Bryan, 19, wondered what response the few young men still living in the neighborhood could muster, if any. The pastor slammed on the brakes and leapt out of the car, leaving it in the middle of the street with the door still open. A mother shoved her barefooted toddler indoors. For all his efforts — the one-man missions, the clandestine meetings — he had managed only to swap one enemy for another. Casa Blanca now had fewer than a dozen members in all. Whether the change was at all related, the meeting seemed to be going well.
Inside Gang Territory in Honduras: ‘Either They Kill Us or We Kill Them.’
Samuel excused himself from the conversation with the women and stubbed out his cigarette.
A braided scar ran from his right cheek down to his throat, compliments of a gang that had kidnapped him a year earlier. The shooter, an MS gunman in a tank top and black baseball cap, stood calmly on the corner in broad daylight, the only person left on the commercial strip. And the invasion was coming, one way or another.