Thursday, 1 June 2017

You Have to Go Back

[Media prompt] NYPD has refused all ICE detainer requests this year. Federal immigration authorities have made 109 requests to the NYPD to detain people since Jan. 1 – and the city hasn’t helped out on any of them.
You Have to Go Back

It was snowing by the time Hector Ortega started to make his way back to the subway. He zipped up his jacket against the cold, stopping to watch a young mother bend over a perambulator, her skirt stretched tight over her thighs. Looking up and seeing him, she crossed herself and hurried away, the pram wheels tracing crooked lines in the fresh covering of snow. Hector stood for a moment to light a cigarette. Out of the corner of one eye he saw a curtain flutter in an apartment window. He pulled a gun from his belt, pointing it directly at the eyes gazing down at him. The curtains closed and Hector walked on.

“He’s turning west onto ninety-seventh.”

The voice crackled in Matt White’s earpiece. He pulled the ski mask over his head and eased the white van away from the curb.

“Roger that,” he said. “We have a visual.”

“You ever noticed these fags all walk the same?” said Jim Young, a thick shouldered man riding in the passenger seat.

“It’s the Mayor Selfie strut,” said Matt. “It’s what happens after fifty years of letting them come illegally, and then inviting them to stay and rape with impunity.”

Jim clicked the safety selector down on the AR-15 resting on his lap. “That’ll be Chelsea’s slogan for 2020.”

Matt watched a truck turn into the street in the rear view mirror and stop, blocking traffic. A cyclist, hunkered down over the handlebars, rode unsteadily away from them. Otherwise the street was empty.

“We’re good to go,” said Matt into his mouthpiece.

Jim rolled down his window, and as the van drew level with Hector he raised the weapon and fired twice. The first bullet entered half-an-inch below the young undocumented Venezuelan's right ear. The second hit the black S tattooed in ornate Gothic on his right cheek. By the time Hector sagged to the ground, Matt had turned right onto Amsterdam, and was accelerating towards the first rendezvous point in Upper Manhattan.

“Doesn’t matter how many times you tell them,” said Jim, thumbing the AR-15's selector switch back to safe, “these people seem to have real trouble understanding the concept of going back.”

Matt peeled off his ski mask. “Confirmation?” he said into his mouthpiece.

“Resting peacefully in Aztlán,” replied the voice in his earpiece.

Matt nodded at Jim, his mind already on the next deportation, a six-time illegal entrant with two rapes and a hit-and-run death to his name. It was going to be a busy week.

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