“Did you hear me?” Christine Williams screeched. “Go into the sanctuary and arrest those illegals so we can deport them this afternoon.”
Esteban, the lead ICE agent, shook his head. “This is a church we’re talking about.” He nodded toward the priest.
“If you don’t drag them out of here, I will personally fire you!” the new Homeland Security Director, Williams, threatened. She wore fatigues, a bullet-proof vest, and a black cap, sure to make headlines for the cameras waiting outside.
“There are worse things than getting fired,” Esteban replied, grasping a crucifix around his neck.
“We don’t have a court order,” Terrell, the second ICE agent, pointed out. “Yours is just an administrative directive.”
“And they’re Venezuelans too,” Randy, the third ICE agent, added. “They’re just fleeing a brutal regime. They might die if we send them back.”
“But these illegals are killing Americans every day!” Christine countered.
“Do they look like killers?” Randy pointed through the glass door at the young couple, a baby wedged between them.
The Homeland Security Director snorted. “I gave up my Idaho Congressional seat to bring some colones to this job. All I see are some weak-kneed pansies…”
Esteban stifled a laugh. “I think it’s cojones, Director.”
“Whatever! Now act like men and arrest those illegals!”
All three ICE agents shook their heads.
“I’ll show you how to do your jobs then!” Christine reached for Terrell’s holster and removed his firearm.
“Ma’am, don’t!” the ICE agent insisted. He grabbed her wrist.
Suddenly, the church echoed with the sound of a gunshot. The mother released a blood-curdling scream. Terrell’s eyes widened as he saw the baby’s face, covered in red.
“My god! Director, you shot the baby!” he shouted.
“You reached for my arm, Terrell! You did this!” Christine snapped.
She dropped the gun and sprinted out of the church sanctuary toward the side door, away from the news cameras. She would predate her resignation letter to earlier in the day and delete all of the files on the Perez family. Nobody would trace this incident back to her. She might restart her political career back in Idaho, and nobody would likely associate this death with her.
The young couple remained shaken, the violence triggering traumas of armed actors breaking into their Venezuelan home because they supported the opposition candidate.
As the agents cautiously approached, Esteban bent closer to the baby and said, “Wait, he’s not dead.” Brushing the child’s cheek, he tasted the red stain and asked, “¿Qué es?”
The mother replied, “Puré de remolacha,” a beet puree typical of Venezuelan baby food.
“Let this family stay here until their political asylum application is processed,” Randy suggested. “By the way, where did the bullet go?”
The priest pointed to Jesus on the cross just above the family, with the bullet lodged in his side.
“Gracias,” the father told the agents and the priest. “Esperanza está aqui.”
Esteban translated for the others. “Hope is here.”
INSTANT NOODLES 