by Callie Hart
Three Rivers welcomes you!
You are now leaving Boles Acres.
Richardsville! Home of the King’s Cubs football team.
Truth or Consequences, population 6246.
Bienvenido a Atascaderos
La ciudad jardín de Santa María de los pobres!
I don’t even stop in these ghost towns to sleep. At night, I pull off the side of the road and disappear into the desert, until the only visible lights I can see are from the stars overhead. My tent is enough. I carry everything I need on my back. Occasionally, I’ll stop and grab a six-pack from a liquor store before I head out into the back of the beyond for the night. I sip each bottle slowly, thinking over everything that’s happened in the last seven years.
Life got real fucking weird, real fucking fast. It hits me sometimes, how strange things are now. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I was meant to become a lawyer. Instead, I’ve gone from being a respected twenty-six-year-old war veteran with a bachelor’s degree to the vice president of a motorcycle club. It’s even weirder still that my best friend, Jamie, or Rebel, as he’s now called, is the president of the same club. Then again, maybe it’s actually not that strange. Our fates have been joined for so long now, that I never even questioned if he would disappear down this rabbit hole with me, on my search for my missing sister.
Name a law, and we’ve broken it.
Name a moral line, and we’ve crossed it.
Name a country, and we’ve been there.
We never meant to start the club. The Widow Makers MC was an accident, a by-product of our search for Laura. We needed a hacker, so we found Danny. We needed someone who was good with ordnance and heavy machinery, so we found Keeler. We needed someone who could fly a plane, so we scraped Carnie out of the dirt and took him home with us. Twenty-three people, both men and women, joined us over time, and none of them ever left again. Motorcycles were quick and efficient for getting in and out of sticky situations, and the cops were suspicious of so many social outcasts and ex-cons with criminal records living in the middle of nowhere out in the desert of New Mexico, so we formed the club as a front. And then we actually became one. Our genesis story is a bizarre one, and we keep it to ourselves. It’s better for us if the other clubs, cartel leaders and mafia bosses we run with think we’re simply out to make money and hoard power as they are. But in truth, we’re still looking for my sister. We haven’t given up.
Every night, I stare at a photo on the screen of my cell phone until my eyes feel like they’ve been scrubbed with sandpaper.
Laura.
My sister, crying as she stares down the lens of a camera, a leather-gloved hand wrapped around her throat. I was half dead when Jamie showed me this image. Over seven years of searching and then, out of the blue, some asshole motherfucking cartel boss uses it as collateral in a hotel deal gone wrong. I wasn’t there, I had had both my legs broken and was lying in a pool of my own blood, but Jamie told me everything he’d discovered: that Julio Perez, a Mexican cartel boss we’re well acquainted with, knew where my sister was. That he possibly had something to do with her disappearance. It took me three months to heal and recover from my ass kicking well enough to ride a motorcycle, but now that I’m fit and able, I’m going to find my sister. Even if it fucking kills me, I am going to find her.
Perez has run for what he considers safe ground, back to Mexico with his tail between his legs. He thinks the Widow Makers won’t follow him there, that it would be too dangerous for a group of twenty guys on motorcycles to go hunting for him. And he was right. It is too dangerous for the whole club to go chasing him across Mexico. Me, on the other hand? One guy on a scrambler, sticking to the back roads and keeping my head down? That’s safe enough. I plan on finding the piece of shit and hurting him until he gives me the information I need. Hence the gruelling slog from New Mexico to El Cascarero. Hence the crick in my back and the ache in my poorly knitted together bones. Hence the cold, black, murderous urge in my heart, and the single point of focus on my mind.
After five days of riding non-stop, I finally draw close to my destination. El Cascarero is a small enough place; Julio’s family live twenty or thirty miles out of the town, on a peach farm of all places. Turns out Perez peaches are quite famous around these parts. I see signs for them for hours before I eventually arrive at the mouth of the dusty, worn single-track road that leads to the farm itself. I squint into the distance, straining to make out the layout of the buildings beyond. Four trucks parked outside the main house—trucks so beaten, rusted, scraped and scratched up that it’ll be a miracle if any of them run. Still. Four trucks. Could mean a lot of people. I lose my helmet. The scrambler is hardly inconspicuous, so I kill the engine and climb off it, wheeling it away from the road and laying it down flat to the ground beside a lone Ahuehuete tree. Looks like a swing used to hang from one of the sturdy, thick boughs overhead, but now a snapped and tattered length of rope is all that remains.
