Heroine Hearts: Darkness Made These Heroine Hearts

by Kirsty-Anne Still

  “She is now,” he says and slams his knife into her lower abdomen and drags the blade along, prolonging her agony. “No one here to save her and you can’t go for help.”

  “Why would you do that?” I scream, rushing forward as she drops, but he points the knife at me. “Let me get to her!”

  “Come any closer and I’ll gut you like a fucking pig too, ya little bitch,” he threatens.

  “I don’t care! We could’ve saved ourselves this!” I exclaim, stepping even closer. “Please, we can save her, we can!”

  He laughs at my naivety and my hatred for him grows in strength. I try to tell myself to calm down, that getting angry will do no good, but in this job, you become a sisterhood. Anyone willing to attack that has to deal with the fact that I won’t go down easily.

  “She wasn’t a lost cause! Now, let me get to her!” I growl the words out, starting my advance. “She’s one of Joaquín’s girls, he won’t be happy if we don’t take her back. You let me help her.”

  “I’d stop right there,” he says, brandishing the bloody blade as if to prove his point. He puts his hand out, touching my shoulder to physically follow through with his own threat. “This isn’t something you can change.”

  He has a hand poised on my shoulder, he brings his arm back, angling the blade to cut through my stomach. The smile on his face is one I remember from last night. There’s no humor or mirth in it, just pure evil intent.

  “What do you say, sweet cheeks?” he says, prepared to drag me down with them or let me go. “Her or you?”

  I take a moment to look at Jenny, she’s ghost white already from the blood loss and while I start to feel the grief unravel in me, clashing with my need to fight for Jenny, I know I cannot risk myself. However careless I wish to be, I know I have to choose myself.

  “Isla,” Chloe, the youngest of us, calls to me. “Don’t! We need you.”

  So, with the heartbreaking decision, I shake my head, admitting defeat. I start to step away from him. I listen to Chloe, knowing that Jenny is passed the point of saving. It breaks my heart to know that no matter how hard I fight, I’ll never be able to save her now. I look down, hating when her eyes latch onto mine and I know she’s well aware of what happens now. I’m just sorry I couldn’t save her from this.

  “Now, you leave us to finish up with little Jenny here, and you get going back,” he tells me, taking a step backward to stand beside Jenny. “You’ve already overstayed your welcome. So, I’ll count to ten and if you’re still in here by the time I reach ten, you’re fair game.”

  I don’t even need him to start counting before I force the other three out of the room. I only delay us leaving by going back to my room to grab the keys and my suitcase full of cash. I open it, making sure my clothing covers it successfully. Happy it looks like a haphazardly packed case, I close the lid and pull it from the bed. I notice the blood on the bed linen and bait my breathing as I hasten my departure.

  As I rush outside, the girls behind me, I go to the trunk of the car, throwing the door open so I can put my suitcase with the others, praying it looks like a girls’ weekend getaway.

  "You know the plan... over the border and straight to the house... there aren't any stops," I say closing the door and going around to join them all. “You know the drill.”

  “Can we not even make one detour?" Chloe asks, petulantly.

  I look over to the black car sitting on the side of the road. A tall, sturdily built Mexican man in jeans and a white t-shirt waves at me. I wave back and shake my head at her. I can see how distraught they all are, but there is nothing I can do to delay going back or lessen the grief I’m waiting to hit us all.

  We all are aware, you don’t fall apart until you’re alone – if you’re ever alone.

  “Hector and his goon Benny are tailing us,” I muse pointing them out. “We don’t stop until we’re over that border and back at the house.”

  “Doesn’t the thought cross your mind to just drive in a different direction?” Chloe asks me, putting her back to Hector as he watches us.

  “Yeah,” I comment back dryly, “But I also know what the punishment feels like for attempting it. So, for your own good, we won’t even try. Now, we have to deal with the fact that Jenny isn’t coming back with us and getting home in one piece.”

