Back on Solid Ground

by Debra Trueman

  BACK ON SOLID GROUND

  By Debra Trueman

  Copyright © 2013 Debra Trueman

  All Rights Reserved

  For my boys.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 1

  It was a perfect day for bank robbing. The driver eased the Suburban alongside the curb and three men piled out. They were tall, dark and dangerous and loaded for bear. Niki checked his watch. He could feel the adrenaline rush coming on and he bounced on his feet a couple of times to channel the excitement.

  Inside, the payday rush had hit, and snatches of conversation echoed through the bank lobby, bouncing off the marble walls like a boomerang. Stacy stood in line, examining her manicured nails. As usual, they looked immaculate. But then, there wasn’t much about Stacy Trent that wasn’t. The 28-year-old was a true beauty, and whether she was dressed in jeans or Armani, heads turned wherever she went.

  She had a perfectly proportioned frame, with red hair down to the middle of her back. She wore lipstick and no other makeup. Her incredible green eyes, bordered by thick lashes, were her most amazing feature. She was forthright with her friends, no-nonsense when it came to business, and she didn’t take shit from anyone. Stacy looked up from her nails to see if she recognized anyone in the bank, then she pulled out her phone to check her messages.

  Without warning, she was body-slammed from behind and thrust into the woman in front of her. Like dominoes, one by one, an entire row of bank customers was taken out, bodies strewn left and right. A man wearing a ski mask and holding an assault rifle remained standing where the rear of the line had just been.

  “Get down! Now!” he shouted.

  In an instant, the previous moment’s confusion turned to terror and panic. Screams engulfed the room as people hit the floor. Two more masked men came out of nowhere swinging guns in a sweeping motion around the room.

  “Everybody stay down and no one will get hurt,” the voice boomed through the structure.

  Niki motioned for his accomplices to get to work and the three men quickly stuffed cash from the tellers’ drawers into burlap sacks. Having relieved the tellers of their funds, the other two began quickly circulating through the bodies on the floor, looking over their jewelry and watches. The terrified customers handed off their valuables willingly, as if they were grateful to be rid of them.

  Stacy tried to make herself invisible. She was partially covered by the man who had fallen on her, but her head and upper torso were exposed. From where she lay, she had a clear view of two of the men. She watched one of them stop, then crouch beside the clean cut young man who had held the door open for her minutes earlier. The hooded man removed an envelope from the young man’s pocket, then, getting back to his feet, he signaled to the leader. He was headed in her direction.

  Stacy covered her head with her arms and squeezed her eyes shut. She was sweating bullets, and the floor felt unnaturally cold on her cheek. She was determined that she would get out of this mess unscathed, when she felt movement. The buffoon on top of her was squirming around, reaching for something. If he didn’t stay still he was going to draw attention to her, so Stacy gave him a hard shove to the gut with her elbow. He grunted with the jab, as he extracted a revolver from his pant leg. Oh great, Stacy thought. A wanna-be hero.

  In one motion, the buffoon was on his feet, his revolver pointed at the leader. He was a big man and Stacy was surprised how quickly he’d been able to maneuver himself up. The gun went off and she could hear the echo of the zing, as the bullet ricocheted off the wall. In an instant, guns turned on him. The buffoon’s gun went flying. He appeared to be doing some ancient tribal dance, his body writhing left and right, arms and legs thrashing out in contorted movements, trying to avoid the flying bullets. The noise was deafening and seemed to go on forever. When the bullets stopped, the buffoon was crying like a baby, and he dropped back to the ground next to Stacy. A wedding band danced before her, spinning on the ground inches from her face, and the finger where it used to reside plopped down beside it.

  Stacy screamed, instinctively flinging away the emancipated digit. She was covered in the man’s blood. Without realizing it, she had gotten to her feet, all the while screaming hysterically. The room started to spin and she vomited. Stacy felt herself being lifted off of her feet. She was flung over someone’s shoulder, and was being carried out of the bank. She continued screaming until she passed out.

  The men rounded the corner just as the Suburban pulled up. Niki tossed Stacy’s limp body onto the floor in the back, then climbed behind the wheel. Carlos moved to the passenger seat, and Eli and Jason jumped in the back. It looked like a Chinese fire drill.

  “Stuff her into one of those bags,” Niki told Eli. He took off his mask and tossed it on the seat, then he ran his hand through his hair trying to tame the mass of loose curls. Droplets of sweat fell onto the back of his seat. Niki maneuvered the Suburban over a lane and immediately blended into afternoon traffic. Two turns and they were on the highway headed towards the airport. The plane would be fueled and waiting, and they would be in the air within 20 minutes of leaving the bank. The four didn’t speak; there would be plenty of time for words once they were in the air. Each knew that this was the most critical part of the job.

  They were almost to the airport when Stacy came to. She was sticky all over, and could feel where the dirty burlap sack had become glued to parts of her body and face with the buffoon’s blood and her own vomit and sweat. She had a stabbing pain in her side and felt like she could throw up again.

