“You.” I pointed my chin to the other man who had yet to say a word. “Ride with Rafael to the rancher’s place and see if it’s really empty or not. Last thing I want is the cops called or Abe’s men to be hiding out at another home. Park your bikes in a clearing of trees and walk. We’re on foot from the rancher’s home to Guzman’s place.”
I reached behind me and into my satchel, pulling out two handguns I kept in case of an emergency. “You loaded?” I asked Rafael, as he removed his helmet and dismounted.
“I’m good to go. Three on me. A knife on the leg.” He lifted up his jean pant leg to show me the huge hunter’s knife carried in a red leather sheath. But still, he looked towards the man I just paired him up with me and asked, “You think we can trust them? I mean, we’re going into Guzman’s home. Shouldn’t their boss have told us that or at least have known?”
I keep my voice down, unsure if the men have any comprehension of English. “All I’ll say is this—you worry about you, Rafael. No one is keeping you here or working with me to get Sierra out. You do what you need to do, especially if those boys turn or pull something shifty on you. You got my go-ahead to shoot now and take questions later.”
He nodded and began walking fast towards the darkened, gravel road. “Hey Rafael!” I whisper loudly, “You call when you get in. Give me your feedback live. I don’t want to be waiting to hear if your dumbass was killed or not.”
“Got it, boss,” he said with a slight smile and a thumbs-up. The two men walked towards the brush, camouflaging themselves in the green and tan overgrowth that filled the ditch. My partner and I followed behind them, taking our bikes and the other two down into the clearing and leaving them behind a few larger cacti.
The further we inched toward the clearing, the darker it became. The ground crunching under me and the outline of the man kneeling and squatting was the only way I knew that I was going the way towards Guzman’s home. When Rafael finally calls, the sound from my Bluetooth echoes off of the trees and fills up the black spaces.
“It’s clear,” he says breathlessly. “Nothing here but some pots and pans and an old beat-up television set. Even the ashes in the fireplace look like they haven’t been touched in months.”
“Did you do a full sweep of the perimeter? The last thing we want are surprises, Rafa.”
“Guzman’s man is out there now. I’m hanging out here, looking for something to eat. All I see though are dusty old cans of red bea—” His voice is interrupted by the sound of two loud pops. Glass shatters, as I hear him mutter, “Oh fuck!”
“Rafa! Rafa!” I shout loudly, not caring if I’m heard. Guzman’s man turns back towards me curiously. I reach behind me and point my gun at him, unsure if I can trust him. “What’s going on! Who’s firing? Tell me what is happening to you?”
There’s more gunfire and the sound of a man shouting just far enough away that I can catch his voice. “I’m hit! I’m hit! There’s two of them. Don’t know where my partner is. I need help, Tank! I need help!”
My feet take off before I can even think. I sprint through the bush towards the road, using it as my guide towards the rancher’s house. Guzman’s man runs alongside me, as he dials frantically into his phone. In Spanish, he cries out as he gets no answer. I can only imagine whom he is calling at a time like this, and I find myself holding that gun in my hand even tighter.
We see the guns fire before we even see the outline of the home. My partner drops to his knees and pulls me down with him, as we use the ditch as a trench. He pulls the gun strapped to his back up and around his body and pulls himself up on his stomach and knees. Even though I can’t make out a thing, he begins to fire a round of bullets from his automatic.
Within minutes, I hear a cry. It’s bloodcurdling, the familiar sound of someone knowing that death is just seconds away. The sound charges at us, as the return fire doesn’t come. The only bullets flying are from my partner’s weapon. He notices the change too and dips his head out from the cover and then whistles a short pattern. Another whistle comes from behind where the house must be.
“Señor, it’s clear.” The man brushes off his sweaty brow and then offers his hand to me. I put the gun in my other hand and let him pick me up and out of the ditch. We run off towards the whistling hidden behind the side of the wooden shack. There, we find our second man leaning down over the body of an Aztec. Without care, he reaches into the man’s vest and grabs his wallet, the packet of gum, and the large gun strapped to his bare, bloody chest.
The two men talk rapidly in Spanish, recounting what had just happened, while I run off towards the door. “Rafa!” I call urgently. “Rafael! Where the fuck are you?!” I walk into the home, past the bullet holes and the light on the porch flickering on and off. As the light turns on once more, I see the outline of my second’s body. It’s lying in a pool of dark red blood, enough for me to know that he wasn’t coming out of this death house anytime soon.
Nearby is another man, his throat slit wide open, Rafael’s knife lying just feet away. I pick it up and clean it with my shirt before sticking it into my front pocket. While Rafael’s body couldn't be brought with me, I was going to take something of his back to his gal and son. They deserved that from me after I asked him to die for the cause.
“Señor?” Guzman’s men walk cautiously into the home, each taking in the sight of the two men dead on the floor. “We go now. Not safe.”
I agree, and the three of us head out of the house. I shut the door behind me before taking out my lighter and setting a pile of twigs and logs in flames. I watch wordlessly as the house catches and the black and red smoke plumes begin firing up around the base of the wooden frame home. We sink back into the darkness of the clearing, as I say goodbye to my one good friend.