The long grass, sprouting almost to my knees, should hide the bike well enough. I shuck the bag from my back and dump it at my feet, opening the zip to check I have everything I’ll be needing:
One roll of duct tape.
One pair of pliers.
One thick black garbage bag.
One meter length of fine chain.
One small handsaw.
One small container of lighter fluid.
One box of matches.
I hadn’t been able to cross over into Mexico with the items I was scanning through, now. I had to buy them at a hardware store in Río Bailando, but that was easy enough. The weight of the gun I also procured down a seedy back alley in Juarez presses reassuringly into the small of my back. I don’t need to check on that. It’s fully locked and loaded—I already tested it out in the desert. It’s good to have a weapon, but in this instance it’s a last resort. I’ll only draw the gun if every other tactic I plan on employing fails. By that point, Julio will be a bloody, broken mess, and I’ll simply be putting him down. He won’t die quickly, though. A shot in the stomach means he’ll have plenty of time to reflect on his shitty, worthless life as he dies in agony over a period of days, and I’ll be long gone. Hopefully with Laura on the back of my bike.
Tiny sand flies swirl up from the damp grass as I hunker down and run quickly toward what looks like the main building. I swat at them with my hand as I hurry. Takes a long time to reach the perimeter of the building, though I’m sure I am unnoticed. White paint peels from the window frames of the crumbling two-story building. Inside, the sound of a rowdy game show blasts from low quality speakers.
Laughter. Applause. Someone speaking in Spanish, in that game-show-host voice that seems to translate across any number of languages. I crouch down below an open window to the front of the house, listening. How many people are inside this damn room? If I had the time, I’d sit in the grass and watch the comings and goings of the people arriving and leaving the house, but time is something I’ve run out of. Or rather I’ve run out of patience. I’ve already had to wait three months. Holding off for another hour is unacceptable. Another minute. Another second. I just can’t.
Inside the house, a chair leg scrapes on the floor, followed by someone coughing loudly, and then clearing their throat. A woman doesn’t clear her throat like that. No way. So there’s at least one male in the room. Loitering below the window, waiting to see how many people cough, sneeze or fart, will drive me crazy, though, so I do something reckless. Something we’re trained never to do in the military. I edge up, standing just enough so that I can peer over the splintered, sun-worn windowsill, and I take a look.
Four men, all over the age of thirty, as far as I can tell. One of them’s asleep, the back of his head resting against the sofa behind him, mouth hanging open as he snores lightly. Another of the guys is bent over a low coffee table, plastic card in his hand, finely chopping up what looks like an obscene amount of cocaine. The other two men are fixated on the television, watching the redundant antics of th
e show’s host as he bounces around, shoving a microphone into a stunned woman’s face.
None of them see me.
None of them are Julio Perez, either, which makes my life that little bit more difficult. Where the fuck is he? Kitchen? Is there a downstairs dining room? I haven’t had time to assess the footprint of the building, but the place is pretty big. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are bedrooms on the lower level of the house. Either that, or Julio’s family is much, much bigger than I anticipated. The game show cuts to a commercial break, and one of the men groans as he heaves his ass of the couch.
¿Alguien quiere una cerveza? Does anyone want a beer? It’s only eleven thirty in the morning. If these guys are relaxed enough to start their day drinking so early, then they must have grown complacent. They’re not waiting for anybody to storm the building. They’re just enjoying their downtime. Do any of them have guns? I can’t see a single handgun or a rifle within arm’s reach of these assholes, so it’s unlikely that they’re even armed. Things are never as they seem in these circumstances, though. I’ve been involved in enough sieges and attacks on people’s property to know there’s always one guy ready and willing to throw down. Always one dude with a gun jammed down the back of his pants, just like me, complete with itchy trigger finger.
