I LEARNED A lot from Uncle Sam while he was alive. Everything I knew about fighting, tricking and deceiving people for my own gain, and being successful had been taught to me from the age of ten and onwards. It wasn't always roses and sunshine, though. There were times in the four years I spent with him when I didn't exactly appreciate his wisdom, as any stubborn, ADHD child battling mental illnesses would, but looking back, I was quite grateful that he took me out of a semi-decent foster care house and made me his pupil. After all, how many fourteen year olds could write on their resumes that they had taken down not one, but multiple gang leaders on their own? I presumed, not many.
He was a marvelous teacher, patient and understanding, but the one thing he could not teach me, however, was the art of moving on. With pain, ultimately, came anger—and, it came in many different forms. I happened to have the honor of experiencing all types: rightful anger, which was a quiet, simmering kind that chewed me from the inside out and was the most motivating; revengeful anger, during bouts of which I often found it helpful to hit the gym for it often made my tongue lax and my actions clumsy; and passive anger, which was easily confused with the first kind, but was quite different.
I was almost always passively angry. It was the type of anger that tormented not the heart but the soul, and thus caused me more grief and pain than anything else in the world. It created a void right above my stomach, underneath my ribs, that sucked my entire life source out of me for it constantly reminded me of my loss. My emptiness was tangible and potent, and my anger audible. In my ears, regardless of time and place, I could always hear it say, they're gone, and you're alone, and there's nothing you can do to right the wrong that has been done to you. Your pain is yours alone and no one can ever understand what you're going through. You are alone.
With my soul in this mental prison, where there was no judge to acquit me nor any trial to prove my innocence, but only anger and sadness—one vessel, two souls—I couldn't blame him for not being strong enough to break me out. As a parting gift, nevertheless, he managed to sneak in some tools past my barricaded walls and it was during times like these that I found them extremely handy.
He told me once, "He who is the most riled is the easiest target," and he couldn't have been more right. I had yet to fight many of my uphill battles, but on the Independence Day of the United States of America, only one was in progress, and his words could not have been more apt. To avoid death, or defeat, both horrible fates, it was essential that a warrior understood the winds for they could say a thousand words with just one touch.
I licked the tip of my index finger and raised in the air. The gentle summer-night breeze spoke volumes. Defense, it said, and I couldn't agree more. When the cards were in my favor and my enemy was angrier than me, it never hurt to be defensive. Tonight would be my proof.
I wasn't exactly sure where Santiago and his posse lived, but judging by the short amount of time it took the procession of black Sudan cars to pull into street below me, I guessed not very far. As the neatly lined up cars braked in unison, synchronized to a rhythm I couldn't hear, and Santiago's men scoped out the land below before allowing him to exit his vehicle, I turned my head towards the river and zoomed into the boats floating into my view.
Through my binoculars it was easy to see the private boats setting up shop right in the line of action. Switching to thermal vision, I counted roughly a dozen people—mostly men—running around in their fancy boats, prepping themselves to light up the sky with their fireworks. Smirking, I left them to do as they pleased and brought my attention back to my targets. I was going to watch a different kind of fireworks tonight.
The sounds of a heated argument rose up into the air and the winds, who had sworn a blood-oath to me, carried them directly into my awaiting ears. Leaning over the rooftop, I gripped my binoculars with one hand. Clutching my stomach, I took in a few deep breaths. There were a million of butterflies swarming around in my stomach, provoking me to push the hand of Fate, but I remained put. I had already made my move. It was their turn, now.
"Where is she?" Santiago frantically exclaimed as he unlocked the garage shutters—the only entrance to his hideout and, to my surprise, the only escape.
"How the hell did you get roped into this bullshit, Iago? She's a child..." a man I had only heard about exclaimed.
Removing the binoculars, I scrunched my eyebrows as my heart rate sped up. I looked again. No matter how many times I checked, however, the man below me did not fade into the thin air. He stood there, his beer-gut toppling over the buckled belt of his low-hung jeans, surrounded by a few of his own men. The leader of Crystal Pistols, Jessie Hunter—a notorious man whose body-hiding creativity put him on multiple wanted lists. That, and the million-dollar drug trade he singlehandedly started.
