Lycan

by John O'Brien

  They hesitate, looking at the woman. Her head barely moves with a nod. I hope to hell that means do it in the sense of what I asked and not proceed with guns blazing. It’s already been established that she’s not expendable as the air is still clear of bullets zipping through the intervening space. The guards lower their weapons and unsling them, but make no move toward the pool.

  “If you think I’m bluffing, there’s six bodies inside that can testify to exactly how serious I am. In the pool, now!”

  In response to my words, the woman in my grasp stiffens. The men move forward, tossing their carbines into the pool with a splash. Ripples extend outward, lapping around the two stunned kids and to the pool’s edges.

  “Radios and sidearms as well.”

  Several more splashes follow. I’m reasonably sure that at least one of the men has a gun strapped to his ankle. It’s not something I can readily see, but I can’t take chances. And, I’m pressed for time as who knows when the roving guards will reappear.

  “Okay, now those strapped to your ankles and the knives you’re holding.”

  No man moves.

  “Look, I know you’re carrying more and you’re putting this woman in danger by stalling. I’m not here to play games. Do it now or I leave her head a bloody mess.”

  One hesitates and then kneels, reaching for his ankle.

  “Easy now.”

  Another handgun and knife make their way to the pool’s bottom.

  “Walk over here.”

  “Do you speak English?” I whisper to the woman.

  She says nothing, her rigid body.

  “Your life depends on it,” I say.

  “I speak a little,” she replies in a heavily accented voice.

  “Very well. Call your children over,” I order.

  “They are not my niños.”

  “Does that really matter at this point? Call them over,” I say, wondering if I have a mistress as a hostage.

  If that’s the case, she must be important as the men readily gave up their weapons. She could be a sister I suppose, or another relative. I don’t really care as long as she provides a buffer and holding her as a hostage can get me out of here.

  The men arrive just ahead of the kids, the latter with their swimming suits dripping. Both of the kids keep glancing at the dead guard with anxious faces. But, to their credit, I guess, they don’t scream or panic. Perhaps they’ve seen dead men before, or at least know what their daddy does and understands that’s a part of it.

  “Kneel down, hands on your head with fingers interlocked,” I tell the men, pleased that they understand what I’m saying. This could have gone a whole lot differently if we also had to battle communication issues.

  “Now, we’re going to go inside and into the basement. It’s kind of messy inside, so accept my apologies in advance. If you try to do anything, including making an attempt to flee, I’ll drop her here and now and take my chances. I may or may not make it off the property, but neither will you. You’ll be the first to go.”

  “Repeat those instructions to the kids,” I tell the woman.

  She says a few words in Spanish, the kids nodding but it’s pretty clear they’re in shock and not truly understanding what’s going on. Moving the carbine away from the dead guard, I motion for the two men to lift him into the house. Once they place the man inside, I tell them to again place their hands on top of their heads.

  I enter on their heels, the .45 still pressed to the back of the woman’s head. Momentarily releasing my grip on her, I close the door. I made it inside before the roving patrol returned. What they do once they arrive and find no one there is anyone’s guess, but I’m hoping they think everyone went inside and leave well enough alone. If they come to the door, they’ll see the dead guard just inside and the alarm will go out.

  “Basement,” I say, motioning.

  The little boy gives a squeal of surprise when he sees the dead guard lying on the kitchen floor. Luckily, the man isn’t bleeding much externally due to how he died. But there is a blotch of red blood soaked into the shoulder of his shirt. The girl only whimpers when she’s forced to step over his body. The woman offers a quick burst of Spanish and the kids move on toward the door just behind the guards.

  Downstairs, with the exception of the woman, I lock them in the darkened room. I realize that I’ve probably just traumatized the kids to the point of needing therapy or turned them onto the path of becoming serial killers. I feel bad, I truly do. If there were another way of doing it, I would, even so far as locking them in the empty room. But I don’t have the means to do that. This is one of those sucky things that happen in the course of the career I’ve chosen. I just can’t risk allowing them free to run to the other guards and leaving my own kids bereft of a dad. There’s just no silver lining to be found with this one.

