by Layla Wolfe
“Wow.” I smeared my hand over my face. A sudden sweep of mortification washed over me, that I’d let myself go so far. Informed bareback was one thing, but what the fuck had come over me? Ormond’s subservience, that was it. His willingness to serve had jolted me out of my comfort zone, had spurred me to take his prick into my hand and jack it. That was it. He didn’t even need to state his desire to worship me. I felt it, and reacted accordingly, wanting to pleasure him too.
That’s what had happened to me with Farokh. And I’d wound up going over the edge and practically killing at least one guy. Caring about someone terrified me.
“Wow is right,” breathed Ormond, buttoning up his jeans with his back to me.
“You said you take your PrEP religiously,” I stated. We had discussed this a while ago, but it was sort of an insensitive thing for me to bring up after I had fucked the stuffing out of him.
And I could immediately tell he was offended. “Of course. And you do, too.”
“Of course. Listen, did your buddy Officer Sinquah answer you? Let’s get on over there, see if he’s found our RV.”
That was how I changed the subject, steered the conversation away from the monumental coupling we’d just had. It made me hugely uncomfortable to discuss anything intimate. I was thirty-fucking-seven years old and had never been in a “real” relationship with anyone. Most mercenaries, most co-workers of mine hadn’t.
I think that’s part of the reason we became mercenaries. To avoid emotional closeness.
CHAPTER NINE
ORMOND
They slept out under a starry sky that night. They could’ve easily gone back to Ormond’s house, or even gotten a hotel in Parker, but Anson was adamant about camping out.
He had a tarp in his saddlebags, and a sleeping bag that he unzipped and spread out like a blanket. Ormond supposed this was how military men did things, and he wanted to be a part of Anson’s life, so he pretended it was all right with him. The truth was, even after Anson cleared the area of rocks, Ormond still felt like he was sleeping on a field of lava.
But he was with Anson, and that was all that mattered. The meeting with Officer Sinquah had yielded nothing. Ormond was starting to think it was due to lack of a blowjob, but suddenly Leroy had insisted that not only had he not seen any RV, he doubted there was any meth activity in his sector. Suddenly he backpedaled and pretended he’d never seen any sketchy white-haired guy in a Camaro before. This all despite the fact that he’d given them Iceman’s plate number, Twinkletoes had run it, and confirmed it belonged to the MC sergeant-at-arms.
It really made Ormond wonder. Anson was probably right. He didn’t value himself highly enough, and other people picked up on that. No blowjob equaled no intel, even if their mutual goal was to assure the safety of Rez youth and others. Leroy had only briefly referred to the kid hanging from the bridge and the enormous clusterfuck of a traffic jam. “People need to get over this old fashioned idea of ch’iidii. I’ve got the California Highway Patrol calling me every five minutes because they’ve got tourists backed up to Twentynine Palms, you recognize? I’ve got to go, Ormond.”
“I’m know I’m supposed to be the Injun and all,” Anson said now. Ormond couldn’t help watching Anson arrange his package inside the tight crotch of his 501 jeans. Yesterday’s fuck had been so utterly unexpected, steaming hot, and encouraging. Having Anson’s fist wrapped around his dick was something Ormond had never dreamed of. Men never serviced him. He was a blowjob machine, pure and simple. “But I had a dream last night I can’t quite figure out. It’s stuck in my head.”
Ormond paused in his rummaging in his pack for his toothbrush. Anson didn’t seem the type to sit around interpreting dreams. “Oh, yeah? Pray tell.”
“Well.” Anson was the epitome of the banging hot mercenary, hips cocked forward as he stood with boots spread in the sand. His tight black T-shirt only covered one tat—some Arabic characters on his right bicep. “It was like I was in a chopper, flying nice and slow over the desert. There were these pictures carved in the soil, you know, those ‘landing strips of the gods’ things they have in Central America or whatever, pictographs that can only be seen from up on high. They always wonder how the ancient people made them.”
That rang a bell with Ormond. A thoroughly modern man, he’d already whipped out his device to google around for pictographs nearby. “That sounds familiar, Anson. Here we go! Out on the highway to Blythe, across the river. There are some giant desert figures. Look!”
