The Long Run

CHAPTER 1 – SOFIA

Club Bombom was a spotlighted multilevel cube of dancing and revelry amid thumping electronic dance music. It occupied prime real estate on Boulevard Kukulcan, alongside the resorts and fine restaurants that populated Cancun’s hotel district. Vacationers strolled the boulevard, drinks in hand. Uniformed drivers leaned against limousines and smoked cigarettes. Sofia, a young Hispanic woman with rounded hips and a cherubic smile, stood in line outside the club entrance alongside three friends. She had dressed for a night on the town, wearing tight jeans, open-toed sandals, and a sequined black top whose neckline plunged enough to reveal the top of her cleavage. A burly bouncer guarded the door with folded arms. When he opened the door for them to pass, Sofia shook her hips and raised her arms over her head.

“Whoo!” she exclaimed, thrilled by the sound and strobing lights inside.

“I’ll get us a table!” shouted Hank, Sofia’s boyfriend. With his shock of red hair and pale white skin, he stood out from the mixed crowd of tourists and locals. An Irish American kid in the land of the Maya. He hurried ahead, leaving Sofia standing in the foyer with her friends, the petite Rebekah—with her bouffant curly afro adding precious inches—and her towering bald boyfriend, Andre.

“Oh my God,” Rebekah yelled and excitedly tapped Sofia’s shoulder. “Check out the bar!”

The bar was shiny black and white in a modernist style. Its undulating ‘S’ shape snaked across one side of the club. A looming statue of an indigenous warrior, lacquered in brilliant colors, dominated its center. His feathered headdress descended past his shoulders and flames danced in his eyes. A dozen bartenders worked at a frenzied pace, shaking tumblers and shouting orders to meet demand. Photos of celebrities and various art pieces decorated the club. A neon metallic skeleton, twice a man’s height, filled one wall. It clutched a string guitar and arched its back as it sang phantom lyrics. Patrons sat on counter height tables and chatted loudly to be heard over the music. Sofia wondered if any tables were available when she heard Hank’s voice.

“Hey!” he called over the din. “I got a table!” She spotted him through a cluster of patrons, pumping his arm beside an empty table. A nearby customer glared at his dramatics. But Hank paid no mind. He was loud and impulsive, and some days those personality traits annoyed Sofia. But not tonight. She smiled and waved in reply.

“I’ll get the first round!” Andre said and turned for the bar. At 6’-7” and 250 pounds of solid muscle, he was the perfect choice for getting a busy bartender’s attention. Rebekah gave a mousy giggle and clutched Sofia’s arm.

“I love his strut.” Her slender face crinkled in a bawdy smile as she stared at Andre’s butt.

“Oh girl, you’re drunk all ready.” This was cute, chirpy Rebekah, the tipsy college student who revealed her saucy side with alcohol’s aid. But Sofia knew what awaited. Rebekah snoozing on her shoulder on the cab ride home and needing help to her room. So be it. She needed to blow off steam before fall classes started. Soon both would be knee deep in law school minutiae.

“Come on,” Sofia said, pulling her best friend to the table. Hank was already sitting down, scrolling through his phone with a concerned look on his face. “Is everything OK?” Sofia asked as they approached.

“Sorry, babe,” he said, suddenly beaming as he set the phone down. “A guy at work wants something.” Hank had promised to put work aside for this trip. But he broke his promise before their plane even taxied down the runway.

Sofia was about to ask for the name of the offending coworker when Andre arrived, clutching four margaritas to his chest. He smiled wide, impressed by his successful balancing act as Sofia and Rebekah took their drinks. They drank and laughed and talked about the impending school year. Hank would return to his engineering studies and part-time internship at his father’s construction company. Andre was an English major when he wasn’t playing basketball. After college, he would either latch on with an NBA team or become a public-school teacher like his mother. After several minutes of conversation, Sofia gave Hank a playful kick under the table.

“Hey!” Hank said, smiling in mock hurt. “What was that for?”

