The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  You got to do the right thing, boy.

  “Not the way you mean it, shorty,” Hector said.

  Don’t argue with me. I’m done asking. You get that shiv ready. Then, when the dinner bell rings, you get down there and kill Curtis. Plain and simple.

  Hector looked at the ground and all the torn pages of his book. With a sigh, he stood. “No,” he said.

  The Smiling Midget’s smile was gone. In its place, warping like a blur, was his true face, sinister and menacing. Oh? Is that right, you little shit?

  “That’s right.” Hector thought for a second. The Smiling Midget had said something very interesting, hadn’t he? Yes. He had. “What are you going to do about, chaparrito?”

  The Smiling Midget’s face blurred again and his eyes began to burn red. From his mouth snaked a long, sharp tongue, which he stuck out mockingly in Hector’s direction. I tried, boy. I tried hard, at the last prison, at this one, to show you your one true path. But no. You wouldn’t listen. So? I’m done with you, boy. Time to check you out and call it a bad mistake.

  Slowly, his fingers began to elongate into claws. As he began to advance across the cell, Hector let him. The closer the better.

  When he was about six feet away, his little black-shoed feet began to quicken. It was only when he’d launched himself at him that Hector called on the blue. It came to him instantly, he guessed more from the urgency of the attack than from the training. Whichever, the blue shot into his hands just as he grabbed The Smiling Midget’s arms. Originally intending merely to hold his claws at bay, there was instead a much bigger effect: he blew The Smiling Midget’s arms off completely.

  Flesh and bone went flying in all directions as the little man shrieked and fell backwards with horror.

  That’s fitting, Hector thought. I wonder how much horror he’s caused others?

  As he advanced on him, The Smiling Midget looked at Hector’s hands with disbelief. His arms gone, he kicked backwards across the floor with his feet and used the stumps where his elbows used to be to guide a bloody retreat. Hector loomed over him.

  “You talk too much, chaparrito. You made a big mistake telling me that you didn’t know what I was doing in here with my friend. That told me he’d shielded us successfully, and you’d have no idea what was coming.”

  C’mon, Hector. Let’s not get crazy!

  “Not get crazy? Fool, we way past that.”

  Hey! Hey! No! The Smiling Midget cried out, desperation now in his face. You owe me, man. I saved you . . .

  Hector called the blue into two orbs, one in each hand. “I don’t owe you nothing. Everything you did, you did for yourself.”

  The Smiling Midget had backed his head into the bars. You’re not going to win, Hector. There’s no way.

  “Yeah? We’ll see, I guess. No. Take that back. Only one of us is going to see, actually. ’Cause you ain’t gonna be around much longer.”

  His face filling with the rage of defeat, The Smiling Midget turned his gaze upwards. At first, Hector couldn’t understand what he was doing. Until he saw the cell door lock glow red and the metal begin to melt.

  “No!” Hector screamed.

  The Smiling Midget grinned. He who laughs last, Hectorino, laughs—

  He didn’t get a chance to finish before the orbs Hector threw at him completely incinerated him.

  Slowly, as his blood, bone and flesh began to disappear, Hector realized that his tormentor, for so many months now, was gone at last. Gone forever.

  But not before he’d screwed up Hector’s life just one more time.

  With his cell door lock completely fused shut, the dinner bell rang.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The old pickup truck that they were in was painted a faded two-tone of red over white and was the very definition of nondescript. A layer of dust covered the hood and side mirrors. Their driver was a Hispanic man in his late forties with gray hair over his temples who’d identified himself as “Juan”—with a smile that said that wasn’t his real name—and his clothes were just as dusty as the car.

  He let them load the gear they’d picked up from Melon’s house into the bed of the truck before he began driving north with a lead foot through town and then out the other side, to a lonely, winding dirt road that climbed a short hill before leveling off into what appeared to be a semi-desert wasteland. Perhaps it was the shrubs and tumbleweeds or maybe it was the fact that he and Melon were both in their desert camos and their tan shirts with long sleeves, both of which matched their surroundings. Either way, Parker began to feel a little queasy.

  Central Baja California was a different kind of barren than the Afghan desert, for sure, but there were enough similarities to make small memories in his mind fall like dominos: rock formations that cast long shadows; ditches that carved in all directions; clay colored dirt littered with rocks; and a pale blue sky punctuated only here or there by a few solitary clouds.

  “Roadhouse Blues” by The Doors was playing on a cassette tape in the 80s-era radio and Juan was bobbing his head happily to the music, as if he were driving them out to harvest avocados instead of to a place of possible violence. It dawned on Parker that this was the attitude of someone who really had no dog in this fight. The gringos. The cartel. They were always gonna do their thing and he was gonna do his.

  They were sitting three across in the front cab, Melon in the middle, and it was only while making small talk that Juan made things more complicated than that when he revealed that the cartel had killed his brother and nephew fifteen years earlier, over a missing stash of weed. Parker curved his lips to convey his apologies, but inside it was just another domino falling; like Waheeb or the countless others who agreed to help the enemy, everyone had an agenda, a grievance or an old score to settle.

  Jim Morrison took a tape-hissing break for a few seconds before “When the Music’s Over” came on next. With his window down, Parker let the hot desert air blow over his face and ears. “How much further?”

  “About an hour,” Juan said.

  Parker nodded. Melon nodded. A hawk circled in the air, looking for something down below to snack on. The road ahead curved left, then right, as the wheels of the truck hummed beneath them.

  Juan cleared his throat and spoke with a slight Spanish accent. “We’ll go over the logistics as we get closer, but the idea is to park about two miles out and walk the rest of the way in.”

