Chapter 17

Demon and Spider stand at the door, hands in their pockets. They look freshly scrubbed. Their goatees are sharp-edged and their heads are shaved bald.

“Ghost.” Spider’s nervous. Twitchy. I haven’t seen him since Regina kicked us out. “We’re here to come get you.”

“Sal?” Vanessa comes down the stairs. “What’s going on?”

Muñeca skips up behind me but before she can make it to the door, Vanessa sees who’s standing outside and scoops her up.

“Take it outside,” Vanessa says to me. Her voice is sharp and cold. She turns around and carries her daughter upstairs.

“But what about our game?” Muñeca asks.

Vanessa shuts the bedroom door before I can hear the answer.

Anger boils in my blood, but with Demon’s eyes on me, I can’t let it out. “What the hell are you talking about?” I say.

“Ruben told you I’d be coming to see you, right?” Spider asks.

“Yeah. Weeks ago.”

“Come on,” Demon says. “We gotta go. Now.”

“Leave your phone here,” Spider says. “Wallet too.”

Shit.

No phone means no GPS. No wallet means the cops will have a harder time identifying me. Or my body. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“Fuck, no more questions,” Demon barks. “Let’s go.”

I grab my hoodie and keys and lock the door behind me. Outside, the darkness of the streets closes over me. I feel it cling to my skin like humidity. I follow Demon and Spider down the familiar alleys and side streets I used to haunt. After five years, nothing has changed—broken asphalt, forests of dead weeds. We pass mountains of litter, left and forgotten—bent shopping carts and discarded tires and old mattresses.

We walk along the retaining wall that separates the freeway from the neighborhood. Hollenbeck is one of the few gangs that has turf on both sides of the freeway. That’s how old this gang is—it was here before the freeway.

Spider moves a plywood board leaning against a chain-link fence. There’s a big hole there where the wires have been cut and rolled back. Demon goes through. I follow him. Spider follows me and replaces the board.

Now it’s completely dark. I think I know where I am, but I’m not sure. It’s been a long time. We walk through the shadows, our path covered with weeds and litter. Dogs bark at us through fences. A car passes a block away, blasting banda music. The subwoofers rattle my teeth.

We climb over two low walls into a yard that’s packed dirt and clumps of half-dead crabgrass. Empty beer bottles and cans are everywhere, along with cigarette butts. The house itself is dark. Demon opens a grimy sliding door and we enter.

I know where we are. This is one of ESHB’s crash pads—an abandoned house we’ve taken over. Homeboys sleep here when they’ve got nowhere to go. It’s a place to get drunk and high. This is also our arsenal. The closets and attic are full of guns.

The smell of mold and rotting food hits me hard. We’re standing in the kitchen. Fast food trash and empty pizza boxes are piled on the counter. I hear the buzz of black flies. My stomach cramps. Anxiety tightens the muscles in my chest. I try to take a deep breath but the disgusting smell makes me feel worse. I grab the familiar muscle on the inside of my arm and pinch it, hard.

Focus.

Don’t lose your shit.

“Come on,” Spider says.

I follow him and Demon through the hallway. There’s a faint light coming from one of the bedrooms. Demon opens the door. Hollenbeck tags are spray-painted all over the walls. Someone has run an extension cord through a window and a single lamp lights the room. The window has been covered with aluminum foil so none of the light can be seen from the street.

We step inside. Sitting on mattresses are five homeboys, two of whom I recognize as Demon’s minions, Ray Ray and Lil Man. The other three I don’t know, but they’re just as young. Pot smoke fills the air. All of them are high as shit.

Bad to worse.

Demon takes the wheel. “Okay. Just like we talked about at our last meeting. Hollenbeck Gardens. Ray Ray, Lil Man, what unit?”

“236,” says Lil Man.

“Triste, Lalo. What unit?”

One of the other kids says, “378.”

“Flaco, you’re with Spider. Flaco, which unit?”

