When the Man Comes Around part 2

After hiding the Dragon under a camouflaged tarp in the forest, Michael ventured into the city and checked into a hotel. The city in question was Venti Santos, the country’s largest city as well as a cultural and political hub. It was a good place to start his search. Costa Triste got few tourists, but those that came, often visited the resorts in the city. Everything he paid for was in cash. No paper trails. No IDs. Michael took some money out of his savings earned as a co-owner of Hawkwood Hardware back in New York, which he knew would result in a conversation with his father, but money had been tight for him in recent months. The hotel was relatively cheap, but it still had a nice view of a lovely coast. The beaches in Costa Triste were said to be beautiful, but they often hid tragedy, hence the name.

“There’s a parade tonight,” the young woman behind the front desk told him happily.

“Oh, yeah?”

“It’s Democracy Day,” she told him, “Our independence day. You should check it out.”

“Sounds good, thanks,” he took the tourist brochure from the small kiosk and left.

Michael carried his large suitcase up to his room. “Democracy Day,” he thought derisively to himself. It was a joke. There was no democracy in this place. It was controlled by a criminal, one whose defeat was long overdue. When he arrived in his room, he made sure the door was locked behind him, then he opened his suitcase. His armor was there and nothing else. The only change of clothes he had was the one on his back.

He looked at the hotel brochure. It had photos of the previous year’s Democracy Day as well as areas of interest along the parade route. Perhaps it was a good idea to go out. He did research before entering the country, but venturing out during the festivities might be a good opportunity to learn more about his surroundings.

****

He came home wet and with a bloody lip. The other orphans noticed him first and called the nuns who rushed him inside. Sister Mary Catalina ran into the room as he was being toweled off.

“Eduard,” she shouted, “What happened?”

“Santiago,” the boy sniffed back tears.

“Did he do this?”

The child nodded.

“Oh, my boy. My poor boy!” Catalina wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly.

“I don’t have anything left,” the boy choked, “It was all I had been saving up all day. I was gonna bring it back to the orphanage.”

“We can get it back. Remember, God will-”

“Where was God?” the boy shouted back, startling the nun, “His children needed him and he let a thief take away their money!”

“God knows your pain and weeps with you.”

“Does he?” the boy sobbed, “We’re told that if we give our lives to Jesus, he’ll write our names in the Book of Life… but we have no names.”

She gave him a sorrowful look, “I know God seems distant now, but he has his ways.”

“Then he has a lot of work to do,” he wheeled away, “In the meantime, I won’t be bothering him with my prayers.”

****

Michael left the resort that night; the beat of the music feeling heavy in the air. Costa Tristens happily danced and shared drinks in the streets before the celebration officially began. One of the main intersections was the parade’s starting point, so he made sure to arrive as the sun set.

The floats were decorative, with dancers in bright, sexy costumes and masks. Fireworks shot out of one and another contained cartoon characters that the kids in the audience enjoyed. Michael moved through the crowd, taking note of the float with the current president – Javier De Guzman. Michael knew nothing about the man other than Nadie was likely pulling his strings. It was curious that he didn’t see anything pertaining to Nadie. He also noticed that the streets were clean and the people appeared safe. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t that.

Then came the explosion. A float went up in a fireball and the crowd released a unified gasp. Michael watched the smoke and flames roll into the air and quickly placed his back against a wall as people rushed past in a panic. He noticed a small girl trip and fall. “Mama!” she yelled. Acting quickly, Michael pushed his way into the crowd and made his way to the little girl. He pulled her away just as more people ran past. Not far away, a man and woman looked fanatically into the crowd while calling out a name. Michael held the girl in his arms and once again fought his way back into the crowd to get close to the parents. Once he let the girl go, she ran to a thankful couple.

Down the street, men with black ski masks raised automatic rifles, releasing spurts of ammo into the sky. Michael’s limited Spanish caught the gist of what they were shouting: “Know the real enemy! Fight for a free Costa Triste!” Michael had a theory as to their identities – La Respuesta. He wasn’t sure if he was right and in that moment, he was only concerned with saving lives.

An armored truck pulled up and police officers in riot gear leapt out, which resulted in a firefight between the groups; Michael ducked behind a food cart to avoid getting hit by stray bullets. As a member of the masked group backed up while shooting at the officers, Michael saw an opening. He sprang up and wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, then pulled him toward a nearby alley. The man raised his rifle, releasing half a clip into the air as he was dragged away. Once Michael got him into the alley, he kicked the leg out from under him, forcing him to a knee. Once he was down, Michael placed a hand at the back of his head and shoved him forward, bouncing him off the brick wall. More gunshots could be heard and Michael poked his head out long enough to see the police gunning men down as they ran from them. Seeing them shot in the back in cold blood, Michael was sick to his stomach. There was a lull in the battle as the remaining masked men disappeared down various side streets. It was then that he saw a familiar face arriving on the scene – Mano.

