by Chris Pike
Kate narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t know house remodeling required the use of a bodyguard.”
“You noticed him?”
“How could I not? It’s hot, he had on a full suit, sunglasses, and his face was frozen in a perpetual frown. If he wasn’t overweight, he might pass for Secret Service detail. Plus he left right after she did.”
“She’s a rich lady,” Nico countered. “She needs a bodyguard.”
“You’re working for her alright,” Kate said, “but I doubt you know how to use caulk or a nail gun.” She leaned into Nico, challenging his space. He didn’t budge. “And who’s Santiago?”
Nico thought fast. “A contractor who skipped out on her after she paid him.”
“Oh really?” Kate didn’t believe that for a second. “Tell me, are you blackmailing her? I won’t tell anybody.”
Nico let out a belly laugh. “I’ve been accused of a lot of things, but being a blackmailer is a first.” He took the last swallow of his beer and set the bottle on the counter. “It’s been nice talking to you. Maybe some other time. I’m leaving now. See ya later.” He slid off the bar stool and headed to the front door.
“When will you be back?” Kate asked.
There was a slight hesitation and a hint of anxiety in her voice which Nico picked up on, and he stopped. That wasn’t something he expected to hear.
“I don’t do windows,” Kate said. “I’m a lousy cook, and I’m not fond of doing dishes.”
“I’m okay with that. I grill a mean steak and I don’t mind doing dishes,” Nico said.
“I’m not a movie and a dinner kind of girl.”
“What kind of girl are you?”
“The kind you’ll like.”
“I think you’re already the kind I like. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Don’t plan to.”
“I’ll be back in a week.”
“It’s a date then,” Kate said.
Nico winked. “You betcha it is. I’ll make you the best steak you’ve ever had.”
“There’s only one caveat, though.”
“Hmm. Lawyer speak. I like lawyer speak.”
“First, you’ll need to tell me your real name.”
A slight smile spread across Nico’s face. “There are things I want you to answer too.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll save the game of twenty-one questions for later.” With that declaration, he dipped his chin, looked her square in the eyes, and said, “I’ll be back in a week.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“My name’s Nico Bell. Nice to meet you.”
* * *
After Nico left, Kate picked up the tumbler and polished it. The repetitive movement calmed her in times like these. The actual bar had become a barrier, both mental and physical, which Kate used to keep her distance from her customers. It had become a real crutch for her to stay isolated.
She had told herself it was better that way, so she wouldn’t get hurt again.
She rotated the glass a quarter of the way, twirled the towel, then repeated the procedure, counting slowly. One, two, three, turn. One, two, three, turn. Until she had reached a count of one hundred. Keeping both sides of her brain busy didn’t allow her to think, or remember.
When it was quiet and when she was idle, her thoughts took her back to that time she prayed to forget, willed herself to forget, would do anything God wanted her to do, if only she could erase it from her memory.
Reload sensed her rising anxiety. He padded over to her and nudged her hand until she responded.
“I’m okay, boy.”
The after five crowd had not yet breezed into the bar, offering them a brief escape from their mundane eight to five jobs, corporate red tape, and everything else preventing them from achieving their dreams. They’d come in and loosen their ties, kick back, eat bar food, and watch the sports channel.
Kate had heard it all—mortgages, problem children, bosses, paychecks, lousy economy, wives, ex-wives, husbands, girlfriends, bankruptcy, you name it. She needed to hear it, to listen to her customers’ problems, but when she was asked a question, she’d laugh and deflect it by asking a question. It was a strategy that served her well, one she had learned a long time ago.
Don’t get too close to anyone.
Memories she wanted to forget would creep into her everyday life at the most unexpected moment. The rattling of change, the peculiar leathery smell of paper money, a door clanging shut, a loud noise…
Customers had asked her if she was alright, noticing her rapid breathing and the pained expression on her paling face. If there was no response, they’d politely ask again then glance around for help or instructions on what to do next. Some would excuse themselves, citing an important errand, pretend to be looking at their phone, or take a phone call on an otherwise quiet phone.
Reload had been sitting patiently at her side, never far from where she was, waiting, watching, and studying his mistress until he could predict her moves. He’d sense the changes while they happened, before she could react, before she could hurt herself. Reload would become aware of the minute changes in her body chemistry, her shallow breaths, and stiff posture.
The large dog swung his snout from side to side, taking in her essence, worrying over her reactions. She was sweating, not from the heat, or from talking to the man who had left. She was sweating from an internal struggle. He had observed the reaction on multiple occasions, but normally when she was by herself. Sometimes she’d curl into a little ball, others times she’d freeze, unaware of her surroundings. While Reload didn’t understand the causes of her behavior, he was keenly aware of her reactions.
The large dog went to her and nudged her leg with his large muzzle until she snapped out of the dark place her thoughts had taken her to.
Kate bent down and took a handful of fur, her hand acting as a lightning rod to conduct her emotions. Reload’s worried expression and floppy ears confirmed Kate’s sadness. So much sadness in a young person and in the people who frequented the bar. Reload much preferred to be outside, but since his place was by her side that’s where he would stay. It was what he was meant to do. She had saved him, and now he was saving her.
