César was under the SUV so the assassins didn’t see him. This saved his life, but two bullets hit him in his leg. He couldn’t even feel the wounds. All he could think was, “If these assassins see me, I’m dead.” He felt his cell phone in his pocket. If it rang, the gunmen would hear it and he would be dead. If he tried to turn it off, it might make a bleep, and he would be dead. One of the assassins dropped a circular ammunition clip right next to the SUV. “If he ducks down to pick it up,” Cesar thought, “I will be dead.”
Minutes seemed like hours. The gunmen paced around the car shop, checking that there were no survivors who could identify them. By a miracle, they didn’t see César and they marched out. César waited for more eternal minutes to pass. Then he crawled out from under the SUV and stared at the corpses around him. There were nine bodies, two more than in the St. Valentine’s Day massacre in Chicago. This was just one forgotten incident in the Mexican Drug War. One of the corpses was Cristóbal. César could do nothing for his younger brother, the sibling that he saw grow from a baby to a sixteen-year-old.