The dark haired Spanish man stood on the side of the street, staring at the heap of smoldering steel and cement he used to call home. The towering wreckage cooled, as had the night air. He shivered. His mind was racing, remembering the events of the last few hours. First there was smoke, then a bang; or was it a bang first and then smoke? He couldn’t be sure. The man’s name was Pablo. He had brilliant blue eyes, and child-like features. He had hoped that his child might inherit his perfect smile, but she had taken after her mother.

The Gang Wars of Northern Mexico had destroyed yet another life. The summer heat was matched only by intense fighting in Nuevo Laredo. It hadn’t rained in months. The dead ones were lucky. The survivors led a terrible life of poverty. Many tried to head through the border post as refugees, into the United States, but were denied access. The problem with gang wars is that the targets are rarely gang members themselves, but rather civilians living in areas controlled by opposing gangs. Pablo was one such victim. He lay on the pavement. The flickering lamppost across the road faded into the distance.

Although he didn’t hear the sirens, Pablo woke up to the sound of gunfire. Disoriented, he ran down the street, straight into a stocky Mexican. The man was a typical gangster. One of his front teeth was coated in gold, his faced was scared, and his bright green eyes sat glaring from behind the dark complexion of his face. His bandana was orange, and struggled to contain his black mass of hair.

“Where your colours at?” said the stocky man, glaring at Pablo. He had now been joined by an even scarier African, also wearing an orange bandana, who had just parked an enclosed pick-up truck in the centre of the road.

“I, I don’t have any Signor” replied the nervous Spaniard. “I, I’m not a gang member”

“Welcome to the recruiting agency!” snarled the African as he shoved Pablo forcefully into the back of his pick-up. The Mexican roared with laughter and slammed the door shut before the key turned in the lock.

Pablo didn’t mind being forced into the gang. The members were provided with a basic ration of bread and cheese. The bread was stale, the cheese was moldy, but it was food nonetheless. His dilapidated apartment was shared between four other gangsters, but, at the end of the day, it did provide him with shelter. His three male roommates had treated him like dirt over the past week. Whether it was because he had been assigned to the same room as them, making it even more cramped, or whether because he had won the trust of Damita, he did not know. Damita was a stunning Mexican girl with hazel eyes, long, curly hair, and a slender build. They sat for ages staring out the window, deep in conversation, for hours on end.

“I’ve had enough of living like this Pablo”, said Damita. “I’m sick of stale bread, of shooting people, running away from police. This isn’t a life fit for a lady. I had dreams you know. I was going to be a nurse. Look what this damn conflict has done to us! I was destined to help people, not kill them.” She had started weeping.

“It’s almost over”, he said, trying to cheer her up. “Everything will get better, you’ll see?” His words were as empty as the apartment floor. Life was not improving in Nuevo Laredo, but worsening. The room was silent for what seemed like hours.

“How did you end up here?” asked Pablo, finally breaking the monotony.

“Freedom,” she said.

“I don’t understand.”

“I thought that joining a gang would give me an opportunity to get away from the world I’ve been living in. All I want is to be free of this place.” explained Damita, who was on the verge of breaking down again. Pablo decided to drop the subject. Besides, a shrill siren was ringing downstairs which could only mean one thing. Pablo was about to be involved in a skirmish for the first time since joining the gang.

As the converted pick-up sped down the road into the darkness, Pablo strained to recall the face of his daughter. He had not seen her for seven months. She, like him, had been forced into the gang wars. Why could he not recall that face? It had once been such a familiar sight to him. All he could remember was her pale skin, and straight, black hair. She was a tall girl, taller than her father. She would be just about nineteen if she was alive. There was no certainty that she was, and no death notice if she wasn’t. The father could not express how much he missed her, nor what he would give to see her again.

Pablo regained focus as half a clip penetrated the windscreen, bringing about a scream of agony and a sudden halt to the vehicle. Someone kicked out the back door of the pick-up, and shouts and gunfire echoed through Pablo’s ears as the vehicle was evacuated. He ran down a side-alley, deserted save for Damita who ran just ahead of him. She shot through the stone archway at the end of the alley and was met by a sudden, short burst of gunfire. Pablo watched helplessly as she fell to the ground. The image froze his body in terror. Why did he feel so sad? She had got what she wanted, freedom. A shadowed figure peered around the corner, disappeared for a second, and, in one swift motion, darted through the archway and fired. Pablo felt the bullets hit his chest. He heard himself scream. It didn’t sound like his voice. The cold, pebbled alley floor greeted him with a thud. As his vision faded into darkness, he caught a glimpse of the shadowed figure as it stood, briefly, under a street lamp. It was a tall girl, with straight, black hair, and pale skin. The moon retreated over the distant mountains as the storm clouds rolled in from the horizon.