Free This Is for the Mara Salvatrucha by Samuel Logan

room and spoke discreetly to the men he wanted to join him that night, one by one. One was the largest guy in the house; Denis wanted him to come along to add muscle. Another went along for fun. A third grabbed a knife from the kitchen and agreed to help Denis kill Joaquin; he was another of the gang’s seasoned killers. The fourth homie offered to drive and be the lookout. The owner of a green Toyota Camry offered to let Denis use his car. Denis had pushed through the crowded living room to speak to each homie he wanted in on the plan. He had whispered under the loud music, planning his murder in the very apartment where the victim sat waiting on a couch.
    With the plans in place, Denis and the other four prepared to leave. Denis invited Joaquin to come with them to pick up some marijuana for the party. Maybe on the way back they will drop me off, Joaquin thought, so he agreed. They all left the apartment and in the chilly fall night, piled into the Toyota Camry and headed for an address in northeast Washington, D.C. On the way, they decided to make a stop at Daingerfield Island.
    Daingerfield Island was a national park just off of the George Washington Memorial Parkway, a couple of miles north of Old Town in Alexandria. It was close enough to Reagan National Airport to hear the constant drone of plane engines during takeoff and the screeching of rubber tires as they landed.
    But between flights, the natural sounds of a wooded area in Virginia prevailed. During the day, birdsong mixed with car tires crunching over gravel as visitors came and went. Like many park areas along the river, Daingerfield was a known meeting spot for clandestine lunch encounters among gay men and illegal nighttime activity for local teens. At dusk, crickets were in song. Otherwise the park was quiet and empty. Later in the evening the park was silent, save for the noise from the airport and the gurgle of water lapping against the muddy slopes and tree roots along the banks of the Potomac. While major crime in these parks was fairly uncommon, the density of the forest and the confusing number of footpaths that meandered through the overgrown underbrush made it a perfect place for murder.
    Denis told the driver they would just make a quick stop by Daingerfield Island to see if any of their friends were hanging out by the river. If so, they could get more money for the marijuana. Everyone thought it was a good idea except for Joaquin, who was silent and stuffed in the back of the Camry. He just wanted to go home, but he decided it was best to keep his mouth shut and just go along with Denis’s plans. It was nearly dark when they arrived at the park. The small group wasted no time in piling out of the car to head toward the water.
    Denis offered to let Joaquin start down the path first. It was a single track, a winding trail thick with the thorny green branches of blackberry bushes and the creeping tendrils of vines crisscrossing the forest floor. Woody tree roots rose from the earth, daring visitors to run and not trip. Denis followed close behind Joaquin, with another homie just behind Denis. Two more homies followed in case Joaquin tried to run back up the path. The driver stayed with the car.
    The narrow footpath led from the back of the parking lot to the river. They walked in silence for a few minutes, marching farther away from the parking lot and any chance for discovery with each step. When the small group was two hundred yards from the river, Denis silently removed a knife from under his shirt. He then quickly reached over Joaquin’s shoulder and stabbed him in the chest.
    Suddenly frenzied with pain and adrenaline, Joaquin ran, wrenching the imbedded blade from Denis’s grip before it fell to the ground. I’ve been stabbed! Joaquin’s mind screamed with disbelief. The reality of the moment flooded in. If they caught him, he would die in that park. How stupid he was to trust Denis! Fear flooded Joaquin’s senses. The pain in his chest