The dust settled. My heartbeat did not.

Pablo never forgave me, nor did he forget what I’d done. He just found better ways to hide his emotions, better ways to cope. Whether it was drugs or meditation, I didn’t know for sure, but the fact that his shirt seemed to have lost yet another button seemed to hint toward the first option.

He ran his fingers, bent like claws, through my tangled hair, brushing it away from my forehead.

“You look pretty tonight,” he told me.

The words dribbled from his lips like drops of bad liquor, spitting and hissing, staining his lips with disgust and regret.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, as my eyes trailed over his shoulder.

The house was set up for a party, although the guests had yet to arrive. The big dining table had been replaced with several smaller ones, all topped with appetizers or champagne towers. The maids had pulled a few dozen bottles of liquor out of the pantry and lined them up on the bar counter, like an intoxicating rainbow.

The music was already playing, eagerly waiting for more people to arrive. I sat down on a lone chair, huddled in a corner, staring at my painted toes, only anxious to see a single person.

Juan and I had barely spoken to each other in the past few days. He still said hello to me, whenever he showed up at Pablo’s house, and I’d spend hours touching my cheek where he kissed it. We’d chat a little when his friends were around, stand next to each other when we played drinking games, and that was about it. It was best for us to keep a low profile, just in case Pablo suspected anything.

Whenever I’d see him, I would always think that tonight was the night he’d prove it. He’d prove himself, prove his love, prove that he was trustworthy and hadn’t given up on me.

Alas, since we’d last spoken in private, in the living room at the Sandoval’s house, Juan had proven nothing but his talent to mess with my head.

Oscar walked into the kitchen with a cigarette between his lips and an unruly lighter in his hands, cussing and mumbling as he tried to light a flame.

“Can we talk?” he asked his brother.

The cigarette trembled as he looked up to Pablo, who gave him a quick nod and turned to me.

“You stay here,” he said, pressing the tip of his finger against the cold marble countertop.

Oscar fidgeted with the lighter for a few seconds, before shoving it in his pocket. “She should come with us, actually.”

I waited for the deadly glare Pablo always threw at me when he thought I’d caused some trouble, but he didn’t even look at me. He just stood up and walked out of the kitchen, and Oscar and I quickly followed.

I struggled to keep up with their pace as they rushed down the house’s long, dark corridors. My heels kept slipping across the freshly waxed floors, and every time I stumbled, I bumped into one of the two tall bodyguards who flanked this grim procession.

We had barely passed the door to Beto’s office before Oscar finally spoke again.

“There are cops at the gate.”

Pablo let out a sigh and pried the pack of cigarettes from his brother’s hands. He pulled one out and twirled it between his fingers as he sat down behind the desk.

“I don’t remember inviting Miguel to the party,” he said as he took a first puff from his cigarette.

“Well, Miguel is there, but so is his boss,” answered Oscar, clearing his throat between every other word. “And a few other guys. Important guys.”

Pablo fell silent, his face as still and pale as an empty page in a book, but his eyes darted around the room with an alarming speed.

“What the fuck do they want?” he muttered, a cloud of smoke escaping his lips. “It’s a little early to be trick-or-treating.”

Oscar sucked in air between his teeth as he glanced in my direction. “So they wouldn’t tell us anything aside that they had a warrant, but I was on the phone with Miguel and–”

“Spit it out,” Pablo retorted. “Why are they here?”

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, and his chest heaved with a deep breath.

“They’re looking for Sarah Kennedy.”

My racing heart suddenly stopped pounding, and I felt like I had been thrown off a thirty-story building. The room around me seemed to melt away, blending into a sickly gray haze that swallowed the cluttered bookcases, weathered carpets, and everyone around.

Fear clawed its way up from the depths of my stomach, its icy grip tightening around my throat. My muscles seized, coiled, and froze. “They’re not going to dig up the garden, are they?” Pablo mumbled. “I just had the lawn replanted.”

“Pablo, please,” sighed his brother.

Pablo glared at the burning ash at the end of his cigarette, slowly dimming as his face turned redder.

“How did they find out?” he asked.

Oscar wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. “I don’t know yet, but–”

“I’m asking her.”