“I want to dance,” she said.

“Yes ma’am!”

She stood and followed Hank onto the dance floor. They slipped through the dense crowd and found a clear spot. Dancers swung their hips and heads with their arms over their heads as the music pulsed. Hank placed his left palm on his midsection and raised his right arm as he grooved in front of Sofia. His eyes locked on hers. The sexy, alluring look that thrilled her. She returned the pose and slinked towards him until their hips met, skin to skin if not for the pesky clothing in the way. He leaned in close, his hot breath warming her neck and cheek, and a rush of excitement tingled her fingers.

Then the music switched. Something with a driving, automated beat like pistons firing that had the crowd jumping. Sofia and Hank joined them—more a cathartic release of energy than anything resembling a formal dance—and it was OK because the beat insisted, and it made her feel alive. They continued for two more songs until sweat beaded Sofia’s forehead and trickled ran down her spine.

“Let’s go back!” Sofia fanned herself with both hands.

“Sure babe!”

Andre and Rebekah canoodled at the table as Sofia and Hank approached.

“All right! Break it up!” Sofia said, clapping her hands.

“Aw!” Rebekah groaned, through a wide, boozy smile.

Hank approached Andre with one hand raised. “Hell yeah, boss!” Hank shouted. They slapped high fives and grinned. Why, Sofia didn’t know. Perhaps it was one of those testosterone boy things she would never understand. Hank was about to sit when he fished his phone out of his pocket. The phone’s screen glowed from a missed call. Hank frowned as he read the notification.

“Tell that guy to figure it out himself!” Sofia barked. She didn’t appreciate the continued intrusion. Saturday nights weren’t for updates from coworkers. Especially while on vacation. Hank’s father worked him like a dog during the school year, loading him with projects that kept him working all night. Hank deserved his free time.

“Sorry, babe!” Hank called over the noise. “I need to call him back! I’m gonna step outside.”

Sofia glared in reply, but to no avail. She gritted her teeth in silence as Hank cut through the crowd. The double glass entrance doors parted as he disappeared outside. Sofia sighed and focused on Rebekah’s and Andre’s conversation.

Rebekah related a story about Professor Chapman, a professor who taught torts and intellectual property and resembled jheri-curl-era Justin Timberlake, with graying temples and patched elbows on his plaid sports coat. He was prone to long-winded lectures punctuated by references to his dalliances with LSD and cocaine. She had bumped into him one night at a bar outside campus.

“Anyway,” Rebekah said, “he comes over and asks how we’re doing and all that. We’re polite and all that. Hoping he goes away. But he lingers and gets up close to Amy.”

“Oh no,” Sofia said, her eyes widening with anticipation.

“Yeah girl. Shady as hell. He leans in close, and I see Amy cringe. You know that cringe, right?”

“She should trademark that cringe!” Sofia laughed.

“He asks us to come back to his place and party. He’s rubbing his nose and sniffing, and his eyes are red.”

“Oh God. What did you do?” Sofia said.

“We said no thanks. Real polite and all that. Gotta go home and study. Which was true. He gave up and started talking to some other girls.”

“Did you report him?”

“And let all the professors know I’m THAT girl? Nuh uh! The semester was almost over. I needed a passing grade! I didn’t want to sit in his class again.”

Minutes passed and Sofia wondered what happened to Hank, whose seat remained empty. Maybe she should check on him. Unlike her, he didn’t speak Spanish. What if the bouncer wasn’t letting him back in? She grimaced as she imagined a frustrated Hank gesturing and pleading in broken Spanish.

“I’ll be back!” she told Rebekah and Andre and stood.

She took one step towards the door when she heard the first shot. Like a single report of a distant pistol or rifle. But it mixed with the thumping dance music so well, Sofia shook it off as a phantom imagination. Then another shot, followed by a burst. Then panicked yells of alarm. People stood from their seats for a view of the entrance, blocking Sofia from continuing. She tiptoed and craned her neck in search of Hank just as the front doors burst inward.

