Buried Values: The Infection

By Joshua Adam Weiselberg

This is a survival story. But it’s not about people only trying to survive a virus.

A haunted father searching for his son, missing since a hurricane, is also the leader of the Chinese Triad.

A young, single mom protects her pre-school-age child – and her base of power with the Chicago Mob.

And an adventurous, and risk-taking businessman sets-up a rival of his Mexican drug cartel.

While a champion for justice, navigates 2020, as a lone Knight in search of hope, as a pandemic surges.

Only, like everyone else, they now worry how their lives – and the entire world – may never be the same, after COVID-19.But what is included in the complete list of all the changes that have happened since the release of the infection? Are they not just a little too convenient, for a few too many priorities of different groups or governments, world-wide? Is there an organization, a plot behind all of this?

Was the coronavirus released on purpose? A lot of angles around how this historic disruption to lives, businesses, governments, and dreams around the world that hurt most of us, and benefitted some – have got to be considered.

The powerful authority of Mr. Li, the resolute determination of Naomi Starr, and the ardent idealism of Andre Knight return in another adventure with Buried Values, while introducing the cunning Erik Valencia as they all tangle with the Russian SVR, Beijing’s State Security, competing Mexican and Black gangster outfits, and the secret world of the Chinese Tongs. Journey with them on a wild trek that breaks out of the lockdowns from the West Coast to the Heartland, to South America and then the Caribbean. Get caught in the protests, the riots, and the deployment of federal troops by an embattled President Trump, while he weighs taking desperate measures against the political threat represented by Nancy Pelosi and Joe Biden. Re-live the watershed moments of a terrible time in American history, and in the same instance, Vladimir Putin and Xi Jinping vie to take over real power in the international world, via the actual power, granted by the earth’s fossil fuels. Trillion dollar deals for black liquid gold leave even the narcotics empires in an underclass. Why did what happen to Italy, Iran, and North Korea? What is it about Ukraine? Discover a new way to look at The Infection. This is not about a respiratory virus.

So take a deep breath, jump down the rabbit hole, and get The Infection!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Adam Weiselberg
• Release date: Jan 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781732239883

Joshua Adam Weiselberg

Joshua Adam Weiselberg has been a writer his entire life, the son of an English professor and a Navy commander. His interest and respect for history brought him to love to research and learn ever more about the subjects he is intrigued to write about.Taking it a step further, Josh immerses himself in the action-adventures and has years of experience as a re-enactor in military strategy and combat in the infantry, artillery, on horseback, and on United States Naval ships to specifically include 19th century sailing warships, and an actual F-18 flight simulator. His on-screen performances include frequent outings for westerns, most recently ABC's hit series "Castle," and HBO's "Family Tree," besides documentaries for the Discovery family of learning channels. He frequently signs his books at public events tied into the re-enactments or at historical society meetings where Josh presents his research and demonstrates the alignment between the fiction aspects of his stories, and the facts, by putting them on the actual maps. He loves to interact with his readers in person, as well as online.Josh grew up an avid fan of baseball beyond all other sports and has played the game since childhood up through his current participation in amateur adult leagues. He has visited many professional ballparks but favorite memories include going to Wrigley Field with his grandpa, and marching around many a stadium with his teammates as a Little Leaguer. He keeps a bat, helmet, and gloves in his vehicle at all times for the spontaneous stop at a batting cage while Josh is on the road. Indeed he likes to plot his stories while hitting baseballs as much as while listening to some good rock 'n roll.He is also a fan of intense action-adventure-drama and writes in shocking detail that he hopes appeals to audiences of his favorite entertainment that includes such programs as Hell on Wheels and Sons of Anarchy. Josh's writing pace and style has been likened by his readers to Louis D'Amour's fast action westerns and has assembled a team for BURIED VALUES MEDIA GROUP to include a regular editor with a background with New York's premier publishing houses and a cover artist who's worked on such famous projects as Star Wars and Tomb Raider, adding posters and specialty apparel to the Buried Values product line. He hopes you too will enjoy Buried Values.

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Your Guide to Discovering BURIED VALUES

Also enjoy these other provocative titles by Joshua Adam Weiselberg:

BURIED VALUES: The Outlaws – In the middle of the horror that’s Bleeding Kansas, witness the start of Daniel Winthrop’s criminal career. In 1857 the North begins to arm the South in a stolen weapons trafficking scandal that really happened with a conspiracy that reached all the way up to the Buchanan White House. Whether it grew from personal convictions or desperation for cash, the direct consequences were felt in the shape of the Civil War! Constance May betrays the young Winthrop’s love and even her own father, the General, on behalf of the Abolitionist cause. And Sgt. Robert Masterson finds himself front and center with all the hell that’s being raised as he winds up incriminated with Jack Talbot and his dirty crew. While somebody’s getting paid, at least somebody else is really going to receive payback! As all attempt to escape their fate, take a guns-blazing ride on the trail to high treason western-style with John Brown, William Quantrill, and Robert E. Lee, along with many more who sought to forever change the course of American history.

