El Neto

Muffled beats of music drifted in from the neighboring hotel rooms. Your friends were rummaging through makeup bags and tiny dresses, arguing over which nightclub to hit first. Hair straighteners hissed. The air was thick with the scent of perfume.
"Can someone grab some more bottled water?" Emma called out, struggling to zip up her dress. "The hotel wants eight bucks a bottle."
"I'll go," you said. You were already dressed and ready. You wore a tight, backless red dress. Your hair and makeup were flawless.
You crossed the road and headed toward that tiny shop you'd noticed during the day. Its faded neon sign flickered in the darkness. Halfway there, you heard the crunch of tires on gravel. A black SUV with tinted windows slowly turned into the narrow alley next to the store. Another car followed. Then another. The engines cut out almost simultaneously. Men stepped out of the vehicles. They were dressed in dark clothing and covered in tattoos. Pistols were tucked into their waistbands. None of them looked like tourists.
Their movements were too deliberate. Too practiced.
One opened the back door of the first SUV, while another pulled something heavy from the trunk of the second. They spoke in low Spanish voices that you couldn't quite make out. You froze. Maybe they were unloading supplies. Maybe you should just walk past. Then, one of the men jerked open a black gym bag. The contents weren't store merchandise. Inside were tightly packed bricks. Drugs. Another man looked back over his shoulder. Your eyes met. For one frozen heartbeat, neither of you moved. All conversation ceased. It felt as if any laughter from the nearby bars had vanished beneath the thundering of your heart. His expression didn't change. He simply reached for the radio clipped to his shoulder. And you realized—you weren't supposed to see this.
"Fuck," you whisper. You definitely need to run. But you're frozen, and those stupid heels aren't going to help.