Hellhound On My Trail

by J. D. Rhoades

  He didn’t know how long he’d been out or have any idea where he was. What he did know was that he was taken to be killed, probably horribly. The cartels always meant for a death to be more than just a means of getting someone out of the way. They used executions like the kings of old. The deaths of enemies were meant to terrify, to teach a lesson about the price of crossing the ruler. Keller didn’t like the idea of being a lesson.

  Biting back a groan of pain, he shifted around and slowly managed to sit up. He pushed back with his feet until his back was against the wall of the vehicle and took stock. Becca Leonard was dead. Erin Alford was dead, killed by his gun. The thought of how he’d not only failed to save her, but had actually caused her death, came down on him in a crushing weight. Part of him wanted to just lie back down and let whoever these bastards were do what they were going to do. There was nothing for him to live for, anyway. Everyone he knew was gone. He’d driven them away. Marie and Angela, both of whom he’d loved and who he knew once loved him; his friend Oscar—all had had to leave, to distance themselves from the violence that always seemed to find him, and to which he always responded. You bring death, Colonel Harland had told him once on a burning North Carolina mountainside that he’d helped turn into a battlefield, and Hell follows with you. Maybe, he thought, the world really would be better off without him. But as the cloud of despair settled around him, Keller began to feel the stirrings of another, much more familiar emotion.

  Fury.

  He had been driven by it all his life. It had come to a white hot focus when he’d seen his men, the men who’d depended on him, killed by a stupid mistake that had been covered up, swept under the rug, just as he’d been swept out of the Army, the only place he’d found a true home. He’d wandered through his life numb for years after that, the rage from that betrayal stuffed away and repressed.

  The only thing that allowed him any respite from the numbness was the adrenaline rush of the chase, the takedown, the capture. He’d found a life as a bounty hunter that had helped him channel his anger. Then he’d found friends and eventually a lover, all of whom had given him an anchor to keep him from being carried away on the black molten tide of fury that lived within him. But sometimes, when those he loved were threatened, that wrath had erupted. It had kept them—and him—alive. Then it drove those he loved away from him.

  He had no anchor left. And the dark tide was rising.

  He felt his lips drawing back from his teeth in a feral snarl, felt the blood pounding in his temples as the blackness rose in him. He wasn’t going to lie down and let himself die. He fed the fire, stoked it like a dark shaman. As it rose, he felt oddly cold, preternaturally calm. His hearing seemed to sharpen; he thought he could hear the actual rattle of the grains of sand he’d felt under him on the floor of the vehicle as it moved. He’d never felt more alive. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a still, small voice reminded him how deeply unnatural that was, but there wasn’t any part of him left that cared.

  The vehicle slowed and he swayed as he could feel it turning. There was a brief pause, then the sound of a door in the front of the vehicle opening. He could hear muffled voices speaking Spanish, a bark of sharp, cruel laughter, but he couldn’t understand what was being said. He heard the back door, the one nearest him, being yanked open. A rush of hot, dry air blew over him. Hands clutched at him, dragged him out the back door of the van. He staggered to his feet just as someone yanked the hood from his head.

  He was standing outside an enormous metal building, the paint flaking and the metal beneath scoured and pitted by sand-blasting desert winds. There was a pair of large metal roll-up doors in the side of the building. The man who’d pulled off his hood stood behind him. Another man stood in front of him, about ten feet away, flanked on either side by gunmen holding semi-automatic long guns pointed negligently at the ground. The man in the middle was shorter than Keller, slender, balding, and apparently very pissed off. His ugly scowl looked as if time had etched its lines into his face. He wore black jeans and a white shirt with piping and pearl buttons. There was a black pistol stuck in his waistband.

  “Do you know who I am?” the man demanded.

  “No,” Keller said, “but if I had to guess, I’d say you were Jerico Zavalo.”

  The man’s smile made Keller wish for the scowl. “Correct. And you know why you’re here?”

  Keller looked him in the eye. “Because whoever was back at the house suckered you into doing his dirty work for him.”

