WOODCREEK

 

WOODCREEK

CHAPTER ELEVEN

El Paso, Texas

In Downtown Texas, the evening sun melted away in the horizon. The streets were covered with quiet confidence lined by sprawling haciendas and modern villas where old-world heritage met polished wealth. Stucco walls glowed warm beneath the sinking sun, their terracotta hues deepening as amber light spilled across wrought-iron balconies and carves wooden doors from Oaxaca and Guadalajara.

Palm trees and jacarandas swayed lazily in the cooling air, their shadows stretching long across cobblestone driveways. The faint scent of jasmine mingled with freshly cut grass and the distant smoke of mesquite, where backyard grills were already alive with the promise of a warm dinner. But this was the affluent side of life in this esteemed neighborhood.

From behind tinted windows came laughter, loud and forced. Spanish slid into English and back again, conversations stopping abruptly when unfamiliar headlights rolled past. The men wore gold chains catching the last light of day, heavy on thick necks. Rolexes glinted like small weapons. Men stood in clusters near open garages, jackets unbuttoned despite the heat, eyes scanning the street while pretending not to, as they were drinking their chilled Coronas.

The sound of Mexican rap filled the air. Potent aromas of grilled beef and spicy tacos filled the air. The mariachi tune drifted from a private party. Music overlapped with laughter, clashing and fighting for dominance, corridors whispering old sins, trap beats thumping like a heartbeat under stress. The sound of a bottle shattering echoed briefly, then died, swallowed by thick walls.

The children inside played all sorts of games: hide and seek, tick tack toe and tag. Their laughter could be heard from outside cherishing the tranquil atmosphere. The men were on high alert as usual. Pistols tucked under their baggy jeans ready for war. But not today. It was Gomez’s older daughters’ quinceaneras’ party. She wore a beautiful purple dress.

Layers of tulle and satin spilled downward in a slow, graceful cascade, pale blush fading into ivory, then deepening at the hem like a sunset settling into night. The bodice was fitted with careful intention, stitched to honor both tradition and becoming. Tiny crystals and hand-sewn pearls traced delicate patterns across corset. Embroidery bloomed across the fabric-roses, vines, and fine gold thread curling into shapes passed down through generations, stories sewn into every seam.

The purple skirt expanded outward in a full, dramatic circle, grand without being heavy, designed to turn a girl into a vision without swallowing who she was. The purple color held meaning beyond beauty. It spoke of innocence and strength, of childhood unfolding giving way to adulthood. The quiet courage of the young woman about to become an adult. Her smile lighted her world and her black long cascading hair fell from her crown like a soft fountain.

She twirled her dress left and right with precision and circles showing her grace and girth of the dress. Her laughter was contagious, giggling she raised her bouquet of flowers filled with roses full of heavy petals that layered in soft spirals of cream and deep red. Between them bloomed smaller flowers filling the spaces where silence might have settled. Sprigs of greenery threaded through the arrangement, eucalyptus and fern, their sharp, clean scent cutting through the sweetness.

Deep in the basement was Cassidy Woodcreek, bound to a radiator her hands zip tied and her mouth gagged. She sat on the floor her back against the wall, knees drawn close, her wrists aching and scorched with blood. The room smelled of dust and old paint. She could hear the party going on upstairs, family members cheering at newly crowned adult. She screamed her lungs out but to no avail.

Fidgeting her wrists but all was vanity. Time here did not move. She was in some kind of Limbo. Everything second stretched thin, elastic, threatening to snap. Her mouth was dry. Her jaw ached from being clenched too long. When footsteps passed outside the door, her body reacted nervously: muscles twitching, heart slamming and palms sweaty.

Her mild concussion made her head ache and small trickle of blood dripped from her crown staining her white blouse. Her hair filled with twigs and mud looked unruly and unkempt. Her skin was ashy and wrinkly like that of an old woman. She gasped for air but the gag in her mouth did not allow her. She could hear the low hum of the generator wailing in a distance gulping out her cries in synchrony.

Dried blood could be seen from a far. How many have been here? How many have survived? La Hermandad the notorious kidnapping ring out of Mexico had been causing chaos in the nearby neighborhoods of Texas their latest installment: Cassidy Woodcreek daughter of Michael Woodcreek and Loise Woodcreek, the drug baron-ranchers that have lived on the Woodcreek ranch for decades.

Back at the Woodcreek ranch, life seemed unmoving and sterile. The kidnapping of Cassidy left a bad taste in their mouths. Michael was extremely depressed and El Jeffe was to blame for his demise. This was a strategic hit: a game of chess. To frustrate Michael and keep him occupied as the drug Kingpin El Jeffe smuggled as much contraband under his nose without his knowledge or permission. Staining the truce and blood ties with the cartel.

He must not be working alone he said to himself. El Castillo had a hand in this too he contemplated. He would never make such a move on his own without permission from the King of Coke. He packed his bags in the middle of the night as his wife was sleeping. Destination: Miami home to the boss and head of the Mexican drug lord.

He entered his entourage protected by the various Sicarios, fearful hitmen for hire from the land of guns and drugs. He left a note to his wife. Forgive me, I will make things right. With that he took his leave for the airport. Shrouded by guilt and shame. He had failed as a human but he would not fail as a father. He would not allow it not one bit.