  Back in the kitchen, I tell the woman to move to the back patio again. I need to clear those roaming guards before moving on. My plan is to have the woman call them over and dispatch them, either having them join the others in the basement or those on the floor. Either way is fine with me.

  “No,” the woman states quietly.

  “Excuse me? What do you mean no?”

  “I mean no,” she insists.

  “Are you absolutely sure this is the route you want to go?” I whisper, my voice low and terse.

  “First, we make a deal,” she says.

  I chuckle. Here’s a woman held at gunpoint and she wants to make a deal. I would say that she has nothing to bargain with, but that’s not exactly true. If she doesn’t follow along with what I want, I’m probably toast, and she seems to know that. I’m not sure what her angle is, but if she withdraws from the tacit agreement of being held at gunpoint, then my time in this world might be measured.

  “Okay lady, I’ll bite. What kind of deal are you talking about?”

  “I saw my husband dead on the floor in the basement. I take it he did that to you,” she says, referring to my swollen face.

  I nod.

  “He’s dead. I won’t say that I’m sorry or grieving, but that means my life here is forfeit. I know too much and won’t see the end of the week. You help me and I help you.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Get me out of here…out of the country…to America,” she answers.

  “I can get you out of here, but I can’t promise the out of country thing,” I reply.

  “All or nothing. I’m already dead if I stay here, so your threat holds little for me,” she comments.

  I think for a second. I don’t know how I’ll hold up my end of the bargain if I take it, but that’s a bridge to across later. Right now, I need to get the fuck out of here and deal with shit later.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Maria.”

  “Okay Maria, fine. I’ll figure something out, but it’s a deal. Is there a radio nearby?”

  “I don’t know…I don’t think so.”

  “What about the kids? You’d just leave them orphaned?”

  “I told you, they aren’t mine. I like them well enough, but they have other family members who will take them in.”

  I’m pretty sure Maria is aware of what her husband did or she wouldn’t be fearful for her life. I’m not overly keen on her choices, knowing that others have died so she could live her lifestyle, but I can’t be picky about what help I receive at the moment.

  Keeping Maria in sight the entire time, I drag the bodies to the basement and roll them down the steps. Once finished, Maria begins walking out of the kitchen and into the adjacent dining room.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, grabbing her arm.

  “There’s something I need,” she replies, eying toward the far wall.

  “Make it quick,” I say.

  Rummaging an oversized duffel from one of the kitchen closets, she heads to one of the pictures, reaching behind the outer frame and then swinging it away from the wall. A safe is built in behind it; with a few turns of the large d
ial, the heavy door swings open. I have my handgun pointed at her head in case she has any ideas. Ignoring my posture, she busily begins removing stacks of cash and tossing them into the oversized bag at her feet.

  I don’t trust Maria, but seeing her go for the cash, I know that she’ll remain with me until she’s free and clear. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be keeping an eye on her. I already made one rookie mistake that landed me here and I don’t need to make another. She hasn’t tried anything as yet. Her body posture indicates tension, but she doesn’t have the twitchiness that portends flight.

  Out of the dining room window, I see the roaming guards round the corner of the building. They pause, their eyes searching the yard. I assume they’re looking for the other guards. If they get closer to the pool, it won’t take them long to discover the gear lying on the bottom.

  “Maria,” I say, catching her attention and then nodding outside.

  She turns to look at the guards through the window, her gaze returning to me, fearful. Quickly closing the safe and swinging the picture to its original position, she grabs her bag and hurries into the kitchen.

  “Call them inside…ask for them to help you with something. Lead them into the kitchen,” I whisper.

  “I have a better idea,” she says breathlessly, shoving past me to open the basement.

  Whatever she has in mind had better happen soon because discovery is only a minute away at best. I stare after her rapidly retreating back, wondering where in the fuck this all slipped sideways. And now she’s going into the basement where we’ll only be trapped. Somewhere along the line, I lost control of this situation and I’m wondering if I’m not merely attempting to bail out a sinking boat.