BURIED VALUES: The Rookies – an adventure in Mafia baseball unfolds when almost at the dawn of the Roaring Twenties – with nearly the entire globe manning battle stations, and the Spanish Flu spreading to become a world-wide epidemic, Taddeo Villetti makes it out on to the mound for his first year with the World Series bound Chicago Cubs. And then to take his eye off the ball, Arlene arrives as a new sex-worker in his South Side crime family’s bordello. She is secretly planted there to deliver a stunning victory for the North Side’s Irish Mob and carries the revolver of her distant uncle, the infamous lawman Bat Masterson, with determined intent to bring her own permanent kind of Irish justice down upon the Italians who murdered her parents. But life has a way of throwing some curve balls. As America’s latest immigrants make their first attempt to recreate Cosa Nostra in the United States, a Jewish mob boss attempts to organize both the Italians and the Irish into the country’s largest sports gambling racket which could possibly bring about a lasting peace but is instead violently derailed by the forbidden romance in an ill-advised affair between Arlene and the Cubs’ rookie pitcher. The young pair are fated to become star-crossed lovers as Taddeo sacrifices all to save Arlene from her life of slavery as a prostitute, with his jealous brothers playing a crippling game to thwart him at every turn. And all this before he ever suspects his obsessed-over love’s true lethal purpose for being there, is to assassinate his entire family. However, nothing can go as planned, when entering into this competition will be Arnold Rothstein, Babe Ruth, and Al Capone – while always fighting to stay alive, will be everyone’s true buried values. And then the signal’s given for the next player on-deck.

BURIED VALUES: The Fall – The Rookies make the plays in a lot of extra innings that the Cubs were surely never planning on. Now in the middle of their killer 1918 season, Taddeo Villetti is murder on the mound serving up his special kind of cutters and Arlene Masterson will be the mother of all vengeance on the streets. The fire for women’s rights has turned into a one-woman vicious crossburn that can run from the cornfields of the Midwest to the corrupt Congress in the capitol. And the Villetti Family with its part in gambling, drug dealing, and Big Jim Colosimo’s bordellos is right in its path of devastation. And there’s no going back to how things used to be, especially with Arnold Rothstein’s agents on hand to practice their particular brand of playing hardball. Dark money is lining all the wrong people’s pockets. Now Taddeo is a man who’s losing control and can only hope he has enough balls to be that

one pitcher who can finish the game. He struggles to form an alliance with Johnny Torrio’s

enforcer the young Al Capone while his last true love is torn between strengthening her ties to the infamous suffragette Katherine McCormick or The Windy City’s favorite Madam, Victoria Moresco, ally of the fledgling Outfit. Blood’s being let into the Chicago River from Little Italy to Rogers Park and in its backwards flow, it is painting everyone’s true buried values in red. And now it is the new players’ turn to witness some strikes up close. But all it will take is one now-veteran man to be called off the bench, for he to become the real game-changer.

BURIED VALUES: The Library – In 2016, several young women’s futures will hang on the choices these rivals make in a deadly hunt for Civil War treasure so valuable, that as evidence, it’s powerful enough to end a government insider conspiracy to take over control of Homeland Security – or see to it that the plot succeeds! Entering the adventure, are over a half-dozen men with special skills ranging from officers of the law, politicians, gangsters, the daring archaeologist Dr. Darren Hughes, and LSU freshman, Tony Porter, who’s just smitten with the ladies. At stake is the highly profitable fast and furious flow of guns going south and drugs flowing north, and one woman’s mission to foil the restructuring of a new Villetti crime family that’s forming some very dangerous alliances south of the U.S. border. Going down amidst all the sex trafficking, prohibited weapons exchanges, illegal immigration, and the ever-present corruption in the failed war with the Mexican drug cartels – and with the shootings of police officers, clashes between the races, and the U.S. Presidential Election all in the mix – is a nail-biting mystery who the triumphant femme fatale really is, and how Naomi or Davina will react when in the aftermath of the Gulf’s catastrophic flooding, the survivor’s tempted with an unexpected and irresistible opportunity to take full control over everything! Now the past continues to haunt not just the true heirs of the bounty – but instead, its influence runs full circle back into the swirling winds of just one more very real hurricane that’s bearing down, in tandem with one political maelstrom that no one foresaw – to join forces so as to blow the entire cover off of our whole country’s true buried values – in our present.

BURIED VALUES: The Recovery – In the shocking sequel to Buried Values: The Library, will it be Naomi or Davina who has survived to now have to attempt to run the new Louisiana Mafia? The young woman will form the uncomfortable but necessary alliances that might barely keep her afloat in what’s left of a sinking criminal empire, trying to rebuild in hurricane devastated flood lands. There’s no electricity, no chance to call for any help, not even many roads still above water, and there will be no rescue coming for quite a long time. It is only the worst of the prison gangs – who escaped drowning behind bars – who now rise to surface and seek to satiate their all-consuming thirst for revenge – who can still hold even the slightest grip on any tangible real power. A shaky alliance with the street boss Demetrius Lamont appears to be the only way to push on and complete one thoroughly-soul-consuming quest for a fortune in lost treasure, now the sole currency of any real authority. But who will turn on whom first? One young woman, now ultimately corrupted, will relentlessly compete to capture unimaginable reserves of the real kind of tender she’ll need to secure her status as power shifts drastically in America, following the wake of the controversial 2016 Presidential Election. What are the real values which lie beneath the surface, waiting for her to find? And could they save a lot more people from dying? The legacy of the Villettis – and Buried Values – continues, but only for the last carriers of enough personal fortitude to still remain breathing, when everything else purportedly held dear, seems destined to drown!

