Billy and I had become blood brothers when we were kids. We’d grown up together, hunting and fishing the Caloosahatchee River and the Ten Thousand Islands area. Later, we’d served side-by-side in the Marine Corps. We’d been covering each other’s six for over forty years.
By blood, Billy was, in fact, the acting chieftain of the Calusa people, the first settlers of Florida’s southwest coast. Roughly translated, Calusa means “fierce people.” Even the conquistadors sailed wide around Southwest Florida after Juan Ponce de León first landed in Charlotte Harbor and got an arrow in his gut for the discovery.
Few had ever seen Billy’s fierce side. But I had.
Since leaving the Corps, he’d guided hunting trips in the Everglades and built incredible 4x4s that could go anywhere. Later, he’d received a law degree and worked to secure a place for his people. He’d helped Deuce on occasion with legal matters. And he’d helped me dispose of a body once. He was an odd mix, but I trusted him implicitly. We’d put our lives on the line for each other more than once.
“I’ve got a situation,” I began. “And I’m hoping you might be free and willing to help. A woman called me earlier tonight. She sounds like a nice lady and tells me this story about her sixteen-year-old niece, who’s gotten herself jammed up with MS-13 in Fort Myers.”
“Why would that be something you’d get involved in?”
“Couple of reasons,” I replied. “From what the aunt tells me, the girl sounds like a really good kid, but I also think it’s because this gang is so clearly out of control. Apparently, they’re going around these days thinking they can kidnap innocent girls off the street, gang-rape them, addict them to drugs, and then run them as prostitutes, all without fearing retribution of any sort. The police are powerless over them because they’re so effective at intimidating and killing anyone willing to testify against them. Apparently, this girl, Callie, interrupted one of their kidnappings and, in the process, took down two members of the gang. That obviously made them look like fools, so they’ve been going after her hard. The aunt’s worried about the girl and her family.”
“How did the woman hear about you?”
“A PI she knows up north knows a guy I once worked with. I agreed to have her call me at Rusty’s, thinking I might be able to help, but I’m leaving at the end of the week.”
“I don’t like MS-13, Jesse. They make the whole human race look bad.”
“I was hoping you’d feel that way.”
“I’ve got some time,” he offered. “Want me to go down there and scalp a couple of them?”
I explained the situation with as much detail as I knew, including the part about how he would have to basically offer invisible protection to the girl’s family for the next three days and then to the girl herself once she got back from Boston.
“So, I have to provide this protection silently? Like a ghost?”
“Yup,” I replied. “You’ll need your moccasins, for sure. But don’t put your life in danger over that aspect. I’d much rather the girl and her family find out that her aunt arranged protection than have anything happen to you.”
“You said the girl drives a motorcycle?”
“That’s what her aunt said.”
“I recently treated myself to an Indian and have been looking for an excuse for a road trip.”
“Vintage?” I asked, knowing Billy’s dislike of most modern things.
“No, not this time. She’s a brand-new 1200cc, blacked-out, Indian Roadmaster. She’s even got a GPS nav system built into the fairing.”
“Jeez, Billy, what happened to old school? Your ancestors are probably rolling over in their middens.”
“You forget; I’m chief of the Calusa. It’s called executive privilege. Iron horse is heap powerful.”
I chuckled.
“Text me the girl’s address after we hang up,” he said. “I’ll head over to Fort Myers tomorrow. You said the girl will be back on Sunday?”
“That’s what her aunt said. And thanks, Billy. I’ll owe you another one. Give me a call once you get settled in and keep track of your expenses. I’ll pick up the bill on this.”
“You can’t afford me, brother. I’ll put it on your tab, though.”
In a darkened motel room in Fort Myers, Manuel “Bones” Bonilla patiently waited, though he was excited at what the night might bring. The motel was on MLK, just a few blocks from Harlem Lakes.
Bones’s gang, MS-13, had sprung up in Los Angeles, ostensibly to protect Salvadoran people and businesses. It had quickly turned to more lucrative and illegal activities and soon spread across the globe. But unlike most of his MS-13 fellow gang members, Bones was of mixed heritage.
His mother was Salvadoran and his father, whom he never knew, was black. His darker skin and African-American features allowed him to move around in the Lake Boyz-controlled part of Fort Myers as if he were invisible. And Harlem Lakes was the center of the other gang’s territory.
Having been raised by a devout Catholic mother, Bones couldn’t wait to get out of that confinement. By the time he reached thirteen years of age, he’d already had numerous run-ins with the law. At fifteen, he moved out of his mother’s house, quit school, and lived with friends under a bridge, or in one of the many abandoned crack houses nearby. He soon started selling crack, but he never used it. The roots of Catholicism ran deep.
Bones was bigger than most of the Hispanic people who lived in his neighborhood, and he took care of those who lived on the streets. While they slept or smoked, he was armed and alert. Left to their own devices, most would end up dead or in jail, and they couldn’t very well buy more drugs from him if they ended up in those conditions. He didn’t care about them. They were a means to an end, nothing more. Over time, he’d gained a reputation for dealing fairly with