I bit my lip, contemplating my next move. This was good and bad news: if Santiago brought Jessie with him, it meant I got him spooked. He was rattling in his boots, and that's exactly what I wanted. It also meant, however, that he had enough on the line to pull out the big guns. I didn't even want to picture the kind of deal he must have made with Jessie to lure him out to a death trap.
I shuddered, my eyes lingering on his face. He hadn't aged since I had last seen him. Even through the lens of the binoculars, I could feel pure rage consuming his charcoal eyes as he scoped out his surroundings. It was clear even from the distance that he had never been bothered before to pay the Blue Vulture's hideout a visit. Which only meant one thing—he was here for me.
Think, Angie. Think. What would dad do? What would Uncle Sam say? I flipped through my options. Jessie put a crater-sized dent in my plan, but I would rather fall to a certain death than let him win.
Pacing back and forth on the roof while chaos ensued below me, only one thing came to mind. I had to provoke Santiago; and, drive him up a wall so high that no one, not even Jessie, could save him from. Walking back to the edge of the rooftop, I peered into the moon-lit street below.
Judging by the shade of Santiago's face, he was on an exploding trajectory. His men, pacing back and forth as I had, were antsy, and this only fueled Santiago's anger. His own men seemed to have no faith in him, certain that tonight was going to end with bloodshed. I could hear their silent prayers, anyone but me. Please. Anyone. But, that was the core of their problem. When a man flipped on his instinctual switch, team skills and compassion flew out the window. Naturally, their defensive wall cracked, and for someone like me, who was waiting eagerly for an opportunity, the game became a tad easier.
Jessie, having realized this as well, glanced at his own miserly men, clearly outnumbered. Each man on his side was highly-trained and skilled, but this mattered least when the opposing team was larger and fueled by the will to live. As my dad used to say to his partners, when they would talk about the cases they were working on in hushed whispers, "Never underestimate the fear of death, John. When the shadowy man stands in front of you with his sharpened scythe, and you can hear your clock ticking, nothing remains impossible. A man who knows he's going to die is a man deadlier than a thousand men combined. Do you know why? He has nothing to lose. He's dead, either way."
Slowly, but surely, Jessie, the man both feared and admired by his colleagues, began inching away from Santiago. The latter was fuming, his cheeks puffed and his eyes bloodshot, a ticking bomb. It was up to me to light him up.
I shivered as a twisted sense of delight passed over me like a breeze. My second burner phone in hand—I always packed extras—I purposefully waited for Santiago to further lose his mind. Like a lion stalking his prey, watching it intensely from a distance, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce, I watched as the man he brought with him as a bodyguard decided his own life was far too precious to waste on a botched-up man like Santiago.
Jesse only got as far as the passenger door of his car before Santiago, in his delirium, noticed him. As realization struck him like a back-handed slap, his gauntly face whitened—a ghost of a man.
"Hey!" Santiago exclaimed, the loudness and sharpness of his voice, laced with accusation, reaching me in a instance. "Where do yah think you're going? I thought you weren't afraid of a little girl!"
Jesse paused, his hand gripping the door handle, his escape plan foiled. Curiosity bubbled inside of me. I wondered how he would get out of this situation, with a crazed man on his deathbed plotting his revenge. If only I could turn them against each other, Agent A whispered in my ears. How much fun would that be?
I shuddered at my sadistic thoughts, both disgusted and delighted.
"What do yah think I'm doin'? I'm getting the hell out of here!" Jesse responded as if it was painfully obvious.
He was right--his motives were clear as the night sky looming over our heads, but a man like Santiago did not appreciate honesty.
His eyes locked on his target, Santiago rocketed towards Jesse, pinning him against his car before I could take it all in. It all happened in an instance: a sucker-punch landed on an astounded Jesse, who could not believe someone would lash out against his power; Santiago's army of twenty turned, guns a-blazing, on Jesse's equally surprised team of five; and, the final blow on Jesse's face, marring his clear complexion with a black eye, that all but signed Santiago's death warrant.
