At least, I assume it’s Morales. He’s dressed nicer than all the rest of the men, in slacks and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His sunglasses look designer, not the cheap ones the rest of the men wear. He holds a gun at his side but doesn’t aim it at me as he slams the door shut and starts to wander out into the middle of the road, scanning the empty square.
I say, “Stop right there.”
He pauses a beat, clearly surprised by my forceful tone. But then he shakes it off and keeps advancing. He takes his time, a simple stroll, walking past his men who stand motionless with their rifles trained on me.
“Where is everybody?”
I don’t answer. Besides the rumblings of the vehicles’ engines, the square is quiet.
Morales asks, “Are they hiding in their homes?”
I say nothing.
He pauses again, now maybe thirty paces away from me. He takes my measure, apparently finds me wanting, and shakes his head dismissively.
“Who the fuck are you, anyway?”
I say nothing.
He takes another step toward me.
“Are you the one who ran off my boys?”
I keep my mouth shut.
His face flushes. His teeth even clench as he growls at me.
“Answer me, puta.”
I mimic an overdramatic yawn.
Morales sneers.
“Fuck this.”
He starts to raise his gun.
I say, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
This causes him to pause again. But it’s only for an instant, and then he keeps raising the gun until it’s aimed right at my face.
That’s when the rest of the townspeople show themselves.
First the men on the rooftops rise up and aim their rifles down into the square. There are six of them, each with AK-74s, and they’re spread out around the square so that the narcos are surrounded.
Then the other townspeople drift into the square. Some of them are carrying bats and metal rods. Many others carry guns.
I say, “Maybe you didn’t get the message, but your boys were asked to leave and never come back. That means their asshole friends, too.”
I pause, squinting at Morales.
“That especially means you.”
The man’s face burns. He’s visibly shaking, doing everything he can to hold in his rage. Because he knows that if he lets it out, things are going to get worse.
“You’re Fernando Sanchez Morales, aren’t you?”
He says nothing.
“From what I hear, your father was a reasonable man. I mean, as reasonable as somebody who works for the cartel can be. But at least he didn’t fuck with townspeople. He let them be. Let them go about their lives.”
Behind Morales, the narcos haven’t moved. They’re still aiming their rifles at me, but they’re looking around the square, especially up at the rooftops where the men are aiming their own rifles down at them.
“In case you didn’t notice, Fernando, you and your men are in what’s called a kill box. Are those men up on the rooftops skilled marksmen? No. But from where they’re positioned, all they need to do is shoot and they’re likely to hit somebody. Somebody like you.”
He says nothing.
“Speaking of which, some of those AK-74s are courtesy of your men. Which is kind of funny, if you think about it.”
I let it hang there, and it’s enough for him to finally break his silence.
“What’s funny?”
“That you and your men might get killed by the same guns your boys had hidden in their house.”
Morales says nothing.
“You and your men have less chance of walking away from this than the people of this town do. Is that something you want to risk?”
He says nothing, though his gun starts to dip, slowly, until it’s hanging at his side.
I say, “Why did your men come here last night and kill those people?”
He shakes his head.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Part of me wants to force him to admit he was the one who ordered those men to come here last night, but another part—a more rational part—knows that now is not the time.
“You and your men might be able to kill me and a few other of the townspeople right now, but many of your men are going to die in the process. I know you probably don’t give a shit about them, but here’s the thing, Fernando. You will die, too. I know you probably don’t believe me, but I promise you, that if you want to start something here, you will die.”
Morales doesn’t answer, just stands there seething.
“You don’t own this town. You don’t own these people. They just want to live their lives. Are you going to let them live their lives?”
He says nothing, keeps glaring back at me. Finally he glances over his shoulder at his men, then glances back at me.
“It’s not going to happen today, but one of these days, I am going to kill you.”
He’s still seething, but he knows he has no choice. At least, not if he wants to make it back to the hill alive.
Fernando Sanchez Morales starts walking backward, slowly, toward his men.
“Soon, puta.”
I give him a smile.
“Can’t wait.”
He glares at me for another moment and then turns and motions his men to disperse. They’re leery, still watching the rooftops, but they start back toward their respective pickup trucks. It takes a minute before they’re all loaded in the back of the cabs.
Morales takes his time walking back to the SUV. He pauses before he climbs inside, just long enough to glare back at me one last time.
Without a word he gets into the SUV, and almost immediately the driver pulls a slow U-turn to take them back down the unpaved road they came in on, the two pickup trucks following close behind.
I don’t move—the entire town doesn’t move—until the three vehicles are far enough away that we can’t hear their engines anymore.
That’s when the town starts cheering. Just like last time, they whoop and holler and act like it’s New Year’s Eve. When the cheering dies down, I shout so everybody can
