Hellbent

The night breeze cut straight through Evan’s shirt. Outside the abandoned church, Mara Salvatrucha members clustered loosely in front of the reinforced steel door, their shaved heads making them look sleek and feral. Here on the street, they kept their weapons hidden, but their shirts bulged in predictable places.

When they noted Evan’s approach, their skulls pivoted in unison. It was hard to distinguish their eyes from the ink spotting their faces. They flicked their cigarettes aside, shoved off the pillars fronting the church entrance, and presented a unified front that called to mind an NFL defensive line.

As Evan drew within reach, they tugged up their shirts to expose gleaming handguns.

A man with devil-horn tattoos rolled his head back, regarded Evan down the length of his nose. “I think you in the wrong neighborhood.”

Evan said, “I want to talk to Freeway.”

The men laughed. “A lotta folks want to talk to Freeway.”

Evan let the breeze blow.

“Do you have any idea who we are, gringo culero? We are Mara Salvatrucha. I translate it for you. Mara means ‘gang.’ Trucha means ‘fear us.’”

Evan stepped forward. The men drew their pistols but did not aim them. “Your tattoos are designed to elicit fear. You’re probably used to scaring people when you walk down the street, into a store, a restaurant. Because you’ve written right on your face how little you care about how you’re perceived. And that signals that you’re capable of anything. I’m sure you’re used to that working. So look at me. Look at me very closely. And ask yourself: Do I look scared?”

For a moment there was nothing but the white-noise hum of traffic in the distance. Devil Horns sniffed, rolled his lower lip between his teeth.

Evan said again, “Tell Freeway I’m here to see him.”

The men cast nervous looks between them. Then Devil Horns said, “You packing?”

“Yes. One pistol. And I’m not giving it up. Ask your leader if he’s afraid to meet me inside his own headquarters with fifty armed men.”

“Be careful what you wish for, cabrón.” He turned to his compatriots. “Watch this hijo de puta.”

The steel door creaked open and shut heavily behind him.

Evan waited, keeping a level stare on the remaining men. They returned it, shifting on their blue-and-white Nikes.

At last the door opened again, and Devil Horns emerged. He held the door ajar for Evan. When Evan walked inside, he caught a whiff of incense and body odor.

Dozens of men waited in the nave, holding pistols and submachine guns. They folded behind Evan, encircling him. Freeway sat on the broad carpeted steps beneath the altar like a demon god, his hands clasped.

Tables rimmed the room, covered with baggies and electronic scales. Most of the pallets of boxed TVs had been moved out, but plenty of shoplifted iPhones, Xboxes, and Armani jackets remained. The smaller goods spilled out of booster bags — duffels lined with aluminum foil to thwart stores’ electronic security detectors.

From the corner of his eye, Evan noted Xavier in the shadowed phalanx, but he made sure not to look at him directly. Evan walked up the aisle between the shoved-aside pews and stopped ten yards shy of Freeway. The man did not rise. Now that Evan was closer, he could discern the features beneath the ink. A pit-bull face — broad cheeks, near-invisible eyebrows, a snub nose that smeared the nostrils into ovals. He had a round head, a bowling ball set on the ledge of his powerful torso. The MS tattoo banded his forehead, an honor and a distinction.

Freeway spread his hands, clasped them again. An unspoken question. Ambient light glimmered off the steel studs embedded in his cheeks and lips.

“I have business with one of your men,” Evan said. “I want to buy him out.”

Freeway’s eyes flickered in a blink. It was hard to tell, the tattooed lids blending with the tattooed sclera. “Which man?”

“That’s between me and him. Once you agree.”

“And if I lie to find out?”

Evan said, “I trust you’re a man of your word.”

Looking into those black eyes was like looking into death itself.

“Nobody takes what’s mine,” Freeway said. “I own these men. As much as I own the putas I run in the streets. Drugs and guns are good, sí. But with those? Everything is a onetime sale. A woman? I can sell ten, fifteen times a day. A man I can use a hundred different ways in the same week.” He rose, and the stairs creaked beneath his weight. “There will be no sale. My men are my most valuable possessions.”

“I understand. That’s why I’m offering to pay you for him.”

“If you move on one of my men,” Freeway said, “I will kill him, his entire family, and you.”

A wet breeze blew through the shattered stained-glass window above. Evan glanced through it at the rooftop where he’d perched just two nights before. He realized he was tired. Tired of the miles he’d put on the tread and tired for the road ahead.

“I don’t want a war with you,” Evan said. “But I’m not afraid of one.”

Freeway showed his teeth. “You. A war. With us.”