is this pinche, homeboys, eh?” Mario Guerra splayed out on the sofa with a forty-ounce bottle of beer in his left hand, banged his right fist against his chest and flashed the younger men surrounding him with a sign of solidarity. “Who is this pinche cabrón you allow to kill our homeboys and dis the one-three?”
“We don’t know who he is, Mario,” replied Louie Maragos, one of Guerra’s lieutenants.
Guerra sneered. “Well, then, you better find out, homeboys. You know what I’m saying? This dude, he kills like what…nine boys?”
“Ten,” another soldier corrected.
“Shut the fuck up!” Guerra said, tossing his half-full beer bottle at the man. “I want to know who he is and how he knew we were going to show up.”
“We can find all that out, jefe,” Maragos replied. “But how do we find out how he knew about our plans to hit the park?”
“What, you some kind of clown or something?” Guerra asked. “Obviously, we still got a snitch on the inside somewhere. We got someone who likes to run their mouth—” he flapped his thumb against his fingers “—the minute that they see a cop. It means that somebody probably had to be helping Ysidro. Maybe it’s even one of you homeboys.”
Maragos bristled at the suggestion. “Hey, listen, homeboy, I know you’re in charge and all, but there ain’t no way I’m going to let you accuse me of something without some proof.” Maragos dropped his hand to where he could easily reach the piece he kept at the small of his back. “Ain’t no way, jefe. Sí?”
“Okay, okay,” Guerra said. He sat back down and shook his head. “I ain’t going to accuse you of nothing. I wasn’t going to do that, homeboy.”
Maragos nodded and relaxed his hand. There were rules in the organization; it was a necessity for the kind of place it was. Every moment a homeboy had to be looking over his shoulder, watching not only for trouble from outsiders but from within the organization. Every member had to prove himself in a grueling initiation that included not only a thirteen second beat down by other members, but also by doing something to prove his loyalty. For the females it might be just taking a beat down, or maybe having sex with a number of the ranking vatos. In other cases it might be doing a strong-arm robbery, selling drugs or even participating in a hit with other members.
Whatever the case, the motto of the gang was simple: Being in MS-13 Will Land You in the Cemetery, the Hospital or Prison. The rules were designed to enhance solidarity and prevent a breakdown in the structure of the gang. This code of conduct included rules for how to deal with defectors and dissidents, rules like “you rat, you die” and “everything belongs to the gang,” and the context of those rules made it just as serious an infraction to accuse someone of being unfaithful to MS-13 without proof, simply because the penalties for betrayal were so severe. It was their code, their creed, and nobody—not even a shot-caller—was above the rules.
“Do any of you homeboys have any idea where this guy came from? Who he’s working for?” Guerra asked more calmly.
“My informant says he might be working with the federales,” Maragos replied. “He might also be a local on loan from the Virgins.”
Guerra smiled at their own internal reference to the gang task force of the state, a unit that had been the bane of the Hillbangers’ existence since its formation. After the death of the traitor in 2001 and subsequent imprisonment of the leader who ordered her execution, Guerra had taken over as shot-caller for the Hillbangers. He ordered them to lie low and let enough time pass so that the task force became convinced it had made a difference. In the meantime, the MS-13 had opened up a brand-new operation—alien smuggling from regions all over Central America. This endeavor had become quite lucrative while they moved drug running and robbery to the status of “last resort,” a sort of subset of secondary operations due to the increased risk since the Virgins started cracking down on them.
“I don’t think so,” Guerra finally said. “That limp dick, Smalley, doesn’t have the guts to come face-to-face with us. He has to be from the Feds.”
“This chingada is dangerous, jefe,” said Jocoté Barillas, another lieutenant. “He uses bombs and machine guns.”
Guerra stood, walked to Barillas and gently patted the side of his face with a sardonic chuckle. He then looked at each of them as he said, “So do we. I want you to find this man, you got me? You find him and you bury him. Otherwise, you’ll have to contend with Le Gango Jefe, sí?”
Yes, they understood the threat all too well. Every shot-caller was the leader of his particular unit and any territory they covered. But they in turn answered to the Leader of the Gang—in this case, the nameless entity who controlled every last bit of action from his headquarters in El Salvador. A multijurisdictional force of law agents had attempted many times to bring down Le Gango Jefe, and each time they had failed. Nobody in MS-13, anywhere in the world, operated without this man’s approval. Mara Salvatrucha Trece’s ultimate goal was to be the largest and most powerful gang in the world. That took more than just whipping up a bunch of vatos to do business and pledge their loyalty. It took organization and planning, and that’s what Le Gango Jefe brought to the table.
As a shot-caller, every one of Guerra’s lieutenants knew he had a direct access to the top man. They also knew it wouldn’t bode well for any of them if Guerra had to make a phone call to this man and tell him they had failed in their mission to bring down the federale who had killed ten of their homeboys. Ultimately, Guerra was trying to help them by making it clear that it would look much better for them all if they handled this problem internally with local resources before it got out of control.
“I don’t care what you have to do, homeboys, I want you to bring him down. And do it now.”
“Okay, Mario, we’ll find him,” Maragos promised.
“Then why are you still here?” he said, clapping his hands and then jerking both thumbs toward the door. “Come on, essás. Vámonos!”
Each acknowledged him with the standard gang sign that spelled out MS-13 and then hit the door in a hurry. He watched them go out and then went to the fridge and pulled a fresh beer from the stash there. He took a long pull from the forty-ounce bottle and then looked out his tenement window onto the dusky cityscape. Somewhere out there, he knew, the enemy was searching for him. He’d narrowly escaped confinement for life in prison, and while such things were a part of the risk he took, the idea of spending his youth behind concrete walls and steel bars didn’t hold much appeal.
He needed to keep a cool head and plan his next move. They needed to find this cop or special agent and do him right. He’d spilled the blood of ten homeboys, soldiers operating under Guerra’s orders, and with that single action this pinche had signed his own death warrant. Maragos was good, one of the best, really. He would find the man and do what needed to be done. And then Guerra could bring his son and wife out here where they would be safe. He would be able to protect them here then.
And then he could begin to put his plan in motion. A plan to rule all of the East Coast—a plan to rule a society.
AFTER BOLAN LEFT police headquarters, he drove straight to the MS-13 key operations area Smalley had pointed out to him and booked a room in a run-down motel just two miles south of Dulles Toll Road. The elderly toothless Hispanic woman behind the grimy counter in the motel office had been quite pleased to take Bolan’s nice, crisp hundred-dollar bill for his two-night stay—especially when he advised her to keep the change.
Once the Executioner had
