by R. B. Schow
He felt a surge of adrenaline hit his bloodstream. Holding his Sig Sauer P226 by his waist, finger resting on the trigger guard, he closed his eyes and saw Esty and every beautiful feature on her, and then he envisioned her having her clothes torn from her battered body. He started to shake with rage as he envisioned guy after guy having his way with her.
When he opened his eyes, he didn’t feel so much pain. With a growl, he felt like he wanted to rip the skin off of these motherfuckers.
Putting the Spark in gear, he pulled around the other side of the neighborhood, found a long spot along the sidewalk in front of what looked like an abandoned house, then parked the car and got out carrying the M4 and the Sig. The shot-to-shit Chevy was an eyesore—a single storm cloud in an otherwise clear sky. He didn’t care. He was the one with the guns.
In the back of the hatchback, Yergha grabbed two more magazines for the M4, a holster and a second mag for the Sig, the double hand grenade pouch for his two hand grenades, and a tactical blade he attached to his belt. He loaded up the tactical belt with everything he could, put it on then stuffed the extra magazines in his pants pockets.
He closed the hatch, walked through the neighborhood, nodded to a pair of older women sitting on their porch eyeing him suspiciously.
“Just another Pakistani nutcase wandering through your neighborhood, ladies,” he mumbled to himself.
Around the corner, he saw the house, snuck up to one of the front windows. A dog started barking inside the house, a frothing at the mouth Rottweiler from what he could see. He jerked his head away from the window. If people in other houses were seeing him, they were either keeping to themselves or they were calling these scumbags to alert them to Yergha’s presence.
“Shut that damn dog up!” one of the guys inside the house shouted.
“¡Demon, silencio!”
Feeling like whatever small window of opportunity he had was closing fast, he slunk around the back of the house and took cover behind the Suburban he and Esty shot up earlier. He peeked inside the vehicle, saw blood everywhere. In the back seat, he saw one of the dead guys curled up like he’d been stuffed there and left behind.
Heading for the backyard, he eased open an old wooden gate, then checked what windows he passed. Most of them were covered with blinds or blackout drapes. He counted what he thought were four rooms and a bathroom but he couldn’t get a clear idea of how many guys were inside the house.
Beads of sweat gathered along his brow, in his armpits, across the nape of his neck, and at his lower back. Right now she could be getting raped or killed. He clenched his sphincter because he felt a sudden shifting of his colon. Was this fear or anger supercharging him? Or was it a bit of both? His rage would only carry him so far. After that, he would have to rely on his skills, his ammunition stores, and a lot of good luck.
“Sack up, knuckled up,” he whispered, psyching himself up for this.
He was turning the corner of the house when someone kicked open the back door and bounded down the steps. This guy walked to the back of the yard—which wasn’t more than twenty feet from the back door to the fence—unzipped his fly, and started to piss. He was humming a tune, lost in his own world.
Yergha peeked around the house and saw two windows with coverings over them. He couldn’t imagine any of those guys peeping on their homie, so Yergha tightened his focus and moved in on the man.
He unsheathed his tactical blade as he closed the distance between them. In one swift move, he stabbed the guy in the ribs and covered his mouth. The blade went in a little rough, but it got through a pair of ribs and likely punctured the liver.
The slight shift of his body exposed more of his ribs. Yergha jerked out the blade then drove it into the man’s side four inches higher, puncturing his lungs.
The guy’s knees softened as he arched his back in pain.
Yergha then ripped the blade out, stepped belly-to-back to the man, and swung the knife around the front of him. The tip of the blade pierced the base of the man’s dick or balls. He couldn’t be sure which part of the genitalia he struck, but it didn’t really matter.
“How many men inside?” he asked, the tip of the blade still in him.
The man was moaning, cursing to himself, not cooperating fast enough. He covered the man’s mouth again and slid the blade into his business a bit deeper. The cries of pain against his cupped hand were making Yergha nervous but he needed intel.