Automatic gunfire erupted inside the club. The sound ripped Sofia’s thoughts from her missing boyfriend. Bullets rippled across the ceiling, crumbling overhead tiles and shattering glass panels. Fibrous debris and glass shards showered the people below. The crowd surged away from the gunfire towards the rear of the club. Towards Sofia.

The table in front of her tumbled first, along with its occupants and their round of drinks. Beer and tequila splashed on the floor and glasses smashed into fragments. A woman screamed under the pile—her arm extended and hand grasping at air—as terrified patrons leaped over her. Sofia watched them approach, frozen in fear and shock. Then an arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her off the floor. She buckled like whiplash from a sudden car crash. Snapped from her reverie, she slapped at the muscular forearm and bicep and cried for help.

“We gotta go!” Andre yelled in response. He pulled Sofia to his chest, toting her like a football. Rebekah—her eyes wide with terror—clung to his opposite arm. His long strides covered the distance to the bar as tables overturned behind them. People cascaded with them, stacking on top of each other like kindling.

“Stay down!” Andre dragged Sofia and Rebekah to the floor just before the massive mirror behind the bar exploded into dust. Liquor bottles shattered with it, splashing alcohol and scattering chunks of thick glass to the floor. A bartender curled into a ball nearby and shrieked.

“What’s happening? What’s happening?” Rebekah’s panicked squeal caught Sofia’s ear. She repeated it like a mantra, not waiting for a reply. Not that one was coming. Sofia didn’t know the answer any more than Rebekah. She hadn’t seen a gunman yet. How many were there? Was this a mass shooting, America style? A crazed loner with an automatic rifle and a grudge against society? Or a gang robbing the club? All possibilities were on the table.

“We’ll go out the back!” Andre yelled. He crouched low, keeping his head below the bar top, and waved for Sofia and Rebekah to follow. They mimicked his stance, with Rebekah trembling between them. Sofia swallowed her fear. She licked her lips and recognized the coppery taste of blood. When did that happen? Bits of glass and tile crunched under her feet as they rushed to the end of the bar. A hallway beside it led to the kitchen. Their salvation lay through the rear exit.

Andre turned the corner into the hallway, his hand still clutching Rebekah’s. As they neared the kitchen, the swinging entrance doors burst open. Fearful employees hurried towards them with their hands raised over their heads. Someone was behind them, driving them forward.

“Hurry up! Move!” the unknown man shouted.

Andre pressed his back into the wall as the employees rushed past all three of them. A gunman appeared after the employees, toting an AK-47. He screamed in Spanish and pointed the rifle at Andre’s chest.

“Back! Back!” he yelled and motioned towards the front of the club. He was herding them into the main lobby, Sofia realized. Though for what reason?

Rebekah cried in fear. The gunman eyed her and swiveled the rifle towards her face. Andre lashed out, grabbing its handguard with one mighty hand, and swinging the rifle towards the ceiling. The muzzle flashed as it fired. Sofia and Rebekah instinctively dropped to the floor. But Andre stood firm, grimacing from the sound, and pressing the rifle into the gunman’s chest. The size difference was stark. The gunman was about Sofia’s height, with narrow shoulders and short legs. He emptied his ammo into the ceiling as Andre pushed him towards the kitchen with a roar. The gunman’s back hit the swinging doors and pushed them open. Andre completed his power play by shoving the man down. He thudded on his back with a muffled grunt as his rifle skittered away. Sofia caught sight of the kitchen through the doors. Empty and quiet. A straight shot to the rear exit was within reach. And the path was clear.

Andre stood over his fallen combatant and turned to face Sofia and Rebekah. His mouth opened to call to them. But any words he spoke died in a burst of gunfire. It wasn’t clear where the shots came from. Behind them from the lobby? Or someone behind the bar? Maybe from inside the kitchen. No matter. Sofia cringed at the sound. When she looked up, she saw the horror the gunfire had wrought.

