The Untouchables

7. Kids

Hernandez drags me where the kids are playing. I freeze on the spot as all the kids and their parents turn to us. Then the patrón starts shooting.

Kids scream and run everywhere, their parents fall one by one. It takes just a few seconds for the last little corpse to stop squirming on the ground.

I breathe slowly, letting the tears cross my cheeks. Hernandez doesn't even look in my direction and never meets the disgust I feel for him painted all over my face. He walks between the corpses, the corner of his mouth turned down as he checks if his massacre is complete.

"Someone's going to call the cops." I try my best to make my threat sound like a friendly warning. At this point, I doubt he'd hesitate to kill me too, and I don't think I'd have the strength to escape death again.

"Who? ¿Los vecinos? They will keep their mouth shut, as always," he says.

I have nothing to lose. This man won't have my respect, no matter if he has a gun in his hand. Fuck it. "You're a monster," I growl.

He doesn't show any sign of anger. Instead, he invites me to sit down with him, moving a woman's corpse away from a chair.

I sit. They taught me to not listen to stupid people, but I always give a chance to evil ones. If not for questions of heart, I do that in the name of money.

"What did you expect when you started dealing with drugs? If you wanted to meet nice people, you should've worked in a school. There, the adults are the nicest. The kids... they're even worse than us," he says, observing the liquid remaining in an unfinished drink as he delicately swings it.

"The kids you've just murdered were innocent," I hiss.

"That's the worst bullshit I've ever heard in my life," he says calmly, and sips the half-full cocktail between the corpses. "I may be a monster, but my child wouldn't be any better than me. Kids are smaller versions of adults with no control over their inhibitions. If we were five fucking years old, I wouldn't be here, willing to talk to you; I would listen to my heart and kill you. If we were little children and I'd shoot you, I would want to kill again. When your brain isn't able to worry yet, everything can be fun, no matter how bad it is."

It hurts in the deep to feel like he has a point, no matter how hard my mind tries to deny the truth. It's not a surprise that nature is cruel and the world gets creative with our capacity for brutality, yet it's still painful for me to acknowledge that.

Hernandez smiles at me and I hope he isn't seeing the veil of tears in my eyes.

"I will keep working with Quintero," he says. "and maybe Navarro. I know his men came here with you."

"Why?" I ask, unable to hide my disbelief. I did nothing to convince him to do what I said.

"Our little, cute creatures are monsters. Adults are monsters too, but they have a choice to respect common limits to evil that can be done and avoid crossing some lines. Quintero is a responsible man and I will keep transporting his merch. Navarro likes to have fun, but there's a reason he built an empire all by himself and came to the top so fast, and that reason is that he knows who he shouldn't kill. We're all adults and it would be idiotic to go down all together because of an accident. Fuck the war between the cartels, it wouldn't help anyone."

We shake hands as I get over the initial shock.

Then he looks down at the blood on his clothes. "I need a new shirt."

"Yeah, you do." I shrug.

"I don't know how to wash shirts. I think I have no clean tops," he says nonchalantly.

"Then buy a new one." I turn my back on him, holding myself from glaring at Hernandez.

"Gabriela!" he calls, and an invisible force makes me turn to him again. "You're not much different from me. The one who kills isn't worse than one who wants to kill. We can be family."

I observe him. He's a total mess, blood all over his elegant clothes and a mop of brown hair that hasn't been combed for too long. "There's a reason you're lonely, Hernández. You don't deserve to be loved."

I walk away. Well, I try. But when I can't resist the urge to turn and look at him, his tears bring me back to wash his stupid shirts.