  “Help,” Stacy moaned.

  “She’s awake,” said Eli. “What do you want me to do with her?” he asked Niki.

  “Nothing. We’re almost to the airport,” Niki said.

  “Please, let me go.” Her voice was weak and her breathing was labored. “I can’t breathe,” she said. “Please help me.”

  “There’s no one here to help you right now, Miss Trent,” Niki laughed, directing his voice over the back seat so she could hear him over the blasting air conditioner.

  Holy crap. He knows my name, she thought with horror. Stacy had assumed she was taken at random. If that wasn’t the case, she was in big trouble. She had to think but her head was not clear; her brain was foggy.

  “We’ll be on a plane shortly, and then we’ll remove you from that unpleasant bag,” said Carlos. “You’ll feel much better then,” he added.

  An a
irplane? she thought. She wasn’t about to let these goons take her away to some god-forsaken place on an airplane.

  “Please, don’t take me with you,” Stacy pleaded. “You don’t need me,” she reasoned. “I haven’t seen your faces. I can’t identify you.” Her voice cracked. “Taking me with you would only get you into more trouble than you’re already in.” She could feel herself beginning to panic and willed herself to be calm, but she had started to hyperventilate. Stacy was about to say something else, when the stabbing pain shot through her side again and instead she curled up and groaned in pain. When the realization hit her, Stacy was livid.

  “One of you assholes shot me!” And with that, she lost consciousness.

  “Shit,” Niki said under his breath.

  “You hear that?” Eli asked.

  “ I heard.”

  “We gonna leave her at the airport?” Eli asked.

  “Nope,” Niki said. “She comes with us.”

  “Right,” Eli said, looking down at the lump in the burlap sack. “I think she’s out.” He opened the sack, reached in and found Stacy’s neck, caked with grime from the dirty sack. He felt for a pulse. “She’s alive,” he said, and cinched up the sack.

  They were at the airport exit, and there was no sign of police. Niki turned on the radio. It had been 15 minutes since they left the bank, and the story should be hitting the airwaves.

  “ . . . there were dozens of people in the bank at the time,” the announcer stated in a somber tone. “We are told that anywhere from 3 to 6 armed men entered the bank with machine guns. The gunmen opened fire in the bank, and we have confirmation that at least one person is wounded. We have been informed that hostages were taken. At this time, we have no information on the identity of any of the hostages, or how many there are. We are told that the gunmen fled the scene in a white vehicle, maybe a van or Suburban, and that they are still at large. Of course, this is a very critical situation; we have very few details, as this story is just unfolding. Stay tuned as we provide continuous coverage of an event that is unprecedented in San Antonio’s history.”

  Niki turned off the radio. “That should stir up the anti-gun faction,” he said. He breathed deeply, taking in the moment. He loved the adrenaline rush that he got with the last few minutes of the getaway. The feeling never got old. He circled around the airport to the private landing strip, and pulled the Suburban up beside the plane. Niki got out of the Suburban and exchanged greetings with the pilot.

  “It’s been a long time,” Niki said with a genuine smile, clasping the man’s hand with both of his.

  “Everything’s ready sir,” the pilot told him. “The car will be taken care of.”

  Niki nodded in acknowledgment. While the three loaded gear into the plane, Niki scooped up their hostage. He carried the girl onto the plane, and propping up her passed-out body as best he could, buckled her into one of the seats. The plane started to move and minutes later they were airborne. Niki took a deep breath, unclenched his fists and looked over at Eli.

  “We did it, little brother,” he said with a huge smile on his face.

  Once the plane had leveled off, Niki got out of his seat and approached the girl. Her body was slumped over the armrest. He unbuckled her seatbelt and uncinched the top of the burlap sack. He tried to pull the sack down off her face, but her hair was matted with blood and grime, and was stuck to the sack. He gave a little tug and a clump of hair came away with the bag.

  “We have a problem here,” he told his companions, who were all watching him with unbridled amusement. “Any suggestions?” Niki asked.

  “Cut it,” Eli said decisively.

  “Oh, that’s not good,” Carlos said with trepidation. “Women love their hair. I think she would be very, very angry,” he said knowingly.

  “Well, do you have a better suggestion?” Eli asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Carlos. “What if we soak her head?”

  “There’s no way we can haul her ass in there and fit her head in the sink,” Eli said. Carlos decided to drop the cause and remained silent, and Eli took it as a sign of agreement. He scrounged around in one of the bags, pulled out a pair of scissors, and held them out to Niki with a big smile on his face. “But if she lives to talk about this, I’ll swear it wasn’t my idea,” he laughed.