“109,” says the skinny kid in the corner.

Demon looks at me and grins. “That means you’re with me, Ghost. Lucky you. We’re unit 125.”

As I stand there listening, my blood goes cold in my veins. Hollenbeck Gardens is a run-down housing project in our territory. Five hundred units for low-income families. The majority of them are regular people, adults and kids, not gang members. Ever since it was built in the 1940s, ESHB has controlled Hollenbeck Gardens. Most of our drug operations are based there.

Worse to even worse.

He’s a scary motherfucker, but right now, Demon is in his element. He goes over the plan in a cold, clear voice, starting with the stolen van parked in the alley. He goes over the route, pointing out where all the surveillance cameras are. He takes his time. When he’s finished, he goes over the plan again, just to make sure we understand.

“Everything we need is in the van. Firebombs. Crowbars. Like Ruben said, the goal is to maximize damage. Break the windows first, then light the bombs and throw them in.”

My brain is spinning. I’ve been out of the life for five years. It’s been a long time since I’ve done any of this. Tonight I’m jumping in headfirst.

“Remember: Calm. Coordinated. Nobody lose your heads. Everything has to happen at the same time,” Demon says. “Don’t give them time to react. Don’t give them time to figure out what’s going on. All four units at once, then we’re out. Understand?”

The kids nod, serious as undertakers. I glance at Spider. He looks just as nervous as I feel. He may be number three in the gang now, but he’s never been involved in the heavy lifting.

Demon hands out our supplies. Black sweats to put on over our clothes. Hoodies and black watch caps. He gives us each a cheap plastic lighter. He takes out a box of gloves and hands them around. I take two and put them in my pocket. My hands are shaking. Every part of me wants to turn and run. But I know that if I do, the next meeting they’ll be planning is how to take me out.

Trapped in the web. Again.

“No phones. No wallets. Nothing to identify yourself,” Demon says.

As the kids empty their pockets onto the mattresses, I watch as Demon takes a semiautomatic pistol from his waistband. He checks the chamber and tucks the gun back in. Unless Spider’s hiding something, Demon’s the only one of us who’s strapped.

When we’re ready, Demon takes a quick look at each of us like a drill sergeant doing inspections. “Stay focused tonight,” he says. “The people living in these units have been talked to. Warned. They’ve chosen to stay and disrespect us. Remember. Hollenbeck Gardens is ours. They need to see that.”

The kids nod and murmur in agreement.

Demon’s wearing a watch. It’s flashy and expensive—a banger’s watch. He looks at the time. “Let’s go.”

We head out to the alley where the stolen van is parked. Demon throws me the keys. “Let’s see if you’re really as good with cars as they say you are.”

Everyone piles in and Demon slides the door shut. I start up the van. I haven’t driven a car in five years, so the simple action feels good—better than good. In spite of my anxiety, I get an adrenaline rush when I rev the engine.

The interior of the van stinks of gasoline. We are silent as I drive the two short miles to a parking spot one block from Hollenbeck Gardens. I back into the space, facing the van toward our getaway route on the avenue.

I turn off the engine and the lights but leave the keys in the ignition. Spider distributes Molotov cocktails and crowbars, which disappear under our baggy clothes. We exit the van and leave it unlocked. We follow in single file behind Demon through a park to the entrance. It’s a simple gate, unlocked, specifically chosen because there are no surveillance cameras here. We enter, leaving the gate wide open behind us.

All the younger homeboys disappear into the shadows except for the one called Flaco, who follows Demon, Spider, and me. Our two units are close together. Like all the other buildings, Building 1 is two stories and houses a hundred units. Each unit has an exterior entrance installed with a metal security door. Rusty metal bars cover all of the windows. Outside, drooping clotheslines stand on a narrow lawn of dead grass. Toys are littered here and there—a deflated soccer ball. A beat-up tricycle on its side. The air smells like a combination of old cooking oil, weed, and piss.

