Song: Fastball – The Way

March 16, 2018 – Nogales, Mexico

Sean Diaz yawned and stretched out as much as the driver's seat in the white 2002 Chevy Cruze would allow. He was tired, but the morning sunrise that bathed the city of Nogales in a golden red light was always worth it to watch. He checked the clock. 7:06 AM. Almost time for drop-off. The parking lot was still empty, aside from three beaten up cars that belonged to the owners of local shops. He'd gotten used to it by now, but the four hour drive from Puerto Lobos up to the border city of Nogales for work always made him anxious. Plenty of feds would be watching, especially on this side of the fence.

"Shit," he whispered. His stomach growled. No time for breakfast now. In just nine minutes sharp, he would pull the car around to the back of Francisco's, a local restaurant, and deliver the sixty pounds of cocaine hidden in his trunk. This won't be forever, he thought. As the radio faded between static and Fastball, he turned on the police scanner, doing his best to drown out the sound of Merill's voice stuck in his head repeating that phrase. It won't be forever. Stop, it Sean. Focus. Stations near the border, he'd been told, would often crumble in static whenever feds were in the area. Maybe they were just across the wall, but it was certainly close enough to make him sweat. He also wasn't looking forward to Roberto, his partner in crime, coming out rambling things at him in Spanish. It still felt weird to be speaking it so often. Trying to fit in made him anxious, too. Was he even talking right?

"Come on, just breathe," the boy said, almost adding enano under his breath. A stray tear ran down his hardened face. That was still a difficult habit to break. Funny how all that consoling for Daniel was now directed at himself. Why the hell am I even here? I can't stand only doing shit for myself. "God...I miss you, Daniel. I hope you're doing better than me." He reached over to his old high school backpack in the passenger seat. His fingers briefly brushed over the gun he'd stolen from Nicholas back at Haven Point, with its serial numbers chiseled off. Not you. Alongside it was the item he was digging for. Daniel's Power Bear toy.

"No one can defeat justice!" the thing said proudly, in the most garbled voice it could muster. Time for new batteries. He had replaced them three times over the months since he'd made it to Puerto Lobos, and they were worn out yet again. Sean chuckled at how much he must have been pushing that button lately to remind him of his brother. Hope you give me luck, he thought, kissing its head before placing it back in the bag. The police scanner beeped. A female American voice broke through.

"All agents, we've got a 10-31, subject in sight, 10-33, transport of narcotics and suspected illegal aliens on Route 189. Subject confirmed armed and dangerous. 10-4."

"Copy, heading up northbound."

"Shit!" Sean gasped. He checked the clock again. 7:21 AM. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!" He slammed the gear in reverse, then drive, peeling out of the parking lot as the tires screeched. Roberto would not be happy he was late. Having to turn his head more often to see objects on his left certainly didn't help when he needed to shave off a few extra seconds, either. As he sped down the alleyway and made a right turn onto the next street, the delicate tissue over his left eye socket began to itch. He tore off the patch. Too distracting. Another month or so of runs, and the cartel would pay good money for a decent prosthetic. But he had to prove himself with grunt work first. "Maybe we can even get you back to America someday," they said. Yeah right. That was how they hooked you.

He made a sharp left into another alley, then another right to pull up behind the food truck at Francisco's. From there, he would travel with Roberto on the truck, making a legitimate delivery of vegetables to a bodega 10 miles away—a far more comforting ride—before heading back to Puerto Lobos. I can't wait to crack open a beer after today.

Sean scoped the back entrance and the alley, listening closely to the police scanner, just in case. The American voices sounded distant enough through the static now, but it seemed the Mexican Polícia Federal were amping up their watch around Nogales. It was hard to get used to the idea of cartels having as much power as they did here. Once he'd crossed the main street, gunmen and other gang members in the Sonora cartel would be watching to be sure the shipment arrived safely at its destination. He looked around. A young man far behind him was already phoning in that the delivery was late. Fuck. A few seconds later, a mid-thirties, chubby-framed man stormed out the back door of the restaurant. Roberto. He kept quiet until he reached the car. Sean opened the passenger side window.

"Por qué llegas tarde?!" the man spat.

"Lo siento, el tráfico...era malo, y me duele el ojo."

"No hay excusas!"

"Yeah...I know," Sean said, annoyed.

"And in this country, you speak Spanish!" Roberto reached through the window and slapped him. "So I don't want to hear any Millennial backtalk, comprendé? If my son spoke to me as you do, I would do worse. So will the cartel, if you don't get your shit together. Now vamonos, Sean! We're on a deadline."

