Los Cuatro
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 14
We ducked back into the pizza place, the bells on the door jangling too loudly. Marisol still had her phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip; Isa was babbling something about “breathing techniques” and Luz kept scanning the windows like she expected a camera lens to press up against the glass.
“Table,” I said, steering us toward a corner booth. Nobody argued. The four of us slid in, still smelling of mozzarella and stress.
Isa spotted the wall-mounted TV above the bar. “Uh—look.”
A live feed filled the screen: Beto and Ellie’s front yard crawling with reporters, tripods planted in the grass, a reporter in a polo shirt talking into a mic while our house sat in the background like a hostage. Below him, a ticker scrolled:
WOMEN ESCAPED CARTEL CAPTIVITY ON THEIR OWN — MYSTERIOUS MAN ACCOMPANIED MISSING WOMEN
My stomach clenched. The anchor’s voice droned on, but then the image flipped—now Carmen’s little blue bungalow, camera crews lining the curb.
“Great,” I muttered. “So much for Carmen’s place.”
Luz swore under her breath. Marisol pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s only been an hour,” she whispered. “How did they find Carmen’s?”
“Well,” I said. “Remember I was there this morning. Someone could have tipped them off. And those phones could possibly give away our location. In fact, right now they might be pinging us. Cell towers can narrow down a location if someone’s determined enough. Or some random pizza dude could tweet a picture of us.”
Isa’s eyes went wide. “Airplane mode,” she announced, and started swiping. Luz and Marisol followed. I, of course, still had no phone of my own, but then I remembered something.
“Need to make one important call,” I said. Luz switched her phone back on just long enough to let me call the number Agent Rodriguez had given me. He answered on the first ring.
“Yeah, we see it,” he said before I finished explaining. “We’ve got uniforms on crowd control. Stay put if you can.”
“Staying put isn’t an option,” I told him. “We need to get out of here. They might be able to trace us through our phones. We’re gonna head someplace else, and later try to head for the house. Turning phones off.”
“As long as you stay local. Call when you settle.”
“Will do.” I clicked off and killed the signal.
Marisol looked at each of us in turn. “Park. Maybe half a mile south. Plenty of trees. We can think there.”
“Move,” Luz said, already sliding out of the booth.
We’d ordered another pitcher of soda; we left half of it behind along with a pile of napkins. Heads down, shoulders hunched, we headed outside. The afternoon sun felt hotter than ten minutes ago. We all piled into Marisol’s car, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible.
We remined silent and decidedly ill at ease as Marisol drove toward the park. Overhead, the news helicopter pivoted, its rotors chopping the sky.
A few minutes later, Marisol warily parked the car on the edge of an empty, wooded area. We all stepped out into the muggy summer air. There was a new development ... dark purple storm clouds were gathering in the distance. Every so often, a gust of wind rattled the leaves overhead. I forced myself to breathe evenly, listening to the distant rumble of thunder, as the blazing sun disappeared behind the advancing clouds. The news helicopter we spotted earlier was nowhere in sight now, but my eyes continued to scan the sky.
“Is everyone okay?” I asked quietly, more to check on myself than anyone else. Luz, Marisol, and Isa looked as tense as I felt.
Marisol ran a hand through her hair, looking uncharacteristically frustrated. Normally she was the one with a plan, always three steps ahead. But now she looked defeated.
“Media strategy,” she muttered. “Not my forte. I’m ... stumped.”
I patted her shoulder gently. “We’ll figure it out,” I said, but I was quite aware that I didn’t sound convincing.
Isa surprised us by leaning forward, eyes bright despite the darkening sky. “Why not take a shot at scheduling a press conference?” she suggested. “We can give statements on our terms, answer the questions we want to answer.”
I blinked. Here was Isa, talking like a campaign manager. Before I could react, the chopper reappeared far off on the horizon—just a small speck drifting over distant treetops—and then it turned away again.
Lightning flashed in the distance and Marisol gasped. The storm was moving in fast – another complication.
Isa scanned the sky thoughtfully and said, “A storm might actually help us, you know? Cover noises. Rain will keep people inside their vehicles. We could sneak back into the house under the radar.”
I saw Marisol glancing at the sky, deep in thought. It was a crazy plan, but it could work.
“How do you know this stuff?” Luz asked Isa, giggling.
Isa shrugged with a half-smile. “Must be the future badass lawyer in me,” she joked. “Remember my life’s ambition ... to be a badass lawyer in stilettos.”
I chuckled despite the tension. The humor broke the edge of fear for a moment, and Marisol even managed a smile.
I felt my shoulders relax for the first time today. “I’ll make you a deal,” I said to Isa, trying to lighten the mood even more. “If we get out of this, I’ll front you those stilettos.” Everyone laughed, but only for a moment, as our window for actually pulling this off was closing.
We huddled close, leaning against a wooden fence as big raindrops started to patter against the leaves over our heads. Marisol grinned now, having regained her edge. “Okay, here’s what we do. I’ll drive slowly past the house, just like Isa said. The reporters will see the car and think I’m making a move or maybe leaving the country, I don’t know. Either way, they’ll follow me.” She paused to catch her breath. “When we’re just past the house, you three—Brendan, Luz, Isa—jump out and creep in through the back door. I’ll find a spot to park quietly, then get out of the car and circle back the other way.”
“We do this under storm conditions, got it,” Luz piped up, grinning at Isa. “Nice problem solving, prima.” Isa shrugged, rolling her eyes, but her smile was proud.
Marisol pulled out her phone, hesitated, then turned it on. The screen lit up in the darkening park. She quickly dialed her father’s number. I watched her shoulder rise and fall as she whispered our plan into the phone. Rain was now falling in earnest, and I could smell the wet asphalt. Everything was in motion now.