About a thousand feet away from the home, we finally spot Guzman’s home. It towers over the darkness like a castle in a storybook, and unlike the other fortresses Guzman has shown me in Mexico, his American home is completely different. It’s a mansion done in a cabin style. Everything is sleek, modern, and tech heavy. Floodlights around the gate make it easy for the cameras to focus in on any movement, and we can make out the lights from a night-vision-equipped guard at one of the towers.
My two shooters suddenly take over, running left of the main gate and out of the line of the red security beams. I have no choices but to let them lead us through the back toward the guard tower. Inside, a man in a blue uniform sits, watching a security screen while a baseball game plays on the radio. I take out my gun, pointing it towards the window, but my partner pulls my arm down and puts a finger to his lip to silence me.
As I begin to silently protest, his friend starts for the door. Before the guard can even react, his arm is around his neck, causing the large guard to fall backwards and over the chair. From my spot, I see the guard claw furiously at the ground, his nails leaving marks in the wood plank floor. And then, a loud, long crack. The man’s hand falls flat, the life snapped out of him.
My partner runs into the guardhouse and pulls out the main computer sitting in the desk drawer. Without stopping, he begins typing a pattern of numbers over and over. And one by one, I watch the screens go from displaying pictures of the perimeter and the inside the home to completely black. Only one remains when I begin to shout, “No! Stop! No!”
I see her. I see Sierra. She sits huddled next to a bed where a man lays mostly covered. She pulls her knees up to her chest, as I watch her breathe so deeply that the curve of her back rises and falls. And suddenly, she startles. Her body leaps out of position and she uses her hands and feet to crabwalk all the way back towards the wall.
In the bed, Abe stirs. Even with the grainy screen, I watch terrified as his eyes pop open and his head twists and turns. He pulls against the force of whatever is holding him into the bed until he gets one arm free. Sierra stumbles, as she stands and runs back towards a small room in the corner, flicking on the light.
I turn towards the men and point to the room still up o
n the screen. “There! There! Show me how to get there. I need to go… NOW.” Rafael’s partner starts pulling the clothing off of the corpse on the floor, stripping off his own clothes as the other pushes the body out of the way. In a corner, he grabs an enormous spare uniform shirt and hat tosses it over his own clothing. Both men grab their weapons and lead me out, but not before turning back to me and grabbing my jacket off of my arms and tossing it back into the guard post.
Each running step pounds with my heart as we make it into the home and past the men running and shouting about the fire. Only when they are at the door, gathering up, do my shooters turn, firing on them one by one. Each of them hit their marks in seconds flat. A pile of dead men line the front entrance.
“Run, señor!” My partner turns back to me, as more men come down the ornate metal stairway towards the noise of their partners’ shouts for help. His companion takes over picking them off, as he continues to order me, “That way! Third room. Third room!”
He doesn’t need to give me directions. I’m already off. My feet pound heavily on the wooden floors, as I pass the room full of toys and the darkened hallways full of pictures of Guzman and his children smiling on their family vacations. I am headed directly towards the unmistakable sound of Sierra screaming for her life.
Chapter 28: Giving It Away
I saw a light first. It was like one of those old-timey flashbulbs from a camera blinking rapidly before a huge bright spark lit up the room and enveloped everything in it. And then came the pain. Searing, hot, quick. It lingers on my skin as I try to recover.
But before I can, Abe hits me again. At least, I am pretty sure it’s Abe. That white blinding light has literally crippled me. I can’t see a foot in front of me out of my left eye. And my right is taking the beating in its place. But I can make out Abe’s feet. They are still wet despite being under those blankets for nearly an hour. And now, they are covered in little red raindrops of blood that are still falling from the wound on his head.
My mind tries to keep up with myself. You should have killed him, Sierra. You knew that he wouldn’t stay under long enough for Tank to come find you. You should have taken him out with the shards of the glass or at least hit him harder. This is all your fault.
Abe steps back, away from my limited view. I shake my head furiously, as I try to come to. Something’s changed. In the distance, over the sound of my ears ringing, I can hear bursts of yelling and the sounds of firecrackers … or gunshots. It’s sharp and piercing and with each pop, there’s another scream.
The bathroom Abe has charged into is completely empty now—except for my tired, beaten body up against the wall. With my good eye, I peer outside the broken wood door and past the blood stained carpet. My head sticks tentatively out, trying to make out what happened to my captor. He’s completely vanished. His bloody footprints lead from the door back to a small window just outside the hallway. That bastard made his escape.
Someone’s calling his name, screaming it. His men, I’m sure, are looking for him to protect him. He’s the king in this chess game, and everyone else is his pawn. If they can’t find him, they’re going down as well. And when they find me here with his blood splattered everywhere, I’m not going to have much time to convince them to let me live. I’ve got to follow Abe’s lead and make a run for it.
I place my hands against the cold bathroom tiles behind me and slowly move them up until my upper body follows. My hips, tired and probably broken, lean and sway as they try to get the legs to work for them. Every part of me hobbles out of the bathroom, past the ornate bed set, and towards the door.
