“You don’t like football?” he asked with a belch, pulling me in tighter. “Come on, man, everybody likes football.”
“No, I… hold on,” I said, easing free, checking both ways on Central Avenue before darting across to the little boy.
The way his eyes lit up when he saw the badge on my belt, you would have thought he’d won the lottery. He bolted over to me, and as I dropped to one knee so we were closer to the same height, he fisted his hands in my shirt.
“Hey, I’m Deputy United States Marshal Miro Jones,” I said without thinking. “Who’re you, kid?”
The tears came fast and as I wiped them away quickly, he hit me with a stream of Spanish I could not hope to follow.
“Shit,” I groaned, before looking across the street, seeing Ian on his way, Hewitt and Segundo following. “Hey, Javier, you speak Spanish?” I called over.
“Why?” he yelled back. “Just because I have a Spanish name?”
“Yeah!”
“That’s racist, man!”
“Do you or not?” I spat, annoyed.
“No, man, and fuck you.”
Returning my attention to the little boy, I realized he was shivering as he cried. I put my hands on his arms to calm him. “Mi nombre es Miro. ¿Cómo te llamas?”
Big gulp of air. “Oscar.”
“Oscar,” I repeated, really pissed at the moment that I had not remembered much Spanish from college. I needed to remedy that at some point. “¿Ocupas ayuda?” I asked, even though it was clear that he did, in fact, need help.
“Sí,” he answered. “Mi hermana está en problemas.”
Sister. Okay. “¿Dónde?” I said, which I was pretty sure meant where.
He slipped his hand into mine and tugged.
“What’re we doing?” Hewitt asked.
“The boy needs help,” Ian declared, stepping in close to me. “So we’re helping.”
“No, no, no,” Hewitt said, waving his hand. “We’ve all had a few, it’s late—just call the police and let them handle it.”
I scowled at him before turning back to the little boy and gesturing for him to lead me. “Show me where your sister is.”
He pulled on my hand and we would have taken off running, but Segundo moved around in front of me. “This is a mistake,” he insisted angrily.
“We help. It’s what we do,” I said levelly, stepping around him.
Oscar yanked on my hand again, and when he went from a walk to a jog, so did I, and when he started running, I kept up easily, with Ian beside me. Hewitt and Segundo followed after us, each explaining why what we were doing could go wrong at any second.
We passed several side streets and a parking lot, went up and over a six-foot chain-link fence and across a vacant area full of cigarette butts and beer bottles, and finally came to another street that we crossed to reach a three-story apartment building that looked abandoned but, the closer we got, was clearly not.
We went around the side and down a short alley to the back, where dumpsters stood shoved up against the wall. There was a small laundromat directly across from them on the left-hand side. Five men hovered near the door that led into a building, and when we got closer, Oscar pointed, like that was it: inside was where his sister was. It was fortunate they were busy talking, smoking, and drinking and didn’t notice us. The way we were standing in the shadows didn’t hurt either.
“Okay,” I told the little boy as I grabbed his shoulder, walked him around a parked car on the street, and crouched down beside him. I think he thought I was going to let him go in with me, but that was certainly not going to happen. When he tried to follow, I lifted my hand, indicating for him to stay. He nodded and then lunged at me, wrapped his arms around my neck, squeezing tight and shivering. He pointed at my gun and then at the men, and I understood. Letting him go, I rose, patted his head, and returned to Ian and the others, still standing in the shadows away from the group of men.
“And?” Ian prodded.
“Those guys are strapped.”
“Of course they are,” he said, grinning and pulling his Glock. “What else would they be?”
“Oh, fuck no,” Hewitt cautioned, putting a hand on my chest. “None of us are wearing vests. We can’t run in there. We have no idea how many there are!”
“Right,” Ian agreed before he stepped into the alley where they could see him if they noticed, arm behind his back, and began his walk toward the door.
“Call for backup,” I directed, immediately following Ian.
“Fuck,” I heard Segundo growl behind me a moment before he touched my shoulder. “You and Special Forces over there better know what you’re doing.”
I grunted to let him know I’d heard him, but I was laser focused on the men we were approaching.