"Right," the boy said. He popped the trunk and exited the car. The cocaine in question was hidden inside several cardboard boxes, padded beneath an array of both fake and expiring vegetables. Not much to insulate the goods, but enough to fool any passersby. Roberto stood watch, checking both ends of the alley to be sure they were safe from the Polícia. Sean hated feeling like anyone was breathing down his neck, but for the most part, his partner was chill.

"Seriously? You're going to make me carry in all these heavy boxes myself? Pretty sure I'm the one who deserves a smoke break."

"You got some real cojones, kid," Roberto glared at him. "But maybe I'll bum you one on the ride to José's."

"Otro día, otro dólar," Sean grinned. The man flicked his cigarette.

"Algo en el escáner?"

"Say what?"

"Aye, Dios mío," the man rolled his eyes. "The radio."

"Well, there was this old song by a band called Fastball that was pretty good." He smirked at Roberto, who started giggling like a child.

"Smartass! You're lucky I like working with you."

"Was just some pigs, by the way. Other side of the wall." Sean moved aside for Roberto, who put out his cigarette to grab some boxes.

"Makes you nervous, no?"

"Always. But you know me, I stay strapped."

"I still don't get it. All these people try to leave Mexico, but you're the only Mexican I know crazy enough to break in!" he chuckled. "Just be careful out here, Sean. They still want your colito and they'll find any excuse to cross the border these days. Still nada on the hermano, eh?"

"Still nada. Probably with mi abuelos living the good life," Sean sighed, lugging the boxes over to the back entrance, where an employee opened the door. He immediately switched to Spanish and changed the subject to avoid suspicion as the worker directed them both to a walk-in refrigerator on the basement level. A gang leader was waiting below to take stock of their inventory as they went inside. Having to see all those packages up close still sent a shiver down the teen's spine, but not as much as the armed henchmen behind them on either side of the door. Not that the temperature helped, either. No one would hear us screaming down here.

Sean looked nervously to Roberto as they knelt down to begin emptying the makeshift vegetable coverings to reveal Jenga blocks of pure white contraband. The gang leader made them both count aloud. Being viewed with this level of suspicion felt no better than his interrogation with Officer Campbell the previous year. At least they were getting paid. After what seemed like an eternity of the older man checking things off on his clipboard, he finally nodded at one of the guards.

"Muy bien," he said. One of the henchmen came by and dropped a bag of cash on the floor aside them. Everything seemed in the clear until Sean made the mistake of reaching for it. The guard immediately smacked him in his bad eye with the butte of his pistol, sending the boy reeling backward onto the hard metal floor. Sharp, knife-like pains ripped through his skull as he cradled his face and tried to hold back from yelling. The gang leader was not so kind. "Llegaste tarde!" the man shouted.

He began pacing back and forth, screaming obscenities in Spanish that echoed off the walls of the tiny room. All the while, the stomp of his boots only hammered the pain deeper. God, just kill me right now. The guard kept his weapon trained on Sean. He didn't dare budge. The other knelt over Roberto, plastering his chubby face to the freezing floor. Visions of Hank, of Merill, of Chad, of Nicholas, of the vigilantes at the border, and so many other horrid experiences he'd endured flashed through the young teen's mind. Only this time, there was no escape. There was no wildcard or deus ex machina to save him. There were no prayers. And there was no Daniel. If only you were here to rescue me right now, enano.

He did his best to focus on what the gang leader was saying. It was hard to make out everything over the pain, but it was something about losing valuable customers in the first few minutes, and how it was pointless to continue doing business in this sector of town because the runners were all dipshits they had to ice. After several minutes, the leader finished his inflammatory rant. He grabbed several stacks of bills from the bag to hand to the guards, took an extra two for himself, and...a hefty block of cocaine. Fuck.

Their pay had just been cut. And once the cartel got word of their missing package, they'd certainly be on the lookout for Sean and Roberto. Even if the two managed to get back to Puerto Lobos with their skins intact and blame the guilty party—not like they knew his name—it would be another few months before Sean could even think about getting his prosthetic.

Once the mayhem was done, the gang members forcibly dragged them out of the walk-in and up the stairs, shoving them out on the street. The door slammed shut behind them. Roberto rolled onto his back to take a long breather, while Sean stumbled upward from his knees. That's when he noticed something else missing.

His car. And with it, the old backpack, the police scanner, the gun. And all of Daniel's remaining possessions.

"FUUUUCCKKKK!"