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BURIED VALUES:

THE INFEC ION

I don’t take responsibility at all.

– Donald Trump March 13, 2020

Washington, D.C., USA

Chapter 1

"Sir, listen to me very carefully. I’m going to have to ask you to pull over to the secondary inspection station. Now. And then you will wait in your vehicle with both of your hands on your steering wheel. Do not move. Do not even breathe, or do anything else unless we tell you to, the US Border Patrol agent instructed Erik from behind his black facemask and dark lenses with gold trim. The German Shepherds were also still barking at him. Do you understand?" The younger officer next spoke into his shoulder mic to call for his supervisor.

It felt like for sure the temperature had been steadily getting hotter. One more irritation after another. Even though the air conditioning was blowing full blast in Erik’s black Ferrari, it barely brushed his face. But there was nothing about this business that was soothing. Yet. And ahead of him, he could see his fast car was going nowhere in a hurry. The line of vehicles was long all right – in every inspection lane that wasn’t closed down, due to measures taken as a result of the virus. He thought he could view some kind of wavy mirage rising into the blue atmosphere above the roofs of every automobile within his line of sight. Burning away cheap gasoline, and just adding to the heat in this situation. If the waves settled into a pool, he imagined he could swim all the way into the United States, floating right over all the traffic – and get there faster than he would by staying in this line. But that wasn’t his current destination. He was transporting something very special in his car which he had to be the one to carry. Something that someone else wanted very, very badly, to find. He glanced at his gold, Swiss-made watch.

Erik then looked up to see the border security agent’s supervisor weaving in and around, and past, all the other differently colored cars piled up between Erik’s and the more senior officer’s station. He wore a matching dark green uniform, black N-95 breathing filter, and black protective eyewear, just like his subordinate. He moved past the drug-sniffing canine and its master, and then barked at Erik.

Are you an American citizen?

No.

"Alright. You do understand, we have restricted travel, so only US citizens are being granted permission to cross over at this time? Any other travel must be absolutely essential to pass. Now state your nationality."

Erik’s purpose here and now, was not to argue about the hypocrisy of it all. I’m Mexican.

Uh-huh. Do you have identification?

No. I’m not carrying anything like that.

"No, but we’re going to find out what you are carrying that’s of such interest to my dog," the younger officer injected.

Do you want to tell me your name?

Why not? It’s Erik Valencia. The driver pushed down his rich blue bandana he’d been wearing and removed his own dark sunglasses. You might already have a good photograph of me.

The less experienced officer must have thought Valencia was referring to the surveillance video being taken by the border guard’s personal body camera he wore on his dark green uniform, or the live picture which was now being captured by many a camera positioned around the greater inspection installation. But his superior had turned pale behind his filter mask, eyes wide, behind his dark goggles. He knew what was up.

No one had motioned Erik to move his vehicle yet. The guards were soon communicating into their radios to move up the cars in particular lanes, a little faster, though. When this was complete, he figured somebody would direct him where to drive, as a line got cleared. Now someone had to break the awkward silence. So, do you want to tell me the purpose of your attempt to travel into the United States this afternoon? the youngster asked, glancing up his chain of command for a nod of approval. He did not receive one.

Yes. I’m delivering ten whole kilos of really, great Columbian white powder for Cartel de Jalisco Nueva Generación. It’s really pure. Uncut. Never been stepped on. Absolutely top quality.

The first-to-respond American Homeland Security officer looked dumbfounded. To Erik, a lot of gringos looked the same way. You’re doing what? the trooper blinked. And you freely admit that?

Erik nodded.

You are confessing to me that you claim full knowledge – in fact ownership of ten kilos of cocaine which you are currently smuggling in this vehicle? The supervisor finally found his voice again.

Oh, I’m not smuggling it. The coke’s right there on the backseat.

If the officer’s jaw could drop any lower, it would have fallen off. He tried to recover and assert that he was not thrown off his balance, for which he’d never been in control over, from the very start. I see, he said. And who is all that cocaine for?

Donald Trump.

The more senior border agent resettled himself and followed his training. Into his transmitter he wore attached to his shoulder lapel he called for additional backup. Okay Mister Valencia, you’re a real wise guy. Please step out of the car and take both knees with your hands on top of your head, fingers interlaced. You are under arrest on the charge of attempted illegal entry into the United States for the explicit purpose of narcotics trafficking. Welcome to San Ysidro.