Still reeling from the shock of his left eye being pounded out, Jesse sprung to his feet as if he had coils instead of limbs and turned the tables. Now, it was the bruised and adrenaline-drunk Jesse shoving Santiago against the car. He gripped Santiago's collar with an iron-grip, and muttered something lowly into his ears. From my distance, I could not pick up on the dialogue being exchanged, but in my head, I could imagine that a threat or two was thrown around.
Deciding that I could not bear to see all my hard work go to waste, as much as it would've pleased me to see them battle it out till they bled to death, I butted in between them with a call.
Shoving Jesse off himself, Santiago picked up his phone from where it had fallen during the scuffle and glanced at the caller I.D. I didn't know how he knew the private number flashing on his screen was me, but he picked up my call and spoke before I had a moment to blurt out my well-thought-out line.
"In what hole are yah hiding?" he hollered.
I held the phone at a safe distance from my eardrums, a scowl permanently etched on my face. "I think you meant to ask, how big is the hole I'm diggin' for you."
"In your dreams, sweetheart!" he spat out.
The disgust in his voice was almost as palpable as the ghosts of my loved ones surrounding me like a safety blanket. I could almost fall back into them and disappear into the thin air, serenity almost within my grasp. As Santiago declared, however, this was only possible within the confines of my dreams.
"I thought I told you what I dream about, darling," I said, clouding the threat in my words with a soft-spoken, jesting tone. The flames of anger licked his and my face, alike. Only one of us, however, truly burned that night. "It's funny how you've yet to enter your own abode," I said, pausing for effect. "It's almost as if you're afraid."
"You stay right there," he demanded as he turned toward the entrance of his hideout, Jessie all but forgotten. "Don't yah dare run away!"
"Wouldn't dream of it, babe," I said, chuckling.
As he stormed inside the building, his own men waddling in behind him like baby chicks following their mother, I blurted, "Oh! And, if you would be so kind, pass along a message to your buddy: I'm coming for him next."
He froze in his tracks, my words reminding him of his friend-turned-foe standing outside. It took him less than a few seconds to make his choice: he turned and walked to the threshold of his building, where he found Jesse limping into his car.
"It will be my pleasure," he told me sweetly, although his expression was anything but innocent, before spitting in Jesse's direction.
Jesse scowled, but chose not to response. He drove off, the cars skidding away at breakneck speeds, as if escaping a crime scene, leaving Santiago to deal with his own fate.
Just as the cars faded out of view, I turned towards my prime target and picked up the remote from the rooftop ledge. It weighed heavily in my hand, reminding me of the gravity of my decision. Lives would be lost if I went through with my plan, but, as I had recently decided, it wouldn't be one sided. An exchange of lives would occur tonight. Twenty-one for four. He murdered my blood-line, leaving me to carry the burden of their souls on my back. I would chop off his limbs, one by one, until he, too, was left all alone.
The blood spilled tonight would not be on my hands, I thought. It would be on his just as theirs was on mine.
As Santiago stood inside his hideout and leaned his head back, I could've almost sworn his eyes caught my presence on the 6th floor rooftop. I didn't need to be standing in front of him to hear the pin of recognition fall in the silence. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but my finger did not pause for a moment. Without any conscious effort, my thumb moved on its own accord, pressing the trigger faster than the flash of lightning.
There was no going back as the steel garage shutters came crashing down just inches in front of his hardened face. The deafening thud of the shutters grabbed the attention of everyone within earshot, but it undoubtedly frightened those who were now trapped within their own workplace. As chaos ensued within the building and his men pounded on the shutters with all of their might, I shut their screams and pleads out with a simple thought: they all had a price to pay.
I wondered how many people they had similarly trapped, kidnapped off the streets of their neighborhoods, and hauled across seas and nations just for a quick buck. As the complex security system Alfonso had lovingly installed was triggered and the shutters on all exits came tumbling down, I could feel the air around me grow heavier. I had gathered an audience—the souls of all their victims looking down on their ghastly fates alongside me.
A jolt of lightning spread through me, energizing me. They were trapped in my experiment like small, helpless mice at the mercy of my will, and I was like a deranged, psychopathic scientist, taking pleasure from their suffering. I could almost hear Dex asking me to reconsider in the back of my mind, doesn't inflicting pain upon them as they had done to others make you just like them?