Pablo glanced up at me, his sharp gaze grazing against my face like the blade of a knife.

By some miracle, I found the strength to speak. I answered with three words, barely audible and lower than a whisper. It wasn’t much of an answer, and it sounded pathetic, breathless, and weak.

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do,” Pablo spat back.

“We’ll figure that out later,” Oscar intervened. “We have bigger priorities.”

“So, do we need to cancel the party?” Pablo grumbled.

“First things first,” said Oscar. “She needs to leave.”

“Right.” He winced, scraping his teeth against his lip. “Tell me which safehouse I should take her to.”

“No, you need to stay here. It’s too dangerous, and the cops will want to talk to you.” Oscar pointed his thumb at the guards standing behind him. “These two can escort her.”

Pablo pouted and nibbled the inside of his cheek, seemingly unconvinced by his brother’s plan. His eyes scanned me from head to toe, probably thinking of what he could do to me to get me to talk.

“Go get her bodyguard,” he said as he turned to Beto. “Oso. Tall guy, bald head. Tell him to wait by the tunnels.”

Beto nodded and left without a word, slamming the door in his haste.

Oscar coughed. “We don’t know yet if Oso is involved with this.”

“Perhaps, but he’ll make her run faster,” Pablo shrugged.

“Why?”

“Because she cares about him,” he said as a dry smirk stretched across his lips. “And she knows that if they catch her, they’ll catch him.”

He lifted himself out of his chair, and let out a deep, satisfied sigh. He pressed his hand down on my back, pushing me towards the door, and still with his grin, he leaned in closer to my ear.

“Wouldn’t want them to kill your Big Puppy, do you, Gordita?”

His finger brushed up my chin, and he hastened his pace to walk alongside his brother. The dimly lit corridor stretched out before us, long enough to give the men some time to discuss the next details of their emergency plan.

“Miguel worked his magic,” Oscar murmured. “The cops are willing to ignore any other charges if we collaborate with them.”

“I don’t trust that one second,” Pablo groused.

“I was thinking we could throw them off the scent,” suggested his brother. “You know, throwing someone else under the bus, making stuff up, something like that.”

“Absolutely not,” he replied. “The less we know, the better. Just make sure everyone is ready in case shit hits the fan.”

As we walked deeper down the house’s bowels, the corridors grew narrower, closing in on us like a tightening noose. Pablo kept glaring at me over his shoulder, once again blaming me for something I didn’t do.

We reached a windowless room, filled to the ceiling with boxes and old scraps of furniture, which had been pushed aside to reveal a deceptively simple secret door. Here, the atmosphere was shrouded in darkness, silence, and secrets. A gust of cold air blew in through the open door, and a howling wind echoed through the depths of the gloomy tunnel.

Oso stood in a corner with a staunch expression on his face, and yet a slight tremble in his fingers. He knew better than me what kind of dangers lay ahead, and his unease was a terrifying sight. Still, a glimmer of relief flickered in his eyes when they met with mine.

Pablo took his coat off of his back and draped it over mine. As he pulled it tighter over my shoulders, he leaned in to leave a cold kiss on my forehead.

“I’ll see you later, alright?” he whispered. “I won’t be long.”

Oso stepped into the tunnel and I quickly followed. Pablo’s strange, wry smile disappeared the split second he shut the door behind us.

Oso’s flashlight flickered on, and we walked in a straight line for what felt like ages, surrounded by nothing but darkness, damp walls, and the endless echoes of our lone footsteps.

“How far is the safehouse?” I asked.

“Two hours walking, if we walk fast,” Oso replied.

“Do you think we’ll make it?”

“Yes,” he answered, but the quiet crack in his voice betrayed him.

Oso had been sent on some kind of suicide mission, and it was all my fault. I hardly knew what happened, how, or even why it did, although I had an idea who was the idiot behind it. Nonetheless, I felt guilty as shit.

If I chose to run to find help, Oso would be blamed for letting me go, and Pablo would track him down and kill him for his treason. If I so much as trailed behind or walked too slow, and we both ended up getting caught, then Oso would get arrested or something worse.

