But what was I supposed to do? Run from the police?
Swallowing, I decided I had no choice but to run. I couldn’t be taken into custody. I would lose any opportunity to find Joe and would quite possibly not see my family again for a long time. At the moment, neither of the two officers had their guns drawn. To them, I supposed it was still just a casual stop to question someone who looked suspicious to them. But I knew within a matter of seconds, this was going to explode into a major crime scene. I glanced left, right, looking for my best escape route. It was probably to my left through the alley behind the apartment buildings.
With all the force I could muster in two quick steps, I moved forward and put my full right shoulder into the portly police officer holding my IDs. Stunned by my sudden attack, he stumbled backward, tripped, and fell to the pavement. Then I dropped my backpack, pivoted left, and took off running for the alley. I heard the two officers yelling at me from behind. I darted into the dark alley a split second later, and for the second time within the past ten hours, found myself sprinting through trash, boxes, and debris while trying to escape someone with a gun.
My foot caught the edge of a box, causing me to face-plant into a muddy puddle. I quickly picked myself up, glanced behind me, but I couldn’t see either of the officers. Were they pursuing? At this point, I was probably trying to outrun their radio calls for backup more than anything else. Exiting the alley, I spilled out onto another city street. But I never slowed down. I crossed the street, found the next dark alley, and kept on running. I could hear sirens starting to go off all around me. My legs were on fire. But I didn’t stop to catch my breath until I’d probably covered a full ten blocks.
FORTY
I hid in an alley for more than an hour, watching the streets and my back. Based on the sounds of sirens, I felt confident I was outside of whatever circle the police had deemed their search territory. When the sun finally came up, I found the courage to step out into the open again. I couldn’t hide in an alley all day. But I didn’t stay exposed for long. I quickly ducked into a nearby breakfast diner, where I cleaned myself up in the restroom by scrubbing the mud off my face and the blood from my hand. I also noticed for the first time that I had a big gash under my shirt on my left shoulder, probably from my spill in the alley. Finished in the restroom, I grabbed a booth near the front window of the diner so I could monitor the street while I tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do next. Raul was dead. Who had shot him? Raul had mentioned last night he felt like his efforts to investigate Miguel Cortez were being monitored from within. Did someone from his own team take him out before he got too close to the truth?
All I had with me now was what I possessed in my pockets: my phone, a wad of cash, and Raul’s notepad. I’d left behind my backpack, passport, and wallet. I had no idea how I was supposed to get out of the country without my passport. But I tried not to focus on that just yet. One step at a time. I’d come here for a reason, and I fully intended to follow through with it. Otherwise, my friend Raul had died in vain. But my only hope at taking a next step was if Raul had written down more specific information in his notepad.
Pulling it out, I began to flip through pages of notes about his various police cases until I came across the last thing he’d written down: Second floor, #227, Basurto Building. A wave of relief poured through me. I had to get back over there right away. As I began to slide out of the booth, the sound of a television behind the main counter grabbed my attention. I hadn’t paid any attention to it before now because the news anchors were speaking in Spanish. But my head jerked over in the direction of the television when one of the news anchors said my name plain as day: “Alex Mahan.” I cursed. My face was on the screen. It was the same image as my passport photo. The word sospechoso was on the screen below my photo. I guessed this meant suspect, because the next thing they showed was video footage of police and medics surrounding the gray rental car where Raul had been shot. It was jarring to see myself as a wanted man on television.
I noticed the young waitress wearing an apron behind the front counter glance over in my direction. It was time to go. I tried to be casual about slipping out of the diner, but once I hit the sidewalk again, I was moving in a hurry. I spotted what looked like a convenience store across the street from me and headed in that direction. Inside the store, I found a black knit cap and some aviator-style sunglasses among the various food and drink items and took them up to the counter. I had no idea if the clerk would accept US dollars, but that was all I had on me. So I put a fifty-dollar bill on the countertop, hoping that would convince him. He kind of looked at me oddly, so I gave him a shrug as if saying, “Is this okay?” He nodded, took the cash. And he clearly wasn’t planning on giving me any change in return.