Anson eagerly grabbed the phone from Ormond. The look on his face was nothing short of astonishing. His nostrils flared, his fierce eyes flashed, and Ormond knew he’d hit on it. “This is it,” Anson breathed. He finally tore his eyes away to look at Ormond. “We’ve got to go there, buddy. That’s the only possible meaning of the dream. I haven’t had a fucking dream in years. When I used to dream, I’d dream about blowing people up, burying them. Couldn’t handle it anymore, so I think my brain compartmentalized, filed everything away in a file drawer where I can no longer see it. I’m not torturing myself anymore.”
“Sounds unhealthy,” asserted Ormond. It really did.
“Whatever. Saves me a lot of grief. Then suddenly I have this one dream? That’s beyond too coincidental. It has to be a sign from above. Let’s head on out there right now. I don’t need no fucking breakfast.”
They’d been talking about going back to the resort and having more French toast at the buffet, but suddenly Ormond was rejuvenated, too. He agreed—it had to be an omen, a sign from above they should follow. Geoglyphs, they called the pictures. “Says they’ve been ruined by ATVs as well as General Patton’s tank exercises, but they’re still there. One is of a horse, so it must’ve been done after Spaniards introduced the horse here.”
“Well,” said Anson, on his knees rolling up his sleeping bag into a tight coil. “We’re not here to study anthropology. We’re just looking for that fucking RV.”
Anson looked so attractive, Ormond couldn’t help but approach him. His pecs worked underneath the thin cotton of the T-shirt. Nebs Blaisdell’s cut fit him to a T. His hair was tied back in a short ponytail. He worked briskly, snapping the ties closed around the bag and rising to stick it in his saddlebag. Ormond touched his arm.
“What do these characters mean, speaking of interpreting symbols?”
Anson looked down at his own arm. He grinned adorably. “Oh. I was told they mean ‘without others, yes—without you, never!’” He shrugged. “Of course, who the fuck really knows. I can write only the most basic Arabic. I can speak it pretty fluently, but the written word? It’s beyond me.”
Ormond doggedly pursued the question. He’d found his toothbrush and now needed a cup. “What prompted you to have that inked on your arm?”
Ormond was surprised when Anson admitted, “Another guy. Yup, I was actually foolish in love once. I could’ve had it removed, but I want to remind myself never to get that moronic again.”
This gave Ormond a lot to ponder on as they rode west toward the Blythe crossing. On the one hand, it was exciting to imagine Anson in love. It showed he was at least capable of it. And why do I care whether he’s capable of love? Ormond had to ask himself some pretty harsh questions. Why did he give a fuck what Anson was capable of? Because he wanted Anson to love him, too?
Yes. Ormond had to face facts. Because he wanted Anson to love him, too.
With horror, Ormond backed off and let Anson ride point. Last night, he’d seen Anson emailing someone, and now he wondered if it was this lover boy. Maybe Anson was still in love with the guy. Anson had told him that normally, he only fucked overseas men, so Ormond started picturing the guy as some dark, mysterious stranger in a turban, one of those checkered keffiyeh scarves wrapped around his mouth, wearing shades.
Ormond’s phone vibrated insistently three separate times. When he saw the three calls had come from Rover Florkowski, he motioned to Anson to pull onto the shoulder. They parked their rides near a cluster of white crosses
and a tossed gallon jug of shake and bake meth.
Anson frowned. “Asshole texts you and not me. I’m running this op.”
Ormond said soothingly, “Probably because we’re brothers in the same club.”
“Got to admit, guy doesn’t like me.”
“You’re infringing on his turf. He was nominally elected sergeant-at-arms for now, until someone better came along, so you’re a threat. Oh, Dios Mío. There’s some disaster heading up toward Parker.” Ormond showed one of the texts to Anson.
Come immed. to traffic jam at Chevy dealer on E side of highway. Urgent truckload.
Probably predictably, Anson blew Rover off. “We can’t just drop everything for some fucking urgent truckload. Whatever it is, it’s been stuck in that jam since early yesterday, so it’s not going anywhere.”
“Maybe it’s a body. A decomposing, smelly body.”
