by Luke Murphy
They stood there for a minute, not saying anything. Then she noticed the blood on Calvin’s pant leg.
She got down on her knee to look at the damage. “You’ve been shot.”
“I’ll live.” He grimaced as she shifted his pant leg, thankful that the darkness semi-hid his facial expressions from her.
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, tough guy. This isn’t a Rambo movie. We need to treat this. I’ll see if there’s a first aid kit in the cabin.”
He struggled to follow her. Livia disappeared into the back of the shack as Calvin searched the cabin, finding a woman, dead, in one of the bedrooms. She was rail-thin with a bleached pixie-style haircut. Her face was collapsed and covered with a bad case of acne. She was topless, with rolled jean shorts and flip flops. Both arms were riddled with needle marks.
There was no sign of Sanders.
“They have a full stock of supplies back there. It isn’t a hospital, but it’ll do. Let’s do this by the fire.” Livia appeared with a pail of water, a kit full of supplies and a half-filled bottle of Jack Daniels.
Outside, she stoked the fire a bit to get it going again and threw on some dry wood before removing the contents of the kit. Once the fire grew, it helped light up the area.
She handed him the liquor bottle. “You might want a couple of sips from this before I start digging.”
“Hand me the pill bottles from that bag.”
He downed a few more pills with one long swig and then followed it with another. The whiskey burned his throat on the way down. His body tingled and relaxed.
“Turn around and drop your pants,” she ordered.
“What?”
“Don’t be modest. I need to get to that bullet.”
He could feel his face burn and sweat. He did as she asked.
“Nice butt.” Calvin could hear the smile in her voice.
“I don’t think I can stand much longer,” Calvin said. Beads of sweat peppered his upper lip.
“Lie down on your stomach.”
Her touch was gentle as she washed the wound with warm water, but his hamstring muscle spasmed involuntarily. She rubbed alcohol around the hole to disinfect it and, since the pain meds had yet to kick in, his fists tensed as the sting zipped through his leg.
Calvin took another big gulp of whiskey.
Then she used a set of tweezers and knife and, with the precision of a surgeon, removed the bullet.
Calvin gritted his teeth and balled up fists with his hands, letting out a low, guttural growl.
“I don’t see Sanders,” Calvin said. He twisted his head around and watched her face as she worked, a mask of concentration—a natural beauty, no makeup.
“So that means he’s either dead, running free, or with the Colombians. If that’s the case, he’ll wish he was dead.” She put some antibiotic cream over the hole. After she wrapped the wound, she sat back on the ground. “We can’t fly at night, so we should get some sleep and leave in the morning.”
Calvin rolled gingerly onto his back. “Well, we aren’t sleeping here, out in the open or in the cabin. There’s no telling who could show up tonight. We’ll sleep over there.” He sat up with a grimace and pointed to the edge of the jungle. “We’ll be out of sight from anyone coming through, but we’ll have a clear view if someone shows up.”
“You’re definitely a rookie out here. You think it’s safe in there? You don’t know much about the forest.”
“Pick your poison. We’ll be sitting ducks out here. I’ll take my chances in there.”
She pursed her lips. “Okay, if you say so. But I warned you.”
He smiled. “You seem to do a lot of that.”
“It looks like you require it often.”
She left again without a word, and this time came back out of the cabin with blankets and pillows. She shrugged her shoulders. “These were in the cabin. They won’t need them.”
“I don’t think I’ll get much sleep. I’m too geared up, wired after all of the action.”
She smiled. “Let’s just sit by the fire then.”
He nodded. “Are you hungry?”
She shook her head, then threaded her fingers through her hair. She sat down, crossing her legs, yoga style.
Calvin threw a piece of dry wood on the fire. “Tell me about your brother.”
Livia smiled sadly, twirling a free lock of her hair. “Ten years younger than me. A great person, but misguided. Our parents were killed three years ago, narcoterrorism. An organized criminal group waged war against the police, and started bombing certain parts of the city. Daniel took it hard. He was only seventeen and started dabbling in drugs. From that point on, the cartel had him. He was an addict. He owed money which he paid off by working for them. Once he was in, he couldn’t get out. I tried to help, but I didn’t have a chance. For a while, anger was my only comfort.”
So, this was all about revenge. It had nothing to do with him. He could see the anger in her eyes, hear the hatred in her voice, and Calvin knew that she would do whatever it took to avenge her brother and punish those responsible. He could use that motivation.
Calvin listened quietly, nodding sympathetically. He couldn’t believe what this woman had been through, what her family had been through, and what this country had to deal with on a daily basis.
These were real problems…third-world problems.
Livia reached behind her and opened a small black backpack that Calvin didn’t know she had. She pulled out a plastic container and emptied it, handing Calvin small balls of fried dough.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Pão de queijo, or cheese bread to you.”
He took a bite of the round, fried dough that was crispy on the outside, but soft and chewy on the inside.
“What’s inside?”
“Cream cheese and meat.”
He ate the first one and bit into the second. “It’s good. You don’t want any?”
She shook her head, and then yawned.
When Calvin saw her, he got up gingerly. “I guess we should call it a night if we want to leave early.”