“You’re a good dog, Reload. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m okay now.” She spoke to him as if he could understand her. In his own way, Reload did understand her. Kate smiled ruefully. Her sweating had stopped so Reload padded back to the corner of the bar where he would not be underfoot. He lowered himself to the floor, put his front legs straight out, then with a sigh he rested his chin on his paws.
Kate swiped a hand towel across the length of the shiny mahogany bar to remove any condensation left from Nico’s beer. She folded the towel then took a moment to polish the brassy knobs.
Her eyes swept over the bar looking for another task, any task to keep her busy. She straightened the glasses behind her for the second time, then turned her attention to the liquor stacked behind her. A bottle of bourbon sat askew so she picked it up, dusted it off, and set it back so the label was straight with the other bottles.
Five minutes later she was back polishing the same glass, back to counting: one, two, three, turn and polish, repeating it until the glass squeaked. Nobody was keeping time on how long Kate cleaned the glass. It was more to keep her busy or appear to be distracted. To undiscerning eyes, she was busy and just another good-looking bartender who played by the rules.
Although in reality, Kate only played by her rules. Not the rules society tried to constrain her with or the rules which kept people in line where no cuts allowed was the standard.
She had been what people called “a willful child.” She was headstrong and formed her own opinions of people through their actions, not through what someone else had told her. She would decide for herself.
She was self-motivated and inner directed, and impervious to peer pressure. She had been a challenge to her parents from an early age, fought with her brothers, challenged her parents and
teachers through her use of logic. She rebelled against rules and regulations, hated when the little guy got picked on, and had been expelled from school for knocking a classmate who had been bullying a smaller classmate, to the ground.
When she became old enough, she left home.
What was it her mother had said? She lived her life at full throttle. Until that fateful day.
She had her back to a raucous group of four seedy looking men smoking and drinking at a table. Every few seconds she glanced up in the mirror to keep an eye on them, mostly so they wouldn’t skip out on the tab, though also because she had a bad feeling. The kind of feeling deep in her gut which made her stomach do flip flops; the kind of feeling she had when Nico walked into the bar.
The Minor Hotel was built in 1859, only nineteen years after the fall of the Alamo, to accommodate the guests of a brewery a German businessman had built. The original fifty room, two-story hotel had survived into modern times and now boasted five stories, doubling the number of available rooms.
The Minor hosted prominent guests including U.S. presidents, and titans of oil, commerce, and politics. It was where Theodore Roosevelt recruited his famous Rough Riders cavalry brigade. Oil deals and cattle sales were sealed over handshakes and shots of whiskey at the bar where Kate Chandler now worked.
The hotel was situated a stone’s throw away from the Alamo, and while historic charm survived the ravages of times, the area around it had been paved over and was now littered with tourists, a large mall, a wax museum, a cowboy museum, vendors, restaurants, and more hotels, all to lure in the acclaimed tourist dollar.
With tourists came the people needed to work in the industry: hotel managers, busboys, maids, waiters, bartenders, and now Kate Chandler, the bartender known to have the disposition of a rattlesnake.
“Hey!” one of the card-playing men yelled.
Kate ignored him.
The man leaned back in his chair and raised his empty glass. “Get me another one, will ya, Honeypot?” He laughed.
If there was one thing Kate hated, it was the synonyms guys used when trying to get her attention. Honeypot. Sugar Plum, Sweetie Pie, Buttercup.
With a thud, Kate put down the glass she had been cleaning onto the wooden top of the bar. She looped the hand towel over her shoulder, put a smile on her face, and did what she did best. She poured another round.
* * *
At her sprawling estate in a trendy part of San Antonio, Marisa Sanchez nervously paced the marble floors of the expansive foyer. Every minute or so, she peeked out the window expecting her visitor at any moment. She sipped on the last of a homemade foul-tasting, gray looking concoction, one that had been promised to help her.
Thirty minutes had passed, and as Marisa was about to make a phone call, a low riding, beat-up Honda Civic with tinted windows slowly drove up the half-circle driveway, smoke trailing out of the exhaust pipe.
A man wearing baggy pants emerged from the vehicle. Hunched over, he warily glanced around then put a hoodie over his head to hide his face not only from strangers and the law, but also because of the jagged scar. Although it was supposed to have faded with time, it only became more prominent, more wicked looking, which garnered unwanted attention of stares and whispers.
With a cocky swagger of a much older and experienced man, he jogged up the sidewalk.
Marisa smirked at him having to hold up his baggy pants so they wouldn’t fall down. She reluctantly opened the door and invited him in.
“Quickly, Pablo. Come in.” She glanced left and right, shut the door, and closed the curtains. Like a mother, she admonished his choice of clothes and car. “You should dress better. Those pants, or what you call pants, draw attention. In our line of work, we need to blend in.”
“You’re one to lecture me,” Pablo said.
“Stop,” Marisa said. She waved him off. “I’ve paid you well and have taken care of you all these years. What I have is yours. It’s always been that way. Please, get yourself a better car.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do you have it?” Her voice was laced with the desperation of a junkie.
