Los Cuatro
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 2
The rest of the day passed by, uneventful.
I stayed on the mattress, stretched out with my hands behind my head, watching the changing light through the small high window. There was quite literally nothing else to do. Pale gold gave way to gray, then blue-black. They brought me lunch on another tray. Beans again, a few rice cakes, and water in a cloudy plastic bottle. For dinner, something vaguely like stew—greasy, but hot. They never spoke.
The only voice I heard was my own. And the voices I didn’t hear haunted me more.
That first night, I’d been sure the women were just beyond the wall. Muffled conversation. A sharp laugh—Isa, I thought. A firm voice—Marisol. A quieter one I couldn’t place at the time. Luz, probably. But now there was nothing. Not even footsteps. Just the hum of the overhead bulb and the occasional creak of wood as the building settled around me.
I washed off with the rag and water they brought, then poured the rest into the bucket they left. A crude system, but better than nothing. I looked down at myself—wrinkled shirt, dirty jeans, face rough with stubble and dried sweat. I didn’t even recognize my reflection in the metal tray.
At some point, I lay back down. Sleep came in starts and stutters. Every time I drifted off, I dreamed of running—through brush, through empty buildings, through the dusty streets I’d never seen in daylight. Always being watched. Always too slow.
When I woke, light was coming through the window again. Another tray, another cup of coffee, barely warm. Another egg, another tortilla. My stomach didn’t protest, but it didn’t enjoy the meal either. I ate because I didn’t know when I’d get the next one.
Then, just as I was setting the tray down, the door opened again. This time it wasn’t the man from yesterday. Two others. Younger. One with a bandana over his mouth, the other with a buzz cut and tattoos up both arms. Neither looked interested in talking. They motioned for me to stand.
I hesitated, then did what they wanted. They zip-tied my wrists again, more loosely this time. Still tight enough to hurt if I struggled. Then they pulled a black cloth sack over my head. My heart started to pound.
They said nothing. Just led me out with a shove, then another, then up into the van. I felt the familiar bounce of the suspension, smelled the same faint scent of dust and engine oil.
Here we go again. I braced myself for a long ride. For more silence.
But then—
“Brendan?”
The voice was soft. Uncertain.
The sack was yanked off my head. I blinked hard against the light filtering through the van’s cracked side window—and there they were. All three of them.
Isa sat closest to me, her dark eyes wide and glassy. Her hair was tangled but her face looked mostly unharmed. Marisol was beside her, arms crossed, jaw set. Still wearing the same pink shirt from the park, though it was dusty now. Luz was across from them, her knees pulled up to her chest, notebook gone, eyes locked on mine.
A dozen emotions hit me all at once—relief, confusion, guilt, hope.
Isa reached for my arm as if to make sure I was real.
“You okay?” she whispered.
I nodded, but my voice caught in my throat.
“I didn’t know ... I couldn’t hear you anymore.”
“They moved us,” Marisol said, watching me carefully. “Yesterday afternoon.”
“They kept us together,” Isa added quickly. “More or less.”
I looked at Luz. She hadn’t said anything yet.
Her eyes lingered on my wrists. The red lines. Then back up to my face.
She gave me the smallest of nods.
I exhaled, finally, as the van started to move, rattling along uneven pavement as we headed—well, who the hell knew where. Every now and then, we’d hit a bump that jolted us all upright. None of us asked where we were going. There was no point.
They’d let me keep my hands free this time, and the women too. A small mercy. Still, there was no escaping the steel walls, the hot recycled air, or the ever-present guard seated near the front of the cabin—just out of reach, just close enough to remind us we weren’t alone.
We sat on the floor, backs braced against the walls, legs folded or stretched where there was space. Marisol stayed closest to the door, her posture alert, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Isa leaned comfortably beside her, head occasionally dropping onto her cousin’s shoulder before jerking back up with a sleepy sigh. Luz sat opposite me, half in shadow, her legs folded neatly under her, arms wrapped around herself.
For a while, none of us spoke.
Then, Isa broke the silence. Of course.
“I swear, the second I’m back in San Antonio, I’m getting a burger and a margarita the size of my head.”
I cracked a tired smile. “In that order?”
She grinned at me. “Depends how spicy the burger is.”
Marisol made a quiet sound that might’ve been a chuckle—or a groan.
“I’m serious,” Isa went on, stretching out her legs. “We all deserve something. Luz, what’s the first thing you’re gonna do?”
Luz blinked. “Sleep in my own bed.”
That made the rest of us fall quiet for a second. Simple. And suddenly, so unattainable.