Chapter 2

The suits waited by their three limousines as the sleek, black luxury helicopter landed. Two men, also in suits, one with distinctly long, black hair worn in a neat ponytail, hopped out to exit on either side of the aircraft, with that one ducking low and circling around the front of the chopper. His hair started to loosen out of its knot he wore over the strap to his black breath filter, as he hurried under the rapidly spinning blades to stand at attention, making sure that he also, attended that raven-bird’s door, the one closest to the ground transportation. Another aide left one of the limousines, and rushed over to set down a small set of stepping stairs, he’d fetched from the trunk. He set them up next to the newly arrived airlift. Then he took his position to show respect to a middle-aged man who walked out of the aircraft, surveying the land, while his slanted eyes remained hidden behind his shades. His expression would be concealed under his facemask, but he didn’t need to deploy it. His posture left no question about his importance, his power. All the other men bowed to him.

Then these subordinates encircled him and took their cue from the gentleman, to move when he did. Heading for the row of cars. He continued walking all the way up to the first one in the line. The masked driver immediately emerged, his hands full. He carried a bottle and a wine glass in an ice bucket, held at the ready. Upon the boss’ approach he filled the receptacle with a dark red libation, and offered it to his superior. Instead of getting in the back, when another aide held open the door for him, this man carried his drink that he stopped only once to take a sip from, as he glanced around the blue horizon, taking in his new surroundings, and then he walked directly up to the front of the lead car. The driver hurried to nervously set down the bottle, temporarily on the hood, in order to get the door in time for his boss. He failed. The man who’d just arrived, was clearly intent on getting to their destination, and made this subtle demonstration of his plan for there being no delay. But the visitor showed no outward anxiety, no anger, again no emotion at all. Never tyrannical, the boss presented himself as just one cool customer. And the man in charge, obviously meant to ride directly next to the driver, who recovered from being perplexed, also rather quickly, as if he was sure his health depended upon it.

Chapter 3

Buenos dias. Erik addressed a younger man, maybe still a teenager, curled up in the newspapers that covered their cage’s floor. His eyes covered Valencia. They were surrounded by many other men, either stretched out on the ground, or standing around the holding pen in the Otay Mesa, California Detention Center, where he’d been transferred. They all wore modest clothes and dirty paper facemasks. One would cough, and then another, as sort of a reflexive reaction to the man before him. Hopefully, it was only reflexive. But getting no response from the individual nearest to him, Erik tried to convey that he was friendly. He proceeded in Spanish. You don’t talk? Well, I have to. I’ve been sitting by myself in traffic for quite some while. I’m Erik.

You have very nice clothes, Señor. The younger guy, in a light blue paper facemask and what looked like a handed-down old burgundy sweatsuit, which he might have even been wearing for weeks, stared on, with obvious admiration for The Nueva Generación leader’s fine threads. He smelled bad, like sweat and cigarette smoke. Plus, there was a stench of urine coming from more than one of the other detainees, which neither Erik’s bandana, nor his expensive cologne could cover up. Now his dark, designer sport coat shimmered even in the holding cell’s flickering weak lights, along with its matching pants. And they paired well with $500 soft-leather shoes. The guards hadn’t dared confiscate his watch, but for the cage, he’d hidden it in his pocket. Still, he clearly looked like he didn’t belong there. Only the gringos’ prejudice probably landed him in the tank with these others, instead of in a jail for the crime of smuggling suspects. But there wasn’t any obvious way to have escaped something like this. They couldn’t arrest him on drug charges. One was very mad about it. But that was pre-arranged. And even though a few of them had some pretty generous compensation coming their way, the immigration officers also held enough contempt for Valencia, or outright hatred, that they didn’t want him waiting in their office space. He was detained as unsuspiciously as someone like him, could be. It was all part of the plan.

So, Erik had really dressed to impress for the occasion. Uh, gracious.

"What are you doing here, Señor?"

Oh, I’m waiting. Erik paused, thinking about it, then stated, It looks like you are doing the same. The teenager nodded. How long have you been waiting here? Erik asked him.

I don’t know. I can’t remember any more.

Where are you from?

I come from around near Ciudad Guyana, in Bolivar, Venezuela.

How’d you end up here?

These American men. They had a bus. A lot of cameras. And guns. They said they could protect us. It’s been bad, very bad, back home. Just trying to get food. They said they’d bring us to the Unuido Estadas. They said the Americanos would welcome refugees. They’d help us. I was scared. But my big hermano, wanted to go. He was tough. I’d grown up wanting to be like him. I trusted him. So, he decided we should all go.

The young man, with a medium length of dark, dirty hair began to gush. Perhaps he felt that by telling his story, he could come clean by confessing to Erik. It would feel nice to be even able to imagine one was clean of this awful place. He explained, "Our papa, he had been missing almost my whole life. I think my mama well, she told us lots of things. When we were younger, she told us that he had gone to the United States. He found work, and sent much money home. My familia actually managed a small state plantation for the government, back in Venezuela. But we were always, forever poor. These other men, they used to come around and threaten my mama. I think they took money from her. My papa’s brother – he would stand up to them for us. He would come from over in Puerto Ordaz, and out to see us in order to help my ma – and he’d often be there right at the right time to argue with these men. It scared me when I was little. But I do remember my papa showing up once, when I was still very young. He didn’t come back again. Then my baby sister joined our family some months later.

