He wondered, not for the first time, why Santos had chosen him for the job tonight. He longed for a cigarette, but did not dare risk lighting one. Long minutes crawled by and the muscles of José's thighs began to cramp. In this way as their target approached them, he would be flanked on both sides of the alley's narrow end. Then he followed Santos' lead and crouched down to wait in the shadows. When Santos motioned toward the opposite side of the alley, José stationed himself at the brick corner of the building. And did he only imagine the smell of sulfur? He crossed himself and scurried to close the distance between them. The warning was clear, and José worked to control the shaking of his body. "A good soldado does not keep his jefe waiting," Santos said, lips barely moving, a puppet whose strings were pulled by an unseen force. With his long black hair tied at the neck, his lean hard form, and his dark scowl, he looked like un angel caído, a fallen angel. José trembled like a leaf in the wind even though the drug runners had also told him to show no fear around Santos. El Diablo's enormous bulk morphed from among the gray shades of the alley into one dark silhouette as he stood at the narrow end like a legendary titan. Stepping from behind the industrial waste bin, Santos emerged from the shadows and caught José off guard. Indeed, the persistent rumors of the man's ferocity and the myth that he had made a pact with Satan seemed true.
His name among the Mexicans was El Diablo and although his given name reminded José of a holy angel, the street runners had forewarned him.
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