Bunch of delusional pussies, that’s what I had thought at the time. It’s what I still thought. But I still didn’t think anything of it. If Carlos died, it didn’t mean I was going to die with him and it didn’t mean he wouldn’t have it coming. Carmen and I had discussed for a while now what we would do if I got out from Carlos’ clutches. Originally when I had started working for him, I thought it would be easy to leave. But I got too close and in getting close, he demanded my loyalty. I would only work for him, forever, or until he let me go. And since being let go usually ended with a bullet in the head, Carmen and I had to bide our time.
When I drove Carlos into the town, I didn’t expect to see so many people. Not just from the cartel, who were loitering very noticeably on the side of the road outside a barber shop, but all the townfolk in general seemed to be out and about. I remembered something Carmen had said about some Mexican Saint Day earlier that morning, which seemed to explain why everyone seemed dressed up in their Sunday best, even though it was a Tuesday.
“Stay here,” Carlos said without even looking at me. I had parked a few yards away from where this was taking place. There was a gun in the glove compartment that I could use if anything went wrong, but I know he wanted me to be the getaway car.
I sat there, waiting and watching as more people gathered. They all looked the same – high-waisted pale jeans, cowboy or Timberland boots, pastel dress shirts. Some had hats. Some had lariat ties of skinny leather. Their wrists gleamed with gold watches and their faces bore large aviator shades that reflected that killer sun.
Suddenly, Carlos and Marquez were meeting. I had only taken my eyes away for a second. The exchange went down in the middle of the street, like an old Western and just like the damn Old West, guns were already drawn on either side. They weren’t visible, but I could see them. I could see the blood in their eyes, even beneath their shades.
Usually at this part in the dream Carmen appeared, as she had done in real life. But this time something was wrong. I could see her from faraway, walking over to Carlos. But her hair was different. It wasn’t this long black mess of curls but now this wavy, sunlightened hair. The dress wasn’t red and white and long but black and short.
This time it wasn’t Carmen at all.
It was Alana.
And she was about to be gunned down.
Before I knew what I was doing, I was grabbing the gun from the glove compartment and running out of the car.
I screamed her name like a banshee and she froze, a deer in the headlights, all long legs and curves and watched as I ran toward her. Like Carmen, she had no idea what was about to happen. Neither Carlos or I had ever told Carmen what was going on that day. We liked to keep her in the dark as much as possible. Carlos, I’m sure, because he didn’t trust her and me, well I wanted to protect her the best I could. But this time I couldn’t. For reasons I’ll never understand, Carmen was there that day. Sometimes I wonder if it was to show her a lesson. Sometimes I wonder if it was to show me a lesson.
In this dream, Alana was just as stunned until she realized what she was caught between. Like Carmen, she started to run toward me, when she should have run away from me. She was running toward me because I was her man, the one she loved, the one she wanted to have children with. I was her safety, her solid ground and her light. I was supposed to protect her.
Alana ran toward me, arms outstretched, seeking my protection from the big bad world.
And as I failed Carmen, I failed her.
The gunfire erupted like fireworks.
Alana screamed as the bullets tore into her from all sides. And yet she wouldn’t fall. She was stronger than that. She ran until there was barely anything left to her, skin hanging off in shreds, blood covering her bullet-ridden body from head to toe. Yet she was still beautiful. Still so beautiful, even in the hands of death.
She collapsed at my feet, clawing onto my legs in a vain attempt to reach me, in a vain attempt to live.
I couldn’t move. I could only stare at her as she looked at me for one last time.
“Te amo,” she whispered, blood spilling out of her mouth before she collapsed dead.
With a start, I woke up from the dream, covered in a sweat. Alana was alive, in my bed in this dark, hot hotel room and sleeping soundly in my arms.
I love you too, I thought.
***
“I like this place,” Alana said as she peered through her sunglasses at the hotel in front of us. We’d just arrived in Mazatlan and had been driving around the beach hotels looking for something simple yet popular. Not too fancy, not too shabby, but someplace that we could lay low in for a week. People were obviously looking for us, but now that I knew who was doing the looking, I knew we at least had a chance here.