That seemed to give Anson pause for thought. His hooded eyes flickered, then he glowered at Ormond. Shoved his brain bucket back onto his head angrily. “All right. But once we see this fucking body, we’re heading back to those geoglyphs. Try calling him first.”
But Rover wasn’t answering, so the men turned back toward Highway 1 which would take them into Parker. Little did they know what they would discover was way more horrifying than a cook house in the desert.
They easily found the Chevy dealership. By that time, they’d had to ride a mile off-road just to bypass the line of overheated vehicles, some of them out of gas, that had piled up since the kid had been taken down from the bridge. Worse, some of the broken-down pickup trucks the Indians drove had tried to turn around off the highway, resulting in huge snarls of secondary jams in unlikely places, like the parking lot of the local DMV, and the gullies and washes that surrounded the hospital. Ormond even rode past a few people who looked to have been patients at the hospital. Anson must’ve been right about the peoples’ fear of ch’iidii, because some folks wearing hospital gowns huddled underneath yellow-dotted creosote bushes.
It was surreal and foreboding, and Ormond tried to make sense of it all. Rover must’ve found the rest of our missing weed. What else would be in an important truckload? Anson, still riding point, caught Rover’s attention first, and Rover actually waved his arm at Anson. It really had to be fucking important if Rover would stoop to communicating with Anson.
They met about thirty yards behind the big box truck with a logo that said it carried SANTIAGO FOODS. The truck had also been one that had tried to turn off the highway, but a couple of broken-down Cadillacs had prevented it from getting far. Short of plowing the Caddys ahead like a snowplow, the Santiago truck had just given up. A Mexican guy who looked to have been the driver sat sullenly on a flat rock staring at the ground. The only thing that stopped a couple of Rez kids from running after they’d been apprehended in the truck was Rover waving his forty-four magnum around.
“Listen, Chief,” said Rover. Ormond had the feeling he wanted to add something even more derogatory like “Redcorn” or “Tonto,” but stopped himself. “I’m fucking glad I had a suspicion about this truck. I know we’re looking for Iceman and his superlab, but this takes the fucking cake, man. I thought I’d seen it all. I put a call into Turk before I called you, so he’s sending a few guys down with cages.”
Dismounting, Anson also pulled his Ruger from the small of his back. “I’m glad you called us. We’re the closest. What’s up?”
“It’s best if you see for yourself.”
Doom sank its pernicious tentacles into Ormond’s entrails as they strode to the back of the truck. Already a nasty stench emanated from under the roll-up door that was lifted about a foot. Cooking dead meat mingled with something so foul Ormond could only identify it as road kill. Was that stench…dog shit?
Ormond had been pushing his own limits ever since being in at the ground level of the Bent Zealots founding. He knew he’d thrown his lot in with some of the craggiest, nastiest, most unforgiving customers on the planet. He knew that forming the Zealots wouldn’t involve much tiptoeing through any tulip beds. That he’d be forced to shoot someone sooner or later. That he’d have to prove to the world what a badass he was, instead of walking the walk.
This was obviously one of those times. Ormond forced himself to stand shoulder to shoulder with Anson as Rover rolled up the back truck door. He only shared one quick glance with Anson, and in that split second he knew that Anson was infinitely more prepared to deal with the source of the stench. His rugged arms crossed in front of his six-pack while gripping his enormous Ruger, this was all in a day’s work for Anson.
The howling of the dogs tipped Ormond off, and he had a few seconds of preparation before the door fully opened and revealed the cages. Yes, cages. Wire kennels made for maybe one or two dogs at the most now held ten, twelve. Noses, paws, tails stuck from various angles of the cages, prickling them with their canine contents. One canine, Ormond could clearly see, lolled inanimate with his stiff tongue protruding from his open mouth. The wave of hot dog shit and rotting flesh made even Anson recoil, and he whipped the bandanna off his head to tie around his mouth like a highwayman. Ormond followed suit, barely daring to take in the sight.
Not just one or a few kennels. The entire back of the truck was stacked to the ceiling with various sized kennels, bashed in, with feces dripping from the wires.
Surprisingly, not many of the dogs barked anymore. A few whines emanated here and there from the jam-packed kennels, letting Ormond know that many of them were already dead. Maybe the dogs had given up hope, being stuck there for who knew how long before the truck even reached the traffic jam.
