*Hi guys. So what's going on with this story?! I had this great idea about how to end it, but I had nothing to back it up with. So I thought I'd ask for an opinion or two, you know, have you help direct the lightbulb in my direction. See, the idea I had would be that I would bring in the roach (remember the original caballero story?) See, my thought would be that some one we least expected would be the one that helps Berto out, tips off Max to his wherebouts or something. Anyway, if anyone's got any ideas what to do with Franklin or Max or Berto, write to my email commare@hotmail.com Don't write it in the review cause you'll want it to be a secret or surprise to everyone else, right? So, anyway, here's my little interlude to hold y'all over for the time being.*
*And.... on with the story!*
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Josh was sleeping restlessly that night, perhaps a coincidental contrast with the raging storm that crashed across the sky outside. The meeting with Rich Marlette, for some reason, was following him, nibbling at the back of his head. There was something that he wasn't remembering. As he tossed on his pillow, words grated through his mind: a shipping deal, one he apprehended, a guy that got away, - but there had been no one else there, unless they were perhaps hiding - a guy that did not report back to Dread, plans for the future... none of it seemed to connect. Everything was hazy and blurred, like watching images pass by underwater. But then, as though he'd been transported, he was in the warehouse again, he was Max Steel, and all around him his sight was perfect, sharp, and clear. Dread's men were lying across the floor in disarray, all knocked out aside from the two dead ones who had been foolish enough to shoot right at each other. Max picked his feet up, stepping carefully over the bodies as he made his way over to a smaller crate to see what was inside. Clear as a bell, he heard himself say with sarcasm, "Yes, Madre. Yeesh, Berto. You're worse than Rachel sometimes, you know that?" Berto said something in Spanish then, and the tone of his voice was sharp. Max laughed, sure that it had been an expletive of some kind. "Roberto Martinez, you kiss your computer with that mouth?"
Josh startled awake, sitting up in bed with a horrified look. He couldn't breathe, he was being suffocated by an overwhelming mortification and a sudden self-recrimination. That was what happened wasn't it? That guy that got away; he'd heard Max say Berto's name. Overcome by a wave of nausea, Josh brought his hand up and clamped his fist into his mouth, unable to fill his lungs with air. *What have I done?! Oh my God, what have I done?!* Shudders racked up his spine, and finally, tearing itself slowly up his throat, a strangled cry detached from the back of his mouth and exploded into the bedroom in the form of a blood-curling scream. Then he buried his face in his hands to muffle the screams that followed. Whatever happened to Berto, whatever was happening to Berto... was because of him. It was his fault. It was all they needed, just to know Berto's name and that he was associated with Max Steel. Anyone could have called him up with general information on him and easily pretended to be an authority or co-worker, or anybody associated with his family - anyone he knew - and abstractedly mentioned that he should meet so and so at some place or another. God, it was so devastatingly plain and horrifyingly unproblematic. And why not? They'd done it to Pete.
Josh cried for the second time that day, only now, instead of helplessness, he was crying out of shame.
*And.... on with the story!*
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Josh was sleeping restlessly that night, perhaps a coincidental contrast with the raging storm that crashed across the sky outside. The meeting with Rich Marlette, for some reason, was following him, nibbling at the back of his head. There was something that he wasn't remembering. As he tossed on his pillow, words grated through his mind: a shipping deal, one he apprehended, a guy that got away, - but there had been no one else there, unless they were perhaps hiding - a guy that did not report back to Dread, plans for the future... none of it seemed to connect. Everything was hazy and blurred, like watching images pass by underwater. But then, as though he'd been transported, he was in the warehouse again, he was Max Steel, and all around him his sight was perfect, sharp, and clear. Dread's men were lying across the floor in disarray, all knocked out aside from the two dead ones who had been foolish enough to shoot right at each other. Max picked his feet up, stepping carefully over the bodies as he made his way over to a smaller crate to see what was inside. Clear as a bell, he heard himself say with sarcasm, "Yes, Madre. Yeesh, Berto. You're worse than Rachel sometimes, you know that?" Berto said something in Spanish then, and the tone of his voice was sharp. Max laughed, sure that it had been an expletive of some kind. "Roberto Martinez, you kiss your computer with that mouth?"
Josh startled awake, sitting up in bed with a horrified look. He couldn't breathe, he was being suffocated by an overwhelming mortification and a sudden self-recrimination. That was what happened wasn't it? That guy that got away; he'd heard Max say Berto's name. Overcome by a wave of nausea, Josh brought his hand up and clamped his fist into his mouth, unable to fill his lungs with air. *What have I done?! Oh my God, what have I done?!* Shudders racked up his spine, and finally, tearing itself slowly up his throat, a strangled cry detached from the back of his mouth and exploded into the bedroom in the form of a blood-curling scream. Then he buried his face in his hands to muffle the screams that followed. Whatever happened to Berto, whatever was happening to Berto... was because of him. It was his fault. It was all they needed, just to know Berto's name and that he was associated with Max Steel. Anyone could have called him up with general information on him and easily pretended to be an authority or co-worker, or anybody associated with his family - anyone he knew - and abstractedly mentioned that he should meet so and so at some place or another. God, it was so devastatingly plain and horrifyingly unproblematic. And why not? They'd done it to Pete.
Josh cried for the second time that day, only now, instead of helplessness, he was crying out of shame.