In Salt Lake City, the gang colors weren’t really necessary. A gangbanger would automatically know; Gabriel and his men were Hispanic. The four men following them were Pacific Islanders, probably Tongan or Samoan. With few exceptions, Latinos affiliated with “Bloods” and Polynesians affiliated with “Crips.” The bangers that followed them now wore blue and that meant serious trouble. A few feet in front of them, two more bangers stepped out from behind a dumpster.
“Hey, ese,” one of the men said ominously. “What’re you doing up here?”
Gabriel’s guards reached for their knives, but didn’t pull them. They knew pulling knives or guns at this point would be a death sentence. Even in the old world, this confrontation stood a good chance of ending in blood. Today, with the cops all but dead, Gabriel and his companions would be very lucky to survive a fight with these “Polys.”
“Step back here, ese,” the lead Polynesian gangbanger herded the three Hispanics back behind an equipment rental office. Gabriel had a knife in his back pocket, but fighting their way out of this wasn’t going to happen. Six on three, especially when the Polys had the initiative, wasn’t going to end well for the Latinos. For one thing, the Polys each had at least fifty pounds body weight on the three Mexicans.
Latinos fought with numbers, guns and exceptional brutality. Being ambushed, unprepared, didn’t play to their strengths. And Gabriel wasn’t a gangbanger, anyway.
Gabriel calculated that his best chance of survival was to play this with confidence. Fear meant death. “My brother wants to talk to you.”
“Oh, yeah, brown boy? Who’s your brother?” The last word sounded like “braddah.”
“Francisco Peña.” The Polynesians stared blankly. They didn’t recognize the name. “El Barbero. The Barber.” The nickname definitely rang a bell with the Polys.
“So when we kill you, we kill the brother of The Barber?” The head Poly smiled.
“You’re not going to kill anyone. You’re going to tell your bosses’ boss that Francisco Peña sent me to reach out for a meet-up. Los Latigos rolled up the Avenues yesterday—the entire neighborhood—and we have drugs, guns and booze to trade.”
“Trade for what?”
“My brother needs men. He’s got a big job coming up.”
The Polynesian made a distasteful face. “What kinda job would a Blue take from a Red?”
“The kind of job a foot soldier like you wouldn’t understand. You deliver the message. My brother will be at Warm Springs Park, neutral territory, at one o’clock tomorrow.”
“And I’m supposed to let you walk away?”
“See you tomorrow.” Gabriel nudged between two of the Polynesians, careful not to telegraph any aggression. Polynesians were the most easy-going race on the planet, right up until the moment they went full barbarian.
Gabriel’s guards followed suit, turning out their hands as they passed.
“Your brother better be there tomorrow,” the Poly shouted, “or next time I see you, your brains will be on the sidewalk, ese.”
Masterson Home
Oakwood, Utah
“Are they going to give you anything today?” Tim Masterson’s wife Melinda begged for the third time that afternoon.
“I told you already,” he fired back, “I’ve been asked by the bishop to train the men as defense because of my military background. Once I get that going, I can ask the bishopric to take up a collection and compensate me for my time and expertise.”
Melinda wiped her hands on her apron nervously and spoke. “The Bogens gave me a few cups of wheat and some dried milk this morning. I soaked the wheat in milk and the kids are eating, but they’re complaining a lot. We’re all real hungry, Tim,”
“Don’t you think I know that? What more would you have me do? What do you think nagging is going to accomplish?”
“You always tell me that you’re the head of the house and that I should listen to you. I’m just letting you know that the children and I are hungry. All I’m doing is reporting back to you as you asked. I’m trying to be a good wife. I know these are hard times for you right now.” Melinda reached out and rubbed her husband’s shoulder.
He shook her off. “If you want to do something, go ask some of the neighbors outside our ward for help. Don’t let the ward members know we’re out of food. We can’t project weakness. I need to be seen as strong right now. Do you understand?”
Melinda nodded her head.
“Now, if you could, please leave me alone,” Tim said, turning back to his desk, leaving his wife standing behind him, “I have to prepare for the training exercise this afternoon. I need some peace and quiet.” Melinda faded back through his office door.
Tim focused on the book on his desk, the “Combat Leader’s Field Guide.” The graphics with combat formations made some sense to him, but the text in the book made no sense at all. The intricacies of military planning might as well have been Chinese. Even though Tim Masterson failed to understand the checklists and procedures, the book gave him plenty of what he really needed: military jargon.
When it came to training the men of the neighborhood, he knew he would need to inspire confidence. It was more important to inspire confidence than to possess skill. If a leader had bullet-proof confidence in himself, the men would get onboard. Once everyone had gotten behind a strong leader, anything was possible, even if that leader had little experience. A clear and confident plan was always better than no plan at all.
Tim Masterson reasoned he probably had more military experience than any of the Mormon men in the neighborhood. He had been an Eagle Scout, like most Mormon boys, but he had also spent several months in the ROTC in high school. While he hadn’t made it to boot camp—he had chosen to go on a Mormon mission instead—he had experienced numerous training days at the Army ROTC camp above the university.
How much more complicated could training be than that? And more to the point, as long as he kept the veterans from the compound away from “his” men, nobody would know the difference. Tim Masterson was the most military-experienced Mormon in the neighborhood as far as he knew. Virtually all the other Mormon men had gone on missions when they were at the age when they would otherwise have been serving in the military.
While he searched the field guide for tidbits of military knowledge, Tim’s mind wandered, thinking about his father, long since passed. Tim’s dad had been a closet alcoholic and a physically violent man, no doubt owing to the nightmare he had endured as an infantryman in the Viet Nam War.
Without anyone in the Church ever finding out, Tim had been punched in the face by his father dozens of times. It was a dubious honor, but Tim felt like the beatings had given him strength. It set him apart from softer men. While the men of the ward dithered and debated, Tim saw himself as a man of action, a man suited for this season of hardship. Even though he hated the very memory of his father, he knew that the man had passed down a legacy of toughness to Tim.
His dad built the home Tim lived in now with his own two hands, a hold-over in the neighborhood from before luxury homes. When Tim’s dad built the house, they’d had two hundred acres perched high above the valley. His father planted peach and apple orchards, raised chickens and even kept a few cows. Over the years, Tim had been forced to sell off all but the single acre of his dad’s land around their home in order to raise money for business ventures, none of which had been successful.