If I followed orders, walking swiftly and silently towards the safe house, then I’d be condemned to sit and watch as I once again missed out on a potential opportunity, but compared to the other outcomes, it felt like a lesser tragedy.

After crossing a few heavy locked doors, we finally escaped from the claustrophobic tunnel, and emerged in the middle of nowhere, from a trapdoor buried deep in the forest. The night wasn’t too dark yet, the sun had just set and the sky was dark purple. Right above our heads shined a thick moon crescent, casting eerie shadows and a dark green glow between the sparse trees.

Oso walked steadily, keeping his eyes riveted to the phone in his hand. He hardly used his flashlight, only switching it on to check our surroundings whenever he heard another sound than that of raindrops dripping from a leaf.

Oso was usually the one to sing or crack jokes in order to break the tension, but tonight, he stayed silent. Other than a few quick words of encouragement, he didn’t say anything, and left the crickets in the jungle to do all the talking.

We walked down a dirt road for a while, but Oso kept nervously staring back at the clear tracks our steps left in the mud. He suggested we cut through the forest instead, and I agreed with a brief nod.

I tripped and cursed as treacherous rocks rolled beneath my feet. I thanked myself for leaving my heels in the tunnel, else I would have already broken an ankle. Branches snagged my dress, while sharp thorns scraped along my legs. Hissing in pain, I stopped in my tracks and bent over to check if I was bleeding.

“You are hurt?” Oso asked.

“It’s just a scratch,” I sighed.

“I have sticky things,” he said, pulling a box of bandaids from his pocket.

We took a quick break while Oso cleaned up my small wound. I made the most of it to stretch my legs, drink a little water, and rub some of the dirt off my feet. He took the time to take a better look at the map.

“Are we still far away?” I mumbled.

Oso’s head jolted up, his face grimacing like he’d noticed a stench amidst the scent of damp earth, and he stuck his finger on his lips.

Somewhere in the jungle, not too far away, a branch had cracked. We held our breaths and listened carefully. There was another sound, just a little closer by.

“We must go,” whispered Oso.

I chose to obey and follow quietly because getting caught could mean trouble for both of us, especially for him.

We bowed our heads and bent our backs, trying not to fall as we scuttered from tree to tree. Now that we were deeper in the forest and couldn’t use Oso’s flashlight, everything was pitch black.

Every time he heard a sound, he’d wrap his arm around me and we’d hide behind the thick trunk of the closest tree. The first five times, it was a false alarm, and after a few seconds, we’d breathe out and walk further.

The sixth time, he went a step further and made me crouch down. His trained ear had noticed before mine, but there was something nearby. I could hear heavy, regular thumps hitting the ground, and leaves rustling beneath footsteps. There was a sharp swish of a machete and the sound of fronds hissing from the hit. Then, there were voices, drawing closer to us.

“So we’re makin’ all this fuss over a dead body?” said a guy, his tone dripping with a thick Brooklyn accent.

“It ain’t just a dead body,” replied another. “If the tip was right, this could link the fella to hundreds of unsolved cases.”

“And if it isn’t right?”

“Then it’s just some kind of revenge another narco pulled on him,” he muttered. “Shit like that happens all the time. These guys are more petty than teenage girls.”

“I just don’t get why we’re out here, bro,” the guy huffed, kicking a rotten branch. “It’s not like we’ll find corpses running around the forest.”

“’Cause Jeffrey is supposed to sniff it out.”

“Who the fuck names their dog Jeffrey?” he groaned.

There was a sound of something metallic clattering against stones, followed by a hushed argument between the two men.

“They have a dog,” I whispered to Oso.

I hardly saw his reaction through the darkness around us, but I could clearly hear him creeping away. Dirt clung to my clammy palms as I crawled behind him, and the voices seemed to follow in our steps.

“Found something, Jeffrey?” snickered one of the guys.

“What if they have guys out there, guarding the corpse?” asked the other, who still hadn’t run out of questions.

“Are you scared or what?”

“I heard something.”

“You fucking coward,” he jeered. “You’re actually scared.”

“No,” muttered his colleague. “I swear I heard something.”

Their dog’s bark sliced through the night, and the blood froze in my veins.

