The Children of the Wolf

by Karl Tutt

  Chapter Thirteen

  Even through the haze, Maria Elena determined that she felt quite well. The woman who had bathed and dressed her before the meeting had been with her almost constantly. She was actually very kind. She seemed to know the child needed reassurance, even a hint of affection. Motherly . . . that was the word that surfaced in the girl’s troubled consciousness.

  She looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The dress had been pressed nicely. It hung just off the shoulders and was about knee-length. A touch of frill, and even a bit of lace. Her makeup was light, but the hint of pink in her cheeks and the lip gloss gave her an understated glow. She decided she looked pretty. She shook her head slightly and determined that it was good.

  She knew she was clean, and she had been fed well. No one had touched her in those places her mother told her should be sacred. Her senses still swirled. She had taken the pills as instructed, but she had a premonition. She was being prepared. Every so often the image of the leering Chinese man would flash in her mind. Each time it made her shiver, but it didn’t last. Maybe things would be okay. That’s what the woman had told her. “You will be nicely taken care of, perhaps even honored.” She had repeated those words until Maria Elena had begun to believe them, or at least tried to. She ran a brush through her dark hair. Suddenly she had the impulse to cry.

  Just then she heard a light knock on the door. Selena, her keeper, put a hand to the knob and peered through the peephole. She pulled the door aside and bowed deeply.

  It was Lobo. He was dressed in Armani from head to toe, a silk tweed jacket, open collared linen shirt, tailored black slacks, and two-tone loafers that shone in the light from the window. A gold medallion hung over his bronze chest. His hair was slicked back to a dark sheen. He smiled and sauntered in.

  “Turn, my little one. Let me look at you,” he commanded.

  She hesitated.

  The woman trilled softly in her ear, “Do as Lobo has instructed. It will go better for you.”

  Maria Elena turned slowly, her head at her chest. She raised her eyes in a sickly combination of awe and fear.

  “Do not be afraid, my child. You look innocent, but completely ravishing.”

  His smile seemed sincere, but there was something feral in his eyes. He wore his name, the Wolf, like his perfectly cut sport coat.

  He turned to the keeper. “You have done well. You will be amply rewarded.”

  Then he walked out the door. The sound of the lock clicked loudly and chilled her. Something was coming. She wasn’t sure what, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Lobo stood outside the door for a moment. His people had checked. There was a quarter of a million dollars in his offshore account that hadn’t been there just this morning. Certainly he could be generous with a few bonuses to those who made it happen. The keeper, Mig . . . perhaps a few others. He patted his chest and took a deep breath. Ah . . . business was good.

  ---------------------

  Bart followed Mig. The companion had gone his own way and the big one was alone. He walked like a man who owned the city. The few people on the sidewalk skittered around him. The teens on the stoops continued their banter, and postured like the gang members do, but they avoided his eyes. Bart knew why.

  It was only a few blocks. The dark giant turned into a dirty brick walk up, entered, and made for the stairs. Bart could smell the stench of urine and rotting garbage in the hallways as he followed. The hulk was careless. He knew no one would follow, much less threaten a behemoth who was connected to one of the most powerful lords of the city. And Lobo was just that. Those who defied him met a cruel and timely end. Often at Mig’s very own hands. This thing was well known to the parasites who plied and corrupted the streets of Miami.

  Bart waited on the bottom step, his eye watching the shadow as Mig went to the third landing. The sentinel heard Mig’s key scratching at the lock, and the definitive click of the metal. He waited for a moment. He wanted to move quickly, to be sure, but he wasn’t sure of anything. Perhaps Pete’s advice had been wise. It was not too late to book a flight back to Tijuana and resume his role as a humble bar owner and father to his son. He thought of his beloved wife, Estrella. Would she forgive him from her grave if he did not try to save her daughter from a fate that screamed the ultimate violation? He didn’t know, but he was about to find out.

  He figured it was probably stupid, but it just might work. He pulled the Sig from his belt and racked the magazine. Then he crept up the steps and went to the door. He put his hand over his mouth and took a short breath. He knocked.

  “Mig. It’s me. Let me in.”

  The big man thought he recognized the voice. He pulled back the dead bolt and opened the door. The barrel of a very large pistol greeted him. It was pointed directly at his face. Mig smiled.