I took a deep breath. Time to turn the tables.
The rain picked up in intensity during the ten-minute trip. It hit like a curtain the moment Marisol eased the car onto the road where their house was located.
We rolled slowly past the house, windshield wipers working overtime, media vans and reporters packed in tight around the front lawn like vultures in windbreakers. Just as we hoped, the moment they spotted us, there was a stir—cameras swung in our direction, someone shouted, and several people began jogging toward the street.
“Now,” Marisol barked, eyes locked on the road ahead.
Luz yanked the door open, and Isa and I scrambled after her into the downpour. The wind howled as if cheering us on. Within seconds we were soaked to the bone, sprinting around the block, shoes slapping waterlogged pavement. Every drop that hit my skin felt like a memory—days in Mexico trudging through rain, soaked clothes sticking to raw skin, always moving, always scared. I shoved it down. This was different. This was home.
We ducked through the side alley behind the backyard and made for the back door, which cracked open as we approached. Rick waved us in frantically, and we stumbled inside, dripping, breathing hard, our teeth beginning to chatter.
Two seconds later, Marisol burst in from the opposite side of the house, drenched like the rest of us but grinning in triumph.
And then the storm wasn’t just outside anymore—it was in here, too, a mess of soaked shoes, frantic voices, towels being thrown, people hugging, yelling, crying all at once. Ellie wrapped Luz and Marisol in her arms and sobbed. Rick had both hands on Isa’s shoulders, checking her over like he still couldn’t believe she was real. Beto hovered nearby, trying to look calm and composed, but I could see the tightness around his eyes.
Carmen’s name flashed on Luz’s phone, and she picked it up quickly, putting it on speaker so we all could hear. “They’re gone from my house,” came Carmen’s voice. “They figured out you guys are over there now. It’s quiet here. Thank God.”
I took Luz’s phone and called LE. My contact there didn’t even wait for me to explain. “We know. We’re monitoring the situation. Stay put for now. We’ll coordinate with you soon.”
I handed the phone back and leaned against the wall, finally letting myself exhale.
Everyone was busy talking, moving around, reuniting. For a second, I just stood there and watched. We were back. Really back. And it had taken a storm—another one—to bring us in.
Luz came up beside me, brushing wet hair out of her face. “You okay?” she asked softly.
I nodded, then tilted my head. “Are you?”
She smiled—tired, but real—and reached for my hand. “It’s chaos,” she said, “but it’s ours.”
The noise around us blurred for a moment, and I let myself just feel her fingers in mine, her warmth despite the cold.
“Hell of a homecoming,” I murmured.
She laughed, leaned her shoulder against mine. “At least we didn’t have to walk this time.”
I squeezed her hand. “Next time, remind me to pack an umbrella.”
We stood there for a minute longer, side by side in the middle of the whirlwind, not needing to say anything else.
The storm let up by midafternoon, the thunder quieting like a grumbling old man finally giving up the argument. The rain softened, then stopped entirely. But it didn’t take long before we heard it again—the drone of a helicopter in the distance, the muffled shouts from the street, reporters setting up tripods and umbrellas just beyond the windows. The circus was back.
Didn’t matter. We were inside. Safe. Fed. Dry-ish.
Someone suggested the obvious—that we just rest, let the day end however it wanted, and deal with everything else tomorrow. No more planning, no more plotting. No press calls, no strategizing, no explaining ourselves to strangers. Just ... breathe.
Everyone agreed. Even Marisol, who looked like she still wanted to draw up battle plans out of sheer habit, finally let herself lean back on the couch and close her eyes for a minute.
Later, after things had quieted to a soft murmur—voices from the kitchen, the hum of someone making tea—I noticed Beto and Rick in the living room, both settled into the couch, eyes fixed on the TV. I angled my head to see what had their attention.
Fútbol.
Not just any match either—Liga MX, two of the big teams going at it. Beto and Rick watched like they’d been waiting all day for this little bit of normalcy to return.
I glanced at Luz, who caught my look immediately. I raised an eyebrow and winked.
She smiled and mouthed, go.
So, I did.
I strolled over as casually as I could manage, hands in my pockets, trying not to seem like I was approaching the grown-up table at Thanksgiving. I dropped onto the arm of a nearby chair.
“Who’s winning?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral, easy.
“América’s up one-nil,” Rick said, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“Still early,” Beto added.
I nodded. “Could go either way. That last play—textbook counterattack.”
Beto finally glanced at me. I gave him a little shrug, the universal I know my fútbol shrug.
“I used to play,” I said. “Wing, mostly. High school, college club, and a couple leagues since. Nothing serious.”
Rick smiled faintly. “You still play?”
“When I can. Co-ed league in Salt Lake. Or I did, anyway.”
Beto turned back to the screen, but something about his posture had shifted. Less guarded. “That league any good?”
“Competitive enough. Some fast kids, couple former college players who think they’re going pro any day now.” I grinned. “They’re not.”
That got a small laugh out of both of them. Beto leaned forward as the other team made a push. “You play FIFA?”
“Don’t insult me,” I said. “I’m a master tactician.”
And just like that, I was in.
We watched the rest of the half together, trading commentary, light jokes, shared frustrations over missed calls. Nothing major, but the kind of quiet bonding that happens over a game. No interrogations, no suspicion, no underlying tension. Just three guys watching fútbol.
At halftime, Beto offered me a beer. I declined—still too tired, still feeling a little off—but I thanked him.
It wasn’t a miracle fix. But I could feel it—the edges softening, the resistance fading. Not approval, not yet. But respect, maybe. Or the start of it.
When I caught Luz’s eye across the room, she gave me a small, satisfied smile.
I gave her a subtle thumbs-up and turned back to the game, content—for the first time in a long time—not to have to run.