I’m sick to my stomach.

When we’re close, we split off. I follow Demon to our unit, 125. The number has been spray-painted with a stencil right in the middle of the door.

“This is it.”

Demon motions to the second window from the entrance—a bedroom. Whoever planned this attack has an evil mind. It’s the middle of the night, and people are asleep in their homes. Maximum damage. Maximum fear.

I take out the Molotov cocktail I’ve been hiding inside my hoodie. It’s so simple, I feel stupid holding it in my hand. A beer bottle filled with gasoline. A fuse, a piece of torn cotton stuffed down the neck.

The raised crowbar in Demon’s hand casts a shadow on the wall like the blade of the Grim Reaper.

“Light it,” he whispers.

My shaking hands flick the wheel of the lighter. As soon as the cloth fuse catches fire, Demon shoves the crowbar between the bars and shoots it like a pool stick, shattering the glass.

“Now,” he says.

In the split second between the moment I raise my arm to throw the firebomb and the moment I let go, there’s a scream inside the house—a woman’s.

And then I hear it.

A baby starts to cry inside.

This is wrong.

I look at Demon. In the firelight, the whites of his eyes are whiter than white. His face is almost ecstatic with expectation.

The two words cut the inside of my mouth like I’m spitting out the nails of my coffin. “I can’t.”

“Pinche leva,” Demon says. “I knew it. Fucking bitch.”

Before I can stop him, he grabs the bottle out of my hand and lobs it into the unit. It explodes inside the bedroom in a ball of fire. He’s sloppy, though. Glass from the windowpane slices the side of his hand, tearing his flesh. The nitrile glove hangs in two bloody flaps. He pulls it off and stuffs it into his pocket.

“Shit,” he says. “Run.”

We take off at full speed toward the open gate. Someone yells. Lights come on in the apartments. People come out to see what’s going on.

We keep running until we’re through the gate. I see the youngsters ahead of us, sprinting across the park toward the van.

I look behind me to make sure Spider and Flaco made it out. They’re exiting the gate when it happens.

Two short bursts of gunfire. Some kind of semiautomatic.

Spider falls.

I stop in my tracks. With his pistol, Demon is the only one who can give us any cover. But instead of returning fire, Demon keeps running toward the van, leaving us behind.

No time to think. I see Flaco trying to pick up Spider, but he’s not strong enough. I run toward them. The baggy sweats slow me down. With each step I take, the passing seconds grow slower.

More gunfire. I keep going. I hear bullets ripping through the air.

I skid to a stop in the dead grass. Spider is laid out, stunned. He’s bleeding—from where? His legs? Flaco is shaking with terror. The kid is as skinny as a pencil.

“Help me get him to his knees,” I say.

Flaco and I get Spider up. More gunfire—the kid starts sobbing.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” I say.

I take Spider’s right arm and drape it behind my neck. I grab hold of his bloody thigh. Adrenaline floods my system. I balance Spider on my shoulders and get to my feet.

“Go,” I yell. “Go, go, go.”

Flaco takes off, flying over the grass. Even more gunshots ring out behind us as I start across the park. There are no trees to hide us, no cover at all. Carrying my friend, I run.

No thinking.

No brain.

All body.

I run.

My lungs burn. My quads are on fire. I hear footsteps behind us. Sirens come closer. We might be leaving a trail of blood behind us, clear as day. Who’s behind us? I don’t know. I can’t turn around to look.

I keep running.

Spider is losing consciousness. “Ghost?” he says.

“Hang on, motherfucker,” I gasp. “We’re gonna get out of here.”

At last we reach the edge of the park. The van is still there and the door is open. Ray Ray is at the wheel and the engine’s started up. I know from the expression on Demon’s face they were two seconds from leaving our asses behind.

I throw Spider into the van and jump in. The van takes off before the door is closed.

