“It’s a raid! And you don’t want to get in the Green Guards’ way. Especially if you don’t have any papers.”
“I don’t have papers,” Lucia replied. “Neither does Prit.”
“Me neither,” Alejandra added. “Half these people don’t. Even if we did, that’s no guarantee.”
“What do we do?” Lucia asked, wide-eyed with panic.
“What everyone else is doing. Hide!” The petite girl struggled to hoist Prit to his feet.
There was chaos out on the street. Groups of people were running off, dashing into houses, trying to become invisible. A few stayed put with a stony look on their face. They had their papers in order (that week, a pink-and-purple striped certificate with a photo). In theory, they had nothing to fear. But only in theory. Things changed from one day to the next in Bluefont. Even some of those people joined the fleeing crowd.
“Where’re we going?” Prit said, gasping. With each breath, he winced in pain. His broken ribs were sapping his strength.
“Don’t know.” Alejandra’s voice trembled. “I’ve got a shelter near the fence, but it’s only big enough for one person.”
“Let’s stick Prit there and we’ll find another place to hide!” Lucia proposed.
Alejandra shook her head. “The shape he’s in, it’d take ten minutes to get there. This place is gonna be crawling with Green Guards any minute. We gotta find Gato.”
“That asshole?” Lucia’s face twisted in disbelief. “No way! He almost killed us.”
“Don’t give me any shit, girlfriend. If anyone can help us, it’s Mendoza.” Alejandra swung her AK-47 across her back. The weapon dwarfed her and drew spiteful looks from the people who crossed their path. “Grab your friend’s other arm and let’s go.”
Mendoza was still sitting in the bar, calmly finishing the bottle of tequila, as if all the excitement had nothing to do with him. But, deep down, he was seething. That raid could derail his plans. Then again, if he played his cards right, it could advance his cause.
“Gato, we need a place to hide,” Alejandra pleaded. “Please.”
“I don’t give a shit what you do, Ale. This is all your fault.”
The little Mexican woman flushed to the roots of her hair, but fought to control her anger. “It’s as much your fault as it is mine. You provoked the fight and stripped this girl nearly naked. So, come on, help us.”
Mendoza took a drag on his cigarette, his expression unreadable. Then he threw the butt on the ground, sighed, and stood up.
“Follow me. I don’t know why the hell I’m doing this. I hope I don’t regret it.”
Mendoza strode out the door, not helping the women drag the half-conscious Pritchenko. They finally came to what had once been a beautiful Tudor-style home, but neglect and overcrowding had taken a toll. All the windows were broken. The once-manicured lawn was planted with spindly tomatoes.
The Mexican headed into the house and down some stairs to a damp basement that smelled like oil and mold. From a corner, the skeleton of a rat flashed a sardonic grin.
Mendoza slid his hand along the brick wall. With a satisfied grunt, he pulled a hidden lever and stepped back. A section of the wall moved a few inches, revealing a hidden room. He waved them in. Once inside, Lucia gasped. A huge bed took up one side of the room; hanging over it was a large mirror. Leather handcuffs and harnesses lined the walls. Vibrators, whips, and sex toys lay next to the bed.
“The previous owner hid his dirty little secret in here,” Mendoza chuckled. “He didn’t want his neighbors to find out what he was into. If we had time, I’d show you some very interesting videos he made. But you’d have to like really dirty sex.”
“Some other time,” Alejandra growled, exhausted from carrying Prit. “Help me get him on the bed.”
They settled the Ukrainian on the stained satin sheets and then sat on the floor to wait.
Nothing happened right away. They heard a Humvee roar through the streets and a garbled voice shouting something through a bullhorn. Then everything went quiet again. The plop-plop of a leaky faucet was getting on Lucia’s already frayed nerves.
Several shots rang out close by. Silence again. Then a Humvee raced by.
“They’re on this street,” Mendoza whispered. He turned off the light and they sat in total darkness. “Now shut up, everyone. One word and we’re dead.”
They heard wood splintering on the floor above them, as if someone had flung furniture onto the floor. Then punching, yelling, and several shots. A woman screamed, but her cry was abruptly suffocated.
Their shelter was filled with a deathly silence and the sharp smell of sweat and fear. Even Mendoza abandoned his macho pose and sat in silence, his lips pursed, hands clasped in prayer.
One of the basement steps creaked, then the next. Someone was coming down the stairs, whistling “Hey Jude” off-key, under his breath. He paused in the middle of a verse, dragged furniture around, then started whistling again. It made their hair stand on end.
Lucia brushed sweat-soaked hair off Prit’s face. The Ukrainian made a superhuman effort to control his breathing. He looked pretty bad but gave her a weak thumbs-up.
Starting at the other end of the room, the guy pounded the walls with something hard, listening for the hollow sound of a hidden room. Mendoza grabbed Alejandra’s AK-47 with a grim look on his face. No was one going to take him—or anyone else in that hideout—alive.
Thump, thump, thump.
The pounding was getting closer. Lucia bit her hand to keep from screaming.
Thump, thump, thump.
The guy stopped whistling. He focused all his attention on the sound.
Thump, thump, thump!
Just then someone upstairs shouted. The pounding stopped and the guy stomped up the stairs. An engine started up and roared away.
They waited in silence in the dark for hours.
Alejandra whispered, “Sometimes Green Guards pretend they’re leaving. They wait for helots to come out of their shelters, then shoot them down like dogs.”
Lucia didn’t hear a word the girl said. She was exhausted, emotionally drained, and about to crack.
The hours passed in a blur. Alejandra pulled out a bottle of water and a sandwich, but no one felt like eating or drinking. Lucia laid her head on Prit’s legs and let her mind wander to someplace nicer than that grimy basement.
Six hours later, Mendoza decided it was safe to leave their hideout. He eased the door open and silently peered out. After all that time, it was unlikely Greene’s men were still upstairs. But if they were, he didn’t want to be picked off like rabbits poking their heads out of their den. He waved the others out once he was sure the coast was clear.
The house looked like a hurricane had hit it. Broken furniture, smashed dishes, and scraps of clothing blanketed the floor. Green Guards had dumped all the drawers out the window, sending their contents flying down the street. They’d torn away floorboards and ceiling tiles looking for hiding places. The worst part was the blood.
“What’ll happen to all those people?” Pritchenko asked between bloody coughs.
“They’ll put them on the train,” Mendoza muttered. “Those assholes’ve gone too far. It’s time for the Wrath of the Just.”
30
At first I felt hot, very hot. Two Green Guards had dragged me out of Greene’s office and thrown me in a cell in the basement of the Gulfport police station. The cells lined a narrow hallway and were painted puke green. Each had a toilet bolted down in the middle. I was the only occupant. Outside, an angry mob had gathered.
I was locked in a cell way in the back. The guards gave me a couple of kicks, and then, in one last evil act, they set a jug of water and a piece of moldy bread outside my cell, just out of reach.