“How many?” Yergha asked.
When the man stopped crying, Yergha uncovered his mouth so he could speak.
“Seven.”
“Where is the girl?”
“Baño,” he said, sobbing.
“How many bathrooms in that dump?”
“One,” he said, trying to get control of himself. In an attempt to salvage some of his dignity, he stopped crying long enough to say, “You’re dead, asshole. I’m dead, but you’re dead too. I’ll see you in hell, cabrón.”
Yergha shoved the blade into the man’s junk, then turned it hard and tore it out in a downward line. The guy folded over, a pained squeal escaping him. The minute he folded forward, Yergha yanked the blade out then plunged it deep into the man’s throat.
He knew from his training back home that to merely stab someone was not enough. That was why he twisted the blade inward and pulled it through most of the man’s neck. All kinds of gore dumped out of the open hole. He helped the man fall down slowly then he pushed him over, sheathed the blade, and gripped the M4.
Knowing the bathroom was around the side of the house from where he’d just come, he opened the back door like he was the dude coming in after a piss. He walked directly into an enclosed kitchen not four feet from a man making a sandwich. Yergha hit him with a three-round burst, grabbed a grenade, then pulled the pin and bounced it off a wall, sending it bouncing into the living room. The explosion was deafening, but he was already on the move.
Yergha went away from the blast, turning into a short hallway toward the back bedrooms. One guy ran out of the back room but a three-round burst had him thinking twice. One more round to his dome and that freaking turd was never going to think again.
He opened one bedroom door, saw one of the guys he’d apparently shot earlier lying on the bed, eyes open and seeing nothing. There was a death pall in the room. He shut the door then turned to another door in another room.
Inside it was empty but he didn’t have time to clear it before gunfire opened up in the hallway. Drywall bits blasted his face as he ducked down. He kicked himself back into the bedroom he’d just cleared, saw there were no windows, and immediately realized his mistake. He had already taken too long to figure this out.
Rather than hide in the closet, he slipped behind the door, removed the Sig, and waited. A dozen rounds punched through the paper-thin door. He made a loud sound, like oof, then stomped on the floor and waited. The door opened and through the widening crack, he saw the man advancing into the room. He put two rounds in one guy’s head then dropped to a crouch as more lead chewed through the middle of the door.
He backed up hard, raised his M4, fired six rounds into the door then slipped into the closet. This didn’t deter the men. He holstered the Sig, removed the last grenade from his tactical belt, and waited. A moment later, he heard two of them coming into the room. He popped out of the closet long enough to toss the grenade at them. The second he released the grenade, he exposed himself. He took a bullet to the upper pec, spinning him around.
“Grenade!” one of them screamed. Both men scrambled for cover as he was sucking wind from being shot yet again.
The vest caught the lead but it hurt like hell, right down to his shins. There was indeed a grenade, but he hadn’t pulled the pin when he threw it. They didn’t know that, though.
Working through a torrent of pain, he hurried to the open door, put eyes on the hallway then waited until he heard the men talking about the grenade maybe being a dud. The second both of them appeared in the hallway, he emptied the M4’s m
agazine into them both. Those two sacks of shit never knew what hit them, not until they were dying.
He hurried down the hallway, his grit back, his will to clear the rest of the house overpowering. Everyone was dead, and that’s when a nearly unbearable dread ran through him. If he found Esty violated and murdered, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.
Don’t think like that, Yergha. Just keep moving.
He cleared the rooms and closets then stood before the bathroom door. His breathing was shallow, his face already contorted like he knew Esty was dead and he was barely holding back the emotion. When he opened the door, four shots rang out. He ducked hard, but one of those rounds skipped off his skull bringing his blood to a boil.
He kicked the door open from where he lay on his back then sent a round into the pelvis of the shooter. He’d been aiming higher, but a hit was a hit. The guy dropped the gun and fell on his ass against the side of a porcelain tub.