“Is someone out there?” shouted one of the guys. “Please identify yourself.”

“Por favor identificar usted,” added the other in broken Spanish.

Please identify you.

“I think they’re behind one of those trees,” he whispered.

“You gotta be more specific, we’re surrounded by trees.”

“Salir del árbol,” he yelled. “Ahora.”

To get out of the tree. Now.

We waited for them to lose interest, standing as still as we could. My heart was pounding so fast, I wondered if they’d hear it from where they stood.

The bright beam of their flashlights swept across the forest, strobing through the trees. My eyes met Oso’s panicked gaze as the lights shined on our faces. He didn’t even have time to nod or budge before the two men reacted.

“Over there!” shouted one.

“Hey!” screamed the other.

Oso grabbed me by the hand, and we ran. It was as if Pablo knew that this would happen, and he’d been blessed with a cruel stroke of genius as he planned his little strategy. Had I been with anyone other than Oso, I would have stopped running. I would have raised my hands up in the air and cried with joy as my journey through Hell finally ended.

Instead, the tears running down my cheeks were burning with fear. If I fell or stopped, Oso could get shot, either by Pablo or the cops, and I cared too much for him to let it happen. So I ran, faster than I ever thought I could.

Shadows danced around the forest as the men darted toward us. They distorted the ground and the trees around us, hiding big rocks and steep drops, casting hypnotizing illusions and causing confusion.

The two men screamed into their crackling radios, barking louder than their dog. They chased us relentlessly, jumping over the bushes they couldn’t cut through with their machetes, grunting loudly every time they bumped into a tree.

They were on a hunt. We were the prey, and they were out for blood.

Soon, the deafening sound of blood pumping through my veins was drowned out by the roar of rushing water.

Right ahead of us was a torrent of mud, where once laid a river.

“Stop,” panted one of the guys, “Stop running!”

“Just shoot!” screeched his friend.

Something hit me in the side of the chest, cutting my breath and throwing me into the river.

I heard three loud bangs, muffled by the water above my head. They still echoed around the forest when I surfaced.

Coughing, and gasping for air, heaving, and drowning under every wave, I desperately tried to keep my head above the water.

My eyes scanned the tormented waters, trying to spot a sign of Oso, but all they found were floating branches and debris that had been swallowed by the flood.

“Emilia!” his voice pierced through the rumbling current.

I splashed around as the river tried to pull me under, its dirty water gushing down my throat everytime I tried to answer.

His strong arm reached out under the surface, and like a lifeline, it wrapped around my waist.

“I got you, Baby Dog,” he breathed. “I got you.”

I held on tight to him, huddling against his chest. We treaded water as best as we could until the river spat us out into a small creek, and I pulled myself onto the other bank.

Behind us, the foaming river shimmered in the faint moonlight that tore through the trees. I was sore in every spot, from my stinging eyes to my beaten legs.

“Are you okay, Baby Dog?” asked Oso.

“Are you okay?”

“I am fine,” he said, as he sat down beside me.

He winced in pain, clutching his stomach. A pink stain seeped through his white shirt, just beneath his hand.

“They shot you,” I realized.

He looked down and lifted his hand before quickly covering his wound again.

“I am fine,” he repeated.

“Oso, you were shot,” I cried.

“In the stomach,” he mumbled. “It’s okay. I am fat belly.”

Despite the dim light, I could see the bloodstain growing larger and darker, as it spread through the threads of his wet clothes.

“How far is the safehouse?” I asked.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and water dripped from his shaky hand.

“I don’t know,” he sighed in defeat.

“Let’s get you there quickly,” I said. “It can’t be too far.”

I felt eerily calm, perhaps in denial that Oso was slowly bleeding out. We walked slowly but surely, even through the darkest parts of the forest, and I taught him to sweep his foot across the ground each time he took a step, as I had learned during my last nighttime walk through the jungle.

“See that little light over there?” I whispered, trying to breathe hope into my words. “We’re almost there, Big Puppy.”

I felt like a liar. There was indeed a tiny white glimmer in the distance, but it was still far away. With every passing minute, his breathing grew heavier, his pained moans louder, and the lump in my throat grew bigger, and bigger.