  Zavalo laughed. “You’re wrong. This is something that has needed to be done for some time. For business, and”—the smile grew wider and nastier—“for pleasure, I admit.”

  “I didn’t kill your brother,” Keller said. “Last I heard, his boss did that because your brother double-crossed him.”

  The scowl was back. “None of that would have happened had you and your bitch not stuck your noses into my family’s business.”

  “I was just trying to help out a friend.”

  “Yes. A friend. I know all about him. The one who’s run to Colombia with your woman.”

  “She’s not my woman,” Keller said. “She’s my friend’s wife.”

  The man stepped closer. “I’m currently talking with some of the people I know down there. They’re very touchy about outsiders operating on their territory, but I think they’ll do me a favor and let me do this one little thing. I’m just sorry you won’t be alive to see what I will do to your friend, the woman he took from you, and his two brats when I’m allowed to go get them.” The smile was back. “It’s enough for you to know I’ll make sure it takes each of them weeks to die. One by one. While the others watch. And I will let them know, every minute of every day of those long, long weeks, that their suffering is entirely your fault.”

  A red mist seemed to drop across Keller’s vision, blurring his view of the faces around him. His wrists strained against the zip cuffs as his hands clenched and unclenched with the irresistible impulse to wrap themselves around Zavalo’s neck. “I’m going to kill you, Zavalo.” His voice came out in a low growl. “With my bare hands if I have to.”

  Zavalo’s response was to turn his back and wave carelessly over his shoulder at Keller. “Bring him.”

  The man behind him put a beefy hand on Keller’s neck and propelled him forward toward the metal doors, walking behind Zavalo and the gunmen who’d fallen in behind him. As the group approached the metal doors, the one on the right rolled up. A man was standing there, dressed in a Tyvek hazmat suit. A gas mask dangled from one hand. The baggy suit concealed the lines of his body, but Keller could see he was a small man. He had dark hair, a wispy moustache, and eyes deader than a mannequin’s. He looked Keller up and down as if measuring him before saying something to Zavalo in Spanish.

  “Yes,” Zavalo said and glanced back at Keller. “This is the man. And speak English. I want him to hear this.”

  The man in the hazmat suit looked impatient. “He still alive,” he said in heavily accented English.

  “Yes,” Zavalo said.

  The man shook his head. “I take care of bodies. You bring the body to me. Do the…you know…someplace else, where I’m not a witness.”

  “No,” Zavalo said. “We put him in alive.”

  The Soupmaker looked exasperated. “You joking, right? You put a man into the chemicals alive, he thrash around. Scream. Stuff goes everywhere. All over you”—he gestured at the gunmen—“all over them. Everybody gets burned.”

  Zavalo looked frustrated. “Show me where you do this.”

  The Soupmaker sighed and muttered something under his breath. He turned and started to walk back into the warehouse. As he did, Zavalo drew the gun from his waistband and shot the Soupmaker in the back of the head. He staggered forward a few steps then fell to the concrete floor of the warehouse. There was a sickening crack as his face hit the floor.

  “We do this my way,” Zavalo said to the dead man. He turned to the three gunmen around him, who were staring at the
corpse in shock. “Bring him,” he snapped. He turned to the one who appeared to be the youngest. “Get the camera out of the truck,” he said, before heading into the dimness of the warehouse.

  Inside was a cavernous space, lit only by the sunlight coming through the opened rollup door. Keller could see blue plastic drums stacked at the back of the room. Each one had a yellow label with a skull and crossbones on it. In the dimness, he could barely make out the large letters on the label: CAUSTIC SODA. POISON. CAN CAUSE BURNS. In the center of the room was a large, old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub with one of the blue plastic drums sitting next to it. Keller caught a whiff of what smelled like drain cleaner. As the two gunmen dragged him forward, he could see the tub was half filled with milky white liquid.

  “Look,” Zavalo said, “your bath is ready.” He chuckled at his own joke before turning to Keller. “Since you say you’re going to kill me with your own hands, Señor Keller, maybe we should start with them.” He turned to the gunmen on either side of Keller. “Stick his hands in first. Burn them off. Down to the bone.”

