The Traitor

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Gabriel Santos was not a man to cross.

His name among the Mexicans was El Diablo and although his given name reminded José of a holy angel, the street runners had forewarned him. Indeed, the persistent rumors of the man's ferocity and the myth that he had made a pact with Satan seemed true.

Stepping from behind the industrial waste bin, Santos emerged from the shadows and caught José off guard. El Diablo's enormous bulk morphed from among the gray shades of the alley into one dark silhouette as he stood at the narrow end like a legendary titan.

José trembled like a leaf in the wind even though the drug runners had also told him to show no fear around Santos. With his long black hair tied at the neck, his lean hard form, and his dark scowl, he looked like un angel caído, a fallen angel.

But José knew the man was no angel.

"A good soldado does not keep his jefe waiting," Santos said, lips barely moving, a puppet whose strings were pulled by an unseen force. "Nor does he flinch to show his fear."

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