Jose Luis cleared his throat.
“Sir?”
Fernando turned back. He felt the nails digging into his palms again and released his fists.
“Get some men together. It’s time to make a statement.”
Twenty-Three
Gabriela leans back from her computer and gestures at the screen.
“Want to take a look before I upload it?”
I step over to the computer and lean down to read what she’s been working on the past hour. She’s a good writer, there’s no doubt about that. Short, declaratory sentences. Straight to the point. No filler. The girl definitely knows her stuff.
She writes about how the bodies of a woman and two children were found dead, burned today, by a tourist—thankfully she doesn’t give any further detail about me—and how police determined a phone call had been made at a nearby pay phone to a motel in the city. How the call was made to a motel and how the person working that shift was now a person of interest. She even provides pictures she snapped with her phone—one of the motel, the other of Miguel Dominguez’s cluttered apartment. She ends the article stating that while the investigation is obviously ongoing, it’s clear that the Devil has struck again.
I lean away from the computer, nodding.
“Impressive.”
Gabriela beams as she moves the mouse around to hit the button to upload the article. Within a minute, she says, the article will be live on the site for the world to see.
I say, “You said La Baliza is an independent online publication?”
“Yes.”
“Who runs it?”
She shrugs.
“I have no idea. I just think of him as the publisher. Nobody knows who he is.”
“How many other people contribute to the site?”
She shrugs again.
“No clue.”
I frown, looking back at the computer screen.
“So essentially it’s just a free-for-all blog—would that be a good description?”
Gabriela shakes her head adamantly.
“Absolutely not. The reason I don’t publish the articles under my name—the reason nobody publishes under their own names on the site—is because that’s the only way we can protect ourselves.”
“So you’re hiding behind anonymity.”
“No, it’s not like that. I mean, yes, it is like that, but La Baliza isn’t some gossip website. It publishes real news. Oftentimes news that major publications in this country are too afraid to publish for fear that there will be retaliation from either the government or the cartels. I don’t know how it is in America, but journalists here are not protected citizens. They may not be murdered by the government for speaking out against them, but when they create enemies, those enemies know the right people to call to have them eliminated.”
“Is that what happened to your parents?”
Gabriela pauses, and at first I’m not sure whether or not I’ve struck a nerve. Well, of course I struck a nerve—I just asked about her dead parents, for Christ’s sake—but while her body tenses, it’s only briefly, and she shakes her head.
“No, their deaths were not nearly as interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugs again, her face somber.
“They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were in the city, out at dinner, when a gang drove by and opened fire at a restaurant. Apparently the restaurant was owned by the parents of a rival gang member. Thirteen people died that day, all of them customers. None of the gang members were even at the restaurant, and neither were the gang member’s parents.”
“I’m sorry. How long ago did this happen?”
“It’s been two years. My grandmother took me in right after. She’s a good woman, though I think she’s starting to show signs of dementia. You saw her on her tablet? I keep encouraging her to play those puzzle games to keep her mind active. But, well, she’s getting old. She loves to cook, but her food isn’t nearly as good as it used to be. Speaking of which, would you like something to eat?”
I haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours—my stomach completely empty—but right now I don’t want to stop this conversation so I force a smile and wave off the offer.
“Thanks, but I’m okay right now. Were either of your parents journalists?”
She smiles that somber smile of hers.
“No, and they would think I’m crazy doing what I’m doing. But … I think they would understand, too.”
“No offense, Gabriela, but it is crazy what you’re doing. You could get yourself killed.”
She shrugs again, this time almost listlessly.
“Anybody can get killed doing anything. I could slip walking down the steps and break my neck. I could step out into the street and get hit by a bus tomorrow. Or a gang could shoot up the café I’m in next week. The way I see it, we all have limited time here on this earth, and we should make the most of that time. For me, I want to get the truth out there to the people who care.”
“What truth?”
“Just the truth. People need to know about the crime and corruption that happens in this country. I mean, I know they know about the crime and corruption because they see it every day, but most times it doesn’t get reported by the news media for one reason or another. People have turned to social media to find out what’s really going on. They use Twitter and Facebook to communicate. La Baliza isn’t the only news hub in the country that does the kind of reporting we do. But it’s become one of the best. You can’t just sign up and start writing for them. There are no email addresses on the site. For me to even use it I needed to download Tor. Are you familiar with Tor?”
I nod. I’d heard Scooter talk about it. I rarely used the Internet myself—in my previous life I had no time for social media let alone much else—but Scooter had always told me that if I use the