Behind the man, he saw Esty strung up to the showerhead by her wrists. She had been stripped down to her bra and panties and beaten. Was she dead, though? Her head hung slack between her biceps and her hair was wet and hanging down to cover her face.
Yergha kept his carbine on the man he’d shot. He touched his own head, felt the skinned flesh where he’d been shot, then got to his feet and walked inside the bathroom. The guy he shot started to go for his gun but Yergha put a bullet into the porcelain tub right between his legs. Truthfully, he’d been aiming for the knee but his aim was off because his chest was mule-kicked and thumping with pain.
“Down on your knees,” he growled.
The man complied.
Yergha picked up the man’s gun, tossed it in the garbage can next to the toilet then said, “On your belly, arms out, hands flat on the ground.”
The guy understood English enough to follow Yergha’s instructions, but it was not without complaint.
Yergha stepped into the tub, reached forward, and lifted Esty’s head. Her eyes were open, but there was no life to them. He jumped with a sob, and then she blinked.
“Oh, thank God,” he said, breathless, his eyes soaked.
She looked over at the man on the ground, then down at herself. Her body started to shake, her face contorting with so much pain.
“It’s okay, baby,” he said, “you’re okay.”
He reached up, unhooked her hands, cut away the zip-ties. She sat down in the tub, trembling all over, her face beaten but not broken. He held her in his arms awkwardly, firmly. Sitting there, he had one eye on her and one eye on the asshole on the floor.
“Is it really you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“I’m sorry, Yergha,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. You’re alive and safe for now. I’ll give you a moment to get your composure while I talk to this guy.”
“Okay,” she said wiping her eyes.
He saw the red welts and blood spots on her wrists where the zip-ties cut into her skin and he became angry. Putting that out of his head so he didn’t do something stupid, he took his phone out, slid a finger across the screen to open it up, and accessed his Image files. He tapped on the picture of Sydney Fox and her three girls.
He then stood up, stepped out of the tub, and set his M4 on the vanity counter. With his free hand, he withdrew his blade. It was still bloody from the last guy.
Kneeling before the man, he showed him the photo and said, “Where are they?”
“No se,” the man said.
“Oh, I think you know just fine,” he said. “Now I can ask you again with the photo and you can answer me in English, or I can ask with the blade.”
“No se,” he said again. There was pain in his voice but it was masked quite well with raw hatred.
Yergha showed him the knife then said, “That blood is from your buddy’s ball sack. So if I stab you in the mouth it’ll be like giving your homie a blowjob. Is that what you’re about capullo?”
“Man I don’t go like that,” he looked up and hissed.
“You’re about to, dumb-ass.”
“Man, fuck you and your mother,” he hissed. “Do what you gotta do.”
In his peripheral vision, he saw Esty stand up and step out of the shower. He looked up at her—this gorgeous woman he’d dreamed of for months—and her eyes were like bullets, so cold and lethal they only needed a target.
“Let me try,” she said, not an ounce of emotion in her voice.
She knelt down before this culo, her chest bruised badly from where her vest caught a bullet, her face tight and swollen. There was blood from her nose smeared all over her mouth, chin, and chest. Yergha backed up from her. She looked like something hell spat out, something so charged that one look from those eyes and you’d surely turn to stone.
She grabbed the man’s hair, jerked his face up then extended her hand toward Yergha. He handed her the phone. She showed him the pictures and said, “Who has them?”
“No se, puta,” he said, his pain evident. This asshat was stubborn but he didn’t know Estella Baccarin.
She set the phone down, then in one horrifying moment, she shoved her finger into the man’s eye, sliding in beside the eyeball, ripping and tearing her way through to the back of the eye itself. The way he started screaming was like nothing Yergha had heard before. Well, not for a long time. Not since the Fifth Balochistan Conflict involving the BLA, which was where his warrior soul had been born.