  If I leave with her to do whatever she has in mind, it will mean leaving the guards to an eventual discovery that I’m missing. That’s a risk I’m not sure I can take. If I remove these guards, then the back yard and wall are clear. Even if there’s razor wire on top, there are ways to circumvent that.

  Dammit!

  Maria turns around, looking back up the stairs over her shoulder. “You coming?”

  “Aw, fuck it,” I mutter, unsling my carbine, and follow.

  Stepping over the bodies at the bottom of the stairs, Maria lugs the heavy bag down the hallway. I now have an idea what she’s after and I’m a little sickened that it was right here all along. I should have thought of that possibility from the get-go.

  Closing the door behind me, I set out after her. Past the locked door, Maria bends down at the end of the hall and lifts aside a section of padded insulation. Behind, she removes a loose brick and sticks her hand through the opening she’s created. With a soft click, the entire end wall moves a fraction. Pushing on one side, the wall pivots around a central fulcrum.

  Retrieving her bag of cash, she moves on. Once we’re through, she closes the door, the latch clicking. Once I knew where I was, I should have realized that there would be an escape tunnel. The shitty part is that I was mere feet away from an easy escape once I was out of the room. No one would have been the wiser. But now, it won’t be long until the guards are after us.

  As far as Maria and her possible death without her husband to protect her, well, if you play the game, you have to abide by all of the rules. On the other hand, maybe she really didn’t have much choice and was merely biding her time. I don’t know her story so I guess I’m not really in a position to judge. However, the woman did just help me escape a near impossible situation, so there’s that. Even if she’s doing it for her own benefit.

  Honestly, I’ve fought cartels in one form or another throughout my career. I feel bad for the innocents who get swept up in their business, but as long as there’s a demand, there will be a supply. There’s no getting around that simple fact. It’s not just a matter of sealing the borders better, although that would help. Russia has some pretty tight borders and drugs still get in there. We can take out cartel after cartel, but there will always be others that rise in their stead. Deals with the DEA and CIA keep some of the flow and violence in check, but not enough in my opinion. However, it helps keep me employed, so there’s that.

  The tunnel is comprised of roughly hewn dirt walls with thick crossbeams held up by equally thick poles. A string of lights extending the length illuminate with the throw of a wall-mounted switch. The air is musty, warm, and stale, but to me, it has the taste of freedom. My head is still pounding and I have put the aches of my body aside as it’s now sending constant reminders of what I had endured.

  We’re not out of it yet; I’m sure the weapons and gear in the pool have been discovered. I keep an eye to the rear, watching for anyone emerging from the far wall. But so far, it remains clear. The tunnel opens up in a rough square chamber with a ladder leading up. Maria pauses for a moment, contemplating the rungs. With a shake of her head, she turns down a branching tunnel.

  “Where does this lead?”

  “To surrounding houses, but that one is too close,” she answers.

  I’m a little nervous as I imagine the chaos occurring at the mansion. By now, the guards will have been found missing and it wouldn’t take a genius to immediately check the basement. After that, orders will be given to send men into the tunnel and others to the houses where it emerges. Every minute down here on foot allows them to gain an advantage. We’ll be pinched in. I’d feel much better being topside instead of underground in this death trap.

  “We’re taking the next one no matter how close,” I state.

  Maria turns and nods. Ever since she revealed the tunnel and we entered, I knew there was a tentative trust; that she wasn’t just attempting to buy time until she could somehow escape from me. I need her to get clear of the mansion and she needs me to get her out of the country. It isn’t that I care if she splits—at this point, the playing field is more or less evened out. If she does bolt, it will just be me without any baggage. However, if she remains, I’ll owe her and will honor my end of the deal.

  “Another thing, from here on out, you do what I say and when. That includes losing the luggage if I say so. Understood?”

