Chapter 495 - 325: I’m Still a Little Scared

Chapter 495: Chapter 325: I’m Still a Little Scared

The young police officer wore a dark blue uniform, the badge of the Nuevo León Police Department pinned to his breast pocket.

He was young, no older than twenty-five, with sharp features and the sun-baked, bronze skin common to the highlands.

He sat there alone, the grilled meat on the iron plate before him almost untouched.

He seemed to notice Li Wei’s gaze and turned his head.

"Is it no good?" Li Wei asked.

The man paused, seemingly not understanding what Li Wei was saying.

"I mean this place," Li Wei said, gesturing to the iron plate in front of him. "Is the food bad? You haven’t taken a single bite."

Rafael Mendoza glanced at the sunglass-wearing Li Wei, then back at his plate. He forced a smile and said, "This place is great. I just don’t have much of an appetite today."

With that, he stood up, leaving the barely eaten meat on the table. He pulled out a few Pesos, placed them beside the plate, and left.

By the time Raphael walked out of the steakhouse, the Monterey sun was shifting westward.

He headed south along Lopez Mateos Avenue, beginning his afternoon foot patrol.

It was less a patrol and more a stroll, as he had no partner and walked this beat alone.

He passed San Jose Elementary School. The iron gate was closed, and the playground was empty. The walls were covered in colorful murals painted by children, depicting a sun, clouds, and some crooked stick figures.

In the bottom-right corner of the mural were three bullet holes. They were from a night two months ago when Kuchilo’s men had a shootout with another group of drug traffickers in an alley near the school. The bullets had pierced the alley’s corrugated metal fence, and three of them had embedded themselves in the wall.

He glanced at the school’s interior. The paint was peeling from the walls, and the playground equipment was rusted. Many pieces had their steel rebar exposed—a clear danger. Unfortunately, the government had no money for repairs.

Besides, fewer and fewer children were willing to attend school anymore. Many started working for the cartels in their childhood.

Raphael continued on, walking past three streets, seven corners, two closed shops, and one shuttered clinic, before arriving home.

"Raphael?" His mother was sitting in a wicker chair in the living room, mending a pair of pants. "Is your patrol over?"

"Mom," Raphael said, stepping forward to kiss his mother before sitting in the chair opposite her. "I have something to tell you."

His mother put down her needle and thread and looked at him.

"Kuchilo’s safehouse in the Santa Caterina District," he paused. "I know where it is."

His mother’s hands trembled.

"Most people at the station know where it is—every patrolman, every detective," Raphael continued, his head lowered. "But no one says anything, because to say something is to go up against Kuchilo. And it never ends well for anyone who goes up against Kuchilo."

He looked up. "But I’m going to report it to the chief," he said. "I saw the news. The Mexican government said it’s going to make a major push, working with the DEA to crack down on drug crimes. I... I think this is an opportunity."

"Once this is written up in a formal report and submitted, it’s not a secret anymore," he said, his head dropping again. "It becomes a documented, official file that demands a response."

"At that point, the people in charge will have to respond. Maybe we can take this chance to drive the Sinaloa Group out for good."

No one in the room spoke. There was only the creaking whir of the fan, its breeze making the embroidered plastic flowers on the pants seem to shake their heads.

"...Do you have to do this?" his mother asked.

"I know what you’re doing is right," she said. "But why does it have to be you? Do you really think you can take down the entire Sinaloa Group by yourself?"

"Someone has to step up," Raphael said. "Someone has to be the first."

He took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to his mother.

She opened it and saw a long-distance bus ticket. The destination was Xalapa, the capital of Veracruz, where her sister—Raphael’s aunt—lived.

"Go stay with Auntie for a while," Raphael said, his voice trembling. "When... when this is over, I’ll come get you."

His mother sighed. She didn’t say another word or try to persuade him any further. She just turned and went into her room.

Ten minutes later, she came out carrying a small, old leather suitcase.

She held the suitcase in her left hand and a picture frame wrapped in an old cloth in her right.

In the frame was a man in a police uniform, his face bearing a strong resemblance to Raphael’s.

She took a long, hard look at her son, as if it were the last.

Then she pushed open the door and walked out into the Monterey twilight.

Raphael watched his mother’s back disappear around the corner and muttered to himself,

"...But Mom, I’m still a little scared."

...

The next morning, Rafael Mendoza woke up before his alarm went off.

The house was empty, and he still wasn’t quite used to it.

He went into the living room and carefully put on his police uniform.

He fastened every button, polished his badge, and stood before the mirror for a few seconds.

"If it were you, you’d do the same thing, right, Dad?"

He looked at the mirror. The memorial portrait beside it seemed to be smiling.

He didn’t eat breakfast. In fact, he hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, but he still didn’t feel hungry.