Sweat pours off me. Fire fills my chest. I strip off my cap and bloody hoodie. I turn on the light in the van and look at Spider. His entire lower body is covered in blood. I don’t know where he’s been hit. I turn him over. There are bullet holes in his thigh, but his entire right leg is soaked with blood. I smell gunpowder and blood, sweet and metallic.

“Hospital,” I gasp. “Ray Ray, hospital, now!”

Demon is sitting in the shotgun seat holding his injured hand. “No.”

“The fuck?” I sit up. The kids are cowering in the back of the van. They’re in shock and now they’re even more frightened. No one ever crosses Demon.

“He’s bleeding out. He needs an emergency room,” I growl.

“I don’t give a shit what he needs,” Demon says. “We go to the hospital and we’re done. They have us. On camera. The van. Everything. Fuck you—I’m not going back inside.”

Up front, Ray Ray is scared. “Boss, what do I do?”

Demon turns away from the shitshow in the back of the van. “Back to the safe house.”

Rage mixes with the adrenaline in my veins. If it weren’t for the scared teenagers in the van, I’d kill Demon for what he’s doing. I’d bash his skull in with one of the crowbars. What does it matter? For what happened at Hollenbeck Gardens, I’m already a dead man anyway.

Spider coughs. “What’s going on?”

I help him onto his back, roll up my hoodie, and put it under his head. “Everything’s good, homes. Just rest right now.”

Ray Ray pulls the van back into the alley and the kids pile out. Spider’s breathing is getting weaker. Demon turns to me as he leaves.

“All yours, bitch.” With a smile, he shuts the door of the van.

The streets are quiet. I drive like an altar boy to County General, hands at two and ten, following the speed limit. I try not to think about what would happen if I got stopped right now. A parolee in a stolen van with a homeboy shot up like a saltshaker? They’d lock me up and throw away the key.

“You still there?” I call.

“Yeah.” Spider’s voice is weak.

I have to keep him conscious. “You got shot in the ass, cabrón.”

“I sure did.” He coughs.

“Shit, you heavy as fuck too. What your side girl been feeding you?”

“Homes, the usual. Rice, beans, and pussy.”

We laugh to hide the fear.

When we reach the emergency room at last, I get out of the van and call over an orderly, who brings a stretcher. We lift Spider onto the gurney and the orderly straps him in.

“What happened?” the orderly asks.

“I was just walking down the street,” Spider says. “A car came by and they shot me. I don’t know what happened.”

It’s our standard story, one we practice in case something like this happens. I squeeze Spider’s shoulder. “You’ll be okay now,” I say.

“Ghost,” Spider says, “if something happens, tell Regina I love her.” They slip an oxygen mask over his face.

“Tell her yourself,” I say.

Before anyone can ask me any questions, I get in the van and drive away.

As soon as my tires hit their driveway, Yoda and his mechanics roll open the gate for me. I park in the chop shop and hand over the keys. The mechanics pull down the garage door, hiding us from the street.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Yoda says. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Don’t ask.”

Yoda grunts. “The usual breakdown?”

“Yeah.”

The mechanics begin the hard work of dismantling the van piece by piece. They’ll rip out and torch the upholstery, salvage the parts they can sell, and send the rest to the scrap yard. They’ll sand off all the vehicle ID numbers. A witness may be able to describe the getaway van, but the cops will never find it.

I strip off the bloody sweatpants and T-shirt and hose off my shoes. There’s a grease-stained shop sink in the back of the garage. I pick up the black nub of soap and scrub Spider’s blood off my face, arms, and hands. The sight of red circling the drain shakes me out of my numbness.

This is the second time I’ve had to wash blood off my hands.

Broken promises—I promised myself I’d never have blood on my hands again. And here I am.

Again.

I turn off the water and brace myself on the sink. I take a deep, shaky breath.

I’m light-headed and cold.

Shock. I’m in shock.