“What in the…” Ormond choked out before he had to step to the side of the truck to get a few lungs full of air.
When he turned back, Anson was gone.
“Hey!” Rover was shouting, waving his piece. “I already grilled the driver. Let me tell you what…”
Even Rover couldn’t stop Anson. Ormond peered around the corner of the truck with trepidation. He watched as his lover—that’s my lover!—stomped toward the hapless driver, swinging the big Ruger like a giant pipe.
Anson didn’t give the driver a chance. With his long left arm, he swept down and grabbed the guy by the front of his stupid guayabera shirt. The polyester tore like butter, but Anson was determined to stand the guy on his own two feet before pistol whipping him. Furiously, in a rage, Anson whacked the driver with such force Ormond was sure the guy’s face bones were shattered. Even Rover, a thuggish brute if there ever was one who had spent the majority of his adult life in prison, even Rover cautioned Anson against being foolish.
“Whoa, whoa! I already interrogated the guy. He’s just a fucking driver, and he gave up the intel freely.”
Anson barely huffed and puffed with the exertion of pistol-whipping the Sinaloan. The two Navajo youths stood wide-eyed, not daring to move under the watchful gaze of Rover. It sounded as though Anson grunted in Navajo as he beat the guy into the middle of next week, his pupils oddly red as though full of blood, but more likely, anger.
“Don’t finish me,” begged the driver in mangled English. “Don’t hang me from the bridge like you did to Shondee.”
That was the only thing that gave Anson pause. He ceased hitting the guy with his gun barrel, panting down on the bloodied goo of the face that had just opened its maw to speak to him. “What?’ he barked.
“Lester Shondee,” wailed the Mexican. “Kids, tell him! I don’t want to be hung from no bridge like Lester Shondee!”
Violently, Anson tossed the driver aside and turned his furious face on the Navajo kids. He demanded some stuff in Navajo, but the terrified youths answered in English.
“Lester Shondee!” cried one. “He’s the kid they hung from the bridge, the reason this traffic is all backed up! They hung him as a warning that nobody had better mess with—with…”
“Who is Lester Shondee?” Anson growled. Ormond stood next to him, but was afraid to put a soothing hand on him.
&nb
sp; “Lester Shondee! He was working with Brick Mantooth on the…on the…”
“We know,” Ormond said hurriedly, putting a hand between Anson and the kids. “So Brick is okay, as far as you know?
“Sure!” cried one youth. “We saw him yesterday, before we finished rounding up these dogs!”
“Where?” Anson demanded. Ormond could tell Anson had a soft spot for Brick Mantooth, and knowing he was still alive had given him a shred of hope.
“Sourdough Road! That was the last place we went to capture dogs. He was with Iceman, and the guy—”
“Shut up,” warned the other youth.
“—the guy with the pencil moustache, he looks like Boris on those Bullwinkle cartoons.”
Rover stepped in, his hand slicing the air. “Some cartel guy, apparently. Probably Iceman’s contact. He drives a red Caddy, so keep an eye peeled for him. Wears a hat like Boris, too.”
Anson grilled the kid. “And what were they doing? Did they have an RV?”
“Yes. Brick wouldn’t come out of the RV. He just waved at me through the window, then closed the curtains. Iceman told us where to take the dogs.”
“And where is that?”
“We’re taking them to San Jose in California. That’s where…”
The kid trailed off, and looked uncertainly at Rover. Rover nodded, encouraging.
“That’s where they have a large community of Vietnamese people. They like to…eat…”
That was it for Anson. He didn’t want to hit any kids, and the driver just lay in a pile of bones and blood on the dirt, so he went round to the truck and bashed his piece so hard against the metal side, it left a dent. This set the poor hounds inside to howling weakly again, and Ormond peeled Anson from the truck.
“Listen, don’t scare them anymore. They’re already terrified.”
Ormond led Anson back to their bikes. Anson couldn’t resist kicking the driver one more time. “Look, don’t you have any sort of PTSD medications to take? Anything to keep you on a more even keel? You’re frightening when you’re pissed.”