Nadie’s main enforcer appeared from behind the destroyed float, wearing body armor and armed with a rifle. It was surreal seeing police officers standing at attention and awaiting orders from Mano. In the noise and confusion, it was difficult to make out what he was telling them, but the squad broke apart, likely splitting up to take out the remaining attackers. Mano seemed comfortable striking out on his own.

Michael ducked back in the alley and moved around dark corners in hopes of saving more lives. He could hear gunshots and screams all around him and when he reemerged on a main street, he saw a police officer pinning a masked man to the ground with his boot. The officer lowered his gun, ready to shoot the defenseless man; Michael leapt into the air, slamming his knee into the side of the officer’s head. When he landed on top of him, he quickly took his gun and disassembled it.

The masked man’s eyes were visible behind his ski mask and he seemed understandably confused, but it didn’t stop him from rising to his feet and picking his own gun up off the pavement and taking aim. “Come on,” Michael grumbled in annoyance before tossing the empty gun at the man’s face. The man stumbled back and lowered his weapon for a second, which gave Michael time to launch into a spinning heel kick to the man’s chin. He dropped just as more masked men arrived on the street. Michael rolled along the ground just as a barrage passed overhead, then he knelt behind a parked car for cover. Without his armor and weapons, he was obviously far more vulnerable to gunfire. He had to be careful. He peeked around the rear tires of the car to get a good look at his attackers.

Just then, another player appeared on the scene. Mano exited a side-door, unloading an entire clip. One of the masked men was shot up before he could react and fell dead. The others returned fire. Michael felt odd essentially having a team-up with Mano, but there was little choice.

He ran up behind one gun man, snatching him by the back of his shirt before launching himself into the air. The gunman was carried toward another parked car and landed face-first into the bumper. Not far away, Mano slipped a knife between the ribs of another gunman, puncturing his heart and releasing a fountain of blood onto the ground. A third gunman raced to Michael’s location and trained a gun on him, but Michael swept the legs out from under him. Once the man fell on his back, Michael grabbed a discarded rifle and slammed the butt into the bridge of his nose. Down the street, Mano was in the midst of snapping a man’s neck with his bare hands. Michael slipped into another alley before Mano could get a close look at him or ascertain why an American tourist was fighting terrorists in the middle of the street. He wasn’t sure of what to do next. He had to make it back to his hotel and formulate a better plan. He doubled back through another set of alleys and when he came out the other side, another police officer stood in his path.

Michael heard the order to stop. It was a crazy night and he knew the police weren’t taking any chances with anyone. Michael jumped into the air, performing a flying kick that took the officer to the ground. From there, he ripped the helmet away and delivered a punch to render the officer unconscious. With the coast clear, he slipped into the night. Moments later, Mano appeared on the scene, having traveled through the same alleyway. He saw the unconscious officer on the ground and pulled him up to a sitting position to rouse him.

“What happened?” Mano asked.

“I dunno,” the officer replied, “The guy came outta nowhere.”

“Was he La Respuesta?”

“Didn’t look like it.”

Mano sat in silent contemplation.

****

The boy sat at the corner as he always did. Across the road, he saw some of the street children divvying up stolen goods before leaving to pick some more pockets. It wasn’t fair that the criminals always had more than those who followed Christ. His box was empty that morning and a part of him hoped that no one would donate as it would make him less of a target for Santiago.

He sat silently for roughly an hour before the strange man ran through traffic, making his way to the boy’s corner. He wore expensive clothes and had his hair and mustache styled like most cartel members. The biggest clue that he was a criminal, however, was when he pulled a gun out of his jacket. He looked around to check his surroundings before opening the boy’s jacket and shoving the pistol inside. “Hold this for me, mano,” the man said in a hushed, yet friendly tone, “Just stay quiet and the cops won’t say a thing to you.” He calmly began walking away from him as men in plain clothes ran across the street after him. No badges were produced and they didn’t announce themselves, but the boy surmised they were Secret Police, the anti-cartel organization in Costa Triste. “Don’t move, De La Vega,” the lead officer shouted.

The boy recognized the name – Roberto De La Vega was a known cartel boss. If Santiago was a step up from the street kids in the criminal hierarchy, then De La Vega was several steps up from him. The only cartel that rivaled De La Vega’s was the Basurto Cartel.