When she got her finger behind the eyeball, she curled it in and slid the entire thing out of the socket. When the eye popped free, she grabbed it and ripped it out. The man’s screaming went to another level completely.
When the screaming turned to sobbing, she leaned down toward him, looking directly into his other eye. She picked up the phone, tapped the screen to bring it to life then opened it to the picture of the family.
“Where are they?” she asked again.
“Two places, maybe,” he said, his voice shaking. From under his pelvic region, a pool of red was forming from where he’d been shot. “Could be Amado Quintero or Santiago Cardenas. They handle the trafficking of kids like that. But the border is open now.” Angrily, he spat on her leg then said, “Those three little girls are gone now. And the bitch wife is dead. I bet they’re all dead!”
“Where do I find Quintero?” she asked calmly. “Where is Cardenas?”
“Quintero is in the Las Torres area of Juárez, but you won’t get to him without an army. It’s like stepping into the world’s largest hornet’s nest. That neighborhood is a maze and they got eyes and guns in every window. So, good luck there, chica.”
“And Cardenas?” Yergha asked.
“He’s at the base of the mountains at the end of a long dirt road.”
“They both traffic kids?” Esty asked.
Just then it sounded like someone opened the front door. They all fell quiet and then they heard someone moving into the house. “Juárez Police Department,” the man announced in Spanish.
The guy on the ground rolled his one eye up and looked at Yergha. The Pakistani shushed the man but the one-eyed bitch formed a slow grin on his mouth. He drew a breath to scream but Esty cupped his mouth shut and really leaned into him. What emerged, however, was a muffled cry that still felt too loud for their comfort.
With his Sig ready to go, Yergha moved out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Quiet as a mouse, he crept to the turn in the hallway and waited. The second the man came around the corner, Yergha pistol-whipped him. The policeman’s knees buckled and he went down hard, but he was not out cold. Yergha hit him again and he collapsed.
Back in the bathroom, he said to Esty, “We need to go. That was Juárez PD.”
“Talk, now,” Esty said to the one-eyed man.
“I told you enough,” he said, turning that one eye up at her, unafraid as he seemed to have found a new way to stand up to the pain.
“You haven’t told us nearly enough,” she said.
>
“When we’re done and you think you got away, I’m going to find you and cut you in half,” he said with a cruel and sadistic grin. “I’m going to cut your whole life in half!”
“Yergha,” Esty said.
He crouched before the man, shoved the front of the Sig into the man’s open eye socket, and said, “You get her knife or my bullet. It all depends on how you want to play this.”
Even though he must be hurting, the man went very still. Then he said, “Capilla San Martín Caballero.”
“What is that?” Esty asked.
Whatever resolves the man had made before this moment were quickly melting. Having a gun stuffed into your eye socket while bleeding out on a filthy bathroom floor couldn’t be anyone’s dream of dying.
“It’s a church at the base of the mountains. Cardenas’s house is in the hills behind it somewhere. At the end of a dirt road.”
“What is the likelihood that Quintero has them?” she asked.
“Less likely than Cardenas, but Cardenas is pinche loco. He’s insane in the head, loves the sound of his own voice, started selling kids after he bitched out of the drug trade. Quintero still moves weight into the US, but he has coyotes moving people there as well.”
“He’s a smuggler then?” Yergha asked.
“Mostly,” the man said. “But after COVID, everyone either diversified, got out of the game, or were put out of the game.”
Yergha looked over at Esty; she gave him a quick nod. Yergha pulled the trigger, painting the porcelain tub and the surrounding walls red.
He cleaned the end of his Sig with a towel and said, “Find your clothes. We need to get going quickly.”
It took a little longer to find her clothes, prompting Yergha to club the downed police officer again. When they slipped out back, they immediately ran into a two-man patrol looking inside the Suburban. Yergha put two rounds in each man then said, “Back, back. We have to hop a fence.”