“Hey, you okay?” Yoda asks.

I take another breath and stand up straight. “I’m fine.” I force my voice to stay steady. “You got a clean shirt I can borrow?”

In his office, Yoda finds me a dark blue work shirt, faded and soft. The red patch above the front pocket says frankie. The shirt strains against my shoulders but it fits.

Head pounding, I walk the three miles back to Vanessa’s house, sticking to dark side streets and ducking into the shadows whenever a car passes. A police helicopter circles endlessly over Hollenbeck Gardens, its bright spotlight like an accusing finger. Smoke in the air—I can smell it.

Full of self-hatred, I do what career sinners do in times of crisis. I pray. From personal experience, I know God doesn’t listen to prayers from people like me. But fuck it. I pray anyway. I pray those families aren’t hurt. I pray that the mother and baby I heard inside the apartment were able to get out safe. I pray Spider will be okay.

One mile passes under my feet, then two. The rhythm of my steps calms me down.

I gather up the pieces of my brain and go over the reality of my situation. I literally dodged bullets today. The young homeboys may have been scared shitless, but none of them were hurt. But why were we firebombing families? Why those units? Why were those people threats to Hollenbeck?

One foot in front of the other.

One step.

Then another.

Fear swirls in my stomach. Demon will tell Ruben that I couldn’t do what I was told, that I didn’t have the guts to stand up for the gang when it mattered.

Fuck—I’ve seen homeboys green-lit for less.

It happens fast. Shot from dark cars while they walked to the park. While they stood on the corner with their friends. While they came out of the liquor store with a six-pack in their hand.

One step.

Then another.

What have I got going for me?

Not much. I’ve been in the game for a long time. I did my time. I didn’t snitch. Ruben and my father were best friends. That has to count for something, right?

If I get to Ruben first, I might have a chance.

What will I tell him?

I’ll say I’m a liability. Unreliable—my anxiety makes me unpredictable. I’ll tell Ruben he doesn’t need somebody like me around.

Best-case scenario, Ruben will declare me a dropout.

I’d have to leave the neighborhood forever.

Two months ago, leaving this hood would’ve hurt, but it wouldn’t have been impossible.

But now.

After Vanessa.

The idea of leaving the neighborhood—of leaving her—makes my stomach seize up.

I flash back to the steel in her eyes when Spider and Demon showed up at the door. The quiet anger. The way she cut me with her words: “Take it outside.”

I flash back to the way she went through the things in the garage. Keep, sell, toss. She never second-guessed herself.

When she looks at me again, will she make the choice to throw me away?

The world is falling down around me. I have to find a way to keep the roof from caving in. I don’t have my phone—it’s still at the house. As soon as I get there, I’ll pick it up and call Ruben. It’s my only chance.

Vanessa’s street is quiet. Only three hours have passed since I left. Strange that two hours is all it takes to change someone’s entire life.

I climb the front porch steps and take out my keys. My phone is just inside the door. I’ll call Ruben, convince him to hold back the order to green-light me, convince him to give me time to get out of town.

From there, I’ll make things up to Vanessa. I’ll find a way to fix this. I see my way out. My fingers twitch to dial his number. I have to get to him before Demon does.

“Hey, big brother.”

I jump. It’s too late—someone’s behind me. I turn and muscle memory puts me in a fighting stance, ready to lash out.

The dark figure jumps backward, hands out. “Whoa, hold up!”

I blink and shake the adrenaline out of my head. “The fuck?”

The stranger lowers his hoodie and steps into the light. “Surprised to see me?”

I’m confused. “What? I thought—”

“You thought I was out in October? I was a good boy. Here I am. ¿Me extrañaste?”

He holds out his arms. His face is leaner and he’s got a beard. He’s carrying more muscle, just like I am.

“Motherfucker,” I say.

For the first time in five years, I embrace my younger brother Eddie.

He laughs. “Trouble’s back.”