Frantic, his eyes scoured the alley. For a weapon, another vehicle, a solution, for someone to hit, for...anything. Roberto's truck. It was still there. And far up the street, he heard screeching tires as a white Chevy Cruze sped around the left corner. There was no time to check on Roberto. Just move your ass and don't think.

Sean ran for the truck, hopped inside, grabbed the keys from the visor, and peeled off in pursuit.

So...how does the story of the wolf brothers end?

The glare from the morning sun was blinding, and the visor did little to block it out. A long path of vegetables trailed behind the delivery truck for several blocks as traffic and horns raged in chaos around him. Glass broke at several points, shattering the deafening silence. Sean felt numb to it all, even as his body reacted on its own, turning the wheel and pounding the brakes with every turn. The rear of the vehicle skidded into lines of parked cars, slamming innumerable sides and fenders. Sirens were coming. He didn't care. All that mattered was that reaching that speck of white on the horizon. His eyes never moved from it.

"Come on, asshole," he muttered under his breath. He shifted gears. One, two, three, then back to one. Clutch, shift, clutch, shift, brake. The car ahead slowed, slamming side first into an oncoming blue Ford Focus, then gunned sharp left onto a main road. Sean slowed the truck and made a wide turn, merging into traffic coming from the right just as the stoplight in front of him turned red. He slammed the gas and plowed forward. All the while, the sirens grew closer. Flashing lights emerged in the distance several cars behind him, then up ahead another block. The Polícia were catching up. Fuck, I'm so dead. Focus, Sean. Eye on the prize.

The imagery in front of him appeared flat, so it was hard to judge how close he was. Once the car skidded again and flew into a right alley halfway down the block, Sean knew exactly where it was headed. Parking garage, fifth level. That was where he and Gonzalo had struck a deal with the gang several months prior. Maybe it was stupid of him to continue following the car, but this was his only chance. After being handed off, the vehicle would be loaded onto an inconspicuous truck, concealed from police attention, and moved to a chop shop at a secure location. All of its contents would be sold.

Not today. Sean grit his teeth and drove on, turning right into the alley, then left onto the ramp. The gate bar had already been broken by the Cruze by the time he made it through. That's when he heard a hard slam come from above him, and the truck ground to a screaming halt. What the fuck? He whipped out of the driver's seat through the window to take a look. The second floor of the parking garage was too low to accommodate the top of the truck.

"Gotta love clearance limits!" he raged. But he couldn't go out there unarmed. Cartel gang members were most certainly packing heat. He checked out the center console in case Roberto kept any of his own. Nada. But there were some stray bullets. He tried the glove box next. Still nothing. Shit, come on. Beneath the passenger seat, then his own. Finally, a silver .45 shifted into view. "Yes!"

Sean exited the truck and rushed for the stairwell, tucking the gun into away in his hoodie. He bounded up the steps as fast as he could. By the time he reached the second landing, cops were already entering the alleyway below. Should've taken the elevator. But at least the truck now blocking the entrance would buy him some time. The boy's heart pounded in his ears with every step as he kept moving, still focused on that illusive white dot that held the distant remains of everything he'd ever loved in life.

He thought about the determination of his mother, the collected poise of his father, his time on the road and everything he'd ever learned from it. Most of all, he thought about every asshole who'd gotten in his way. He had beaten and overcome them all. If he could just make it to the final level of this garage and defeat the boss, things would be okay for awhile. After all, if Perion from Chronicles of the Basilisk had done it, so could he. He had to laugh at such a random memory. He and Lyla had worked on that stupid book report together for two solid weeks for a B+ grade. Almost at the top.

Much as he wanted the car itself back, he knew it wasn't going to happen. The Polícia at this point would be watching that garage like hawks to see who came out. It was better to take what he needed and hotwire another, less conspicuous vehicle for the return to Puerto Lobos. But what about Roberto? Fuck. Why did I leave him alone back there? No matter. No time.

As Sean reached the roof level of the parking garage, he steadily took hold of the pistol and kicked open the door, checking the front and sides before moving through. A white truck with no labels was parked to the right in a row of cars with an on-ramp was at the ready. Soon enough, the white Chevy came peeling around the corner. His heart stopped in his chest, and he hesitated. Cops will be coming up the stairwell. So keep your ass hidden. The teen cautiously darted over to the row of cars, staying low. Things were about to get ugly, and there was no stopping that now. Even if Daniel had been there with his powers to clear things up.