She helped Calvin limp into the jungle and made him a bed to sleep in.
“I’ll take first watch.”
“No,” she said. “I’ll take first watch.”
He smiled. “Do you trust anyone?”
She smiled back. “In God I trust. The rest pay cash. Before we sleep, let’s straighten that nose.”
Calvin shook his head. “Have you always been so hard and cynical?”
“No, not always.”
She hesitated, as if thinking. Calvin thought he saw her eyes moisten, and he gave her time. She swiped at her wet cheeks.
“I was a school teacher for six years.”
“School teacher?”
She nodded. “I taught ESL—English as a second language—to elementary kids. I quit after my brother was killed. I thought, what’s the point?”
“You can’t give up on the things you love. You can’t let them win.”
She shook her head, staring into the fire. “This city, this country, does something to you. It doesn’t matter if you moved here or you’re a native, it changes you, hardens you. At first you lie, tell yourself that it doesn’t bother you. But it does. The hate, the violence, it drains your will to go on.”
Now he could see the tears in her eyes. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. “Where did you learn English?” he asked.
“School, music, movies. It’s amazing how much you can pick up from the internet. I practiced on my own until I was confident.”
“What will you do when this is all over?”
She finally looked at him. “What makes you think it will ever be over?”
He nodded in complete understanding. Killing the cartel was like arresting criminals back in North America: once you locked one up, another appeared on the streets.
“What about after you get the revenge you’re seeking?” He watched the emotion on her face change.
Sh
e shrugged her slender shoulders. “Not sure. There’s nothing left for me here. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“Well you should. Because you have a lot to live for.”
♣
Dale’s eyes snapped open.
It was black, but he’d heard the faintest of sounds. He’d always been a light sleeper, waking from the slightest noise. But this had been more than a sound; he’d felt movement. Something had brushed past him as he lay covered up on the couch. Another tiny noise made his heart skip a beat—slow, low breathing.
At first, he’d thought that Rachel had wakened and left the room, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw her bedroom door still shut.
Someone was in the apartment.
His first thought—Derek Baxter. But if a pro like Baxter was in the apartment, they’d already be dead.
He could make out a shadow in the corner of the room. Dale didn’t dare move, didn’t dare make a sound that might give away his location. If someone had snuck into the house, picked the lock and broken in, then they were here for Dale, and they wouldn’t know he was on the couch. They’d be expecting to find him in the bedroom.
Rachel!
She was priority number one. Calvin had given Dale one job, to protect Rachel. Dale remembered last year when they planned to set up Baxter, how Calvin’s only concern was getting Rachel out of the house to safety. He knew how deep Calvin’s love for Rachel reached.
Ever since the Baxter threat had resumed, even after Rachel had moved in and Dale was forced to the couch, he slept with his gun close by. He slithered his hand underneath the couch to where his weapon hid, already out of its holster. As he shifted, he kept his gaze on the moving shadow, now creeping towards the bedroom door.
He pulled his hand out, gripping the butt of the pistol tight. But, as he slid his hand across the floor it knocked over a glass of water.
The shadow in the corner scrambled, quickly moving to another room, running into furniture and knocking things over. The person who’d broken in was now somewhere in Dale’s kitchen.
Dale sprang off the couch and ducked down beneath the back cushion for cover. He heard movement in the bedroom. Rachel. He just hoped she wouldn’t do anything stupid, like come out. He had to warn her.
But should he head to the bedroom, turning his back on the kitchen, or go after the perpetrator, who was now hiding somewhere in the small apartment? Dale made a split-second decision.
He rose and stepped towards the kitchen, trying as best he could to balance his weight and avoid any floorboards creaking as he moved. There was a light switch on the wall just outside the kitchen entrance.
He reached the switch, realizing that he’d been holding his breath. He flicked it on and the sudden blast of light jabbed his retinas. He squinted, shielding his eyes for a few seconds until his sight adjusted.
No one was in the kitchen. A movement in the hall drew his attention.
He peered around the corner and a bullet shattered the drywall beside him. Dale recoiled before the next bullet hit its mark.
“Rachel, stay where you are!” He had an idea.
He didn’t know for sure where the perp was hiding, but from the direction the bullet had hit the wall, he suspected the near vicinity.
There were two entrances to the kitchen, one at each end of the front hallway. The criminal was expecting Dale to come around the corner, but if Dale could slip through the kitchen and exit from the far entrance, he could sneak up on the unsuspecting gunman.
But he had to divert and draw the perpetrator’s attention away from the kitchen.
He grabbed one of his shoes and threw it across the room, where is banged against the far wall.
“Listen,” he said, loud enough for the gunman to hear, no matter where he hid. “I’m a detective with the LVMPD. You have two options. Give yourself up and I can make sure you’ll get the minimum penalty—I can help you if this ends now. Or, option two, you can make a run for the door and never show your face again.”
He wondered what was going through Rachel’s mind, hoping she at least thought to hide somewhere in the bedroom.
There was no response. Dale waited a good ten seconds, and when nothing was said, he turned and converged on the kitchen. He could feel the perspiration sticking to his body.