I duck back down again, continuing around the side of the house, counting under my breath.
Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve…
I reach a much smaller open window on the western facing side of the property, and I do the same thing—squat low on my haunches, thumbs looped underneath the shoulder straps of my backpack, holding my breath. My pulse thumps in my ears, but it’s slow and steady. I’ve been in this situation too many times to count over the past ten years. The fear wears off after a while, replaced with a strange, flat kind of calm that eventually becomes a part of you. I suppose it’s an acceptance of fate. I might die in the next fifteen minutes. I might not. Either way, I won’t be sorry that I did what I had to do.
¿Dónde está Javier?
No lo sé.
Encontrarlo. Tenemos que irnos pronto.
Two men inside, talking about finding a third, Javier. Talking about moving soon. I can’t be sure if the guy throwing around orders was Julio or not, but it could have been. I risk a quick peek into the room, but when I look over the sill, the small kitchen inside is empty, the door slowly swinging closed behind someone who has already left.
“Fuck.” I keep going around the house. The next few windows are all closed, blinds pulled down. I move round to the back of the property, and a low, rumbling snarl stops me in my tracks. A brindle pit bull, jowls pulled back, baring his teeth, is staring straight at me. He’s chained, but from the links of steel pooled at his feet it looks like he’s been given a lot of leeway. He can definitely reach me, only four feet away from him. I lock eyes with him, clenching my jaw, pressing my lips together. Sometimes simply refusing to back down from a dog is enough to make them submit. Even as I attempt to stare him down, I already know this isn’t that kind of dog, though. He snarls louder, taking a step forward, and I slowly reach into the pocket of my leather jacket, groping with my fingers until I find what I’m looking for—a small, four inch balisong butterfly knife. Cold hard steel, sharper than sharp and ready for action. I yank it from my pocket just in time. He leaps, and I flick the knife open, the blade snaking out and landing with a sickening wet sound, sliding past the dog’s ribcage, puncturing his lung. He barks madly, hackles raised, claws tearing into the hard packed dirt beneath us as he lunges for me again. The wound only seems to have riled him up even more.
Someone slams a door inside the farmhouse, swearing loudly, but no one comes outside to see what’s going on. Lucky. Really fucking lucky.
The dog’s jaws close around my forearm, and he begins to jerk his head from side to side, growling furiously. Pain rips into me. My forearm feels like it’s going to snap under the pressure. Thankfully my leather jacket is stopping his teeth from tearing into my skin, but if he carries on for much longer he’s gonna be breaking bones.
I punch him in the side of the head, but he doesn’t let go. I fall back onto my ass in the dirt, grinding my teeth together as he tries to climb on top of me, probably hoping to go for my throat.
I don’t have a choice. I take the balisong and I drive the honed edge of the blade into his body, over and over again. He yelps, and then whimpers as he finally releases my arm. I have blood all over me, my shirt and jeans are covered in it, red and warm and sticky, reeking of copper. A twinge of guilt snaps inside me as he staggers and falls onto his side, chest rising and falling too quickly. His eyes roll, whites showing, as he watches me get to my feet.
Poor bastard. He was just doing what he’s been trained to do his entire life: Attack. Kill. Such a shitty situation. If I hadn’t acted when I had, he would have done some serious damage, though. He would have barked more, and I couldn’t risk it. It’s a miracle no one came out the first time he sounded the alarm. I stoop down and place my hand on his laboring chest.
“Sorry, buddy.” I whisper the words, and his ears swivel in the direction of my voice. He whines, and I know I should do the merciful thing and finish the job. I just can’t, though. I don’t have the stomach for it. I step over the dog, heading for the back door. It opens first try. The Perez peach farmers are not very security conscious, apparently. Seems strange, given what a cowardly bastard Julio is.
The kitchen is neat as a pin. No dirty plates or cups on the sideboards. The tiled floor is gleaming. A pot bubbles on the stove, and I have the urge to lift the lid and see what’s cooking inside, it smells so damned good. The smell of home cooked food after a week of eating gas station food will make your stomach rumble no matter the circumstance you find yourself in.
