Mouse Trapped

by Manda Mellett

  At that point the crash truck draws up alongside. Our operation proceeds to go down like a knife through butter. Without anyone else having seen, we’ve got them zip tied and in the back, fast. Protests coming out of their mouth, but duct tape soon quiets them.

  As Matt and Peg zoom out of the car park, Blade tilts his head to one side. “Sure that’s them, Brother?”

  “I’m sure.” There’s no doubt in my mind. They were targeting Drew. If we hadn’t been here, they could easily have snatched him.

  “Just got to get them to admit it.” Blade, like me, is staring after the truck.

  Yeah. We have. I might have an idea how to do it. Slapping him on the back, I tell him, “Don’t start without me.” Then I go to my bike. There’s a quick detour I want to make before I go back to the compound, it won’t take long.

  I’ve seen the store in passing before. A quick word with the assistant and I have what I need, and head home. Parking in my usual spot, I don’t go straight to the storeroom, knowing my brothers will have the two men ready and waiting. They’ll give me the time I need, Blade’s giving me the lead, and we all know anticipation is all part of the preparation. The longer they’re kept stewing, the more worried they’ll be.

  In my suite, I take down the trunk from the top of the wardrobe, brushing the dust off the top. A treasure trove of memories. Reverently reaching in, I take out my grandfather’s centuries old flint knife, handed down from generation to generation.

  As a youth, I’d been fascinated.

  Wide-eyed I stare at the blade my grandfather’s holding. “Would it have killed the Spanish? Or the white settlers?”

  A gnarled hand ruffles my hair. “Probably more likely used as a hunting knife, my boy.”

  He was probably right. But it’s a wicked-looking knife, and the two Hispanics wouldn’t know the history. If it truly hasn’t been used in anger before, it’s probably going to be now.

  I pull out my grandfather’s buckskin trousers, fringes down the sides, the ones he would wear at pow-wows. Together with the knife he’d passed them down to me, a reminder of my Navajo heritage. On his deathbed he’d also given me the right to use his face paint patterns and colours.

  I stand, moving to the mirror, and bring out the bag of shit I’d purchased. Again my victims aren’t going to know the difference between stage face paint and the dyes traditionally used, made from animal, vegetable and minerals. I’ve bought four colours, the ones that represent our four sacred mountains; blue, white, yellow and black. I grin at myself, then start painting the bottom half of my face yellow. The colour that denotes the heroism of the wearer, which shows he’s prepared to fight to the death. In this case, their deaths, not mine. I harden my features, preparing myself. Vowing that before they take their last breaths, they’ll be telling me all their secrets. Yellow also reflects the intelligence of the wearer. I’ll take my brain over theirs any day.

  Removing my shirt, I smother my hands with the black, and press them to my naked chest leaving two hand prints. Though it’s not made from powdered charred wood and black earth, I am hoping the markings will still channel energy to me, the wearer.

  With the other colours, I paint symbols my grandfather used to wear. Opening my mind to memories as I do so, letting my white blood drain from me.

  Paint on, I brush out my long straight black hair, then pull it together at the top of my scalp, twisting it four times, then folding it the same number. Reaching for a strand of the white wool I also purchased, I fasten it into a bun which stands erect from the top of my head. As I prepare my hair in the traditional style, I find myself mellowing. To the Navajo the process is a form of prayer, of meditation. Calm I might be, but that just equates to being more controlled in my quest to harm those who would hurt one of mine.

  Remembering once more who I’ll be facing, with a smirk, I find a loose eagle’s feather in the trunk, and secure it in the top of tsiiyéél, the hairstyle unique to the Navajo.

  I breathe deep, standing tall. Channelling my inner warrior.

  Slipping the knife into my belt, leaving my chest naked, I exit my suite. Time to get some answers.

  I skirt the clubroom taking a direct route to the storage room. On my way, I pass Drew. He’s walking with Matt, talking animatedly, and with some actions, describing the touchdowns he scored.

  As I pass, his jaw drops at the sight of me. “Mouse? You look like a Red Indian.” Then his face falls, and he hurriedly corrects himself, “You look like, you look…”

  “It’s alright, Drew.” I grin as I pass him. Seems like I’m making the effect I was aiming for.

