To Protect and To Serve

-Naruto-

Hinata’s a quiet woman. Smart as a whip and knows even more than I do about the MS-13 She can’t speak Spanish and I’m not supposed to speak English, only to her, when we’re around the gang members. My cover is that I’m an immigrant (legal!) from El Salvador trying to learn English and she’s my girlfriend, an American-born El Salvadorian woman. I’m worried about my accent—it’s Peruvian. Peru is far away from El Salvador. I’m worried that Hinata’s skin is too pale and they’ll suspect and kill us. Then I meet Rosario Septiembre de Jesus (Rosary September of Jesus) and stop worrying. She is pale, has green eyes and has roots in Manizales, Colombia. I think she’s American-born. I’m not supposed to ask. She has a boyfriend who’s a cop and he’ll make sure none of us get arrested. That she even says so scares me shitless (not literally)! I’m reminded that this is really, really dangerous! It explains, though, how she got in without being raped. Hinata said the same story, but they still beat her up. She and Rosario fought for thirteen minutes to prove themselves to the gang. Rosario’s boyfriend had to have taught her some moves. There’s no way a civilian knows how to fight like that, with those police holds.

Some of the gang members ask her to buy drugs. She doesn’t know how, she tells them. One of them punches and kicks her. He has a scar on his left arm near his hand. Her hands stay by her sides and she does nothing as blood oozes from her nose. She doesn’t even cry. I want to yell at Scar-Arm. I can’t. Rosario’s a gang member. She’ll be arrested and interrogated with the rest of them. She already has the tattoo of the teardrop behind her thumb, near her left index finger.

Hinata talks to her and looks at the tattoo closely. Two weeks have passed, but it feels like two years. “Rosario has a temporary tattoo. It’s drawn on with what I would guess to be a light blue fine-tip Sharpie.” The other agents and I can’t hide our surprise. “How do you know?”

“Rosario joined the gang the day before we did. Her tattoo appeared two days after we’d been initiated. Unless it was given to her in the middle of the night and her hand wrapped in a tourniquet, the tattoo would still be bleeding. She’d also have to wear gloves to protect her skin from sunlight for two weeks after getting the tattoo. It’s a fake. She’ll redo it next month, when all her skin cells have shed and the tattoo along with them. I’ll check the progress of the tattoo as it fades.”

I’m so glad Hinata is the ASAC. “That’s the most you’ve said in two weeks,” one of the agents marvels. The rest of us laugh. “So, Rosario Septiembre de Jesus. Is she an informant for another unit?”

“She has an unusual name,” I remark. “I know people with the last name ‘de Dios,’ but not ‘de Jesus.’ ”

“Wait, Septiembre is part of her first name?”

“Yeah, like the American name Mary Kate. Her story about her cop boyfriend, along with her not knowing how to buy drugs…either a kid looking for trouble or somebody in law enforcement. I could be wrong.” I shrug. “She fights like a cop,” Hinata mumbles around the ice pack on her face. The injuries Rosario inflicted upon her are healing well. It’s been two weeks and her black eye has healed, her wrist is no longer broken and the bruises are gone. One of the gang members punched her today, though. “The tattoo still bothers me,” an agent is pensive. We mumble in agreement.

I much prefer the streets of East Seattle, where I was stationed last time, to the streets here in South Seattle. The FBI has moved me all around Seattle, and they have kept their promise—rookies stay in Seattle for an entire year before they’re moved to another city. If I get to choose my location after the year is up, I’ll stay in Seattle. There’s lots of narco-traffickers here. They’ll give me work. The sky is a deep blue and the stars are off-white. The crescent moon looks gray. The explicit version “5 Letras” by Alexis y Fido blares from a nearby window. That song is really not appropriate for kids. It graphically describes sex acts, but only very fluent Spanish-speakers know exactly what type. No, I will not translate any of the slang for you. Under the reggaeton song that is so familiar to me, I hear a strange hissing sound and wonder if I’ve stepped too near a stray cat who doesn’t like Spanish rap. No, there are no cats around. There it is again, along with the thudding of the music. I walk underneath a street light and a figure—a person—jumps in the darkness. I reach for my gun on my hip that isn’t there, then the other one in my ankle holster that isn’t there. Oh yeah, I’m undercover…in a very poor, crime-saturated part of Seattle, late at night, walking because I can’t sleep. SHIT.
I freeze, unsure of what to do. I walk out of the streetlight and closer to the person. In the darkness, it’s more difficult to see a person. But I can see him. He looks to be about twenty-three and he’s tagging too close to the spot Rosario did today. He’s pale like Hinata and has dark eyes. His hair is under a black beanie. We can both hear the reggaeton music. He’s almost dancing to it. Does he understand the words, what the singers are saying they’re going to do? This song always makes me so horny...
His hips move back and forth. The spray can hisses quietly. He’s dancing to this song. I think he knows.



“Hey,” I finally speak gruffly. He turns his head, spray can still aimed at the storefront. Dios mio, he’s gorgeous. Thin, Japanese, tall and a nice ass. I look closer at his eyes. They’re red-rimmed. He’s high on something, glaring at me and holding a can of spray paint. I wish I had my gun! I’m undercover. He’s waiting for me to talk, so I voice the only question in my mind.

“Wanna fuck?”