"That’s when my mama got a sickness. She died not too much later. My uncle and his wife, they took me, my baby sister, and my big brother, in. They loved us like we were their own kids or something. We were a family for a while. I think they forgot about going to collect the American money if my papa was alive somewhere, sending it where he might of thought we still made our home. But my brother, he was always angry. He’d go away for long whiles after arguing with my uncle. He was gone away when the men came for my aunt and uncle. There was more arguing about money. And they took his wife away. She was very beautiful and always wore the prettiest colorful dresses. She had a nice smile. Though she was younger and we were not hers, she tried to protect us like she was me and my sister’s own mother. But my uncle, he tried hard to protect his wife. They killed him for that. They shot him – right in front of me and my sister. And then they just left his body there. And they left both of us there, too, alone, and then these men dragged my aunt off. Also, they said when I was old enough, they’d come for me. And I could join them one day. I would work for them. And one day, they’d give us lots of money, and I could be very powerful, have a gun, and I could protect my sister.

Then, almost immediately, my big brother came home. He had changed. He seemed older. He was more like I think I remember my papa, maybe my uncle, in more peaceful times, faded memories. He said he’d met these other men – the Americanos. And mama had always spoke of how it was better there I mean here in the Unuido Estadas. The young man held up his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. "But does this look better to you? I hate America!

You must help me, Señor. You look important. Powerful. I just want to find my family, now. I have nothing without them.

"So how did you arrive here?" Erik asked him gently, prodding him to go on with his story further, and dodging the young man’s request which he could not grant. But for the moment, Erik had time to hear him out.

"My brother closed our house in Venezuela. He signed it over to another farmer – or a manufacturer? Maybe someone the State sent. I don’t know. Only I don’t think he liked it. But there was no choice. He held on to all our money for us, and then he paid some coyotes to bring us out of Venezuela. We first met the Americanos he knew in El Salvador. We’d traveled through five countries just to get that far. The gringos had this bus to bring us all to the Unuido Estados. It even had air conditioning! We were given fruit and water. We traveled for days, as they drove on, toward the great white north. On the road, we were joined by other buses. And on board all of them, there were people like us and Americanos with guns. In towns we stopped at for supplies, there were lots more gringos. It was strange. They all had cameras. Some carried around with them bright lights. I’d never heard so many people speaking English. I remember, at the time, it gave me hope. Though none of the voices were trying to talk to me, they sounded alert, even powerful. At one time, their voices were like music to me, instead of the sharp barking orders of the men who’d come to see my family in Venezuela. I imagined those voices were speaking, because they were there to help me. Now – well I know the truth and I can’t stand to hear their voices. I hate hearing English. All the people here, speaking English, are guards, barking their orders. I can’t see their faces. They all wear masks and sunglasses. They say we have a disease. They said that even before I heard it from other migrants like me, that there actually is a very bad disease. And it is here. It is real." He pointed to his old and dirty facemask.

Erik felt moved by the young man’s story – and self-conscious that he’d been wearing his bandana again, ever since the Border Patrol had identified him, and then told him to keep that on. The security said they were out of the paper, surgical masks that they’d been issuing guests. He wasn’t supposed to touch anything either. They were low on all supplies, including hand sanitizer and toilet paper. Being tossed in here, this cage, with so many others, was actually terrifying, if one stopped to think about it. He hadn’t been here even an hour. How were these people able to tolerate it? For months? And this poor kid looked like he could really use a friendly smile. Erik focused on that, and remembering that he couldn’t dare lower his bandana, as well as reveal anything about why he had risked so much to come here and subject himself to this. He had something he still had to deliver. But he also held value to this teenager right before him.

His young companion continued. "But because of this big disease – that’s why the Americanos say they separated me from my little sister. I can’t say how long it’s been since I’ve seen her. And they moved my brother before that. He’d been fighting with someone again – even here. I’d never seen him so angry. I’m not sure what it was all about. But he’d been so strong. But very sad. And he had been quiet ever since he’d returned when my uncle was killed. I thought I’d see nothing after that, which could really make him lose his temper. He’d become very mature. Like you, Señor. Until all of a sudden. Something that happened here. That something provoked him to really fight – once more. It was – . Well, the guards had to remove him."

Erik’s felt the warmth he’d wanted to express, even under the bandana, lose its grip on his face. He thought it was too bad that his companion could not see what he’d tried to express. This kid needed some reassurance. But this was the way it was now, in the corona-time.

The youngster went on and on. He must have imagined Erik had some real power somewhere, based on the way he carried himself, his clothes, his demeanor. What this kid needed though, was his older brother. Erik knew he couldn’t step in and become the teen’s next surrogate family. He wouldn’t be staying here. He was thankful for that, when he glanced around this cage, and another beyond that, where a bunch of other men, just like he and his companion, were being held in. He prayed he wouldn’t have to spend even one night here. His eyes sought and did not find even any clean sheets of newspaper to sleep in – let alone any area of the tank, where he might let his guard down. This meeting better be on. He missed his bed inside the protection of his own home.

