She’d be expected to toe the party line if they forged ahead with the MS-13 connection. Even if the gang was guilty, if she uncovered a real connection between them and Morris, her boss would want it buried. And then she’d have to decide what to do.
The camera cut to a studio anchor, one of those interchangeable blondes with perfect hair. Kelly watched her lips move, and idly wondered how they always found a shade of lipstick that exactly matched their suits: hers was peach. The camera cut to a man. A banner at the bottom of the screen announced him as “Jackson Burke, lifelong friend of Senator Duke Morris.” He looked vaguely familiar, although Kelly couldn’t place him. She clicked the volume up to catch what he was saying.
“…the real tragedy here, Dawn, is that we lost a man who grasped the true threat our nation faces. Since 9/11, our government has spent so much time focused abroad, we’ve completely forgotten about the dangers right here at home. Our military is stretched to the limit, our debt is spiraling out of control, and we have thousands of illegals streaming over our borders every day. Some of those people come here looking for a better life. But others clearly intend to do us harm.”
“What kind of harm, Mr. Burke?”
“We keep hearing about how al Qaeda is trying to sneak in a bomb, so they can destroy the democratic principles that this great nation was founded on. But the real threat is more insidious. I’m talking about cartels, multinational gangs whose sole purpose is to flood our schools and streets with drugs. And God knows what else they’re bringing over with them. Guns? Bombs? In California, felons get away with murder, literally, because of so-called Sanctuary laws. Just last week a young Honduran man was released from jail even though the authorities knew he wasn’t here legally. Next day, he killed an entire family in a home invasion robbery.”
“And what would you propose, Mr. Burke?”
“In honor of my good friend Duke Morris, I’m starting a new lobbying firm. We’re going to put some pressure on those honchos in Washington, ask them to get the National Guard back here to do what they should have been doing all along—guarding our borders. Stem the tide, before natural-born Americans wake up to find that Spanish has become the first language and their kids are now the minority…”
Kelly turned it off with a snort. She’d grown up on the East Coast, and spent most of her adult life in New York and Washington, D.C. She knew that immigration reform was a major issue for a lot of Americans, but she lived at a remove from it. Here, it seemed to taint everything. The murder of Duke Morris by machete had inflamed passions. Editorials in the regions’ papers screamed for ICE raids and mass deportations. Protests and counterprotests were sparking up everywhere. There was a sense that the whole region was about to explode in retaliatory violence.
Kelly’s cell rang. She checked the number and frowned before answering. “Yes?”
“Jones, I’ve got some bad news. Emilio didn’t make it.”
“What?”
“The processing instructions got screwed up—instead of juvie he was sent to intake. Someone shivved him.”
Kelly squeezed her eyes shut, an image of Celia’s tear-streaked face flashing through her mind. “Jesus, Rodriguez. One of the MS-13s?”
“Nope, another guy. White. Guard said it was probably race-related. Tensions are high, with all the shit that’s been going down.”
“Crap.” Kelly kneaded her forehead. “Have you told McLarty yet?”
“Technically, we had handed him over to Phoenix P.D., so…”
Kelly’s eyes narrowed. “So, what?”
“So he wasn’t our responsibility anymore.”
Kelly was surprised at the coldness in his voice. Sure, Emilio had been a little punk, but he was just a kid. She wondered if this was residual rage over the chase earlier that day, or something deeper. “I doubt Celia will agree.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe she should have kept better track of him.”
Kelly was too tired to argue about it. “Anything else?”
“Nope. Just wanted you to know.”
“Good night, Agent Rodriguez.”
He’d already hung up. Kelly readjusted the pillows and lay down, reflecting on the day. Crazy that she lived in a world where a twelve-year-old dreamed of joining a gang. Crazier still that they might offer him the best prospects. Public schools were a mess, jobs were tight, and for a kid growing up in a tough neighborhood, chances of survival, never mind success, were slim. Maybe Emilio was just another casualty of the American Dream. The confluence of events that landed him in an interrogation room could be considered inevitable, based on statistics alone. If not today, maybe five or ten years down the line he would have found himself in the same situation, dying from a blade shoved in his gut.
Kelly felt responsible regardless. She picked up the phone and dialed. “This is Agent Jones, I’m part of the Morris task force. I’d like a copy of the processing papers for Emilio Torres on my desk tomorrow morning.”
Madison was curled in a ball on top of the mattress. She’d never been in so much pain. The closest was when she’d broken her leg snowboarding, and they trundled her downhill on a sled that jolted over moguls. But that didn’t even begin to compare to this.
She shuddered repeatedly as flashes of what happened darted through her brain. His scary grin as he dragged her down the hall and into a different room, then tied her to the chair. His fumbling hands all over her, tugging at her shirt. She’d shied away, screaming, but he yanked out her bra straps and attached wires to them. Then the pain, so bad she blacked out. And Lurch in the background with a camera, recording it all.
It seemed to go on forever. It was still dark outside, and she wondered if she’d lost another day.
Madison felt like she’d been beaten all over, every limb, every joint ached. For the first time she confronted the full gravity of her situation. All along in the back of her mind she’d maintained this elaborate fantasy. Commandos storming in and putting a bullet through Lurch’s brain. They’d tell her she was so smart, so brave. Deep down she never doubted that someone was coming to save her.
Now she could see how childish that fantasy was. Sometimes there was no happy ending. Sometimes people just died. She almost laughed aloud at how pathetic her GPS transmission was. Ridiculous, really—the world was full of signals now, a never-ending stream bouncing along every wavelength, a constant din. And yet she’d managed to convince herself that her little signal, from a DS Lite no less, would filter through. It was completely absurd.
Madison realized she was shuddering again. She drew a deep breath. No more imagining who would show up at her funeral, no more pretending this was a nightmare she would awaken from. She was done with all that. All she could do now was hope they never brought her in that awful room again.
Ten
Jake lifted a corner of the mattress and grimaced at what was underneath. Mack Krex’s living quarters redefined the term hellhole. A dank eight-by-ten-foot room in a boardinghouse so far on the wrong side of the tracks they weren’t even visible in the distance. The only furnishings were a caved-in bed and a rickety pasteboard bureau propped against the wall. Honestly, a cell
