by Eve Langlais
The idea never got enough votes, and so the school remained, stuck in the middle of a neighborhood that had long gone to hell; where the only green space was the massive field that the school managed to hold on to and maintain. An anonymous benefactor paid for its upkeep. Pity she couldn’t claim it on her taxes.
Given those facts, there existed the possibility that it was a crime of happenstance. If so, it was an odd one. Because why randomly shoot at her? A lone woman posed no threat. On the contrary, the gangbangers usually preferred to harass those who dared to be out at night.
A shame she hadn’t had her gun handy; however, the bulge of it was hard to hide in the warm summer months when clothing consisted of slim jeans and a T-shirt. With the speed at which the shooting had occurred, she’d not had time to reach into the dash compartment of her van or under the driver’s seat to pull her piece. Probably a good thing. How would she explain to Fergus or the coach that she was not only legal to carry, but also a crack shot?
She still remembered the first time she’d held a gun. More than eleven years ago.
“You want me to shoot?” Carla exclaimed, looking at the gun nestled in the palm of her hand. The weight of the weapon was less than expected. A thing that could kill should drag down her arms. It would surely smother her soul.
Her instructor, Mother—real name Marie Cadeaux—made a noise. “Yes, I expect you to shoot. What else would you do with it? Club someone on the head?”
Lips curved into a teasing smile, Carla held up the gun. “It might not be heavy, but it would do the trick.”
“If you’re close enough to hit, then the enemy is close enough to hit back.”
Not to mention, most people who brought a gun to a fight would use it. “Fine. You made your point.” Carla held it aloft one-handed, feeling kind of gangster.
“Not like that, idiot,” Mother said with a shake of her head. “Hold it with two hands. You don’t want the recoil smashing it into your nose. Ask Meredith how that feels.”
Back for some refresher training, Meredith, an older woman in her thirties—which seemed ancient to Carla at twenty—with striking red hair and Southern elegance, grimaced. “I only did it once, and that was enough. Listen to her when she says hold it with two hands. Especially if you don’t want to get blood all over your shirt.” Meredith placed herself into a shooting stance, both hands around the grip of her weapon, and aimed at the target, her expression serene behind the safety glasses.
Bang. Bang. Each bullet hit the head of the target.
Carla recoiled with each retort. Guns were something bad people used. Assholes like Matias, who used one to kill her family.
How could she possibly think of firing it?
Mother placed her hand over Carla’s. “Why are you afraid?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You’re lying. I can see your entire body trembling.”
“Guns kill.”
“No. The people holding them do.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.” And she didn’t just mean the gun.
When Marie had first approached Carla after the death of her family, she’d been grief-stricken and flitting from motel to flophouse to women’s shelter. She’d escaped the bloodbath only by accident. She’d been at a doctor’s appointment with baby Nico, who at six months, was due for more shots. She’d returned with a cranky baby to flashing lights and horror.
The nightmare didn’t end that day. Not only did her entire family end up in the morgue, she’d also lost her home, her belongings. The police had cordoned off the entire house. She couldn’t even get a change of clothes because the whole place had been ransacked and was the scene of a crime.
She’d stayed with a friend until the day she noticed Matias parked outside. Watching her.
Waiting.
He could have easily dragged her back to his place and beaten her. She had, after all, had the nerve to leave. But that wasn’t Matias’s way. He wanted her to crawl back and beg him. Beg him to take her in because she had no other choice.
Matias had killed Carla’s friend the following day, even though Carla had left.
Terrified, she went to the police, who claimed they could do nothing until Matias acted.
“He killed my family!” she cried.
“We have no proof of that,” was their reply.
Carla tried contacting the FBI, promising them testimony in exchange for safety, but she didn’t know enough about Matias’s drug dealing to make it worth their while.
So, when Marie Cadeaux, whom she’d later call Mother, approached her, waiting for her outside the women’s shelter, she’d been skeptical.
“Hello, Carlotta. My name is Marie Cadeaux.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know many things, such as the fact I can help you.”
Carla looked at the beautiful woman standing taller than most men, with her glossy, ebony skin, and her hair pulled back into a tight bun. How could this model-esque woman help?
Only one thing came to mind, and Carla’s lip curled. “I am not whoring myself.”
Marie laughed. “I should hope not. Your body should never be used to bargain for anything. What if I said I could give you a new life?”
“I’d say what’s the catch?” Because nothing was ever free.
“The catch is, you work for me.”
“Doing?”
“Odd jobs.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.” To this day, Carla didn’t know why she’d stood there talking instead of walking away.
“I run a group for women. Mothers, actually. It’s exclusive, and by invitation only.”
“So you’re like another shelter?”
“Not quite. Think of me more as a rehabilitation option.”
“I’m not an addict.”
Marie snorted. “I wouldn’t make this offer if you were.”
“Why me?”
“Because you don’t deserve to live in fear. Because one asshole shouldn’t have that much power. Time for you to get your life back.”