"Until the time someone made my big brother mad once more, well, I don’t know how long we’d been living here, inside of this ugly place. You lose track of nights and days when you cannot see the sky. But they took my brother away. Then they came for my sister. They said it was for her own safety that they separate the men from the women. I don’t think she was ever really safe, here. I only really began to count the passage of time, then. But soon after, someone brought me a little bit of money. I have no idea what for. They said it was what had been promised. Only I have had to use all of that up, now. Sometimes we get the opportunity to buy better food, or there’s not enough to eat. Plus I got sick. From this cough. I had to use the rest of the money to pay some American rights volunteer to bring me medicine. And then they have to smuggle it in. Things are supposed to be tightly regulated. But the guards they don’t really care. I bet they get paid – one way or the other. They take the women."

Erik had suspected that. He also noticed there weren’t any children at this facility, either.

"Now I blame all the Americans. I hate them! All of them. But I will say whatever it takes. I’ll tell their reporters, those human rights workers, who think they are actually helping, everything it is that they think they want to hear. That’s how you get favors in here – doing interviews. Becoming popular. Only there’s a price to pay for drawing attention on yourself. Now I can barely remember what I’d planned for my life before. But when they let me in and they are going to let me in I will bide my time, and be patient like my brother – in better times. And I’ll try and find him, and especially my young sister. Maybe I will learn whatever happened to my papa. But then I swear I am going to make the Americans suffer! They think they have to fear our brown skin now? Or our Spanish language? They don’t know what we are saying, and we are all around them. And they don’t even know if what they say, ever reaches our ears – if we can even understand them, when they are talking right in front of our faces. And they wouldn’t care, but these gringos cower at the mention of MS-Thirteen, or even just some local street gang formed by our people. The gringos are weak and I can feel my hate growing more and more powerful. I am becoming strong in their cage. And one day I will really make them pay for what they did to my family – and to pressure and to bankrupt my homeland, Venezuela. Then for their collective peoples, sending only – mostly – their drug money, which empowered those warlords, their cartels – the ones that destroyed our paradise in Central America: they are all going to pay."

Erik nodded. I understand. He sat down on the floor nearby. His junior clearly felt all alone. He would not always be. There were many more just like him. Many of them here. They would just have to meet each other and learn to trust one another. And organize. Once this kid was jumped into a gang – and he would need to be, to survive – he’d find a lot of allies to trust – and a new, adopted family. But Erik didn’t want him to feel as if he were all alone right now. But he also did not think it would help if he told this kid that he was a cartel boss, either. Instead, he started twisting off the heel of his shoe.

His new friend looked at his polished, expensive leather footwear again. This time his eyes above his facemask seemed to appear confused. Why are you breaking your shoe, Señor? You have such nice clothing, accoutrements.

But the heel twisted off the way it had been designed to. Erik glanced about to check the security cameras that monitored the migrant pens. He was uncomfortable being this close to the others, especially while his companion shook in a short fit of coughing that suddenly came on. He felt as if he were expending his reserve of willpower to suppress his own emotional temptation to panic. And he tested the security of the tie to his face covering. How acute was his desire to get out of here. But he used the young man’s body to shield the view of the monitoring system. Then Erik withdrew crisp green bills from a compartment hidden in his shoe. None of the American dogs had found what else he’d been carrying. He placed the money in the surprised young man’s hands. Here is seven-hundred more dollars. Do not tell anyone you have it. Find somewhere on you where you can hide it. Then save it for when you do get out of here.

Thank you. Oh, thank you, Señor. Thank you. Muchas gracias. How can I ever repay you?

You don’t have to. Only who knows? Maybe our paths will cross again some day. But I understand the way you feel. You are not alone. This teenager in a holding tank had reminded him of some aspects of himself, a long time ago. Only some aspects. But the businessman in Erik did have to wonder what he’d make, if his mules were smuggling an entirely different inventory, such as food and medicine for these people that he saw stuck in here, while he glanced around once more. They would be as desperate as addicts for any of The Cartel’s alternative products – and not even by their own choosing. Hand sanitizer and cough syrup weren’t even contraband. How things had changed. Erik remembered his own life, his past, as his sympathy conflicted with his greed. But he arrived at the conclusion, that if he succeeded with the risky move he was making, and secured a monopoly for his imports/exports shipping enterprise, he would someday be able to employ this kid, many from among his people like him, and become a philanthropist like the world had never seen. Then they would all be truly free from the economics of the situations, that kept them almost voluntarily walking into prisons like the one they were trapped in right now.

"Maybe there are many men who feel as I do, stuck in here, in this place? After I was separated from my familia, I shut myself off from everyone. Once the United States was our promised land. Now it will be the target of all our hate. Yes, I suppose I will want to meet the others like me. I will have much in common with them." The youngster reasoned it out.

Now Erik’s list of talents included seeing the true character of other men. He liked how this kid’s had begun developing. He agreed with him. Donald Trump has certainly made a lot of new enemies – and a whole lot more than there ever were before. You have a very interesting story, young señor. So, please accept this money as my thanks for sharing it.

