Shattered by Joann Ross

blast of the horn and a rude gesture from the annoyed truck driver she cut in front of. The same one who’d crossed all those lanes of traffic earlier.
    “We should start promoting driving in this city as an extreme sport. Make up some T-shirts we can sell on the Internet and have people pay us for the excitement of trying to make their way from one side of town to the other.”
    “The really strange thing is that you’d probably have people take you up on it,” Rachel said.
    This time Kirby did close her eyes as a petroleum tank truck passed a car in the oncoming lane and, like the earlier Hummer, headed straight for them.
    Following the unwritten “He who is larger wins the road” law of driving in Ciudad Libertad, she knew it wouldn’t budge. Which forced Rachel to pull so far over the car’s right wheels went up onto the sidewalk.
    Which was another reason for those helicopters. As dangerous as it was to drive in the city, walking, except in a few select areas, was even more deadly.
    The road continued through a wealthy community of gated homes, all surrounded by twelve-foot-tall walls. Broken bottles had been embedded in the top of the concrete walls like spikes. Which said a lot about the state of the country, Kirby thought as they passed the American ambassador’s mansion, its gate guarded by U.S. Marines armed with automatic weapons.
    The mansion’s high walls were covered with bougain-villea, and while the red flowers were stunning, Kirby suspected they’d been planted more for their thorns, which provided an additional barricade against the unwashed masses, than their beauty.
    Across the street, a ragged group of protestors waved signs and chanted “Yanqui, go home!” Monteleón had become so splintered, it was impossible to guess which of the many different factions they represented.
    The neighborhood walls were broken up at intersections, leaving room for yet more heroic statues of El Presidente Vasquez.
    “I’m sorry for mouthing off like that,” Kirby said.
    “Don’t worry about it.” Rachel slowed as they passed through the Zona Rosa, a neighborhood of pricey restaurants and nightclubs.
    American pop music blared from open doorways, and well-dressed pedestrians crowded the sidewalk, safe in the knowledge that private police hired to patrol the area would turn away—or even, if given any trouble, shoot—any undesirables who might attempt to enter their comfortable zone without the proper windshield sticker.
    Rachel turned left at the BMW dealer onto Avenida del la Reforma leading out of the city. “There are times I get frustrated, too.”
    “But you don’t insult the dictator who has the power to shut you down.”
    Or arrest them. Or worse.
    “I’m older.” Kirby heard the reassuring smile in the other woman’s voice. “And have more years dealing with uncooperative governments.”
    “Now, see.” Kirby turned as far toward the other woman as her seat belt would allow. “That’s what I don’t get. Vasquez and all his pals are rolling in dough. The bunch of them have more tax-free money than their shopaholic wives could spend in several lifetimes, stashed away in Swiss and Caribbean banks.
    “Meanwhile, because of their repressive tactics, they have rebel guerrilla groups popping up all over the place like crazed jack-in-the-boxes. So why aren’t they willing to throw some of those bucks our way? Because it seems to me that people would be a lot happier if their children weren’t starving or dying of easily preventable diseases.”
    She wondered if Vasquez was listening to their conversation, and since it wasn’t anything different than what she’d said at dinner, hoped he was.
    “In a perfect world, that would be the case.” The traffic eased as they got farther from the city. Rachel glanced up into the rearview mirror, as if checking to see if they were being followed.
    They wouldn’t be the first relief workers to disappear in Monteleón. Just last month the bodies of