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“How the hell did he even know I still have my mother?” Joanne asks, her voice tense and tight. “How did he take our son without the police knowing about it? Doesn’t the hospital have security? Why didn’t the police keep an armed guard in front of his room?”
She’s bordering on hysterical, and I can’t blame her.
“He knows everything about us. He’s Mexican cartel. They have the money and the connections to find out everything and anything they want. How do you think Don Juan has avoided prison for all these years when the police and the FBI know exactly what he is and what he does? Besides...”
“Besides what?” she asks, her tone filled with acid.
“Cops can be bought. Politicians can be bought. District Attorneys and judges can be bought.”
“First they shoot, Bradley,” she says after a long beat. “And now they steal him. Then they take my mom. They...Perez and his men...he’s going to kill them.”
“This is war, Joanne,” I say. “We have declared a war with Don Juan Perez. A fucking drug war.” I find myself shaking my head in disbelief. “A few months ago, we were a simple family living in the suburbs. Today we’re in a drug war. You can’t make this shit up.”
“So, how can we win this war and save my mother and our son?”
I turn off the country road and onto the ramp for the highway that will take us back to the city. The rain stops suddenly, while we drive for maybe a mile until I see a green sign lit up in the halogen headlamps. The white lettering on the sign says, TEXT STOP, ONE MILE. That’s the big thing in New York State these days: Text stops, so you don’t text while you’re driving and end up killing yourself or worse, someone else. I need information on how to get to Perez before he can kill my family. The wounded kid in back is one of Perez’s men. He will give me the information I need even if I have to torture him.
I’m gripping the wheel so tightly I feel like the bones in my fingers are about to break. When the exit for the TEXT STOP appears, I hook a right and turn onto it. The place is pretty much deserted. No cars, no big semis. But that doesn’t mean somebody might not pull in at any second. I need to work fast.
I put the stick in park, leave the engine running. Grabbing my gun, I open the door, get out. Opening the backseat door, I lean in, place the gun barrel against the gangster’s tattooed head. He squirms, mumbles something into the duct tape. He’s trying desperately to free his legs and hands, but he’s not even close to strong enough. A puddle of blood has gathered on the leather seat.
Reaching inside with my free hand, I slide my fingers into the back pocket on his baggy jeans, pull out a black leather wallet. Opening the wallet, I see a New York State Driver’s license. In the picture, he’s smiling. He’s maybe a couple years younger than he is now and he’s got a full head of thick black hair. I’ll be damned if he isn’t the spitting image of a young Don Juan.
The date of birth on the license is 03/03/2001. What’s that make him? Early twenties? I see the name. Juan Enrico Perez, Junior. He’s a junior, just like my Bradley.
“Jesus,” I say to myself. “It’s got to be Don Juan’s son. I had no idea he even had a son.”
I toss the wallet. Taking hold of the arm that’s attached to the injured shoulder, I cock it back a little. The kid winces in pain, his eyes rolling back in their sockets.
“Are you Don Juan’s son?” I beg.
He can’t speak with the tape wrapped around his mouth, so I tell him to nod his head for yes, shake his head for no.
“Got it?” I add.
He nods. Good. The kid is willing to cooperate.
“Are you Don Juan Perez’s son?” I repeat.
His eyes are wide and dilated. I can’t help but wonder if he’s high on something. Crack maybe. Meth. Bubble Gum. Or maybe it’s just the result of his pain, and his bleeding out all over Sean’s Volkswagen interior.
He nods, slowly.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper to myself.
“Oh my God,” Joanne says, speaking up finally. “I didn’t know Juan had a son either. Maybe he has a million of them.”
“So, you really are Don Juan’s son,” I say while shooting her a quick look. Then, yanking his arm a little more, watching the kid squirm. “Jeeze, he must be real proud of you, gangbanger.”
Another nod. Once more, I glance at Joanne. She’s staring at the kid, not with sadness or empathy for his pain, but pure hatred.
“Ask him if he’s the one who shot our Bradley,” she insists, not only pointing her pistol at him, but cocking back the hammer like she’s Dirty Harry.
I turn back to him.
“You heard the lady,” I say through clenched teeth.
I give him a poke in the bad shoulder with my pistol barrel. He winces again, a big tear falling from his left eye. He’s not saying anything. Okay, that’s not right. What I mean is, he’s not nodding his head. Or shaking it. He’s just looking up at me with those wide, cloudy eyes. That’s when something dawns on me. This kid...this gangster, this drug runner, this murderer...is afraid of me. He’s afraid of us. I’ve never before experienced anyone who’s been afraid of me. Not even Martin was afraid of me, until I stood up for myself and punched him. Until we killed him.
I’m looking into the eyes of Don Juan Perez’s son, and I can’t help but feel good. I feel powerful. The son of one of this world’s most powerful drug cartel members is afraid of me. He’s afraid of my wife.
“Did...you...shoot...our...son?” I ask, poking him once with the pistol barrel with each word uttered.
He not only winces in pain. He convulses. This time, big tears fall from both eyes.
Finally, he manages to work up a slow nod. The rage swims through my veins like hot acid. I gaze at Joanne, see her face go so tight I’m afraid her skin might split down the center. She brings the pistol barrel closer to his face. The kid closes his eyes like he knows he’s about to get it right between the eyes.
“Not yet, Joanne!” I shout. “We need the son of bitch alive for a few more minutes.”