  As we’re jogging down the tunnel, Maria looks at the bag banging against her leg and furtively glances back at me over her shoulder.

  “I’m serious. If that is slowing us down, you drop it.”

  Again, she glances down to the bag in such a way that I get the feeling that the only way she’s letting go of it is if it’s pried from her lifeless fingers. We continue down the tunnel, the slap of her sandaled feet and clomp of shoes echoing off the enclosed dirt walls. We pass though several widened rooms before turning at a right angle into another tunnel. All of the rooms are littered with crates, some opened, their lids lying on the floor beside them. However, none of the openings we pass through have ladders leading upward. I try to imagine the neighborhood overhead as we wind our way through, those residing above having no clue that there’s a tunnel system underneath them. Or, maybe they do.

  We finally arrive at one with a set of wooden rungs leading up. Telling Maria to remain at the foot of the ladder, I scale upward. The moment of truth is here: have we or the bad guys arrived first?

  At the top is a wooden trap door. Hooking an arm onto one of the rungs, I slowly push upward. There’s a bit of resistance as if something heavy lies on top, but the door grudgingly moves. The door clears the floor, dust particles spilling through the newly created gap. I pause and listen.

  There isn’t any light showing through the tiny opening and with the weight on the door, I’m guessing that the trap door is under a rug. The important thing is that I don’t hear anything that would indicate bad guys are prowling in the vicinity. With the carbine shouldered and .45 in hand, I shoulder the opening wider. Heated air pours past my face and down into the tunnel as I slide through, emerging from under the end of the rug.

  The room isn’t much to speak of. Boxes and crates lie against the walls, a thin layer of dust coating every surface. The enclosed room feels like a sauna and carries the musty sm
ell of disuse. Sunlight illuminates the room, glowing through a curtained window, the patterns of yellow and orange faded and hanging limply like an oversized dress on skinny shoulders.

  I’m thankful to see that the fine layer of dust on the floor is undisturbed. Folding the carpet back, I ease over to the room’s closed door, putting my ear to it and listening. I don’t have a shit ton of time, but there’s also no use in charging out into a room full of angry men with guns. There’s no sound coming from the other side, not even the normal tiny vibrations of house systems.

  Carefully opening the door, the hinges squealing no matter what I do to prevent it, I see that the room opens into the wider reaches of the house. A living room is to the left, just inside the front door, with a linoleum-covered counter separating it from a kitchen lying directly ahead. Like the trap door room, all of the surfaces are covered in a layer of dust. Motes float lazily in a beam of sunshine pouring in through a window above the kitchen sink.

  Heavy living room drapes are pulled across a window like a curtain of vines hanging over a cave entrance, the faint glow from outside casting the front room in gloom. A couch, two chairs, and a sofa table sit the in the shadows like forgotten relics.

  Traipsing back to the trap door opening, I wave Maria up the ladder. Once she’s up, I close the door and place several boxes on top in case the guards at the mansion are tracking our footsteps. I’m hoping the crates are heavy enough to prevent them from opening the door, but if not, then it will at least slow them down.

  In the house proper, Maria makes for the front door. I grab her arm and shake my head, nodding toward the back. As I’m about to check the back door and yard beyond, there comes the sound of a car screeching to a halt out front. Looking back, I see our footprints disturbing the settled dust on the floor. It won’t be hard to figure out we’ve been here. And, there isn’t enough time to effectively cover our tracks. If there was a runner I could lay down, perhaps we could get away with it, but as it stands, it will be readily apparent that we were here.

  Motioning for Maria to stay put, I quickly dash to the front and peek through the curtains, careful not to disturb them. A dark sedan is parked against the curb, three armed men spilling out the front and back doors. I have a choice. One is to flee out the back door, but that will only give us what? A one-yard advantage in distance? With the radios or cell phones I’m sure they have and us on foot, it won’t be long before we’re hemmed in. The other choice is to take them out before they can get off a call. Weighing the options in my mind, it isn’t really a choice at all. If we make a break for it now, we’ll only die tired.