Just at that moment, the masked guards on duty came, and some senior-official-looking-character motioned for Erik. He spoke as if he had been listening in on the conspiring pair. "Get up. You will come with us, to thank someone very special that came all the way here to see you," that one said, sounding annoyed he had to communicate any message for any one of ICE’s unwelcome guests. And apparently, most of the Americans wore their sunglasses even indoors, probably in case any of their guests tried to throw any infected fluid in their eyes when they walked past the cages. And that’s exactly what the larger guard explained, when Erik sarcastically questioned him about this. But he held it as a suspicion that it was really so there was less of a chance of him being able to identify the guard later, should the pendejo do anything that might displease him. They all probably knew who Erik was by now.

But Valencia just had to press him. "Are you sure this visitor is here for me? How can you see, always wearing those? It’s got to be difficult picking the right Mexican. We all look alike, don’t we?" Erik couldn’t resist continuing to say anything that might be incendiary. He never liked the gringos’ authorities any way. The teenager he’d just met awoke plenty of buried feelings about his enemies. These guards, were more of like inconvenient acquaintances, however. The big peckerwood sent to escort Erik flexed his muscles in his bare arms, showing under his uniform’s short sleeve variation. He must have been some officer that the Americans found to handle the situation, which explained why he was able to dress differently – a private prison’s rules and everything. But perhaps fortunately, the man seemed to still feel tied to the same sort of expectations. He was professional, and politically correct, when he responded only with the facts. He wouldn’t let Erik provoke him.

Valencia nodded his head, and stood up from where he’d sat with the youngster. The youth’s problems were not his own. He did have his personal situation to deal with right now; his position in this life that he had made, from which he dealt with the world from. He still had to deliver for this mission, his mission. But he enjoyed feeling the kid’s admiration for the insolence he showed the guard.

"Alright, Mister Valencia. Very funny. It seems the Mexican consulate has been unusually quick at getting you approved to have a visitor, especially during this pandemic. Someone’s jerking some one’s chain to get you all the privileges."

Because you’ve made me feel so safe and comfortable? The sound of old newspaper shredding could be heard behind him, and Erik didn’t need to turn around to see the young migrant man stretching out on the hard ground of the holding cell behind him, his worn shoe tearing through what the Americans used to represent their hospitality, his makeshift bedding. Then, that particular amigo started shaking and coughing into his surgical mask with quite the fury, once again.

We offer scum only the best.

Chapter 4

A rather distinguished Asian man in his middle-ages, stood on the one side of the chicken wire fencing, his face behind a black N-95 mask, waiting on – and assessing – the cartel’s younger boss being brought up to meet him. He stationed himself there, silent, when he first saw the Border Patrol’s freshest fruit, from their never-ending contraband harvest. This one, a very well-dressed, junior Latino man, wearing a black muscle shirt under a gray suit, returned his glare, only steady brown eyes showing above a royal blue bandana, making a return assessment of him. This man was Erik Valencia Salazar, alive, and in the flesh. And then the guard unchained a gate, and let the pair come together. No one offered their hand, but the Mexican crossed his arms. Finally, once making certain of with whom he spoke, Mr. Li pitched his opening – with a low, Putonghua accent. C-c-caan you speak English? I don’t speak’e Spanish. He enunciated slowly, adding a stutter and a disingenuous laugh.

You already knew the answer to that. And I’m sure you’re not hiding anything that the guards don’t know already, either. This setup – . Well – . So, are you here to parole me? Valencia’s eyes suggested he smiled under his bandana as his shoulders moved when he laughed at something that the more youthful man kept to himself. "Are the Chinese coming to my rescue?"

Li didn’t answer him. They walked down a corridor into an interrogation room, but after the two stepped inside, their escorting guards closed the door behind them. Left alone, the only remaining men sat down at a table and chairs provided in the center of the small, barren, white room, absent of any windows. Then the Chinese man spoke.

"You’re not really sure about all of this? Are you? Well, everything is going according to the plan. The Triad values the cooperation of The New Generation Cartel. And we honor our agreements. Abruptly, Li dropped his Chinese inflected voice. The words he spoke now, sounded much more – Californian. But let’s get straight to it, Dude. I know you wouldn’t be here if your organization didn’t want something from us. I knew that before I reached out to you and planned to make your acquaintance. So, let’s talk. And I’ll let you know what I want. All audio and visual surveillance devices in this room that the American Homeland Security Department has so generously provided for us, have been deactivated – at my command. You may speak freely, now. And you will prove, useful."

You’re American, aren’t you? Erik Valencia studied Mr. Li’s obvious slanted eyes, rounded face accented by high cheekbones, with straight gray hair, framing a high sloping forehead, that accented the strong Asian ethnic qualities to his appearance, or what could be seen of it, through his professional, protective mask. But he no longer hid the fact he spoke English absent of any of the distinctive accents from one or another of the Asiatic family of languages. Indeed, he wanted to show his new cohort here that he respected him and dealt with him honestly. The fact that the man behind one extremely infamous persona, was indeed American, wasn’t popularly known, let alone who it really was, that carried so much authority in The Chinese Triad. He had thrown on the accent several times in the past, meeting others’ errant expectations, and enjoying the advantage that afforded him. But in meeting with Valencia this way, Li could also test the Mexicans’ boss’ loyalty to any new alliance – if he could keep secrets. "And you must have considerable US political connections to pull this off," Valencia concluded.

I am many nationalities with public, and some very private, uh, associations.