I couldn't reconsider, however. It was too late. Their fates had been sealed long before they set foot on this hallowed ground. I would make a cemetery out of their ashes, a shrine to all their victims. I was sure they would all thank me if they could and I took immense pleasure in this.
An automated voice spoke monotonously, lockdown procedure initiated.
Forgetting that I was still on the phone with Santiago, I trembled as his screams caught me off-guard. "What the hell is goin' on?"
Inhaling the fresh sea air, I quipped, "Aren't you awfully clueless for a supposedly intimidating gang-leader, Santiago?"
The pounding on the shutters did not cease, as I would've expected. If our places had been switched, I would've given up hope a long time ago. Nevertheless, I admired their strength, despite its uselessness. The shutters wouldn't budge lest a truck full of explosive dynamite pummeled through it. Their efforts were pointless.
"Bozz...please tell them not to do this! I have kids! They need me. PLEASE don't do this," one of his men pleaded in the background.
My heart clenched. Images of their children eagerly awaiting their father's arrival flashed before me. My arms fell limp as my resolve shattered in an instance. How could I possibly do this to them? Dex's warning went off in my head like a fire alarm: if you build a fire for them, don't forget, you are going to get burnt as well.
I staggered backwards from the brunt of an invisible punch, but the ghostly audience behind me prevented my fall. They held on to me and pushed me back into a standing position, all the while reminding me you were a child too. We were children too. That did not stop them. Why are you allowing this to affect you?
The voices were right—like always. They kept me on track and when I lost my strength, they gave me some of their own. I had a lot of souls depending on me. I couldn't let them down. Not even for some about to be fatherless children. I'd make it up to them somehow.
"How typical of you all to bring up your kids when it best suits you!" I snapped. "When was the last time any of your men actually spent time with them?"
Santiago did not respond. I hadn't expected one either. It was rhetorical for both of us knew the truth.
"That's right," I sneered. "You never did. So, do me a favor and spare me the bullshit."
As all defenseless men tend to do when trapped, Santiago soon stooped low enough to bargain for his miserable life. "I'll give you whatever you want! Power. Money. Anything!"
I laughed alongside all his victims. Hadn't they said same and he all but disregarded their requests?
"You're an empty man," I said, scoffing. "There's nothing you can offer me. However...if you happen to see Arturo in hell, do give him my regards."
Their shrieks became ear piercingly loud in the background. I couldn't distinguish between the screams of one man from the pleads of another—they all blended together in one continuous shriek for life. Unable to stomach much more, I hung up. Relief spread through me as their shrieks came to a satisfying halt.
The only sign of their pain and suffering, now, was the on-going pounding on the shutters.
I walked back to my chair and laid down. Watching others suffer was never on my to-do list or one of my future goals as a child. He had made me this way, and although I was still not as heartless as I tried to be, I genuinely took pleasure in their pain. I wanted them to feel my pain. They all had to suffer like I had.
The night sky vanished in front of my eyes, replaced by a concrete roof. In front of me was no longer the river, but rather steel rods. I was in a prison but I was not alone. No—they were all here. My unconscious mother, my silent father, and my sleeping brother and sister. We were all awaiting our punishment for a crime we did not commit and my eight-year-old self could not wrap her head around it. Somewhere in the darkness a child like me screamed bloody murder. Shaken, I could feel my own voice lodge itself like a rock in my throat.
I blinked. You are not in that dungeon anymore, I reminded myself as I took in my surroundings. I was out of that prison and this time, I was in charge.
Just as the families on the river lit their fireworks and watched the sky light up in beautiful colors and designs, I pressed the red circular button on the remote. Below me, the automated voice spoke again, counting down the seconds before the bombs detonated, but I barely paid it any attention. My eyes were now on the future, on what laid in front me, my brain already coming up with plans.
As I bathed in the glow of the fireworks on the beautiful night sky, the building to my right exploded in a blast of smoke and fire. The side of my face seemed to be tinged from the heat of the fire, but the ice on my heart only melted ever so slightly. The brightness of the fire mingling with the fireworks was so extreme that it almost felt as if the sun had risen again from its slumber, just for me. A Phoenix's rebirth from the ashes, I was witnessing. Somewhere, in their graves, I could hear them clapping.
{...}