ABCs stepped back into the hall, glanced back to the open elevator, then turned to look down the opposite end of the hall. He saw an exit sign and took a step toward it. As he did, he heard a soft click from behind the exit door. He nodded to his man, “Go.”
𓂓
It had been a few weeks since that night by the fire with the Ouija. Now, in the center of a small arena with stadium seating, Armando stood barefoot before the head of the Scorpion Cartel, wearing only a dirty poncho. The Shaman stood behind him. A small oculus in the center of the ceiling allowed dim light into the chamber, simply known as The Pit. Bloody shadows, like bruises in the Earth, splotched the floor—evidence of the violence that regularly took place there.
The boy ground his feet into the crimson soil and dipped his head to a man standing beside the leader. The man who had given him the meat so long ago. The man who drove the shiny-white-car-with-the-soft-roof. The man for whom Little Armando had run errands. The man narrowed his eyes and nodded back.
The cartel leader spoke first. “You betrayed us. I should kill you where you stand, boy.” He paused and spat. “The only reason you are here is because the Shaman requested it.”
Armando looked up and back to the Shaman, who motioned for the boy to step forward. Armando looked up to the cartel leader and took one step toward him. “I cannot claim ignorance as a reason. But I did not know of the rivalry. I only wanted to escape the abuses of my father.”
“How could you not know? The Knife Cartel took your mother,” the leader spat.
“I know that now. I think I knew it then... I tried to leave but the man-who-sits-behind-a-very-large-desk convinced me to go right away. I thought I could take care of myself,” Armando said.
The leader regarded him thoughtfully. “You conduct yourself well beyond your years.”
“I mean no disrespect,” Armando replied and inclined his chin. “But I have read many books.”
A brief burst of laughter filled the chamber.
“We have heard two stories from the desert. Which is true?” a voice from the shadows asked.
The Shaman chose to speak. “Have we seen the Cackling Coyote? Heard of his whereabouts?”
“No, but this is not unusual,” the voice said.
“I stomped on his throat myself,” the boy said.
“So you say.”
“I have the knife belonging to his guard. I left it with your men at the door when I came in,” Armando offered.
The leader shrugged. “You could have gotten that by other means.”
Silence in the chamber for a moment.
Desperation growing, Armando spoke louder now, “I tried to ask how things worked. No one would tell me.”
The leader pointed down to him. “We do not tell. We wait and see what you do on your own. Will you be loyal, or no? These things cannot be taught, only realized.” The leader stepped toward him, but Armando did not back down. “And you were disloyal!”
Murmurs of condemnation filled the chamber. The Shaman stepped up. “The boy now realizes his mistake. He was naïve but this is no excuse. I assure you, he killed the man-in-the-middle and his guards.”
“How can you be sure?” the leader asked.
“I believe the boy,” the Shaman said. “The doctor confirmed he was not raped as the Knife Cartel would have you believe.”
“Not good enough,” the leader said.
“Then let us prove ourselves by turning him loose to take revenge,” the Shaman requested.
Laughs filled the chamber now. “A boy and his stolen blade will take down the Knife Cartel when my men have not,” the leader mocked. “This is no time for jokes.”
The leader raised his hand and brought it down, intending to backhand the boy. To his surprise, Armando’s hand shot up and caught his, stopping it short of his cheek. The leader looked down in shock as the boy glared up, red sparks popping from Armando’s eyes.
“I am no joke,” the boy said. “I have learned my lesson. Now, allow me to earn your trust.”
The cartel leader yanked his hand away from the strong grip of the boy and stepped back, looking around the chamber for any objection. He heard none. He turned to his man and waved him forward. The man who had given Armando the meat stepped up before him. “I thought I saw something in you, but this.” He extended a hand, intending to cup the boy’s head so he could examine his eyes.
The boy smacked his hand away. “Do not touch me.” His voice came through guttural and not of this world.
The man gave him a hard look. “You do this, and you’ve earned your mark. The scorpion tattoo you’ve wanted since you were a boy.” He paused, then continued, “You fail, and I will personally...”
The pishtaco spoke through Armando, making him sound like a mixture of beast and boy. “You won’t need to.”
The man turned to the chamber. Murmurs of assent filled the room. He turned back to Armando. “Go then.”
Armando hesitated, then added. “If I do this, I want my tattoo to be with blood-red ink.” With that, he turned and walked out.
Leaving the Shaman standing there, Armando marched out of the chamber, collected his knife, and headed out into the shadows of dusk. Revenge must be swift. He had been observing the lazy Knife Cartel. They believed their reputation to be cemented and put little effort into defenses. There had been few skirmishes recently. Little Armando felt certain he would catch them with their guard down.
𓂓
After the boy left the chamber, the Shaman stepped forward. “You have seen it. I have performed the ancient ritual with the boy. He is gifted. His soul is bonded with the pishtaco.”
Murmurs from the crowd.
“A boogeyman?”