  “Amigo, perhaps you have the wrong apartment.”

  “I don’t think so,” Bart replied. He jiggled the barrel slightly and motioned Mig back into the small living space.

  “Sit down, my friend.”

  Mig scanned the apartment, looking for a weapon . . . or at least a diversion which might allow him to snap this intruder’s neck like a cheap pencil. He could sense the fear clinging to Bart like a cancer. But he knew a terrified man was unpredictable. Especially when he clutched a gun. Mig looked again, but there was nothing close. He eased onto the stained sofa and smiled.

  “Amigo . . . I do not know you, but there are things you do not understand. I am not a person you want to offend. There are others who are allies, confederates of a man who is very powerful . . . and very dangerous. To disrespect them could be fatal to you . . . and to others you may hold dear.”

  “I would not be here if I did not understand these things.”

  Bart squeezed the Sig fiercely.

  “Maria Elena. Do you know that name?”

  “No. She is someone to you?”

  “My daughter. A child who knows no man, who grieves for her mother, who deserves no desecration at the hands of swine like you. You know her, and you probably know where she is. You must tell me, but only if you intend to live. If not, you make my task easy.”

  Bart leveled the barrel of the semi-automatic directly at Mig’s face.

  “Indeed, Amigo. You are hasty. Put the gun down and we will talk. I know very little, but I will tell you what I do know. Then you can go on your way and find these infidels who have taken your daughter.”

  “Obviously you think me a fool,” Bart said.

  He picked up a stray pillow, pressed the end of the Sig into it, then aimed at Mig’s kneecap. The explosion was muted, but the blood was not. It spattered onto the couch and ran in a flood. Mig grabbed the leg and mewled like a whipped dog. Thick crimson flowed onto the cheap carpet.

  “The next one will shatter your head like a ripe melon.”

  “Please, Amigo. I will bleed out. I will tell you all of it. I can help. We will return your daughter to you.”

  Bart heard the whine erupting from the man’s lips. He stepped toward the giant and slammed the .38 into his temple. Mig slumped into the worn fabric. His eyes seemed to roll back into his head. Bart took a step closer. He realized quickly he had made a mistake that would probably prove fatal. A huge paw slammed into his gun hand. The Sig slid across the floor. Mig’s other hand clutched Bart’s neck. He could feel the giant’s sweaty body pressing him into the floor.

  “You missed . . . . and you misjudge me, fool. Now you will die.”

  Bart struggled and choked, but it was no use. The savage had him in a grip that meant his death. He was losing consciousness quickly. As he faced the end, he thought of Estrella and his daughter, the one who was now surely doomed to a hell he couldn’t quite imagine. Then the sound of a voice.

  “Ease up, motherfucker . . . or your brains will be decorating this filthy carpet.”

  Mig’s eyes cut to the side, and he sucked a burst of air through grinding teeth. His grip began to loosen. Bart gasped as th
e giant lifted himself off of Bart’s heaving chest. He looked up and tried to focus. Pete punched the barrel of the heavy Glock into the back of Mig’s head. Specks of blood spattered on Bart’s shirt as Mig moved away from him.

  “Back on the sofa, Compadre,” Pete commanded, “I never miss, especially with a stinking coyote like you.”

  Just then they heard the sobbing. It became a low moan, like the cry of a wounded animal. Pete picked up Bart’s Sig and handed it to him.

  “If the sonovabitch moves, send him to Satan’s graveyard. Quickly.” Bart coughed and nodded. He gripped the .38, his finger firmly on the trigger, and leveled it at Mig. The next one would be square in his belly. Then he’d whimper and beg while his life’s blood poured onto the floor.

  Pete went to the door of the bedroom and rocked it back on its hinges. The blond child was handcuffed to the bedpost. The oily hair hung over her face, and the cuts and bruises covered her body like the ravages of a plague. She shook in violent waves.

  “Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded, “I am yours. I will do whatever you wish. I beg you, don’t hurt me again.”

  She looked up through bloodshot eyes, rimmed with tears, and nodded her head like a broken puppet. Pete stepped toward her slowly and silently. He holstered the pistol and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

  “You are safe, now,” he whispered.

  He pulled the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her. Then he pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket and hit some familiar numbers. He handed the cell to Bart. He’d already told him what to say.