Marisol gave a little nod. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
Isa glanced at me, eyes narrowing playfully. “What about you, Brendan? First thing you’ll do?”
“Call my mom,” I said without thinking.
It surprised even me. We’d had sporadic contact for months. We weren’t exactly close since I’d stopped going to church. But still ... I could picture her answering the phone, her voice going from cautious to panicked to relieved in three seconds flat.
Isa tilted her head. “Aw. You close with her?”
I hesitated. “Not really. But she worries. I’d want her to know I’m alive.”
That earned a rare hint of approval from Marisol. Just a brief look. But I caught it.
Isa leaned back and studied me. “Are you single?”
I blinked. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, I am.”
Marisol groaned and rubbed a hand over her face. “Isa. Really?”
“What? It’s a long ride. We might as well talk.”
“You’re shameless,” Marisol muttered.
“Honest,” Isa corrected, smiling again. She looked at me. “You’re cute. And you ran straight at armed men for three girls you didn’t even know. I respect that.”
“I wasn’t thinking,” I said.
“Exactly,” Marisol said. “That’s the problem.”
Isa snorted. “Don’t listen to her. She just hates being impressed.”
“I hate being kidnapped,” Marisol said flatly. “And I’m not here for matchmaking.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, hands raised in surrender. “Not looking for anything.”
But I felt Luz watching me. Quietly. Thoughtfully.
When I glanced her way, she didn’t look away.
“You said you’re a software engineer?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Do you like it?”
That one caught me off guard. Most people just asked what I built. Or whether I made good money.
“I do,” I said slowly. “It can be isolating. But it’s creative, too. Problem-solving.”
She nodded, eyes lowering as if filing the answer away.
“I always thought code was a kind of language,” she murmured. “You tell the world what to do, and sometimes it listens.”
That sat with me a moment longer than I expected.
“You’re a writer?” I asked.
Her gaze lifted, sharp with surprise. “How’d you know?”
“I saw you in the park—before they grabbed you. You were scribbling in a notebook.”
Something in her expression softened. A small smile, more private than performative. The kind that doesn’t ask for attention but still lands quietly between two people.
The van jerked sharply left, and we all shifted to keep balance.
Isa sighed. “Can’t believe this is our second road trip in two days.”
“Not really the same vibe,” I muttered.
“No snacks. No playlist. Zero out of ten,” she said, then yawned.
We rode in silence for a while longer after that. Hours passed. Dust streaked the windows. The sun rose high and began its slow descent. We all grew quieter. Sleepy, hungry, raw.
By the time we felt the van slow again, dusk was approaching. Maybe another checkpoint. Maybe just a pothole. Hard to tell. No one spoke for a few minutes. We were all too tired.
Isa lay sprawled on the van floor now, her cheek against her forearm. Luz sat cross-legged, eyes closed, chin tilted toward the window’s fading light. Marisol still sat near the door, always watching, always alert.
I rubbed at my eyes and leaned back. My neck ached from the awkward angle I’d been resting it at. My body was stiff, like it hadn’t quite figured out how to relax even when still.
Then Luz spoke—her voice quiet, unhurried.
“What were you doing in the park?”
I blinked. “When?”
“Right before. When we were taken.”
“Oh.” I glanced toward her. “Just walking, I guess. I’d flown in that afternoon. Thought I’d stretch my legs.”
“Business or pleasure?” Isa mumbled without opening her eyes.
“Neither. Charity work. Some outreach program through a friend of mine. Housing repairs, that kind of thing. I’m only here for the weekend.”
Marisol gave me a look. “That’s some weekend.”
I exhaled. “Yeah. No kidding.”
Isa cracked one eye open. “So, you’re like ... a good guy. A nice Mormon boy.”
I hesitated. “Used to be.”
Marisol raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t go to church anymore,” I said. “I believe in God, but I don’t buy into the whole organized religion thing. Family didn’t take it well.”
“Is that why you’re volunteering outside Utah?” Luz asked. Damn, she was perceptive.
“Kind of. Salt Lake’s still home, but ... it feels smaller now. Less mine than it used to be.”
That hung in the air for a moment.
Then Marisol spoke, her tone even. “A lot of us feel that way about where we’re from.”
“You’re from Brownsville, right?” I asked her.
She nodded. “Born and raised. Never really left. I almost did once. Got accepted to UT Austin. But ... my mom was sick that year. I stayed. Took care of her.”
“That’s...” I trailed off, unsure what word didn’t sound hollow. Admirable? Hard? “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged like she didn’t want the attention. “She’s doing fine now. That was several years ago. I help out with bills. I’m a bookkeeper, working in a CPA firm. I’m working toward my own CPA.”
