Drug deal in progress, she sent. Kenneth Hahn State Recreation Area. Vehicle numbers 387GSH745, 574OBE056, and 238ACK782. Then she sat back to wait.
The dealers kept talking, and suddenly Marisa’s computer clanged an alert. One of the straw-man servers had been scanned—the police were tracing her. Why are they wasting time on me when they should be sending every car they have over there? She swore and killed the connection, frying each server as she pulled out of it, barely staying ahead of the trace. When she looked back at the screen the dealers were on the move, not running but searching the area, apparently aware that someone had been spying on them. How had they known? One of the women pointed at the picnic table where the nuli was hiding, and Marisa tried to fly it away, but it was too late; the woman raised her rifle, fired, and shot the nuli in midair. The camera feed died instantly, and Marisa scrubbed that connection as well, trashing every scrap of digital evidence of who had been connected to it. When she was finally sure she was safe, she collapsed back in her chair, breathing heavily.
They’d almost found her. Why had she been so stupid? Of course the people who’d programmed something as sophisticated as Bluescreen would be able to protect themselves from digital threats. She looked at the handwritten license plate numbers in frustration—that was probably what had set them off. Reporting those numbers must have triggered an alert somewhere, cluing them in that someone was on to them. What other explanation could there be, unless they had a double agent inside the police—
—but of course they did. With Bluescreen they could control anybody, and access anything, and hide enough security to cover their own tracks and follow everyone else’s. She couldn’t go after them directly, and now she couldn’t go after them them online, either. Her only remaining weapon was gone.
What other resources did she have? How could she protect Pati, and everyone else in Mirador? She had already caused too much trouble—she didn’t want to be responsible for any more. But she had to protect her sister; she knew that now, more clearly than anything else. She’d try to be a better role model, but that was only part of it. A dealer was selling drugs in Pati’s school, and she had to stop them. But how could she possibly fight a drug cartel?
“With another cartel,” she said out loud. The answer was there the moment she’d thought of the question. La Sesenta was into drugs now, and if she told them another dealer was moving in on their territory . . . But, no. She’d told Chuy to be careful, she had no right to throw him into a gang war.
“Except that the gang war is coming anyway, right?” She stared at her reflection in the monitor, willing herself to see someone who helped, instead of someone who only made things worse. “La Sesenta is going to find out about Bluescreen sooner or later, right? If I tell them now, I can protect a few extra kids. It’s not like they’re going to start murdering each other in the streets. They’ll just beat their chests a little, whatever guys do to chase each other off their territory.”
She wanted to believe it. It made so much sense. It might turn into a gang war, but . . . it didn’t have to. And if it did, it wouldn’t be her fault.
She had to protect Pati.
Marisa opened the computer’s phone program, and typed in Chuy’s ID. It rang twice.
“Marisa?” Chuy sounded concerned. “Two calls in one week; this can’t be good news.”
“It isn’t,” said Marisa. “I need to talk to Goyo.”
“Goyo’s the leader of La Sesenta, Marisa, you can’t just call and—”
“Pati got drugs at school,” she said, clenching her fists below the desk, hating every word that came out of her mouth.
“I . . . Well . . .” Chuy stumbled over the words. “That wasn’t us, I promise you, we would never sell to children—”
“I know it’s not you,” she said quickly. “It’s a rival dealer, invading your turf. You drug dealers care about that, right? About keeping the other ones out?”
Chuy said nothing, but she could hear him groaning, a deep-throated growl like a restless lion. “Of course we care, but why do you? You told me to get out, not to start a war with a rival dealer.”
“Better the devil you know,” said Marisa. “You’re from Mirador—everyone in La Sesenta is. You care about it as much as we do. Plus you just told me you would never sell to children, to our children, to our families, but now somebody is. I want them gone.”
Chuy growled again, and then all sound ceased; he’d muted her. She waited, biting her tongue, until another name popped up on the screen, requesting to join the call: Gregorio Marquez. Goyo. She clicked Yes.