  “Joaquín is going to kill us,” Lydia throws her hands onto her head in a panic. “He won’t like that he’s lost a girl.”

  “It’s happened before,” Chloe defends. “Plus, it could’ve been any of us.”

  “She’s right, it could’ve been any of us,” I agree, putting my arm around Lydia and try to console her. “Now, we have been in this situation before and we’ll be in it again. We just have to get in the car and drive back, okay?”

  “Okay,” Lydia says, putting her arms around me to finally offer me a little squeeze. “She knows you fought for her.”

  “I just wished it’d been enough,” I say sadly, letting her go. “You know I want nothing bad to ever happen to you girls,” I smile and go over to the driver’s door of our SUV. “Now, let’s go before Hector comes over.”

  Chloe, Lydia, and the quietest one of us all, Emma, all follow my lead and get into the car. I look over to Hector, giving him a thumbs-up before I get into the car myself. I buckle up, starting to the engine, I pop the radio on, turning it up as I always do. We’re meant to play a role, but for the journey, I like to think we’re on any other girls’ road trip than the hellish one we’re forced on. I hit the gas and get us moving, leaving the parking lot, I look in the middle mirror just in time to see Hector pull out in his own car, following us on.

  Almost an hour later, we pull up into the queues for the border and wait to go through. I groan as we drove closer and notice that we’ve managed to get the same officer we had three days ago when we drove through. He waves at us to stop; taking his sun-glasses off as Chloe wind her window down.

  “You ladies enjoy your stay for the wedding?” the same border patrol officer asks as he looks into the car at us all. “You look a little tired in there.”

  “Partying the night away will do that to a girl,” Chloe jokes, giggling. “Some partied harder than others,” she says, looking at me, knowing what I had to do.

  “What can I say?” I ask, laughing. “I just love to dance the night away.”

  “Well it would seem so,” he muses with a slight smirk. “You girls travel safe getting back.”

  “We will, don’t you worry, officer,” Chloe says before falling back into her seat as I begin to pull forward through the toll. “Welcome home, girlies,” Chloe mutters quietly as we cross over the border. “We’re back.”

  Yes we are, I silently agree, thinking of our ideal of home.

  Sometimes home sweet home doesn’t come with a picket fence.

  I heave, exhaling cool air with the hope some will quell the sweat I’m breaking into.

  As my body moves involuntarily with the terrain of the road, I swear I feel more sweat break out. It’s lining my forehead, bleeding downwards while another load seeps through the shirt on my back. Nothing has eased this heat, it’s just manifesting in the carriage of this bus.

  A shadow becomes cast across me, darkening the photo I’ve been staring at the entire journey so far. My jaw clenches, my cheek twitching as my nerves begin to fray. I’m not on this bus to make a fucking friend, but in the same essence, I don’t want to have to fight a son of a bitch before I make it on Mexican soil.

  "You're in my fucking seat."

  I drag my eyes away from the photo in my hands and slowly begin to lift my gaze. I know what I'll find - a Mexican brute who thinks he has a right to push around fresh meat. He’ll believe he’s bigger, stronger than the rest.

  "Think I walked past you on my way on," I say, unmoved from my seat while leaning sideward to point around him and down the bus. "Your seat’s right down the front like a good boy.”

  “Oh, you think you’re smart?” he asks, scowling at me. “I said you
’re in my seat.”

  “And I don’t care,” I say, looking away from him. “Now, fuck off.”

  He takes the photo from me and my reaction is knee-jerk. I’m up and on my feet, landing my fist square with his jaw. While he stumbles, he doesn’t let go of my photograph. I snatch at his hand, the photo drops to the floor of the bus and I grab his hand, wrapping my fingers around his now closed fist and begin to squeeze. I see the panic on his face at not expecting me to have reacted how I have, especially when I start to squeeze even harder and his knees knuckle under the pain. As he lowers, I stand, looking down on him.

  “I told you to fuck off,” I growl at him, beginning to bend his fingers backward. “Now, I suggest you do just that before I do something you’ll regret.”