Sean passed along between the concrete wall and the fronts of numerous parked vehicles, many with bugs or spider webs stuck on their grills. He would have taken a few license plates with him for the return trip in case he ever needed some, but plates were fairly easy to come by. He continued staying low as he crept, watching and waiting. He stopped and looked back after every third car he passed. Still no noise from the stairwell. Good. Once he'd made it just two cars away from the truck, he stopped in his tracks. Three men were gathered around outside it, two at the back and one at the front. The closest to him was on his phone. Not good.

"Shit!" the boy breathed, ducking back against a fender. He checked the pistol. Only two bullets left in the clip. Fuck. Those stray ones in Roberto's console would have come in handy now. He'd just have to make those two count and be extra precise—which would be nearly impossible, given his Cyclops eye. Sean thought back to his recovery at Sacred Hope ages ago. Just like the pen test. Nice and easy. You can do this.

The Chevy had stopped perpendicular to the back of the truck as the two men argued with the driver to wait. From the Spanish exchanged on the call, it seemed the man was trying to be sure the local chop shop was ready to receive them. The owner was tied up with three other recently stolen vehicles, and he wasn't thrilled on receiving something too "hot"—a car the cops were actively on the lookout for. Sean kept low and worked his way around to the back of the beige 2008 Nissan Sentra he was hiding behind. It was better to target one of the other three men while the fourth was distracted. He took a deep breath. Now or never.

He stood cautiously, steadying his arms over the top of the trunk, and aimed for the head of the man talking to the driver. He pulled the trigger as the man went to stand back. Pop. His ears rung at the noise. There was a splash of blood and the target fell to his knees, holding his neck. Sean then took aim at the next. The second shot shattered the man's right kneecap. He went down and proceeded to crawl to safety around the side of the truck, but the driver sped forward over his leg, ensuring he'd never walk again. Sean ducked down as the car stopped dead in front of him, and backed up against the driver's side door of it. Nicholas's pistol stuck out of the window. Sean lunged upward. Grabbed the man's wrist, twisted it back towards him. Pressed hard on his index finger, sending a bullet into the man's head. A splash of blood erupted out of the window, bathing him in a red shower. No time to think.

The young teen dove into the car and grabbed the police scanner off the dash, stuffing it his old backpack that held all of Daniel's things. A small burner flip phone had fallen onto the passenger side seat. Sean grabbed it and ran to the opposite side of the parking deck, leaving the guns behind as the remaining gang member fired several shots in his direction. Fortunately at that moment, five cops exploded out of the rooftop exit to ambush the criminal.

Sean stayed low and found an appropriate car while they were heavily distracted amid gunfire. A red Volkswagen Jetta. The driver's side window was even open a crack. Score. He reached in and unlocked it, then tossed the bag inside to get down to businesses tearing off the bottom cover of the ignition compartment. Hotwired it in fifteen seconds. The engine revved hard. He threw it in reverse, then drive, speeding to his left past the stairwell, and followed the exit signs to safety.

Excerpt from the blog A Tribe Called West:

March 6th, 2018

To be, or not to be? To do, or not to do? Which choices will lead us to strength, and which will continue an unending cycle of brokenness and pain? There are many obstacles us humans are required to face in life. A lot of them are certainly physical. However, in my own experience traveling on the road, I've come to find that the vast majority of them tend to be those intensely personal inner struggles. Change is difficult to achieve, and the outer world reflects the inner, and vice versa. It's interesting to me how we have a border wall built down south that everyone likes to talk about. And yet, it's often the unspoken borders between people that truly define us as a culture on a daily basis. Some of us can feel perfectly at home in a crowd. Others will feel caged by it. I suppose that in many ways, anything can feel like a border. Which outcomes will make you feel the most free, and which will ultimately cage you? Something to think about for today.

Until next time,

- Brody J. Holloway

Sean exited out of the tabs on his stolen laptop and looked nervously toward the closed door of his motel room, his face illuminated in pale blue. His bare skin still felt damp from the shower. Washing the thief's blood off his face had done very little to make him feel any better, but Brody's blog was always a welcome escape from the chaos that surrounded him. He thought for a moment about the last time he'd stayed in a room like this back near Haven Point. The conversation with his mother had been surprisingly good for them both. Should I try to contact Karen? Oh. Right. She was probably in prison. And even if he could, he knew the cartel would be hot on his trail after today. No way could he rope her into that mess. It would get them both killed. So what's my next move?

After washing up in a gas station bathroom, he'd driven down to Santa Ana. There was still a three-hour journey ahead, though it wasn't as bad as the trip he'd made to Nogales that morning. The Polícia Federal would be extracting prints from the guns and going on a hunt for the missing Jetta by now. He'd been smart enough to ditch it several blocks away. Still, that presented the problem of transportation in the morning. A taxi to the edge of town was likely the best bet. From there, he could steal another car, but it would be too easy for them to pick up his trail that way. Better to pay off the taxi driver with the stack of cash. He thumbed through the bills. $4,700 USD left. Not bad.