“Why?!” she spits.
She’s also crying. But these are not tears of fear or sadness. They are tears of anger, hatred, frustration.
“We need him alive to get our son and your mother back. You understand?”
Shoving my gun back into my pant waist, I pull out my camera once more. I go to the text app, thumb on the text thread with Don Juan. Aiming the phone at Juan Junior’s face, I snap a couple of pictures and then press send.
Inhaling a breath, I type, “I see we both have something in common. We both have Juniors.”
I stare at the text thread. The pictures of Juan Junior look brutal. His shoulder is bleeding badly. His eyes are wide, frightened, his face so pale the tattoos that cover his head seem to stick out like three dimensional objects. The swastika branded on his skull cap sits beside a depiction of Jesus, His head wrapped in a crown of thorns while, His desperate eyes stare up at a heaven that might not exist...It all gives me a sick feeling.
“What did he say?” Joanne asks.
“Hang on,” I say.
A text comes back. I open it.
It says, “You are in over your head, gringo.” Then another text. “Speaking of heads...”
“What’s he saying, Bradly? Joanne presses.
Something’s happening at the Don Juan downtown fortress, and I don’t like it. Something’s happening to Bradley Junior, or Joanne’s mother. My gut is telling me that Don Juan won’t take our holding his wounded son hostage, lightly. But then, he won’t take a chance on harming our loved ones with his last remaining son under our control. Or would he?
Speaking of heads...
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Another text. This time, a photo comes through. What I see makes everything in my stomach come up on me. I jump out of the car, phone in hand, and puke my guts onto the blacktop.
“Bradley, what the hell is wrong?!” Joanne shouts from inside the car. “What is going on?! What’s making you sick?!”
Standing, I take another look at the picture. Joanne’s mother’s head is sitting in her lap. One of Don Juan’s men is standing beside her. He’s bare chested, his head shaved, and just like all the others, he’s covered in tattoos. He’s got a bolo gripped in his right hand, and he’s got a wide smile on his face. He’s decapitated Joanne’s mother.
What the hell do I do now? Do I tell her the truth? That her mother has been murdered? That her head has been cut off? If I tell her the truth, she will shoot Don Juan’s son on the spot, and then Don Juan will kill Bradley Junior. She gets out of the car, comes around the front, stomps over to me. Her face is so full of fear and anger, it’s like I’m not looking at my wife anymore. She’s crying again, and she’s shaking. She’s got the gun gripped tightly in her hand and her hands are trembling.
“Tell...me...what the fuck is wrong, Bradley!” she screams.
I try to open my mouth, try to make the words come out, but I can’t.
“Is it Bradley Junior?” she begs. “Have they killed him?”
I shake my head, and stare at her through eyes that also fill with tears. She takes another step forward.
“Then it’s got to be my mother,” she says, her voice hoarse and coming from a deep, dark place inside her soul.
“Joanne,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
She takes another step forward.
“Let me see it,” she insists. “He sent you something. A picture. Let...me...see...it!”
“Joanne,” I say. “You don’t want to see this. Trust me, you don’t want to look at it.”
Raising the gun, she aims the barrel at me.
“I swear to God as my judge, Bradley Jones,” she says, “I will shoot your fucking head off if you don’t show me your phone.”
My God, this is what it’s all come down to. For the second time in one night, my wife is aiming a loaded gun at me and for the second time tonight someone close to Joanne has been ruthlessly murdered. What the hell has happened to us? To our lives? We’ve become monsters and, in the end, monsters always answer to the devil.
Slowly, almost achingly, I turn the phone around, and show her the screen. When she’s finally able to focus on the photo, her knees buckle, and she drops to the pavement like a sack of rags and bones. She’s not passed out, but instead, entirely broken down. She’s weeping so hard, she can hardly breathe.
I drop to my knees, try to take her in my arms. But she’s fighting me, punching me with clenched fists.
“Joanne, calm down,” I plead. “Perez is a monster.”
She punches me again in the chest, then pushes herself off me. That’s when she stands. Gun in hand, she starts approaching the car. I see then that the kid’s torso is hanging out of the backseat. He’s trying to escape. Joanne raises the pistol and takes aim.
I shoot back up onto my feet.
“Joanne!” I scream. “Don’t do it!”
I run to her, grab her arm. A shot is fired. The bullet is way off its mark. Taking hold of her arm, I grab the gun, snatch it out of her hand.
“What are you doing?!” she screams. “He deserves to die for what Perez did to my mother! For shooting our son! For killing Sean!”
She’s squirming, trying her hardest to free herself from my grip.
“I know,” I say. “You’re right. He deserves to die. But not yet. Don’t you see, Joanne? We need him alive to make an exchange for our son. If we kill him now, then Bradley is as good as dead. But if we keep him alive, then Don Juan has no choice but to keep Bradley alive.”
She calms down as the words sink in. She’s breathing heavily, her face wet with tears. Finally, I let her go, and she looks up at the cloud-filled night, as if silently cursing God. Lowering her head, she looks me in the eyes.
“You do what you have to do, Bradley,” she says. “But mark my word, before tomorrow is through, I will kill Juan Perez and his son, if it’s the last thing I do.”
She walks away from me, goes to Juan Junior and starts shoving him back in the Volkswagen. But not before turning back to me.
“And if Bradley Junior dies,” she says, “I will kill you too.”