Pablo reached into his jacket and withdrew a package about the size of a paperback. He handed it to her, and she snatched it away, ripping it open. “You will be pleased with what the bruja blanca has made for you.”
She looked at him, waiting. “I don’t believe in hocus pocus.”
“You should. This one has special powers. I don’t think you have much choice now, especially after what the doctors—”
“That’s enough of your insolence. I don’t even know why I bother with you.”
“Because we are familia, my sister. Because I’m your only blood relative, and I expect to be treated with respect.” He leaned closer to Marisa. “Because I know your secret.”
“You’d better deliver on your promise, Pablo. You better make sure the package is ready.”
“I will. I always do.”
“Good, now get back to the Alamo Plaza. Stay out of sight and don’t cause any trouble. Try not to get noticed.”
Pablo laughed. He thrust back the hoodie to reveal the jagged scar. “Kinda hard not to with this.”
Marisa turned away. “Just do it, and keep your eyes open for any opportunity. You need to be ready.”
Chapter 4
Current Day
Rio Grande River
Border between the United States and Mexico
Whump, whump, whump.
The blades on the Black Hawk UH-60 spun in perfect tandem, whipping the air and creating a downward blast of spiraling air, lashing the water, sending shockwaves of water outward.
The men in the river looked skyward, saw the helicopter with Border Patrol embossed on the side in big, bold letters. They pumped their fists in Nico’s direction, yelling something in Spanish, probably a profanity, and they scrambled back into the raft. Using the oars, they swiveled the raft around, and once it faced the Mexico side, they plunged the oars deep into the water, trying to gain speed. Water sloshed in all directions and the raft wobbled unsteadily from side to side.
The Black Hawk swooped in low, hovering on the American side of the Rio Grande.
A burst of semi-automatic fire came from the brushy Mexican side of the river, and the helicopter took evasive action.
Nico ducked into the tangle of reeds and thorny bushes then scrambled to the mesquite tree to take cover. Peeking around the hardened bark of the mesquite, he brought up his Glock, sighted the cattails, and sent his own volley of semi-automatic fire.
The men in the raft ducked.
A round blasted the tree sending splintered bark in every direction.
Nico fell to the ground and covered his head. He glanced skyward trying to find the helicopter. He could hear it, but couldn’t distinguish which way the sound was coming from.
More Spanish profanity garnered Nico’s attention.
The two Mexican men had stopped paddling and were jouncing up and down in the raft. If Nico didn’t know better, he’d think they were dancing. On closer inspection, the raft had been hit by a round and was taking on water.
The helicopter came in low downriver, peppering the river and hiding places with a volley of good old American firepower.
Nico kept his head down.
The drug runners reached the Mexican side of the river, jumped out of the now-sinking raft, and splashed awkwardly to the bank. They scrambled into the cover of the thick cattails where they disappeared.
Nico couldn’t hear above the roar of the helicopter, so it was unclear if they were still under fire. He peeked around the tree and looked across the river. A trail of dust appeared over the tops of the marshy area, then vanished, no doubt from a truck the drug runners had stashed for a quick getaway.
The helicopter was now directly above the river, perhaps forty feet or so. The rotor wash whipped the trees and brush, and Nico held onto the cap on his head so he wouldn’t lose it.
A brilliant white flas
h high in the atmosphere sparkled over the otherwise ordinary landscape, brightening it intensely. Nico closed his eyes and tucked his face into the crook of his arm, concerned his eyes could be burned.
An odd sensation overcame him, followed by a rumble and some type of intense pressure rolling over the land. It clamped down on him, as if he was in a vise, compressing his chest. His ears popped and he fell to the ground. He grabbed the front part of his shirt and gasped for air.
Maybe he blacked out a second or two. Maybe not. He wasn’t sure.
When he came to his senses, he stood, checking the surroundings.
The helicopter banked toward the American side, the engine sputtered, the chopper lurched, and the whumping of the blades ground to a slow, sickening halt.
The chopper listed to the side and the pilot frantically worked the controls trying to regain lift.
Nico watched from the sidelines, a mere spectator, unable to stop the inevitable.
The Black Hawk listed to the side, the still spinning blades groaned, fighting for power, then the chopper tumbled into the Rio Grande and hit the water with a thud.
The blades rotated once, slicing through the river bottom, pitching mud into the air. Foamy brown water splashed into the air. Waves of murky water rippled across the river and rushed to the shore.
The chopper bobbed on the water for a minute until an odd sucking sound followed, like liquid was being slurped through a gigantic straw.
The pilot appeared to have been knocked unconscious.
The chopper floated for a moment, then with a gurgling whoosh and a sputter, the river washed over it, gobbling it.
Nico jumped out of his hiding place and barreled through a bramble of thorny cactus and huisache, a native Texas tree armed with two inch spines. He raced to the river, mesquite branches slapping his face.
Coming to the edge, he tore off his shirt and body armor, unlaced his boots, threw them aside, and high-stepped into the river. It was colder than he thought it would be on this October day even though the sun was hot and high in the sky.