He wasn't entirely sure, either, why he'd bothered to grab the thief's burner phone from his former vehicle. Maybe it was some sort of revenge, or maybe a way of getting in contact with the cartel to explain the situation. In any case, perhaps it held some clues as to who the gang leader was. Sean powered up the tiny device to start looking through it, then immediately realized how much of a bad idea that was. Anyone with enough sense could pick up the pings. Cops. Cartel members with tech savvy. Too late now. He scrolled through the contact list.

"D. Gonzales. J. Rodriguez. M. Morales. R. Nino. Pickup, drop-off. Damn, is there anything not generic?" he sighed, tossing it onto the table. He looked to the door again. The rain outside fell harder, battering the windows as a boom of thunder came. He thought about the warm blood splattering on his face again and removed the towel, plodding naked for the bathroom. Things were way too heavy right now. Just as he went to close the door, the cell phone rang. Sean's heart fell to his stomach at the familiar old Nokia tone he'd heard numerous times in movies. Shit! He waited against the door frame. It rang again. And again. Should I maybe...answer?

"Fuck it." He rushed over to the desk and flipped open the device, holding it to his ear. He dared not speak a word in case it was the cartel.

"Hola...Señor Diaz," a heavily-accented voice spoke. Sean's heart thudded in his chest, but he remained silent. Relax dude. Maybe it's not me they're after? Diaz is a pretty common name around here...right? "I know who you are, and what you did today."

"Shit," the boy turned away, clenching his teeth. Tears streamed from his one good eye as he broke into a cold sweat. His stomach churned. He felt his balls shrink. They were onto him. No escaping things now. "What do you want?" he managed.

"I would like to make a deal," the ominous voice said. "Mañana. 8am sharp. Cantina de María. Do not be late this time. Oh, and keep the money. Consider it an advance on your contract."

"Advance on what con...hola?" Whoever it was had hung up. Shit. What did I just get myself into? He held the phone in his hand a few moments, turning it over and over in time to the questions flooding his mind. What the hell is this contract he was talking about? Keep the money and call it an advance? On what? What would they be making him do? I'm too young to be a hitman. What if they turn me into a 'debt collector'? I'm not going around killing people. No way. Then he remembered he'd already killed two men that morning and abandoned Roberto, all in the name of getting his brother's stuff back. He thought about that, too. Fuck. Daniel's not even here and I'm still acting like I have to protect him. What would he say if I killed those men in front of him? What would Roberto do? He's probably pissed as hell with me. No way I'll ever see him again.

"Ugh, fuck!" Sean raged, tearing the flip phone in half and chucking it in the waste bin. He rubbed his eyes, hoping this was all just a bad dream. Hoping he'd wake up and he could walk out to their kitchen in Seattle where his dad would be making breakfast, and Daniel would be acting like an annoying little shit. Or where he could walk out of their tent in Humboldt, and Daniel would be playing with the dog or Finn. Or even if he could wake up just one more time back in Away with his brother in his arms, savoring the bond they shared, while getting to know their mother better. That was the best. But no. Welcome to cold hard reality, Sean Diaz.

It was a good idea to get rid of the computer, too. Plenty of unsavory cartel things were probably on it. Drugs? Human trafficking victims? Exploitative immigration deals? He didn't want to know. He powered it off and ripped it from the cord in the wall, taking it over to the shower. He placed it flat and filled the tub a couple inches deep. Guess I could soak it for the night. Water damage wasn't a perfect solution, but at least he wouldn't have to leave his hotel room. He could always go to the back of the hotel lot and smash it the next morning.

On his way out, Sean looked at himself in the mirror. A few more months of puberty had chiseled his face and pecs a little more, combined with all the heavy lifting of crates of fish he'd done for delivery trucks back in Puerto Lobos. His arms had thickened a bit, too. The only thing that felt out of place was his hair. The Humboldt shag style certainly wasn't doing him any favors anymore. Time for another buzzcut soon. Wonder what Lyla would think now if she could see me, he wondered. I definitely look older. Just...

"Tired," he said. Dark circles were forming beneath his sockets. Maybe it was all that time spent on the streets, but he got the feeling it had something to do with being away from Daniel so long, too. "God, I miss you, enano." It was the first time he'd said that word out loud in months. But he hoped that somewhere, somehow, his little brother could hear it.

And that he was smiling.