There’s only one door leaving the kitchen; I walk through it to find a skinny, ill-looking guy sitting on a wooden chair in a narrow hallway with an assault rifle laid out across his lap. When he casts his bulging brown eyes up at me, I see the shock register, and then I see disappointment follow and I jam the balisong into his neck and swipe sideways, cutting his throat open from ear to ear. He didn’t even get to raise his rifle. The light fades in his eyes, and I move on down the hallway without casting a look over my shoulder. The room with the four guys inside is to my right, television still blaring loudly, now with raucous high-pitched music. I can’t hear a thing over the TV. The men sitting on the couches could have heard me come into the house, and they could be waiting for me to burst in on them. It’s unlikely, though. Julio’s guys charge at the first sign of a fight. They aren’t the patient types. The door is ajar, but not enough that I can see in properly. If I can’t see in, then they can’t see out, either.
Quickly I dart past the doorway, trying to time my footfall with the thump of the pounding music that’s practically rattling the windows in their rotten frames. I make it past the door, but I don’t release the breath I’m holding until I’ve turned the corner in the hallway. I’m faced with a stairway running up to the second floor, and a single door to the left. Somewhere up there on the second story, someone hammers on the floor, yelling for the music to be turned down, and I lean back against the wall, waiting to see if anyone comes racing down the stairs.
No one appears, though. The music turns down a fraction, just enough that I can hear the steady thrum of my heart still keeping a slow and steady beat, like a metronome. A metronome of death.
I have two options: I could go into the room on the left and find out if it’s occupied, or I could go upstairs and locate the guy up there. I allow myself the luxury of thinking about it for a while. Julio’s what would kindly be termed as morbidly obese. No way is the lazy, lumbering bastard jogging up and down any stairs. I doubt he’s up there very much, which makes the decision actually very easy. I need to clear the upper floor. No sense in heading straight toward my target, only to be lynched by god knows how many angry Mexicans the moment he opens his stupidly loud mouth and starts holleri
ng for help.
I take the stairs two at a time, reaching for my gun. I may want Julio to suffer as much as physically possible, but I don’t have time to be toying with anyone else. The feel of the gun’s handle in my hand is all too familiar. I’ve held a thousand different handguns in my lifetime. Glocks. Brownings. Colts. Remingtons. Sigs. The make and model doesn’t matter. I know the kinks and quirks of any weapon the second I curl my fingers around it, and this gun is no different.
I land in the upstairs hallway, scanning the area quickly. No one to be seen in the hallway. There are two doors to my left, and two to my right. I hurry forward, trying the handle on the first door I reach. It opens, and I startle the lone guy inside, who happens to be pulling up a pair of jeans.
“Motherfuc—” He fumbles, trying to jerk up his pants and reach for his gun laying on the bed in front of him at the same time. I don’t give him the opportunity to do either. Rushing into the room, I squeeze the trigger, planting a bullet neatly between his eyes before he can finish the word that’s made it halfway past his lips. He slumps to the ground, his head bouncing hard off the end of the bed as he makes his way to the floor. Blood starts pouring everywhere; I can’t tell if it’s from the bullet wound or the huge gash that’s just cut his forehead wide open.
It’s academic at this point. The job’s done.
The next door is locked. I take a step back and kick the wood, just below the lock. I’m ready to shoot, when I lay eyes on the lifeless figure sprawled-out on the bed. A girl, young and blonde, twenty-one, maybe twenty-two? She’s unconscious, naked, her legs spread wide open, and there’s a needle sticking out of her arm, the plunger pressed down to the hilt. I can’t stop to check her pulse. If she’s dead, it’s already too late. If she’s dying, I won’t truly be able to help her until every single threat inside this farmhouse is neutralized. I duck out of the room and try the next handle. It opens, the door creaking loudly—no one inside. The final room on the right, then. I turn the doorknob and step quickly into the room, gun raised, finger on the trigger. The curtains are drawn and for a second I think there’s no one here, but then I hear it, the sound of soft, gentle snoring, and I finally make out the large, bulky shape lying in the bed.