“Are you bleeding a lot?” I asked. “Maybe we should stop.”

“No,” he grunted. “We keep going.”

The further we walked, the less I believed we were anywhere close to the safehouse. Oso’s back slumped more and more with every slow step, his weight bearing down on my shoulder as he struggled to keep his balance.

My fears turned out to be true when we reached a small clearing, in which sat a small abandoned house. The bright light I thought I’d seen turned out to be nothing more than a ray of moonlight hitting a broken window pane.

There was only one sight more painful than this pitiful house. I watched as the man who’d kept me standing for months keeled over and collapsed, with no help in sight.

Although every piece of me begged me to lay down by his side and give up as well, I gathered all the strength I had to drag him inside the house, and pull him onto an old couch that had been left to rot there.

“I need to–” I stuttered, thinking out loud to keep my mind clear, “I’m going to stop the bleeding, okay?”

I pushed his weak hand away from the wound and pressed my quivering fingers down on the bloodstained fabric of his shirt. His shallow breathing turned hysteric, and he began to wail and thrash around.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I repeated over and over. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry.”

Thick, dark blood oozed between my fingers with each of his agonizing twitches. My heartbeat rose with his, and my attempt to keep more blood from spilling seemed to do more harm than good.

His eyes rolled to the back of his head, revealing whites that had turned bloodshot red. His mouth hung open in a ghastly expression, as if he was already dead. Still, his limbs jerked and seized, he tried to pull away my arms as he kicked his legs, but the more he panicked, the more he bled.

“Sing a song for me,” I asked softly, hoping it would help him calm down.

“I cannot,” he cried. “I cannot breathe.”

“Please try,” I whimpered, gently stroking his forehead. “For me. A Pitbull song.”

His voice was strained, a guttural groan he tried to push past his gritting teeth.

“Me not working hard, yeah right, picture that with a Kodak,” he muttered. “Better yet, go to Times Square, take a picture of me with a Kodak.”

Sweat dripped from his forehead, clearing tracks in the mud that covered his face. Beneath the dirt, his skin was the palest shade of gray.

“And tonight, let’s enjoy life, Pitbull, Nayer, Ne-Yo.” His voice was calmer, but still weak and slow, as if every syllable drained him. “Tonight, I want all of you, tonight. Give me everything tonight.”

Between my tears, I sang with him, humming a song I never expected could be so haunting. As his breathing steadied, so did his pulse, and the gushing streams of blood that seeped out of his stomach turned to a trickle.

“For all we know, we might not get tomorrow,” he sang meekly.

The lyrics’ cruel irony drew a bitter laugh from my lips. I noticed Oso was shivering, so I took off Pablo’s coat to cover him with it. Only then did I notice how cold I felt. It was as if I’d been caught in a blizzard that froze me down to the bone and encased my heart in unbreakable ice.

“Grab somebody sexy, tell them hey,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

He rested his head on my lap and stopped singing. I kept one hand on his wound, and the other on his chest to check if he was still breathing.

The house was dirty and decayed, filled with a musty smell and puddles of rainwater that leaked through the roof. There were vines crawling down the walls, branches creeping in through the broken windows, moldy spots and tiny holes on their leaves staring down at me like thousands of curious eyes, not one of which offered any help or relief.

We were alone, and far away from anything I knew. It was just me, Oso, and a single rat that scuttled out of a dark corner of the room.

I could see Oso’s waterlogged phone sticking out of his pocket. Our quick dive into the river had probably damaged it beyond repair, but it was my only hope.

“Please turn on, please turn on.” I whispered a silent prayer as I kept my fingers pressed down on the buttons.

To my surprise, the screen lit up, although I couldn’t see much other than the flickering green and purple stripes that littered it.

Thanks to muscle memory and what little I could see on the screen, I found what seemed like Pablo’s number, and sent out a call. I would have rather asked for Pablo’s help than leave Oso on his own.

The dial tone rang five times, and then the call dropped. I glanced down at Oso. His lips were still trembling, his chest still moved up and down as he breathed. I sent out another call.

I made forty-two calls in total, and Pablo never picked up.

