Page 25 of Liar

That’s all the kid in the aisle needs to hear. In the blink of an eye, he’s in a mad sprint for the front door.

Gunshots ring out, and I pray he’s escaped unharmed.

“Look, it’s just some stupid kid. Let him go. You kill anyone in this store, El Calaca, and you’ll be the next to die.”

I recognize the nickname. El Calaca. A name the cartel member got for shaving his head so his new Z22 tattoo could be visible.

“Motherfucker. I thought you said you cleared the place?”

Dios, there’s nowhere to hide.

Eyes wide, I frantically look around. But just as I’m about to run, a little girl toddles around the corner. She’s frightened and on the verge of tears.

I act without hesitation, racing toward her then tugging her into my body, placing her between the shelves and me.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” El Calaca sings, like the villain in some horror flick. Bullets spray the linoleum, exactly in the same place the little girl occupied seconds earlier.

Rage rolls over me. How dare they? What gives them the right to terrorize anyone?

“Let’s get out of here,” the other man says.

I wait and listen as quiet settles over the market. Is this a trap to flush out the manager? Or have they actually left?

Two frantic figures appear down the aisle—the manager and his wife.

“Papi,” the little girl cries out.

Her father pulls her into a hug and I’m nearly pinned against the shelves as the girl’s sobbing mother throws herself at me. “Eres un ángel. Gracías, gracías, señorita.”

I swallow hard, my heart in my chest.

She fusses over me for several more minutes before I can retrieve my basket. I follow them toward the front for checkout.

“Take all the food you want. It’ll never be enough for keeping our baby safe.”

I shake my head as we round the corner.

The store manager sees them first and tugs his little girl close.

Dios. Itwasa trap.

El Calaca is easily identifiable with his red bandana and the bold Z22 tattoo peeking out over the top of it. His partner is the smarter of the two, wearing a simple red bandana and black clothing designed to blend into the night.

“Where’s our order?” El Calaca demands.

“I’m sorry, there’s been a delay,” the store manager pleads. “That kind of quantity takes time.”

What takes time?I wonder. Drugs? Guns?

“How long?”

“Two weeks.”

That sets El Calaca off. Before anyone can guess his intent, he snags hold of the little girl’s braid and yanks it hard.

She cries out and stumbles forward.

I see red ten times brighter than their bandanas. “Leave her alone,” I snarl, stepping forward and knocking his hand away from her. Quickly, I pull her behind me.