When the boy arrived at the base of the giant stone, the troll stirred and sat up. He beat his chest like a mighty gorilla and laughed. In a deep rumble, he told the boy, 'You're too small. Go back home before I make you my snack.'
But that brave boy walked over to the rock and stuck the seed inside a thin crack in the jagged boulder's surface. He stood back from the boulder and bravely looked up into the dark eyes of the monster above. He repeated the words the medicine woman had said to him, 'The smallest seed can split the biggest rock.'
The troll laughed at the boy and asked him what he had done. He answered simply, 'I will show you when the time is right. I will walk through the center of this rock and your taunts will fall on deaf ears.'
Keeping his word, he returned as a grown man with the rest of the villagers behind him. Where the boulder once stood was a massive tree. Thick viny roots created an archway between the split rock. The boy stood between the two halves of the split boulder and smiled upon his people. The tree had grown so tall it had launched the troll high up into the sky where his rants and protests couldn't be heard above the gusting wind."
Hatch took a sip of her coffee. It was no longer hot. She'd been so mesmerized by Ayala's retelling; Hatch had forgotten to even take a sip.
“That is why I do it, Miss Nighthawk. I want to be that seed for my people. Capable of splitting wide this terrible rock that is the cartel. I want to stand under that tree and call them forward."
"And as for that story you heard, I will say to you what my father said to me upon first telling it. The story is a part of you now. Your retelling will not be the same, nor should it. The magic of this story is an experience now of your life."
Hatch finished off the tepid coffee, trying to imagine her retelling. Set against the violent backdrop of her life, Hatch couldn't fathom how she could ever make a parallel to Ayala's fable.
Ayala received an alert on his phone and looked up at Hatch. "It looks like we got some information on your girl. They're using a nightclub called Club de Fuego. It's on the outskirts, on the eastern side of Nogales."
Hatch jotted down the information on her napkin.
"I can come, or at least drive you."
"I prefer not. No offense, but I usually go these things alone."
"Here's my card. My number’s on it. Day or night, if you need something, you let me know. And if you find her, let me know that too."
"Will do." Hatch stood up from the table and shook the man's hand. He noticed the scar but chose not to mention it. "I'm glad there are people like you out there. Continue being that little boy from the village."
He smiled. "Got any plan for how you're going to do this?"
"Name of the place is Club Fire, right? Maybe I'll just burn it down."
Ten
Rafael Fuentes watched the long-barreled shotgun draped across his father's support arm. Ever since the razor-sharp machete opened his mother's throat, Rafael eyed any weapon in his father's hand with concern. Concern that his father would turn on him without warning, as he had Raphael’s mother.
Hector Fuentes' button-down white shirt was untucked from his khakis and flapped in the warm afternoon breeze. Heeled along his right side was his beloved Doberman Pinscher, Red.
Rafael always hated that dog. Though less leery now that he was older, he was terrified as a child. He rarely, if ever, put his hand near the dog. He had never bitten Raphael but had growled on several occasions.
Red was not a house pet designed for companionship. No, he was one of the several attack dogs guarding the massive compound's expansive grounds. But Red was different. When Hector was home, Red never left his side. Red was a killer. Just like his owner.
Hector yelled, "Up!" On command, one of his servants pulled the trigger on the target thrower and released two clay pigeons into the air. Hector swung the shotgun up and locked it into the natural pocket between his shoulder and pectoral. Steadying the muzzle with his supporting hand, Hector took aim. He fired, pumped it, ejected the spent casing, and repeated. The two clay plumes drifting like lost clouds attested to the accuracy of the volley. Hector lowered the weapon and ejected the second cartridge.
"I think I'm done for the day." The same servant who'd launched the clay pigeons now hustled to retrieve the long-barreled gun. A thin trail of smoke escaped from the ejection port and chased the departing man.
Hector turned to face Rafael. He ran his hand along the top of Red's jet-black hair. "It's all about the training. It's what I've been doing for you since you were born. Do you think this dog wanted to stand beside me when I fired those shots? Do you think he wasn't terrified of them? At first, yes. But now, barely a flicker of his ear. How did I do it? Training. Over time conditioning his mind much like I've been conditioning yours, to accept the duties and responsibilities of my position, should the time come for me to hand it off to you."
His father always spoke in rapid Spanish when giving life lessons. His speeches were always filled with questions. But Rafael had learned long ago, those questions, if answered, were done so by Hector himself.
It was assumed that Rafael, eldest son to Hector, would eventually take over the family business. But his father rarely spoke openly about Raphael’s role in the future. And Rafael wasn't so sure he wanted it.
When Rafael was young, his father would say things like, "this will all be yours someday," as he pointed out a window overlooking hundreds of acres of property. But what parent doesn't say something like this to their children? Dreams of parents hold universal truths. But what father kills a mother and then asks his son to wear the crown? What kind of son would Raphael be if he accepted it?
"We will never speak of the other day with your mother. She will always be remembered for the life she lived, and not for her betrayal of me. But before we put it to bed forever, I want you to understand this, blood of my blood, my Rafa," Hector paused to kiss Rafael's forehead after calling him by his childhood nickname. Hector locked eyes with Rafael before continuing, "Betray me, and your blood will run down the back of Red's throat."
The dog licked its chops, running its tongue around the sharp edges of its teeth while making eye contact, or seemingly so, with Rafael.
"I would never—"
Hector held up a hand, his index finger pressing Rafael's lips closed. "Shhh. Words matter little, my son. Worth is only found in deeds. Honoring me and our family means doing whatever it takes. I keep the promise made to my father. And you'll keep the one you make to me. There will come a time soon where I will ask you to prove that you're ready to lead this family.
“The seat I hold is a fragile one, and people are always looking to dethrone me. My life might not be the one you envisioned for yourself, but it is the future I ask you to accept. You're a thinking man. And that's good. This family needs that. But it also needs a man of action. Our greatness was not built on charity and good will. Will you bear the burden and responsibility of carrying the Fuentes family into the future?"
Rafael opened his mouth to speak, not sure what he intended to say. His mind still reeling from his mother's murder. Now that murderer was asking Raphael to fill his shoes. Rafael was grateful his father continued his pontification.
"I know you've got the intelligence. Hell, you're smarter than me. That's not where my concerns are rooted. In the Fuentes Family we act. Are you willing to do the things that I have had to do to get us here? Because the only way we will ever be able to maintain our power is through demonstration of that power. Do you have the strength to plunge your blade into an enemy's gut when the time comes? Everything I've built, and my father before me, depends on the answer you give here and now. Are you ready to kill, if need be, to protect all that you hold dear?"