, though. He was breathing. It was time to gather himself. To show this man what Salvadorian pride was all about.
Shotcaller tried to move his hands to grip the lip of the trunk and haul himself out. They wouldn’t move. It took him a second to realize that his wrists were bound together with thick black tape.
The man leaned into the trunk. Shotcaller cleared his throat, gathering an oyster of phlegm and launched it at the man, who stepped back, laughing.
Shotcaller waited for the beat down to start again. It didn’t. The man stood there, looking at him, his expression neutral.
“Where are they?” the man said.
“Who?” said Shotcaller. If that was what this was about, those two Chinese kids, then this man who had beaten him was going to be very disappointed. He’d die before he snitched on his fellow gang members and gave up that information.
“It’s okay,” said the man. “You’re going to take me to them.”
Shotcaller smiled up at the man. There was zero chance of that happening. The man was crazy.
“No, I won’t. I promise you,” he told him.
The man shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“Yeah, we will. Anyway, why are you sweating this? Those two are going back to their family as soon as the money’s paid. All this is a waste of effort.”
The man’s expression shifted. His eyes narrowed. His features darkened. Shotcaller had pushed some kind of button. If he’d pissed the guy, then good. “Relax,” he continued. “Let their family deal with it.”
“Their family?”
“Yeah, the father,” said Shotcaller. “He has money. He’ll pay a ransom. It’s not a problem.”
“And a father would do anything for his child?” the man said, stepping to the side so that Shotcaller couldn’t see him.
There was the sound of someone else struggling. A car door opened, then closed again. Feet scuffed on the ground.
The man reappeared. He was dragging someone with him. They were about five feet four inches, wearing baggy jeans and a blue plaid shirt. A hood had been placed over their head.
Shotcaller screamed as he realized who it was. “You asshole! He has nothing to do with this.”
The man reached to the back of the teenager’s neck, and undid the twine securing the hood. He yanked it off with a flourish, like a magician performing a reveal.
Shotcaller’s son stared at him. His face was drawn and pale, and he was crying. “Alex,” he said. “Listen to me. It’ll be okay.”
It was only then that he noticed the man had gathered something else from the car. It was a gallon-sized container.
The man swept the boy’s legs out from under him. He landed face down. He pulled him onto his knees and pulled his head back by the hair. He held up the container so that Shotcaller could see the label.
One Gallon
Hydrochloric Acid Solution
“Don’t do it, man,” Shotcaller said.
The boy must have picked up the panic in his father’s voice. “Dad, what is it?”
The man slowly unscrewed the top from the container. His manner was what unsettled Shotcaller the most. He was perfectly calm. He tossed the container top to one side and hefted the container above the boy’s head.
“Okay! Okay! I’ll find out.”
The man’s arm stopped in mid-air. He reached into his pocket with his free hand, pulled out a cell phone and held it up.
“What’s the number?”
Shotcaller gave him the digits. The man punched them in. Holding the container in his other hand, he walked over to the trunk and held the phone up to Shotcaller.
“Yeah, it’s me. I need to know where they are.”
He paused. This wasn’t going to be information given freely. “No, listen, I don’t have to explain myself to you. Just tell me.”
Another pause.
“Okay, okay.”
He gave the man the location, adding, “But they won’t be there for another hour. That’s the exchange point.”
The man put the cell phone back into his pocket.
“Let him go,” said Shotcaller, trying to sound like he was somehow back in charge.
The man lifted the container high up above Shotcaller’s head and tilted it. The liquid poured out onto his head and ran down his face.
He let out a scream of horror before he realized there was no pain. Gingerly he prodded his tongue out between dry, cracked lips and tasted only water.
Rage took over, and he screamed, this time in fury. The man stepped back, and began to laugh. He slammed the trunk down on Shotcaller. The darkness returned.