  I release him, discarding of his hand as if it’s made of pure fucking dirt.

  “Now, I suggest you go back to your seat,” I say, leaning down to pick up the photograph before resuming my own. “At the front of the bus.”

  He gets up, scurrying away. While inside I’m elated he’s fucked off, my exterior remains neutral. I sit back in my seat, looking up to see the asshole taking his seat, nursing his hand. Now that makes me smirk for a moment, just the sight of him knocked from his self-imposed pedestal is enough to make any man happy.

  “He’s been deported nine times now,” the man next to me remarks. “He believes he’s king of this journey.”

  “Makes him dumber than I first thought then,” I grouse, not even looking up at the man, but rather straight ahead. “Any idea how much longer?” I ask, finally looking up at him. “It’s like a fucking furnace in here.”

  He grins, laughing at me. “I think we’re close to the border. I take it you’re a Baja California original?” I nod and he copies. It’s a basic question, it’s where the bus is heading. He’s merely making assumptions to pass the time. “Any plans when you get off this death trap?”

  “Yeah, there’s some business I need to take care of.”

  “Not going to try and get back into America?” he asks, and I allow him to ask all the questions he likes.

  “Not yet,” I say, and give him a small smile. “As I say, I have some business to take care of.”

  “Anything to do with that?” he asks and points at the photo.

  The moment he noticed that, I put the photograph away into my shirt pocket. The conversation dries up in that instance and I’m glad for it. He could’ve queried every aspect of my life, but not that photo. It’s the one thing making this time in my life hold any value.

  After all, no man wants to be deported back to the country with no prospects, especially when they had a life back in America.

  I look around at the men on this bus. Some are covered in tattoos, smothered with signs of gangs, trails of their pasts. While others are older – and much fatter – showing that they’ve lived out long lives in America without gaining any suspicions until now.

  Not entirely sure how I fit into this. I’m just a normal man who had it all and now I’m here.

  Glancing out of the window, I notice a road sign.

  Baja California, Mexico – twenty kilometers.

  I step down from the bus, closing my eyes against the Mexican heat before I open them and start to walk away, preparing to go off and find what I need.

  "Javier Santos?" I hear my name and turn around to find a man standing before me in a light blue shirt and jeans. He has two symbols on his cheek, just below his eye – ES – and an intent look in his eyes. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “And you are?”

  “The man about to give you it all,” he says, sounding so self-assured.

  “And how can I trust you?” I ask, cocking a brow at him.

  He looks around, clearly checking for who’s around before he leans in. I look at him, uncomfortable with the sudden invasion of my personal space, but my curiosity kicks in and I relent, turning my ear to him.

  “El Salvador,” he mutters to me, stepping back with a smirk on his face.

  He was right. This is just what I was looking for.

  I took the bait – just like they knew I and over a dozen other men would.

  I look among the men around me, all of them of various ages and I can see the life etched into them all, and I have to wonder why they would accept an invite from a stranger who only knew their name.

  Like I did.

  The heat seems to have risen, but I think that’s more the burning anticipation rushing through my veins than anything else.

  Currently, I’m stood in a large courtyard. Seating circles the room while a dozen men and I stand in the middle of a huge boxed area. If you ask me, it feels like a viewing area and I know we’re about to be the show for the day.

  I have no idea what is about to happen, but the moment I heard El Salvador, I knew I couldn’t ignore that fate was a master at perfect timing. I thought I would have to hunt for a way in, but the urban legends that they know you before you know them were true. I’m sure, like the other men, I asked no questions and went willingly, knowing that to have a chance in Mexico, you had to be prepared to fight for it.

  This is a country governed by cartels, each taking men and bending them until they break. They control the police, the borders. There is nowhere to run in Mexico that hasn’t been dealt a hand from a cartel of some sort.

  So, here I stand, a willing component in whatever game we’re about to play.

  “Welcome!” a young man yells, stepping up before us. “You’re all being given an opportunity that only is given to men we deem suitable for this life.”

