Page 2 of You Can Run
Inside, the heat had already climbed past uncomfortable. Four men occupied the steel box: two guards, a quiet inmatechained ankle-to-wrist, and the man shackled to the floor in a waist chain.
José Ferrera—El Mercas he was also known—hadn’t moved since they’d loaded him. Thick grey braids hung down his chest, secured with cheap rubber bands. He sat with his hands palms-up on his knees. His eyes were open, fixed on a point somewhere beyond the reinforced walls.
The younger guard shifted, his baton rapping against his thigh. He had wire-rimmed glasses and a constellation of acne on his cheeks. “You’d think a guy like that would look… I don’t know. Meaner.”
The older guard didn't look up from his clipboard. “He’s old-school cartel. Back when they still used machetes.”
El Merc didn't blink.
“I heard he made a guy eat his own?—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” the older guard snapped.
Ferrera’s lips curled.
The van hit a pothole, rattling the glass. A voice crackled over the intercom. “Checkpoint’s backed up. Rerouting west to the old federal track off I-10.”
The older guard scowled. “You sure that’s secure?”
“Ten, fifteen miles off the main road, then we’re clear.”
The van turned hard, causing gravel to spray the undercarriage like buckshot. Silence settled in the back. Ferrera turned his head, tracking the blurred landscape through a dust-crusted window.
The federal road twisted through stunted trees and grey scrub. There were no signs of civilization, only the shimmer of heat and the smell of hot diesel.
In the cabin, the radio dissolved into static. “Unit five. Check in.”
The van suddenly slowed.
The first shot didn’t sound like a gun. It was a sharp pop, followed by the violent jerk of the chassis as the front left tire disintegrated. The younger guard slammed into the wall. The clipboard flew out of the older guard’s hands and skidded across the floor.
The vehicle fishtailed into the dirt and the engine died. For two heartbeats, the world was silent.
Then came the hum. A high, mechanical whine that rose in pitch. A drone.
Something heavy clunked onto the roof. The younger guard’s eyes went wide. “That’s–shit–that’s–”
The back doors blew open.
They moved with the precision of a clockwork mechanism. Four shooters in tan tactical gear, their faces masked and M-4s leveled.
The older guard reached for his sidearm. A single round caught him in the throat. He didn't scream; he just slumped, a wet sound escaping his lungs.
The younger one scrambled, trying to find cover under the bench. The second shot took him just above the collarbone. He hit the floor, twitching in the dust.
One of the shooters stepped into the van. He was tall, his hands bare. He looked directly at El Merc and said, “We got him.”
A shorter figure climbed in. It was a woman, light on her feet, her hair braided tightly to her skull. She crouched beside Ferrera. From her boot, she pulled a narrow steel key and slipped it into the shackle lock at his waist and wrists.
The cuffs opened with a soft click. Then she sliced through the heavy duty zip-ties anchoring him to the floor. She didn’t offer a hand, she just watched him, her eyes pale and flat.
El Merc looked at his free hands. He flexed them, feeling the blood return to his fingers.
He stood, the heavy waist chains dragging behind him like a tail. He didn't glance at the dying boy on the floor, or the other inmate left wide-eyed and cowering in the front of the van. He just stepped over the blood and followed the woman out into the blinding morning sun.
ONE
Thirty minutesinto her shift at The Bare Minimum, Jessica Meeks was halfway through a routine she could probably do drunk, dead, or duct-taped to the pole.