He tiptoed through the kitchen, over the cold linoleum-tiled floor and made it safely to the front entrance. He partially stuck his head out to have a look. No shot. The criminal didn’t notice.
Dale thought he saw the perpetrator duck down behind a closet wall, not far from the front door.
Why hadn’t he just left? He was close enough. Why hadn’t he just gone for the front door, escaped and lived to fight another day? Dale had been at the other end of the apartment; it would have been easy for the man to get away.
Dale took one step out from the kitchen, half of his body exposed and the other half blocked by the corner of the wall. He aimed his weapon at the man crouched in the closet. He flicked on the hallway light, exposing the hider.
“Don’t move.”
The gunman froze, still crouched in a squatting position. He wore all black, including a balaclava, only exposing the eye openings.
Dale had his gun trained on the assailant. “Get up.”
The man still didn’t move, which gave Dale pause. Why wasn’t he listening to an LVMPD detective? Was it a Russian, who’d die before failing to complete an assignment from Alexandrov?
Almost cat-like, the intruder turned, swung his body and aimed the handgun at Dale. But Dale was ready. He fired before the robber pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the man in the chest, jerking his body back into the closet, smashing against the gyprock.
Dale stood still, weapon at the ready. The man didn’t move. The detective approached slowly, gun aimed.
The man was in a sitting position, legs extended, back against the wall, his head slumped onto his chest, eyes closed. The man’s gun lay on the floor by his side. Dale kicked it away, and shivered slightly.
The gun was an S&W 5906, discontinued over twenty years ago. Not only that, the 5906 was the standard LVMPD weapon issued to recruits back in the early nineties, when officers couldn’t choose their own weapon. The firearm policy had since been revised and LVMPD were allowed to choose their own gun, as long as it was standard factory production.
Dale felt the man’s pulse. Dead. He knelt down and grabbed the balaclava when Rachel screamed from the bedroom.
Dale stood up just as the bedroom door swung open and Rachel came out, held forcefully around the throat by another disguised intruder dressed all in black. The man pointed a gun against Rachel’s temple.
Two assailants.
Rachel trembled. Her eyes were red.
“Drop the gun, Detective,” the man said.
Dale thought he recognized the voice from somewhere. It definitely wasn’t a Russian accent.
Dale didn’t move, but kept the gun aimed at Rachel and the man. He could see very little of the perp, and there was no way he’d get a clear shot without risk of hitting Rachel in the process.
“Don’t be stupid, Detective!” He gripped Rachel’s throat tighter. She struggled to breathe.
“Okay,” Dale said, putting his hands in the air. “I’m putting it down.”
“Slowly.”
Dale looked around the room and then into Rachel’s eyes. He knew that if he put that gun down, he and Rachel would both be dead in a matter of seconds. Dale didn’t have a second weapon on him.
When Dale hesitated, the masked-man pressed the gun harder against Rachel’s skull. She grimaced in pain. The perp pulled the chamber back and started to squeeze the trigger.
“Okay, wait,” Dale screamed.
He sidestepped towards the table and set the gun down.
“Put it on the floor, Detective. I don’t want you to be tempted.”
Dale slid the weapon off the table and onto the floor. It made a loud clank when it landed on the click-board flooring.<
br />
“Now what?” Dale asked. “You gonna kill a cop?”
“That’s my job.”
The man threw Rachel aside and she landed hard on the floor. The perp aimed at Dale.
“Nice knowing you, Detective.”
A shot rang out. Glass exploded first, shock registered a second before the criminal crumpled to the floor.
Rachel, covered in the man’s blood, screamed. She stood up, shaking.
Dale was frozen for seconds, unaware of what just happened. It took him several moments to compose himself.
“Rachel!” he yelled. “Get away from the window, get down!”
He ran and tackled her, taking her down on the couch.
“You’re okay,” he said. “You’re not hurt.” He checked her over to make sure.
He held her tight until her crying, breathing and trembling slowed.
“Go to the bedroom. Crawl. Get under the bed and don’t move until I call you.”
“What happened?” Rachel stuttered around her sobs. “Who shot him?”
She was splattered in blood, a look of disbelief etched on her face.
“Just go!” Dale felt guilty about raising his voice, but it worked. She crawled to the bedroom and shut the door.
Dale reached his cellphone, creeped to the window, and peeked over the edge, but stayed below the sightline. He dialed the department.
“This is Detective Dale Dayton, badge number 5144.”
Dale gave the report.
When he hung up, he stayed down for another four minutes. When nothing happened, he crawled over to one of the dead men and removed his balaclava. Recognizing the face, he blew air from his cheeks.
“Jesus Christ.”
Chapter 16
The sun rose at 5:30. Calvin woke up, opening his eyes sleepily, and squinted at the sun trying to filter in between the branches and leaves. Ground fog hung among the bush and mossy rainforest. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and sat up, surprised at a better sleep than expected.
He looked over his shoulder and paused at Livia’s empty sleeping bag.
Had someone or something taken her in the middle of the night? Had she double-crossed him and taken off? Did she go snooping in the rainforest? Was she alerting or signaling somebody?