The Secret Police grabbed De La Vega by the back of his jacket and pushed him against the wall. “Where is it?” the officer shouted. “Where’s what?” was the response. The officers began patting him down, obviously searching for the gun, which was still nestled under the boy’s jacket. He was afraid, but said nothing. As the officers continued to search De La Vega, he snidely told them, “The least you can do is buy me dinner first.” Unsatisfied, but with nothing to show for their troubles, the police left him alone and marched back across the street. The gang leader smiled as he watched them leave, then he approached the boy. “Thanks, mano,” he motioned with his fingers, “You can pass it back now.”

The boy looked up at him. He was angry at the criminals and thugs controlling the streets. He was angry at God for allowing it to happen. More than that, he was angry at himself for being passive to it all. He looked up at him in resentment, but his voice presented itself as sincere, “I’m sorry, sir, but I lost it. If you give me eight thousand pesos, I’m sure I can find it for you.” It was the only way he could think of to stand up for himself and when Roberto De La Vega gave him a shocked look, he was ready for another beating.

Instead, De La Vega laughed loudly, “Oh, wow! You got some balls! I like that!” He happily began to take out his wallet, “Hey, you keep that up. Don’t take no shit from nobody. Always remember that, mano.” He looked at the money in his hands, “I’ll throw in a little extra, huh?”

The boy handed the gun back to him and then opened an empty box. De La Vega put the gun away while holding money in his other hand. When he peered into the box and saw it was empty, he shook his head, “See, that’s what’s wrong with this country. People don’t wanna give to the church or the kids.” He stuffed the money into the box, “When was the last time anyone gave you anything?”

“I had money yesterday,” the boy told him sadly, “But a man took all of it.”

The smile fell from De La Vega’s face, “Do you know this man’s name?”

Years later, Nadie would remember the image of a single tooth falling into a fish tank, leaving a cloudy red trail as it sank. It was such a strange memory to have, but the tooth sinking in water remained the most vivid memory of that day. As the tooth sank, a beta-fish darted out of its way and flared its fins in anger.

De La Vega’s men found Santiago hours after he met the boy and they decided to take him to his house to get retribution. The men pinned Santiago against the wall and the next several punches landed across his face and torso; when he dropped to the floor, the men began to stomp and kick him. The boy had never seen such a vicious display, but he was calm. He was comfortable. He didn’t enjoy it, but felt it was necessary. “Look at you!” De La Vega roared as his men continued to turn Santiago into a bloody pulp, “Feel good about yourself? You’re not even a man! Get his ass up!”

The men pulled Santiago to his knees. Though his eyes were swollen to the point where it was likely difficult to see, he looked in the boy’s direction as if to beg for his life. “It’s your call, mano,” De La Vega told him, “What do you want us to do with him? We’ll do whatever you say and you won’t have to worry about the cops, I promise.” The boy weighed his options. He looked at the cartel members. They wore nice clothes, they had power. They had the ability to make changes. He loved the nuns at his orphanage, particularly Sister Mary Catalina, but he saw an opportunity to go in a different direction. She told him God worked in mysterious ways. Perhaps this was providence.

“He works for me now,” the boy stated plainly, “I’m his boss and he’s gonna do what I tell him.”

The cartel members looked at one another for a moment, then burst out in laughter. “See what I mean?” De La Vega told them, “I love this kid!” The cartel leader stooped down to meet Santiago, taking a lock of hair in his hand. “Hear that, cabrón?” he pointed at the boy, “The kid’s your boss from now on. You gotta do what he says. He tells you to eat shit, you better find a spoon! Otherwise, we finish you off.” They shoved Santiago back to the floor where he gasped and bled. “Take care of yourself, mano,” De La Vega said proudly before giving the boy a friendly pat on the shoulder, “Let me know if you need anything else.”

The next day, Santiago met the boy at the corner. The boy had him push his wheelchair behind the nearby department store where the street kids were smoking stolen cigarettes. “What’s the cripple doing here?” one of boys said coldly, then he noticed Santiago, “Hey Wheels, is that your dad? What happened to his face?” A single finger was pointed at him and a command was given to Santiago: “Hit him.” Santiago did as he was told, storming forward to deliver a punch to the street kid’s face. He fell on his backside and a steady red stream ran down to his shirt. Another street kid was singled out, “And now that one.” As the teen stood in shocked silence, Santiago knocked him down as well. “And that one.” The third kid tried to flee, but was struck down all the same. The young gang backed away nervously, placing themselves against the wall. They instantly began sobbing and begging Santiago to stop. “That’s enough,” the boy ordered, satisfied that the street kids knew the score.

“You’re my gang now,” the boy told the group and they all silently agreed, “You’ll make money for the church and keep the rest.”

“Who are you?” one of the kids asked.

He gave an answer – “Nadie.”

Continued…