Free Unlimited by Davis Bunn Page B
Authors: Davis Bunn
of course, travel to your nearest consulate or the embassy in Mexico City.”
“I’m broke. Everything I brought with me is gone.”
“Then leave it with me.” Enrique started toward Sofia, then turned back. “Is it true what they say, that you can complete the professor’s work?”
Perhaps it was just how everything the mayor did and said carried this polished edge. But Simon had the feeling that Enrique’s question was not so casual as it appeared. Or that the question had just popped into the mayor’s head. “Maybe. With time. And money.”
Enrique flashed the smile made for billboards. “Then let us hope you are successful upon your return to your country, Señor Simon.”
The mayor crossed the courtyard to where Harold stood in the dormitory doorway. The orphanage director turned and greeted Enrique as an old friend. They talked for a few moments, then Enrique patted Harold’s shoulder, called softly into the dorm, and walked back to his car. He waved at Simon before the driver closed his door.
As the car pulled away, Simon thought, there goes a man who has everything .
Which was bitterly ironic, as it was exactly what they used to say about him.
Chapter 11
Carlos was on the hunt. It was his favorite part of the job. And his job was anything his jefe told him to do.
Carlos was lucky to be alive. Of the kids he ran with in his youth, he was the only one still drawing breath. And it was all because of his boss.
When he was eleven, the war had come to his village.
In Mexico, there was only one war these days. The gangs that controlled the drug trade were in the middle of a civil war, fighting each other for control and power. And the civil war gave no thought to innocents. In this war, there were only winners and losers. That was what the cartel men had said when they came to his village. Did Carlos and the other children want to win? Or did they want to die?
The gang needed the village’s kids. That was why they came. To recruit every child over nine years of age. The gang loved hitting villages like his, close to major cities and familiar with the war and the violence. Everyone in his village knew a family who had suffered. They heard the tales from cities like Juárez or Chihuahua. So when the gang came to their village, the locals already knew the consequences if they refused to cooperate.
The gang gathered all the kids in a dusty lot beyond the empty factory that once had employed half the village making pottery. They showed off their guns—the military-grade automatic rifles, the pistols, the Tasers, the machetes. They made the children hold them and handle them. They then gave the children a choice. The kids could join the gang and each receive five hundred American dollars to take home to their families. Or they could watch their families die. All of them. Even the animals. A lesson to be remembered by all who joined the gang. That there was no escape. That hope was a myth imported from north of the border, from the Yanquis who consumed the drugs and fueled the violence that had come to their village. Here, there was no hope. Only this choice. Join or die.
Carlos had known there was no choice at all. Not for him. Only for his family. If he joined the gang, he would die an early death. Almost all the soldiers in every gang were dead before their twenty-fifth birthday. It was a tragic statistic that played on television and filled the newspapers. Mexico’s youth were being wiped from the face of the earth.
But at least he could save his family. So Carlos had said yes and joined the gang.
He spent four years as a mule, ferrying drugs across the American border. He traveled with the coyotes , pretending to be the son of some other family. So his own family would survive.
All the money he earned he gave to his mother. He was the oldest of five children, and his family was now secure. They bought land. They prospered. His photograph was placed upon the altar in the corner of his mother’s
“I’m broke. Everything I brought with me is gone.”
“Then leave it with me.” Enrique started toward Sofia, then turned back. “Is it true what they say, that you can complete the professor’s work?”
Perhaps it was just how everything the mayor did and said carried this polished edge. But Simon had the feeling that Enrique’s question was not so casual as it appeared. Or that the question had just popped into the mayor’s head. “Maybe. With time. And money.”
Enrique flashed the smile made for billboards. “Then let us hope you are successful upon your return to your country, Señor Simon.”
The mayor crossed the courtyard to where Harold stood in the dormitory doorway. The orphanage director turned and greeted Enrique as an old friend. They talked for a few moments, then Enrique patted Harold’s shoulder, called softly into the dorm, and walked back to his car. He waved at Simon before the driver closed his door.
As the car pulled away, Simon thought, there goes a man who has everything .
Which was bitterly ironic, as it was exactly what they used to say about him.
Chapter 11
Carlos was on the hunt. It was his favorite part of the job. And his job was anything his jefe told him to do.
Carlos was lucky to be alive. Of the kids he ran with in his youth, he was the only one still drawing breath. And it was all because of his boss.
When he was eleven, the war had come to his village.
In Mexico, there was only one war these days. The gangs that controlled the drug trade were in the middle of a civil war, fighting each other for control and power. And the civil war gave no thought to innocents. In this war, there were only winners and losers. That was what the cartel men had said when they came to his village. Did Carlos and the other children want to win? Or did they want to die?
The gang needed the village’s kids. That was why they came. To recruit every child over nine years of age. The gang loved hitting villages like his, close to major cities and familiar with the war and the violence. Everyone in his village knew a family who had suffered. They heard the tales from cities like Juárez or Chihuahua. So when the gang came to their village, the locals already knew the consequences if they refused to cooperate.
The gang gathered all the kids in a dusty lot beyond the empty factory that once had employed half the village making pottery. They showed off their guns—the military-grade automatic rifles, the pistols, the Tasers, the machetes. They made the children hold them and handle them. They then gave the children a choice. The kids could join the gang and each receive five hundred American dollars to take home to their families. Or they could watch their families die. All of them. Even the animals. A lesson to be remembered by all who joined the gang. That there was no escape. That hope was a myth imported from north of the border, from the Yanquis who consumed the drugs and fueled the violence that had come to their village. Here, there was no hope. Only this choice. Join or die.
Carlos had known there was no choice at all. Not for him. Only for his family. If he joined the gang, he would die an early death. Almost all the soldiers in every gang were dead before their twenty-fifth birthday. It was a tragic statistic that played on television and filled the newspapers. Mexico’s youth were being wiped from the face of the earth.
But at least he could save his family. So Carlos had said yes and joined the gang.
He spent four years as a mule, ferrying drugs across the American border. He traveled with the coyotes , pretending to be the son of some other family. So his own family would survive.
All the money he earned he gave to his mother. He was the oldest of five children, and his family was now secure. They bought land. They prospered. His photograph was placed upon the altar in the corner of his mother’s