"Alrighty then. I’m going to need you to be even more forthcoming. I, had already come to believe there is little outside of your capabilities. I did my homework. You don’t only represent The Triad. But we’ll get to that. First you will hear what I want. And that is, you are going to arrange for the Louisiana Mafia, and The Outfit, and all the associated Latin Kings, People Nation, and Black Disciple sets in Chicago, to deal only with me – my representatives, not Los Zetas. I want to be the singular sole supplier to The Flores Brothers’ old distribution network. Don’t be wholesellin’ shit to my competition. And it will be my territory from The Gulf to Chi-Town. And we’ll see how connected you really are."

"Wow. You have some big dreams, don’t you? Now I have some influence in The Windy City. The price can be negotiated on the bargaining table, to the benefit of both our organizations. But Dude, you totally overestimate me, Dude. Your cartel will have to fight its own wars to take and hold of its own territories. That’s just the nature of this business."

Valencia ignored what he just said to him and went on, anyway. "I don’t want any interference from the Folk Nation right down to The Locals, one of the affiliates fractured by the civil war in the Villetti Family out there in Louisiana – the latter who cannot seem to determine what side they are on. Only it’s the Villetti Family that is also my biggest problem, in The Outfit."

I said I’m not providing any soldiers.

The Triad, the tongs, have many.

"And you have plenty – and already on this continent. I’m sure you want to make it look like someone else hit Los Zetas so you can avoid the fallout, while still securing your precious distribution territories. Well, I’m not playing that game, Dude. But I think I do have another way to deal with your cartel’s problem. I know you already know this, so let’s stop dancing around, and asking for things we are not going to receive. I am all too well aware that you want to defeat your competition – and cover up your hands in the matter. I came here, to meet you in the middle of a pandemic, because you had obviously worked out a way for me, personally, to get you, what you ultimately want. I comprehend-o."

"So, this brings us to what it is that you want, right? Why was I afforded this privilege to meet with you ꟷ here? Valencia gestured around the room, though really referring to the whole infected migrant detention center. And at extreme risk to my own health. Yes. I already do have an idea."

Then I’ll be direct. I want to know what happened to my son, Quiang Tran.

What?

Don’t feign ignorance, now. You laid the breadcrumbs – knowing I’d follow. But my boy was only nineteen years old when he vanished, presumed dead, during Hurricane Xavier, four years ago.

That happened during the fighting which drew in all the Italians. When Don Saul Petrone, was wiped out.

"I know that. However, I also know Petrone was only the street boss for Dino Villetti. Then this Petrone lieutenant’s uncle, who I can’t provide complete information for, moved in quickly, to help plug the hole. And back then, The Borgata was also quite well-along in the process – with making new deals with Los Zetas."

"My intel suggests someone wanted to cut down the costs of dealing with Sinaloa – for Chicago – during just one more time El Chapo’s empire came under fire. Look, I know you know who I am. And that my old outfit had won the best tunnels into Texas. So now, Los Zetas must have looked cheaper. It always looks that way to me."

Liang Tran decided not to mention that no one truly wanted any foreign nationals operating inside of US borders. He was an American, and linked to The Chicago Family, after all. Valencia had somehow already learned this, or else they wouldn’t be meeting, here, and at this time. But he couldn’t avoid keeping it in mind – that no one had ever truly made him feel American. China had offered him so much more, but the danger it placed him in had been more, too. Then something else happened.

Like a hurricane?

Liang ignored the weather and cut to the heart of the storm. "You were a vested member of what was the former cartel. Some changes are presently still being fought for. Its factions are tearing Sinaloa apart, from the inside out. But you have never held any love for Los Zetas."

"Tell me something I don’t know, amigo. Like why do you care? About Chicago? Your business is on the Pacific, not Lake Michigan. Right? Or is it? I know why I care. I want to defeat my competition. But what do you really want? Obviously, part of it is to once again lower your costs, stabilize your profits – especially now, considering the circumstances. He adjusted his bandana that constantly slipped on his nose. But why should The Nueva Generación’s cost of doing business in The Windy City matter to you? I will not be happy if you are planning to engage in direct sales. Is that what you are really waiting to bring out – to use either to entice or to threaten me?"

These are difficult times – financially – on us all.

"Well, unless your organization wants to help like I asked of you, Los Zetas is my problem, my cost to bear, which I have not allowed to affect my relationship with the Chinese and our Pacific partnership. If that is who you are also here to represent."

"I am that, as well. But as I just said a minute ago, right now I am mostly here to represent only myself, and my son, who cannot be here. This is personal, Dude. Can’t you imagine that? Caring about someone else? About your family? Or did you – because you already have imagined how the information that you will trade me – will be of more help to yourself? But the way I see it, we all can have a profitable trade arrangement going forward from here, because we also share some common adversaries who are presently impeding our restoring anything like the previous revenue level, which has been enormously encumbered with new inconveniences created by this epidemic. Therefore, we can work together to resolve all our mutual difficulties."

So, you’re suggesting that you have a plan, which upon sharing it, will entitle you to a favor?

You requested yours – .

Which you are not granting – .

"And you are also