“And you, Isa?” I asked, glancing toward her.
She sat up a little straighter, brushing her hair back with both hands. “Pre-law student. And I do want to be a lawyer. Criminal defense, probably. Or maybe immigration law.”
“I believe it,” Marisol muttered under her breath.
Isa nudged her playfully with her foot, then turned back to me. “I know I come off like a party girl, but I’ve got ambition. I just ... like to live a little too.”
She gave me a grin that was meant to be disarming, and it sort of worked.
I turned to Luz. “What about you?”
She shrugged, her fingers gently pulling at a loose thread in her jeans. “I’ve had a few temp jobs. Office work. Nothing long-term. I’m still figuring it out.”
“You’re a writer, though,” I said.
A hint of a smile ghosted her lips. “I want to be. I write when I can.”
“What do you write?”
“Little things,” she said. “Poems. Short stories. Scenes. I draw pictures too. Sometimes I just write down thoughts before I lose them.”
“Does it help?”
She looked at me—really looked.
“It makes the world feel quieter,” she said.
I nodded, and for a second it felt like we were the only two in the van.
Then Isa yawned dramatically. “God. If this van doesn’t stop soon, I’m going to start chewing on the seat cushions.”
Marisol smirked. “We’re not feeding you protein foam, Isa.”
“I’m just saying,” she said, rubbing her stomach. “If they want to ransom us, they better keep us alive. I don’t think starvation increases market value.”
That drew a weak chuckle from Luz. Marisol rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
I watched them—their ease with one another, the way even their teasing had layers of care beneath it. I didn’t belong in their world, not really. But somehow, here in this van, on this surreal road trip through unknown terrain, I felt something new stirring. Not belonging, exactly. But maybe the beginning of being allowed in.
The van jerked again, slowing. We exchanged glances.
“Think this is it?” Isa whispered.
No one answered. We just listened to the gravel crunch under the tires, and the engine begin to idle. The van rolled to a stop.
The doors opened. A band of dusty orange still lingered on the horizon, but the world around us had already dimmed into a mix of shadow and murky silhouettes. A guard barked something in Spanish and gestured for us to get out. No guns pointed this time—just the ever-present, silent threat of them slung over shoulders.
I stepped down first, boots hitting hard-packed dirt. We were in some kind of compound. A squat, single-story building stood inside a fenced perimeter. Rusted barbed wire crowned the fencing. Trees loomed in the distance, and I saw no other structures nearby—no lights from a town or village, no passing cars, no hope of a road sign.
We were nowhere.
The women filed out behind me. I glanced at them as the guards motioned us toward the door—Luz looked dazed, Isa was blinking hard like trying to stay awake, and Marisol was scanning the area with practiced calculation. I could see her taking note of the minute details: the height of the fence, the gaps between the guards, the single locked gate.
Inside was ... unexpected.
The entry opened to a modest common area—concrete floor, two cracked couches, a plastic table with mismatched chairs, and a small television mounted high in a corner. A fan whirred overhead, stirring the hot air but not cooling it. Adjacent to this room, a narrow hallway led to what looked like bedrooms.
They split us up again—three guards this time, one who spoke halting English.
“You—solo,” he said, pointing at me. “Other room.”
He guided me toward the left-hand room while the women were directed to the right. I paused, trying to catch their eyes as we were separated again. Luz looked back once, meeting my gaze for half a second before vanishing behind the door.
Inside my room was a single bed—thin mattress, sheet, pillow. There was a small table, and a barred window too high to reach. A door at the far end opened to a basic bathroom with a toilet, sink, and showerhead bolted directly into the tile wall.
Better than the last place. That didn’t make it good.
Later, we all were back out in the common area. We were brought plates of food—beans, rice, tortillas, a few slivers of grilled pepper. We were allowed to eat together, which seemed like some kind of shift in policy, or maybe just a function of the new facility. Either way, I wasn’t going to complain. We sat at the scratched plastic table, elbows touching.
“So,” I said after a few bites, “this place is different.”
“Cleaner,” Isa said. “Still sucks.”
“There are guards everywhere,” Marisol added. “More than before.”
I nodded slowly. “We’re deeper in now. They’re not worried about anyone finding us out here.”
Luz looked up. “They don’t want us escaping.”
“They didn’t before either,” I said, lowering my voice slightly. “But this place feels more ... permanent.”
The word hung over us.
Isa pushed her food around her plate. “Do you think ... do you think they’re still negotiating? Like, with our families?”
“I think so,” I said. “That’s the whole point of keeping us alive. They just want the money.”
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