  I push the soundproofed door to the storage room open. Outside there was silence, in here, there’s a buzz of conversation. It dies down as I enter.

  “Fuckin’ hell. It’s Chief.” Joker’s staring at me, nudging Lady on the arm so he turns around, fixing his eyes on me too.

  Seeing the two bodies strung up in front of me, I scowl, my expression while not aimed at them is enough to make my brothers part, leaving the way clear so I can get to my targets.

  Blade looks me over from head to toe, a grin slowly forming on his face. It’s the one he wears when he’s anticipating pleasure in the form of blood and torture. He gives me a nod, and steps back. “Over to you, Chief.”

  Throwing him a quick look that tells him he’ll pay for that later, I stalk towards the men hanging by their arms from the overhead beam. My brothers are practiced at this, strung up precisely so their toes only just touch the ground. They’ll be feeling the strain on their shoulders already.

  They were protesting as I walked in. Their voices quiet as I approach. Two pairs of eyes seem to bulge out of their sockets as they look around the leather clad men, and then back to me.

  “We weren’t doing anything,” one of them says.

  “Names,” I snap. Not wanting to keep thinking of them as number one and number two.

  “Why?”

  “So I know what to write on your grave.” I’m standing my full height, my tsiiyéél giving me another couple of inches. My voice is deep, a hint of a Navajo accent.

  Blade growls when they don’t immediately answer. It prompts a response from the first one.

  “I’m Castro. This is Rodriguez.”

  I step up. Castro is shorter than me by about a foot. Even strung up I can reach his head easily. I take the flint knife out of my belt, noticing Blade’s eyes flaring with interest. I take hold of Castro’s thick curly hair, bunching it in my hand and pulling it back from his forehead.

  “Hey,” Blade’s voice is full of wonder. “You gonna scalp him, Chief? Thought you only did that when they’re dead.”

  “That’s more common,” I say coldly, my voice devoid of any emotion. “Yet quite effective alive, don’t you think?”

  Castro’s eyes are flickering wildly. Rolling up as though to look at my knife, then into my face to see whether I’m serious.

  While a lot of North American tribes used to practice the art on their enemies, it wasn’t particularly followed by either Apache or Navajo. In fact, the South Americans would be more familiar with the practice. Mexicans were paid for each scalp of an Apache they collected. But a history lesson isn’t what I’m about here.

  Without speaking, I press the tip of the blade in just above Castro’s hairline, and trace it lightly in a semi-circle around where I would make my first cut, should I want to do so.

  Castro squeals like a stuck pig. Fuck. If that’s his reaction and I haven’t done anything, what’s he going to do if I really start to sever his scalp?

  “Heads bleed really badly, Chief.”

  “You’ve got the tarp down,” I reply to Blade. My eyes never moving from my victim. “Now, tell me what you wanted with my boy.”

  “Your boy?”

  The sharp tip of the flint presses in. “Andrew De Souza. And don’t think you can kid me into believing you weren’t there for him. Won’t work. Lie and I’ll start cutting.”

  Castro shuts hi
s mouth, and closes his eyes, seeming to wait for me to begin.

  “May I?” Blade steps up alongside, pulling out one of his knives, and waving it at Rodriguez. “You could teach me a thing or two, Chief. Never scalped a man before. This blade do the job?”

  I feel my lips twitch, momentarily it’s hard to maintain my warrior expression as I look at his knife and give what I hope is a serious and considered nod. Fuck knows whether it would work. The enforcer would know better than me. I notice the room has gone silent, brothers pushing closer to watch. As if I really know what I’m doing. All my knowledge comes from playing with the boys on the Rez, kids messing about. But I think there’s some truth in the playacting we’d done.

  “You gonna tell me who paid you? Who you were working for?”

  “Tell him,” Rodriguez cries out. Seems he’s more afraid of Blade than Castro is of me. Well, I don’t blame him. When Blade wears his enforcer’s face, there’s not an ounce of compassion in him.