  I watch him and already he irks me. He stands before us in jeans and an unbuttoned shirt, a dirty vest beneath it with a gun glued to his hip. He looks very sure of himself and like he runs the place, but when a man comes up behind him, placing one hand on his shoulder, his entire demeanor shifts and he steps down.

  “As my son has just announced, you have been given an opportunity, so now it’s your time to impress us,” the older man says, but he offers no introduction. “Lying around are weapons...” the one I assume to be the boss declares, pausing to let us look around. He holds the room with such gusto, his presence is demanding. “There are at your disposal, use them at your will.”

  My eyes quickly trawl around the room and I take note of a few items situated around the room that could prove useful for me, but I know ultimately this will be about combat and agility, not about which man can get a weapon fast enough.

  I steady my thoughts and face back to the front. My head is running a million miles a minute, fastening a survival plan together. The truth is, I don’t know how I’ll react until I know what I’m up against. There are men of differing builds; stamina is not something that I can tell just based on a man’s size. So I revert my attention to the weapons lying around. My eyes catch sight of a screw driver on the floor and I know that’s where my plan should start – with a weapon, not with my cockiness. The tip of it offers a slight advantage, it’ll work to penetrate softer parts of any man’s body.

  “It’s your job to be the last man standing,” the supposed boss carries on, looking among us all. “If you’re here to be a true El Salvador member, you’ll do right by the legend of the name and by me.”

  I resist the twitch that begins in the corner of my lips. I knew who he was, I just wanted verification that the man I came here to meet is the boss.

  “When my son fires the gun, you have until the last man is left to impress us,” he says, starting to back up.

  I watch him sit in a throne-like seat, one grand and omnipotent among the rest of the furniture in the room. He seems not to take note of the imposition his attitude has as he faces the man beside him and gives him a short nod of his head. As the boss’ son begins to raise the gun up, I brace myself knowing I have one task – get my chosen weapon directly in front of me.

  If I can get my hands on that screwdriver, I can make quick punches turn deadly by using the screwdriver head to puncture skin and th
e long metal to penetrate their body.

  As the gun goes, I charge, well aware that there are other men after the same easy choice. I sense a man closing in on my right and I react by bringing my elbow back, deliberately to make contact with his nose. He grunts as we collided and while I stumble forward, I still make it to the tool before any other man does. Upon grabbing it, I spin around and find myself faced with five other men; they’re skittish now I’m brandishing a simple tool in their face.

  “C’mon!” I bellow at them, showing no fear. Yet all of them remain at a distance.

  I strike, going for the man who took my elbow to his face, pouring blood from his nose, but unfortunately for him, I’m not in a caring mood. I lash out, thrusting the metal length of the screwdriver into his neck.

  This is every man for himself and these bastards need to quickly learn that I am not in the habit of playing safe, nor am I in the habit of dying today.

  I notice the man from the bus earlier, the one who wanted my seat, and he now has a deathly glare in his eyes. It’s that which makes him my second target. He wanted to challenge me earlier, so I’ll challenge him now.

  “You wanted my seat first,” I sneer, my voice taut. “Now, you want this?” I say, waving the screwdriver around in his face. It’s while he watches the tool that I take my chance and ram it into his stomach. “Shame you can’t have it either.”

  He drops to the floor, not even bothering to put up a fight as I withdraw the tool and I know I must have punctured something. I pause for a moment in the remorse of killing him, but one look ahead of me and there is hell unraveling between innocent men whos only misdeed was a bit of greed that the El Salvador will offer.

  I take a blow to the face, stumbling on my feet and regrettably drop the one thing that was seeing me through to the end of this. It’s quickly picked up by another man and I’m left with my bare fists to beat off men. There’s a war inside of all of us and while some men strike out with fists, others use blades. I feel one slice the skin on my arm, but in retaliation I swing a punch, forcing him away from me. As he falls backward, another member takes him on and I’m left with one of the men who remains without a weapon.