Page 75 of Misery
Thiago at a bar with known Los Coyotes members.
Thiago with Los Coyotes tattoos visible on his arms—new ink over old scars I remember.
The Virgin of Guadalupe twisted into something darker.
Aztec imagery mixed with gang symbols.
Thiago at what looks like an initiation ceremony, blood on his hands that probably isn't his.
"He's not just affiliated," Vanir says quietly. "He's inner circle. Lieutenant, maybe higher. This level of integration doesn't happen overnight."
I stand so fast, the chair falls backward.
The crash echoes through the empty chapel, loud as a gunshot.
"Oskar—"
"How long has he been in town?" My voice sounds calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes before I hurt people.
The kind Emil recognizes as danger.
"Based on traffic cameras and credit card activity..." Vanir types more, pulls up financial records that definitely aren't public. "At least a year. Maybe longer. He's been careful, though. Different names. Different addresses. But facial recognition doesn't lie."
A year.
Thiago's been here a year, and I didn't know.
Didn't sense it. Some fucking executioner I am.
Some protector.
The best friend I thought died in Mexico has been walking the same streets, breathing the same air, watching the same girl.
"Why Los Coyotes?" I ask, more to myself than Vanir. "He hated gangs. Called them stupid. Said independence was the only way to survive. Said joining a gang was just trading one cage for another."
"People change."
"Not that much."
But even as I say it, I know it's not true.
I changed.
Went from lost kid to killer.
From civilian to prospect.
People change all the time. Sometimes, into things we don't recognize.
Vanir pulls up more records.
Financial transactions showing regular deposits.
Phone records that he definitely shouldn't have access to.
Location data from cell towers. "Want the really fucked up part?"
"There's more?"