  The men looked at each other uncertainly. “Boss,” one of them said. “What that guy said…about getting that stuff on us…”

  Zavalo still had the pistol in his hand. He swiveled it around to point it at the man who’d spoken. “You want to disrespect me, too? Like that cabron lying on the floor over there?”

  The gunman who’d spoken raised his hands. “No, boss, we know better. Just…” He looked over at the dead Soupmaker. “Can I at least get his gloves?”

  Zavalo considered a moment, then nodded. “Be quick.” He turned to the man standing next to Keller. “Cut his hands loose.”

  This one didn’t hesitate. He produced a short, wicked-looking knife and sawed through Keller’s zip cuffs. When they parted, the rush of blood back into his hands made them throb. He rubbed first one wrist, then the other. That seemed to amuse Zavalo. “Saying goodbye to them, Keller?”

  “You know what, Zavalo?” Keller said. “Fuck you, and fuck your mother.”

  Zavalo’s face grew dark with blood at that most ultimate of Latin insults. He raised the pistol, then relaxed. “I get it. You hope to get me to execute you quickly.” He smiled. “It won’t go that easily, Keller. You’ll beg me for death before it’s done, and people will know what it means to interfere in my family’s business. Kiko,” he said to the younger man, who was coming up with a small video camera, “make sure you get him begging.” He turned to the gunman who’d stripped the gloves from the dead Soupmaker. “And you be sure that you—”

  At that moment, Keller stepped forward, put one foot on the lip of the tub, and stepped up, propelling himself upward and shoving down as hard as he could with his right leg. The tub took his weight for a moment, then toppled over, the caustic mix of water and lye spilling out across the warehouse floor. Keller’s other foot caught the far lip of the tub and he sprung forward, but he’d misjudged the leap and he went crashing to the ground on his face.

  He heard a scream as the toxic brew spread across the floor toward the three gunmen, followed by a torrent of Spanish cursing from Zavalo. Keller levered himself up on his arms and got to his feet. He could see the three gunmen, one gloved, one holding only the video camera, backpedaling frantically away. The only man who still had his gun was turning to flee. Zavalo was cursing at them, his mind off Keller for a split second, and that was all he needed. He charged forward, legs propelling him with the strength that comes from rage and desperation.

  Zavalo turned back to meet him a second too late. Keller was already upon Zavalo as he tried to bring his pistol to bear. He bent his knees slightly and then leaped back up, the motion providing extra force as he drove the heel of his hand up under Zavalo’s chin. Zavalo’s head snapped back and he gave a muffled cry of shock and pain as his lower teeth slammed into his upper ones and the muscles of his neck hyperextended.

  It wasn’t enough to satisfy the black desire that was consuming Keller. The only thing that would feed it was to inflict pain, pain, and more pain. He pulled his hand back and drove his fist into Zavalo’s gut as hard as he could. The breath went out of Zavalo and he started to double over. As he did, Keller clenched his hands together in a double fist and hammered down as hard as he could on the base of Zavalo’s skull.

  This time, there was no outcry. Zavalo fell to his knees, stunned. The gun began to slip from his hand and Keller snatched it away, stepped back, and let him fall. He looked up to see the gunman who’d kept his weapon standing in the door. He’d apparently reconsidered trying to flee and was raising his gun to aim it at Keller. Keller shot him, the bullet striking him in the forehead and blowing a red mist out of the back of his skull. He dropped limply to the concrete floor of the warehouse, thrashing and convulsing.

  Keller’s mind flashed back to Alford’s death, the look on her face as she died, and he hesitated, abruptly sickened and unsure. A sudden clatter snapped him out of it. He swiveled to see the man with the gloves, clumsily scrambling to pick up his own weapon from where he’d leaned it against the wall of the warehouse. A shot in the back shattered his spine and he fell to his knees. A second one pierced his heart and left him lying face-down on the floor. That left only the youngest of the gunmen, the one holding the video camera. He was backing away, holding the camera in his right hand, his eyes wide and shocked at the carnage in the room. Keller remembered the name Zavalo had called him by. “Kiko,” he said in a flat, terrifyingly calm voice.