Bullet holes stitched a trail from the top left corner of the kitchen door diagonal to its long edge. Andre stood in the middle of the stitching, clutching his chest. Blood jetted from between his fingers, staining everything it touched crimson. His mouth worked mechanically, up and down, as did his eyelids. He gasped and dribbled blood down his lips and chin. He pressed his back against the door and slid down, streaking the panel a glistening red. Rebekah screamed. Sofia absorbed the scene like a sponge, committing every nuance, every aspect of Andre’s pained reaction to memory. As she watched, the second gunman appeared from inside the kitchen. He stood over Andre and pointed the muzzle at his face. Sofia closed her eyes. She didn’t want to remember this.

Another shot exploded in her consciousness. Another scream from Rebekah followed.

“Move! Go!”

Sofia opened her eyes. The second gunman’s rifle was in her face now. She stared down its black barrel as he roared. He motioned towards to the front of the club. She nodded in mute compliance and stepped back, almost tripping over Rebekah. Rebekah was on her knees, screaming hysterically, with her gaze focused on Andre’s limp body.

“Oh, God! Why?! Why?!” she cried, oblivious to the new threat.

“Get up!” The gunman pointed the rifle at her, but she didn’t budge.

“Wait a minute! Please!” Sofia raised her hands as she begged for patience. Rebekah seemed catatonic with shock, and if Sofia didn’t get her attention, they would both end up as dead as Andre. The gunman pointed his rifle at Sofia’s chest. His hand gripped and re-gripped the black plastic handguard. Sweat beaded his forehead and his eyes darted between them both. What if he said no? Would he just pull the trigger?

“Make it fast!” he ordered. “Get that bitch up!”

Sofia bent beside Rebekah and held her hand. Rebekah’s screams were hoarse and wet and filled with anguish. Sofia didn’t have time to soothe her friend’s shattered nerves. These people, whoever they were, weren’t inclined to negotiate. Sofia seized the sides of Rebekah’s face and forced her to meet her gaze. Her eyelids were moist, and her pupils dilated.

“Bekah! Listen to me! Get up! We have to go!” No recognition flickered in Rebekah’s eyes as her ceaseless wail continued. The gunman’s shadow loomed over Sofia, and his rifle barrel hovered in the corner of her eye. “Goddammit Bekah! He’s going to shoot us!”

This finally caught Rebekah’s attention. Her eyes focused on Sofia, and her screams ebbed. “OK. OK,” she said, more like a tortured gasp than normal speech. Bubbly Rebekah was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out shell.

Sofia helped Rebekah stand and led her to the front of the club. Dozens of people huddled there with their hands over their heads amid the overturned tumult of chairs and tables. Armed men surrounded them, leveling them with rifle barrels and icy stares. The thumping music had silenced, leaving only the tears and cries of terrified club goers. Two bouncers laid unmoving near the door, with their legs and arms splayed in grotesque positions. Pools of blood collected under their bodies. Rebekah buried her head on Sofia’s shoulder, stifling her cries. Another gunman, with a brutish round jaw and puffy eyes, glared and pointed his rifle. Sofia took Rebekah’s hands and raised them above their heads to show their compliance.

“We’re going to be OK,” Sofia whispered, though she doubted her own comforting words.

One of their attackers stepped forward. Unlike the others, he carried no rifle, though a silver holstered pistol and a long machete sat on either hip. His oily, black hair extended past his shoulders. Despite his wiry frame, he had broad, defined shoulders and thick, veiny forearms. He wore only an unbuttoned leather vest and blue jeans that tucked into black snake-skin boots. A red and black tattoo of a hooded calavera covered his chest. More tattoos covered his shoulders and arms. Crevices creased his pockmarked face and obsidian eyes lurked beneath a heavy, furrowed brow. A sneer played across his lips as he surveyed the room.

“I’m looking for Henry Carson!” he said in English. “Come forward, cabrón, and everyone else can go!” His husky voice expanded throughout the dining room.