The more time passed, the more the phone would glitch. In a last-ditch effort, I sent Pablo a message through WhatsApp with our location, but the screen turned off before I could see if it went through.

I tried to slip the phone back into Oso’s pocket without disturbing him, but he opened his eyes and winced in pain.

“Linsday Lohan,” he moaned.

“What?” I frowned.

“Excuse me.”

“It’s okay.”

“But I might drink a little more than I should tonight,” he croaked.

I let out a weak chuckle, but I was nowhere near reassured. His voice was a weary whisper, and his lips were slowly turning purple. When I tried to lift my hand off his wound, fresh blood started to pour out again.

I was Oso’s only hope, and I had no hope left.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“So good, tonight,” he hummed. “We might not get tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to sing anymore,” I tried to say, but half of the words stayed stuck in my dry throat.

“Baby Dog, you know my daughter name?” he asked, a faint smile on his lips.

I quietly shook my head.

“It’s Sara.”

I tilted my head back, shutting my eyes and pinching my lips to keep the tears from spilling over.

“It’s funny, no?” he said.

“Sarah,” I repeated with a sickly, bitter laugh. “Just like me.”

“Almost like you, but there is no H. It is Sara with no H.”

My own father died because his car was too crushed for the paramedics to help him. He bled out in a tangled wreckage, with no one there to hold him. Perhaps one day, Sara with no H would find solace in knowing that at least her father died in the arms of someone who loved him.

“What is she like?” I asked, just to hear his voice for a little longer. “What does she look like, Sara with no H?”

“Very small, not like her Dad. Also she have very long hair. Not like her Dad,” he chuckled. “But her face is just like me.”

“Really?” I sniffled.

“Also, she have big ears. Like her Dad,” he said. “You can see her ears under her hair. Like a monkey.”

“You think your daughter looks like a monkey?” I snorted.

“Monkeys are very cute,” he protested.

Still grinning, Oso closed his eyes. A teardrop rolled down my cheek and fell on his forehead, but he didn’t feel it.

He’s still breathing, I thought to myself.

Night drew on, and warm blood still trickled through my fingers.

He’s still breathing.

The coat I’d given him wasn’t enough. Oso’s skin was dull and freezing.

But he’s still breathing.

The ground rumbled beneath my feet, rattling whatever was left in the house’s moldy cupboards, and making its walls crumble a little more. Perhaps the Earth would open up and swallow us whole, because that was the only thing that could make this night worse than it already was.

But it wasn’t Hell coming our way. It was help. I could hear roaring engines, screaming men, and rushing footsteps. A bright light blinded my eyes as I cradled Oso’s head.

“They’re in here,” someone said. “Both of them.”

Three men walked into the house, shrouded in shadows, and shined a flashlight on Oso’s face and stomach. He blinked a few times and closed his eyes again soon after.

“Emilia, are you alright?” asked a man.

“I’m, uh, not shot,” I mumbled.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him.”

With a hesitant pause, I followed the man out of the house, stepping into the harsh glare of artificial lights. There, I quickly recognized Oscar’s face. He sighed, a grim frown on his brow, and offered me a cigarette.

I looked downward, only to discover that I was drenched from the neck down in what seemed like gallons of blood.

“Is he going to be okay?” I asked, peeking inside the house to see the men gathered around Oso and the old couch.

Oscar didn’t answer, and just sucked in a deep breath. Another silhouette approached us, tutting and shaking his head.

“Look at what you’ve done,” spat Pablo. “Every time you try to run, this kind of shit happens, and yet you still won’t learn.”

“If I was planning on running away, I’d be gone by now,” I retorted. “Instead, I stayed here all night, by Oso’s side, and I was the one who sent you that message.”

“If you hadn’t called the cops, we wouldn’t be here,” he seethed.

“It wasn’t me,” I muttered. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Then who was it?”

I had the answer on the tip of my tongue. I knew what had happened. Juan had tried to prove he wasn’t a traitor and once again, he fucked up everything.

Frustrated by my silence, Pablo let out a groan. He leaned over as if he was talking to a child, a steady finger pointed at Oso’s limp frame as two men carried him out of the house.

“Tell me Gordita,” he said. “Who killed Oso?”

Blood Sport

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