Speaking of fear… Carla saw Matias roll up in his car, the rumble of the muffler rousing Nico from his nap in the stroller.
“I can’t.” She gripped the handle and began to push.
The woman put a hand out to stop her. “I think you have to. Because, let’s be frank with each other, if you don’t do something, we both know what will happen. You’ll eventually go back to that bastard over there because you’ll run out of places to hide. But your return won’t make him happy. He will beat you. Probably beat your son. Might even kill you both.”
“I will never go back,” Carla spat.
“If you don’t, then he will kill you. And then where will little Nico be?”
In the hands of his father. A fate worse than death. “How do you know his name?”
“I know everything there is to know about you, Carlotta Lopez.” The name she’d owned before she changed it to Carla Baker.
“You’ve been spying on me.”
“A friend told me about your situation. I can help.”
The rev of an engine drew her gaze, and she saw Matias sneering at her while his buddy behind the wheel laughed.
A touch on her arm drew her attention back to Marie.
“Don’t become another statistic.”
It burned in her gut, but Carla knew the woman was right. She’d end up dead, and if Nico didn’t die with her, he’d end up in a system that didn’t care, and the boy would most likely follow in his father’s criminal footsteps.
“What do you want from me?”
Turned out, Marie wanted a mercenary. She took in women abused by life and the system, all of them mothers, and gave them a chance to take back their power. To make a difference, and make money doing it.
“Try it,” Mother crooned a year later as they stood in the gun range nestled on over a hundred acres somewhere in Canada. “Fire the gun. Just once. See how it feels.”
Carla bit her lip
and inwardly cringed. I hate guns. I hate guns. She closed her eyes when she fired, and yelped as the gun in her hands leaped.
“There. I did it.” She placed the weapon on the counter.
Mother shook her head, her expression disappointed. “I didn’t take you for a coward.”
“I’m not a coward,” was her hot retort.
“Then stop acting like one. A gun is a tool like any other.”
“I don’t see why I need to know how to use one.”
“For the same reason I taught you hand-to-hand combat and computer hacking. I’m giving you life skills.”
At that, Carla let out a sound. “I’m not an idiot. You’re training me to be a soldier.”
“And your problem with that is?” Mother arched a brow. “Don’t you want to be able to fight?”
“You haven’t said what I’ll be fighting.”
“How about anything you want? What if I said you could save other women like yourself, those caught in bad situations?”
“By killing,” Carla said, gesturing to the weapon.
“Sometimes.” Mother didn’t lie. “We both know some people are too wicked to live. But there are other ways of taking down evil. We need to find out what your skill is.”
Because it certainly wasn’t knife work or seduction. As for code-breaking, she got bored. Carla did enjoy the hand-to-hand stuff, but her size often put her at a disadvantage. Leverage was all well and good against larger people with no skills, but pit her against someone with the same training and a few extra inches and pounds, and it was all over. She had the bruises to prove it.
“Maybe I’m just not cut out for this.”
“You want to quit?” Mother arched a brow. “Go ahead. I won’t stop you. Take Nico and leave if you want. I won’t force you to do anything.”
“I have nowhere to go.”
“Is that your only reason for staying? Then how about I put your mind at ease. You want to go, then I’ll help you find a place and a job.”
Carla pursed her lips. “I never said I wanted to quit. But I think it’s becoming clear I just don’t have any aptitude for the stuff you’re seeking.” She’d certainly failed all the home décor classes they had her taking.
“I’m not done trying yet. Are you?”
She heaved a sigh. “No.” Carla gripped the gun, blinking back the vision of blood-stained walls. The memory of Matias holding a gun against her forehead, the metal muzzle digging into her flesh, him threatening to shoot.
The gun wasn’t the thing she feared. It is only a tool.
Carla gritted her teeth and aimed again. Bang.
The hole in the torso winked daylight.
“I hit it.” Surprise lit her words.
“Again.”
She held the weapon steadier this time, sighting along the barrel, firing.
The chin got a dimple.
The next shot, she gave it a nose. Then a cyclops eye. A few more rounds, and then she was reloading. Firing again. Finding a certain serenity and balance in controlling the gun. Satisfaction when she hit her target.
Turned out, shooting was her thing, and she began to lose her fear. Gained confidence she’d never enjoyed until then.
A few months later, with one of her new friends watching Nico, she was back in the hood. Head held high. No longer a victim cowering at every noise.
She boldly knocked on a door, and when Matias opened it, she calmly raised the gun to his forehead.
He sneered. “If it’s isn’t the puta, back to beg forgiveness.”
“Does this look like forgiveness?” Carla waggled the gun.
“You won’t shoot me. You’re soft.”
“I was. Not anymore.” Carla shook her head as she stared at him, his body tattooed all over, the signs of hard living already marking his features despite his young age.
“Get on your knees and beg, puta. Beg for my forgiveness, and maybe, just maybe, I won’t kill you.”
He threatened her like he had so many times before. But there was one difference now...