  The young man looked up, his eyes wide.

  “Watch what’s about to happen,” Keller said. “Record it. And take the recording back to whoever takes the place of this piece of shit. Let them know that I have only one demand.” He looked at the camera held loosely in Kiko’s hand. “No, I’ll tell you what. Start recording now.”

  “Wh…what?” the young man said.

  “Turn the fucking camera on,” Keller said in that same calm voice. “And point it at my face. Then point it at whatever I tell you to. Or I’ll gut shoot you, leave you to bleed out alone in this shit hole, and record it myself.”

  Slowly, as if he couldn’t believe what he was doing, Kiko raised the camera and pointed it at Keller.

  “Is it on?” Keller said. “Because I’m not in the fucking mood to repeat myself.”

  “Sí,” the former gunman said. “It’s on.”

  Keller looked into the blank void of the camera lens. “My name is Jack Keller. I only have one demand. That is that you leave me the fuck alone. Me, and the following people. Leonardo Santiago Rodriguez, sometimes known as Oscar Sanchez. His wife, Angela. His two sons, Ruben and Edgar. Dr. Lucas Berry. And…” He took a deep breath, considering if he should even name her. “Marie Jones of Portland, Oregon, and her son, Ben. Oh, her father, Frank, too. Because if you don’t….” He walked over to where Zavalo was stirring, his eyes opening but unfocused. “This is what I’m capable of.” He grabbed Zavalo by the back of the collar and dragged him toward the shallow pool of caustic liquid that was slowly spreading out in a long fan before the upended bathtub. As Zavalo began to struggle, Keller shoved him forward, then kicked him in the ass so that he landed face down in the corrosive puddle.

  “SHIT!” Zavalo cried out as he tried to get to his hands and knees, shouting again in wordless agony as the chemicals burned the palms of his hands. As he tried to stagger to his feet, Keller stepped behind the blue drum full of the rest of the Soupmaker’s “recipe” and kicked it over onto Zavalo. He was screaming before the chemicals hit him, but as they began to eat into the exposed flesh of his hands and face, the howls of torment rose to an excruciating level. Keller saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Kiko had lowered the camera and was backing away, his eyes huge with fear and disgust. He was crossing himself with his free hand.

  “RECORD IT!” Keller bellowed, and punctuated the command with a shot that zipped by the terrified gunman’s head.

  Kiko sobbed with terror, but he raised the camera and pointed it at Zavalo, who wa
s still trying to rise to his feet. The skin of his face and upper chest was a shocking red, already beginning to blister and peel. His shrieks were beyond anything that should have been coming from a human throat. His eyes were twin pools of agony and madness. He made as if to lurch toward Keller. Keller shot him in the upper right thigh. Zavalo screamed again and collapsed back into the liquid. It was beginning to burn through his clothes now to find the unprotected skin beneath. He started thrashing like a landed fish, the screams coming out now as keening whines. Keller shot him again in the other leg. He looked up at Kiko. The young man was trembling, but keeping the video camera fixed on Zavalo’s death throes. Suddenly, he dropped the camera, grabbed his stomach, and vomited all over the floor. He fell to his knees weeping. “Por favor,” he sobbed. “Por favor. Make it stop. Please. Make it stop.”

  “Whatever you say,” Keller said. He walked over to Zavalo, still flopping and writhing like a caterpillar on a griddle, and shot him in the head. The man’s back arched one more time in a final spasm, then he lay still. Smoke was rising from the burned and bubbling skin, and the fumes were making Keller’s eyes water and burning his throat. He stepped out of the puddle, noticing that his boots were beginning to smoke as well. He got to the dry concrete and walked over to Kiko, who was bawling like a child. “What size shoes do you wear?” He bent over and began unlacing one boot with his free hand.

  Kiko looked up, his eyes streaming and his nose running snot. There was vomit drying on his chin. “Qué?” he asked.

  Keller unlaced the other boot, then stood up. “Your shoes. What size?”