  Niki thought about it for a second then took the scissors and started snipping at Stacy’s hair, pulling the sack away bit by bit to free her face. The parts of her face that were not covered with filth were pale and clammy; the mesh left a miniature checkerboard pattern on her cheek. Together, Carlos and Niki cut the rest of the bag off of Stacy’s body. She was wearing a short skirt and a blouse, and her body was covered with dried blood and vomit, mixed with dirt, dust and fibers from the burlap. Niki gave a cursory look over Stacy’s arms and legs and didn’t see any obvious sign of a bullet wound.

  “Somebody get me something to clean her up with,” Niki said to the group. “She’s so filthy, I’ll never be able to find a bullet hole.”

  Jason went to the back of the plane and returned with towels and a bottle of water. He handed Niki a wet towel and Niki wiped at the caked-on mess on Stacy’s face and neck. He carefully stripped her shirt away where it had become plastered to her skin and pulled it up enough to expose her stomach. And there it was.

  She had been shot on her right side at waist level. It had not been a direct hit, but a bullet had definitely pierced her side. He turned her over and saw where the bullet had entered. It had gone clean through from the back to the front. Basically a flesh wound, but it had bled a lot and was still oozing.

  “Well, she was right,” Niki proclaimed. “One of us assholes did shoot her.” The other three moved in to check it out.

  “What do you think?” Niki asked Carlos.

  Carlos was the medical authority, even though he had no formal training. He took a closer look. “It doesn’t look too bad,” he said. “For now, we need to stop the bleeding. Let me see what I can do.”

  He grabbed the first aid kit and went to work cleaning and bandaging Stacy’s wound. He looked at his watch. Just over an hour had passed since they had been in the bank. It seemed like much longer. Unlike his counterpart, Carlos’ thrill did not come from the heist itself. He was in it strictly for the money and would have gladly foregone the action. He finished his first aid duties and made a lame attempt at cleaning up Stacy’s arms and legs.

  Stacy was in and out of consciousness. A couple of times while Carlos was working on her, she had tried to open her eyes. Carlos would stop what he was doing and try to get Stacy to talk to him, but then she would be out again and Carlos would continue his work. He had just finished working on her when she opened her eyes.

  Stacy could hear the humming of the engine and looked around, confused. She looked at the stranger beside her. He was a nice looking Latin man with chiseled features and a smile that reached his kind eyes.

  “Where am I?” Stacy asked groggily.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Trent. You’re going to be fine,” Carlos said in a soothing voice. “Just try to relax and get some sleep. You’ll be just fine,” he said, patting her hand.

  “I don’t feel good,” she said in a small voice. “I think I’m going to throw up.” For the life of her, she couldn’t remember what she was doing on this plane, and she was going to be mortified if she got airsick.

  “I’ll get you something,” he said, again patting her hand before he got up. He returned with an airsick bag and offered it to Stacy, then leaned into the aisle behind him and stuck his finger down his throat, gesturing to the others that she was about to puke. Carlos moved away to give her some privacy, and when it sounded like she was finished, he returned and sat down beside her. He took the bag and handed it to Niki in the row behind him.

  “Feel better?” Carlos asked her.

  She shook her head no. “Where am I?” she asked

  Carlos saw her eyes for the first time and a chill ran down his spine. It was the color. T
he girl’s eyes were as rare a shade of green as he had ever seen, yet he had seen it almost every day for years on the man sitting right behind him. “I’ll be damned, Niki,” Carlos said in awe. “The girl’s your media naranja.”

  Once again, they all gathered around the girl, this time to see what Carlos was expounding about. Stacy looked blankly from one man to the other, looking for a familiar face.

  They all saw it, including Niki, but only his brother spoke: “Wow! Her eyes are the same color as yours,” he told Niki in amazement. He turned to Carlos, “So, what’s with the media naranja thing?”

  Carlos had been raised in Mexico by his grandmother, a Culandera, who had taught Carlos everything she knew about her craft. He was a child prodigy when it came to medicine, and although his means were unconventional, the results of his herbal potions and tinctures were impressive. Part of his grandmother’s teachings included symbolic interpretation, and Carlos often quoted his grandmother’s adage on one topic or another. At first, his three friends had been skeptical of Carlos’ superstitious beliefs and premonitions, but more often than not, his prophecies had come true, and Carlos’ insight into “another realm” had become an integral part of their organization.

  “According to Abuelita,” Carlos answered, “when a rare pair of eyes meets itself in another, the two have found their soul mate.”

  He was answering Eli’s question, but Carlos was looking directly at Niki when he said it. Niki averted his eyes and Carlos could tell his friend was irritated. He also knew that Niki would take stock in what he said, maybe not immediately, but once he had time to digest the information. Carlos knew that nothing more would be said about it then, but that Niki would bring it up at some point again in private.

  As far back as Niki could remember, people had commented about the unique color of his eyes. Whenever his family went to Mexico, people were constantly saying this or that about his ojos verdes – his green eyes – and touching his face to ward off ojo, the evil eye. Niki took another look at Stacy’s eyes before returning to his seat. It was like looking in a mirror.