Somewhere In Mexico

Chapter 8

The truck rumbled past the final checkpoint at the border between Arizona and Sonora. Ethan Farrell, a man with dead eyes and steady hands, calmly handed over his ID and permit to the customs officer. His face showed nothing. He had done this before. Many times.

“Open the dump body,” the officer ordered.

Ethan complied without hesitation. The metallic groan of the hydraulic system cut through the desert air as the dump bed rose. The officers climbed in and combed through it like dogs on a scent. But they found nothing—no drugs, no weapons, no body. Not yet.

“You're clear,” they finally said.

Ethan offered a cold smile and drove on.

8:32 p.m. The truck rolled into Nogales.

Gustavo had been waiting—impatient, twitchy, chain-smoking with his boot pressed against the bumper of his car. When the vehicle stopped, he tossed his cigarette and approached with an uneven gait, the glint of a blade tucked inside his boot.

“You Ethan? Ethan Farrell?” Gustavo asked, glancing at the note scribbled in pencil, now smudged with sweat.

“Yeah. You’re Gustavo?” came the reply, the voice like gravel grinding on steel.

They shook hands. It was brief. Mechanical. Then they moved quickly to the back of the truck. Gustavo scanned the area like a hawk ready to pounce.

“Where’s the kid? Sergio told you everything, right?”

“In the back. Out cold.”

They climbed into the dark, rusted cargo space. There lay Marcus, curled and limp, eyes barely open, his breathing shallow. A needle mark scarred his neck. Gustavo grabbed Marcus under the arms while Ethan took the legs, and they dragged him like meat, not caring when his head thudded against the truck’s edge. He didn’t stir.

At Gustavo’s house, they didn’t waste time. Gustavo didn’t park. He yanked Marcus from the backseat and carried him inside like a ragdoll. The boy moaned faintly. His skin was pale and clammy.

Inside, Gustavo dumped Marcus into a bathtub filled with lukewarm water. The splash echoed against the tiles. He sat nearby, smoking, watching Marcus twitch as the drug began to wear off.

An hour passed.

When Marcus could sit upright without collapsing, Gustavo pulled him out, stripped him down, and shoved dry clothes into his chest.

“Put these on.”

Marcus fumbled. His hands trembled. Gustavo watched with predator eyes, judging whether the kid would break.

By morning, Marcus was fully alert. Confused, but alert. He paced the living room in a daze, the ache in his muscles still echoing the effects of whatever cocktail they’d used to knock him out.

He caught whispering voices on the balcony.

“You never told me you had a cousin in the States,” a woman said.

“I don’t tell you everything, Sara,” Gustavo replied, voice laced with boredom. “You never asked.”

Sara—young, trusting, ignorant of what Gustavo really was.

Marcus seethed. The lies. The way Gustavo played with people like chess pieces.

When Gustavo returned inside, Marcus stepped forward.

“Sir,” he said, forcing calm into his voice. “What am I doing here? When do I go home?”

Gustavo stopped mid-step. He turned slowly, a wicked grin crawling across his face.

“Home?” he laughed, cruel and loud. “You think you’re on some vacation, kid? You were bought. Delivered. Packaged like livestock. You think I give a damn about your family?”

He walked toward Marcus and jabbed a finger into his chest.

“You screw this up? I’ll feed you your own teeth before I put a bullet in your skull. You hear me?”

The coldness in his eyes wasn’t human. Marcus dropped to his knees, shaking.

***

Two months passed.

The Kinneys tried to move on, but Marcus’ absence was a ghost in the house. Carla barely spoke. Her eyes were sunken, her skin pale. She refused to see a doctor, though Burdett begged. Bills piled up. Emma and Aiden fought less—only because crying became the new language of the household.

***

At Sara’s birthday party, Marcus met her properly. She was soft. Radiant. A light in his dark tunnel. He clung to her presence, starved for hope.

But Gustavo noticed.

“I hope you haven’t gotten too close to that girl,” he growled one night, low into Marcus’ ear. “She opens her mouth to the wrong person, I’ll slice it off her face.”

As the day approached to send Marcus to Él Ligeró, the fear became a noose around his throat. He barely slept. He wanted to run—but there was nowhere to go.

So, he made a decision.

He had to tell Sara.

He went to her house one afternoon, knocking with urgency. When she answered, he stepped inside without a word.

Sara, sweet and gentle, noticed the panic in his eyes.

“Marcus? What’s wrong?”

He couldn’t speak. Not at first. Then, he broke.

“I’m in trouble, Sara. Bad trouble. Gustavo isn’t my cousin. He trafficked me here. I’m going to be sent to someone named Él Ligeró soon.”

The name dropped like a bomb.

Sara froze.

And then—knocking.

Loud. Angry.

“Sara! Is Marcus in there?” Gustavo called.

Sara’s face paled. “Yes. I—I’ll be right there.”

She moved like she was wading through tar. Fear clung to her. She opened the door. Gustavo stood there, smiling like a wolf in a sheep’s pelt.

When he saw Marcus, he didn’t speak. He only placed an arm around his shoulders and led him away.

At home, Gustavo sat on the couch, fiddling with a sculpture. Watching Marcus.

“What were you two talking about?” he asked, casual but lethal.

“Nothing. Just… stuff,” Marcus said.

Gustavo said nothing. But his eyes narrowed. And Marcus knew—Gustavo had heard everything.

He was dead. He just didn’t know when.