  Castro tries to pull back, but I’ve got a firm grip on his hair. “Don’t say anything,” he calls out. “Remember what will happen to us.”

  “Chief?” I suppress a smile, realising Drummer’s tagged the handle too, and hope it’s only temporary. “They’re both illegal. We’ve taken their documents. Reckon they’ll be sneaking back over the border.”

  “Going back to your master? Like whipped dogs?” I snarl at Castro. While he doesn’t answer, the spark in his eye tells me I’m right.

  “You work for El Procurador,” Blade tells them. Then gives a sideways glance to me. “We know that answer, Chief. Now, how do I do this?” The enforcer might be using a conversational tone, but when Rodriguez squeaks I realise Blade has pressed the tip of his knife into his skin.

  I take over again. “I want to know where El Procurador holes up. Tell me and maybe you’ll keep your scalps.”

  Castro spits in my face. I wipe it away with the hand holding the knife. Yellow paint comes off with it. As I stare at the colour on my hand, seeing it gives me strength.

  My captive answers, “He’ll do worse than that.”

  “Worse?” Blade asks casually. “Does anyone survive a scalping, Chief?”

  “Not very often. It’s rare.”

  As an acrid smell fills the air, Blade looks down. “Fuckin’ pissed himself.” He glares at Rodriguez as though offended. Then again to me, “You’ll have to talk me through this.”

  There’s no way I can suppress my quick grin in his direction, but it’s off my face when I tighten my grip on Castro’s hair, and speak directly to him. “Let’s get this done. Any time you want me to stop, Castro. Just give me the answers I want.” I nod at Blade, seeing I’ve got his attention. “Press in until you’re slicing through skin, then draw your blade in a semi-circular cut, holding the knife slightly sideways so you’re separating the scalp from the skull.”

  “Castro,” Rodriguez whines. He kicks out at Blade with his legs, spurring my victim to start fighting too. Brothers step up and quickly have them contained and held steady.

  Both our knives are bloody as we cut deep into and under the skin. Rodriguez is crying, then he’s screaming.

  “What next?” Blade has to raise his voice so I can hear him over the din.

  “Now do the same to the other side.” I use the flint knife, wondering whether it’s ever been used for a job such as this before.

  “Done, next?” A glance at Blade’s face shows he’s grinning widely, not paying attention to Rodriguez’s cries.

  “Next you take a good hold on the hair, and pull.” I tighten my grip as I’m talking, wondering whether I’ve got the guts to do this, then remember Mariana, and my promise to her and her brother. That I’d get her back, and keep Drew safe.

  “Don’t do it! Please God, stop. I’ll tell you.” It’s Rodriguez who screams out, which doesn’t surprise me.

  “All the details. Location. Manpower. Access.” Drummer snaps the words out as he steps up beside me, meeting my eyes and sheepishly grinning as he brandishes paper and pen.

  “At least record this shit,” I suggest, showing my disdain for the old-fashioned approach.

  Wraith holds up his phone. “On it, Brother.”

  After a while Castro joins in, driven to correct some of Rodriguez’s assumptions. To my amusement they almost have an argument about the best access routes. Seems now they’ve started they can’t tell us enough. At last their voices fade. They’ve given us everything. Even down to the fact they knew Drew was El Procurador’s son, and how important he was to him.

  Blade looks at me. “Gonna let me have some fun now?”

  “Hold on a moment, Blade. I’ve got one more thing to ask.” Drummer stands with his arms folded, his pen and paper put down. “The Herreras. You got links to them?”

  Castro and Rodriguez glance at each other, then must realise their only chance is not holding back. “El Procurador pulled in some favours. Herreras let us use their route to get us over the border.”

  “And what favour did El Procurador promise them?”

  “Something to do with a motorcycle club.”

  Drummer questions them again, but they don’t know any more. They’re grunts. They probably wouldn’t have been privy to much more than that. I exchange a quick look with Drummer. Maybe Paladin was right to be worried. Can’t take the chance.

  Then Blade brings my attention back to what we’re here for, when he whines, “Now, please, Chief?”