I walk out gingerly, my feet leading the way followed by my legs and chest. The sounds of screams are dying down, though everything seems muffled and watery to me. When I finally get the courage to put my entire body outside, I realize that I’ve got nowhere to run. Outside, past the window, Abe waits for me. His men are everywhere, and by the blurry shapes I can see, two are coming at me, screaming with their guns raised in their hands.
My only choice is to run. I don’t know how, but my body manages to sprint towards the other end of the hallway and towards another door. My hands jiggle at the lock, but it doesn’t budge. I try the door closest to it, and it flings open. A small, unlit staircase leads me down to an empty, damp basement. The cold cement floor hits my feet first, as I try to feel my way to another escape option. Down here, I’m trapped—a sitting target for the two men chasing me.
But a moment passes and no one comes for me. Above my head, there is so much chaos and screaming that I can’t quite put it all together. I push myself further into the darkness of the basement till I find a side room with a lock on the door handle. I retreat inside and find a closet with a small lightbulb. The light flashes on, just barely filling up the room. And while I don’t want to give myself away, I can’t stand to meet my end in the complete darkness of a dungeon.
The room I’m in is another bedroom with black bedding and simple furniture. By the looks of it, it probably belonged to someone who worked in the house, as it’s practically empty save for the bedside table with a book resting on the top and a few black suits hanging next to me in the closet.
Okay, Sierra, I tell myself. You have to think of a plan. You have to get yourself out of here. You have no idea if Tank is here, on his way, or … dead. This is all on you, but you can’t stay here. This place is dea—
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of booming footsteps on the stairwell where I just came down. I run straight for the closet, pulling it shut. My panicked hands cause it to creak and shudder as it slams together. I make myself into a small ball in the corner and pull down one of the suits to pull over myself. Everything goes dark again as I try my best to listen to what is going on just outside the door.
The man walking outside is screaming for Abe. His voice sounds urgent but also as if he’s hunting. It grows closer, as he calls out again just mere feet from the bedroom door. I hear the slide of his shoes on the cement floor as it stops just in front of it. The metal handle turns and locks as he twists it again and again in frustration. “Abe!” He calls out again, as his breathing becomes labored and intense.
I jump as two loud pounds drive through the door. The wood flies all around, a piece hitting the closet door just inches from where I am hiding with my knees clutched to my chest. I try to stop the sound of my breath escaping me, but I’m too late. Through the slats in the closet door, I see the figure turn slowly towards my hiding place, a hand reaching out.
There’s light again. It’s that same kind of flashing, burning, all-encompassing light that envelops me. But this time, there is no pain or pressure. There’s no ringing in my ears or tears sticking to the bruises on my cheeks. There’s only Tank, and his arms wrapping around me as they place me down on the bed.
He lowers his large head down to me as he straddles my hips. His brown, curly hair flies in my face, but I can’t bear to bat them away. I can’t make out too many details, but I catch a small glimpse of a smile as he places a cool hand to my jaw and lifts my head delicately upwards towards his waiting lips. When they meet, every part of me fills with warmth.
He pulls away slowly, savoring me. My voice, hoarse and lost in the pain of my throat, manages to squeak out, “You came for me.”
“I told you I would, didn’t I?” Tank’s face changes as he studies me in the pale light of the closet. He stiffens as he says regretfully, “I should have come sooner. That fucker is going to pay for putting a hand on you. Do you know what happened to him? My guys found the footprints but nothing else.”
I lift a shaking finger up to his lips, trying to make him stop talking. My head pounds from the rumbling sounds of his enraged voice, “Shh,” I whisper, “I don’t want to talk about him. Right now all that matters is that you’re here with me.” I add tiredly, trying not to drift away from this near perfect moment, “Can you please touch my face again with your hands? They feel so good against my skin.”
I’ve always kn
own Tank’s hands to be rough and calloused. Bikers hands are always beat up from the handlebars, the weather, and their work. However, there’s something different about Tank’s hands. As he touches the pulsating bruises on my cheeks and around my forehead, I don’t think about the cracking skin or the coarse bumps around his fingertips. Everything melts inside that gentle touch, everything feels whole again.
After a few strokes, my eyes feel less weighted down. My eyelashes begin to separate from the wounds around them, and my vision clears. As I blink rapidly, I catch his steely blue eyes gazing right back at me in amazement. I start to notice the weight of his body on mine, his chest pounding against my breasts, and his heavy jeans rubbing between my thighs.
I lift my hand up to his neck and touch the hairs around the base of his head before pulling him closer to me. He feels what I feel—the wanting, the needing. After Abe, I could never want anything but him, and in this moment, I had to have him.
I take the lead, my mouth finds his and pulls him back down towards the bed. He’s gentle, but I’m not. Even though every bone aches in my body, I want him to know that he can do this to me. I trust him. My hand rustles under the soft t-shirt he’s wearing and I get bold—scratching him down the length of his spine from mid-back to the dip in his hips. His lips part, as I feel him moan, and my mouth enters his with all the passion I can muster up.
Tank: Apaches MC Page 20