She felt no fear. No urge to bow. She saw him for the mean and petty asshole he was. A man who would never change. Who would continue to hurt. The gun steadied in her grip. Her resolve hardened. “Never again, motherfucker.”
It took only one bullet.
Just one.
People never knew it was her. They assumed a gang hit. She let them. She stood in the large crowd at his funeral and was smug inside at the hate and spit thrown at his coffin.
She’d taken evil out of the world. And it felt damned good.
And, as it turned out, Mother was right. Carla did have a knack for something. Vigilante justice.
When the law couldn’t act, and evil flourished…I am the person who puts a stop to it.
Or, as Nico jokingly called her when she smashed a spider to death, “You’re a killer mom.”
Little did he know how close he was to the truth.
Chapter Five
The weather was perfect for Philip’s first practice as the coach. The grass was dry, yet not brittle. The sun shone, but the temperature stayed in the low seventies. A light breeze moved air enough to keep everything refreshing. It would help when the kids began to sweat.
So many kids. They’d arrived in singles and pairs. Some walking onto the field with their equipment in a bag over their shoulder. Others dropped off by parents, not all of whom stuck around to watch.
Adults he could handle. The kids, though? Ranging in size and height, they were sitting on the ground, looking to him for guidance. Kind of jarring because it drew him back to when he used to play and had sat on the grass listening avidly to his coach’s wisdom, waiting for the whistle to blow so he could play.
A whistle hung around his neck. Now, he was the coach. The role model.
In other words, he’d better not screw up, especially since he was being judged, not necessarily by the kids themselves, but by the parents who stayed to watch. They hung around the edges of the soccer field, sitting in their fold-up chairs, muttering among each other. Except for Carla.
She leaned against the hood of a car, not so much watching him as taking in the entire area around. What was she looking for? Did she fear another drive-by? After what had happened the night before, he couldn’t blame her. He’d be keeping a wary eye out, as well. He didn’t want any of the kids getting hurt on his watch.
He didn’t spend too much time talking. Attention would wander if he droned on. He kept it basic: introduction, expectation, a joke that got the boys snickering, and then, onto the field.
For his first practice, Philip put them through some endurance tests, sprinting, crunches, and pushups. This would give him a good indication of who could handle double shifts on the field, and who would run out of gas and lag if the game got tough. Once he’d gotten them sweaty and their muscles primed, he ran them through some pylon drills. Passing, kicks on goal, carrying the ball downfield.
It quickly became obvious how this team had gotten as far as it did. For the most part, the kids were decent, they had the basic skills, knew what to do on the field, and yet that wasn’t why they were playing in the final game. They had a star player. Nico Baker. A boy who looked a lot like his mother with his dark hair and tanned skin.
Despite Nico having talent, he wasn’t a diva about it. He didn’t grumble when he had to take turns. Didn’t catcall if someone missed a pass. He appeared to be a genuine team player.
As for his mother, she didn’t demand star treatment for her son. Philip didn’t get a single email or phone call from her explaining how her precious angel needed special consideration.
She didn’t have to ask. Nico earned it on his own with his athleticism.
If Philip were honest, though, Carla’s son’s immense talent wasn’t the only reason he approached her once practice ended. But it did give him the opening he needed. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She turned to face him, taking her gaze off the street, and he was struck anew
by her beauty. A natural one that required no artifice. Even dressed in faded jeans and a sweatshirt, she held herself poised, yet at the same time seeming prickly.
Unlike some of the other mothers, she didn’t simper or flirt. She boldly said, “What is it? I kind of want to get Nico home to shower the stink off him.”
“I don’t stink,” her son yelled as he neared them, a giant Freezie in hand. Apparently, each practice and game, a designated parent brought some treats for after.
“You do so smell,” she retorted.
“It’s manly,” exclaimed Nico as he tossed his gear into the trunk of the rental.
Carla shook her head. “Sweat is not manly.”
“Depends on the kind of sweat.” The moment the remark slipped past Philip’s lips, he regretted it since a shield came down over her face, blanking her expression.
“What can I help you with, Mr. Moore?” Ouch. Reduced to a mister. So much for getting on a friendlier footing.
“I wanted to ask if you’ve thought about having Nico play at a higher level.”
“You talking about the national team? He’s too young.”
“Actually, I was talking about the Yaguara Academy. It’s a school that caters to boys playing soccer.”
“I know what it is.”
“And? He really should check it out.”
“That’s by invitation only.”
“I can get him that invite.”
Her arms crossed, and her lips pursed. “That would be cruel since we can’t afford it.”
“There are ways of mitigating the cost.” Which could run into the thousands of dollars.
“Ask for charity?” Her lip curled. “No, thank you. He’s fine where he is.”
“He’s wasting his talent. He should be playing with kids who are closer to his skill level.”
“Getting him into a more competitive environment means more stress. He’s just a boy.”
“A boy who could have a professional future.”
For a moment, her face brightened, the pride of being a mama to a prodigy shining through before extinguishing. “I’d prefer he concentrate on school.”