  I harden my heart, blacken my soul, and tell him, “Yes.”

  The scalp has been loosened, with the hair held firmly and yanked hard, the circle of flesh is torn from the skull. In truth, both Blade and I have only gone for a circle of about five inches in diameter, but enough to scar them for life.

  I hold my trophy in front of Castro, tears of pain are streaming down his cheeks. Blade does the same to Rodriguez who throws up, my brother having jumped back to avoid the vomit.

  “What do you want to do with them, Chief? If we let them go, they’ll talk.”

  They’re would-be kidnappers. Paid to take a teenager out of his country and deliver him to a man known for his cruelty. If I let them go, word will reach Mariana’s father. He might even take out his rage on her. Certainly send others to take Drew. Killing them would give us more time.

  As if he knows my decision has been made, Drummer places his hand on my shoulder. Blade glances over and raises his chin, I interpret this time he means for me to follow his lead. I’m just a few seconds behind and cutting Castro’s throat as the blood spatter from Rodriguez mingles with the paint on my body.

  “I’ll get the prospects to clean up.”

  “I’ll supervise,” Peg suggests.

  “Chief. Suggest you go get showered.” Blade’s chuckling as the blood trickles down my bare chest. I glare, noticing there’s not a spot on him.

  The metallic smell of the blood, the air tinged with acrid fumes from the urine and vomit, turns my stomach. I need to get out of here. Not the first man I’ve killed, but the first I’ve tortured. Now it’s done, I know I’ll have to find a way to live with myself. Didn’t know I had it in me. Did what I had to, to save Mariana. My brothers seem to know I need space as once again they part to allow me to get out. In the fresh air, I lean over, my hands on my knees, taking deep breaths. It doesn’t help.

  Moving out of sight behind the storage room, I let the bile and vomit spew from my mouth, vaguely aware of another man joining me doing the same.

  When at last my gut is empty, I stand, wiping my mouth. Blade’s alongside me, a handkerchief in his hand dabbing at his lips. He catches my eye. One corner of his mouth turns up, and he shakes his head. “That was some sick shit in there, Brother. Remind me never to upset you. Fuck knows what other things you’ve got up your sleeve.”

  That it gets to him too, for some reason makes me feel better. I straighten, look up at the cloudless sky, and feel my lips curving. Preparing to leave, I slap him on the back. “Pray you never find out, Brother.”<
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  I start to turn away when he stops me. “Just one question, Chief. What are you going to do with your trophies?”

  When I cock my eye at him, his face almost splits in half. “The scalps. You going to dry and frame them or something? Isn’t that what you Indians do?”

  I shove him in the chest, but that doesn’t stop his laughing. I push him again. Each time he rocks back on his heels, still chuckling. It’s not long before I’m joining in.

  Chapter 31

  Mariana

  I estimate it’s been about a week since Miguel led me along a dark, dismal passageway, through a larger room almost devoid of furniture, then down another equally depressing corridor, but it’s easy to lose sense of time, and it feels so much longer.

  Eyes widening in disbelief and horror as he led me into a larger area, past cage like cells to each side occupied by women and young girls, several little more than children. Weeping and wailing came from some, in other cells they sat quiet, looking resigned. A couple of the women looked catatonic, one rocking back and forth on her heels. In each cell were two dirty mattresses and a bucket in the corner. It smelt of fear, of human waste and dampness. I could see moisture dripping down the walls. This place wasn’t healthy, the women held for no good reason.

  As I lie on the filthy mattress that has become mine, in a cell I have the privilege of not having to share, I think back to the first day I was brought here. Miguel’s explanation, delivered in a business-like tone, had chilled me then, the memory now is no less frightening.

  “For most, this is only a temporary stop off. They’ll be sold as slaves and shipped out soon. Your father is a brilliant man; he knows how to make extra income on top of the slave fee. You’ll see in time.”

  He’d stopped in front of an empty cell and had pushed me inside. I tried to hold onto the bars to stop myself being thrown in, but his fist to my back had me off-balance and I stumbled, falling to my knees. The door slammed shut behind me, the iron clang causing a ring to echo around.