  “You’re going in with us?” Melon asked, sounding surprised.

  “Shit no!” Juan said with a chuckle. Talking to the roof of the truck, he added, “Pinche loco Güero!”

  “What’d he say?” Parker asked curiously.

  Melon smiled. “That he thinks I’m a gentleman and a scholar.”

  Juan laughed. Melon laughed. Knowing he’d been lied to, and feeling a bit clueless, Parker managed a chuckle anyway.

  “I will sit comfortably at a distance, thank you very much,” Juan continued. “With a satellite phone. And then I will tell them if you succeeded or failed.”

  “Nice,” Parker said.

  “That’s all?” Melon teased Juan.

  “I will do that and eat my Subway sandwich, which I packed in the cooler right there,” Juan said with a smile, pointing at a blue Igloo that was between Parker’s legs on the floor. “With a Pepsi.”

  Melon nodded and said. “Okay. Pinche puta.”

  The smile disappeared from Juan’s face. “Hey, cabrón, I just—”

  “He’s just busting your balls,” Parker said, holding up his hand. “Truth be told, we don’t want or need your help. We’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so,” Juan said flatly.

  “Hope so?” Parker shot back.

  “Yeah. These guys where you’re going? They is bad news.”

  Melon gave a tiny smile. “Well . . . we ain’t exactly the funny papers, muchacho.”

  “Hmm,” Juan managed. Then the truck fell into silence as they drove their way through another half dozen Doors songs before the cassette tap
e ended. Juan flipped it, and on came a collection of 70s hits. Some good. Some bad. Parker wasn’t much for classic rock unless a pool party and BBQ were involved. What they were about to do required at least some classic metal. Maybe a little Metallica or Pantera.

  As he watched the landscape go by, offering up a few abandoned homes and dozens of cactus trees, Parker went over their inventory in his mind. With three gun-safes in his basement, Melon had spared no expense in his little collection, not even with the Busse survival knives they each had strapped to their right thighs. In addition, in the back of the truck were two military-issue fully equipped M-4s, with grenade launchers and Nikon M-223 scopes, good for up to six hundred yards. They’d brought plenty of extra rounds for their ammo belts but only a few of the grenades, to be used in the most extreme of situations, because, well, there were hostages involved and grenades had a hard time discriminating between who they were supposed to blow up. They also had flash-bang grenades. How Melon had come across such ordinance Parker didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know. Night vision goggles were in their backpacks, along with bottled water and protein bars, just in case things dragged out past sundown, which they both were hoping to avoid if at all possible.

  “Unchained” by Van Halen, arrived just in the nick of time before Parker dozed off, and ended just as they pulled off the road into a patch of dying cypress trees that offered sparse shade beneath their anorexic leaves.

  No one had to ask if they were there. It was obvious that they were, and each man started going about their business. Juan pulled a duffel bag out from behind his seat, rifled through it and produced an old .357 Magnum, a pair of high-powered binoculars and the satellite phone by which he would either call in their success or their demise.

  Despite the fact that he’d given them Jim’s name and description when he’d picked them up, there were no instant friends in country, so they both watched Juan carefully as he put on a shoulder holster. Once the .357 was safely strapped in and nullified as something that could be turned against them, at least for now, Parker and Melon got back to suiting up, double-tying their military boots. When Juan saw their helmets, he gave a surprised look, but they said nothing; with the high likelihood of bullets flying around, keeping your brain together inside your skull was more important than making a fashion statement. Also, there was no mistaking the psychological impact it would have on a civilian target. Yeah, they were going after mobsters, but even mobsters weren’t prepared for fully geared Army Rangers to come dancing into their front yard. They would need that surprise as an edge before they began taking out targets.

  He suddenly heard Napoleon’s voice from somewhere off in the ether: No killing.

  Trying not to let Melon see that he was startled, Parker turned and murmured under his breath, “Do you know how impossible that’s going to be?”

  Self-defense is one thing, Parker. And I mean Imminent Self-Defense. But that’s it.

  Parker shook his head and sighed. “Great.”

  “What’s that?” Melon asked.

  “Nothing. You ready?”

  “Ready,” Melon said with a nod.

  Juan looked them both up and down, sternly, and shook his head. “Pinche gringos,” he said, this time with a smirk.

  Then the three of them began making their way into a small valley where, in the far distance, they could see the adobe house that Jim had described earlier.

  It was right about the time Maggie foolishly began to think things couldn’t possibly get worse that they brought in the goat. Brown with white stripes over either side of its mouth and cheekbones, it had sky-blue eyes that reminded her of—

  No. Don’t go there.

  Zossima.

  Her beloved cat, murdered by her psycho ex-fiancé, was the one area in her head her therapist had suggested they avoid, for now. It was too painful. Zoss used to be her best buddy, and the way he used to look at her after a long day at work, or cuddle in her lap while she read in her reading chair, always seemed to make life a little better.

  The goat bleated suddenly, making her jump, as Eenie forced it into the house and guided it towards the altar. They had tied a crude rope around the goat’s neck, not unlike the rope that they’d tied Maggie to the post with, and in a weird way this made her identify with the goat. Both of them were captive. And, according to what Delva has said earlier, both of them were destined for sacrifice.

  Her heart sank as Delva nodded at Anastasia, who pulled a long knife with a white handle out of a case next to the altar. Spitting on it, she walked around the altar slowly, scraping the knife over each corner.

  Maggie loved animals of all kinds. They were innocent, vulnerable creatures that never hurt anyone with any sort of malice in their hearts. For survival, yes. But never malice. And though she thought it was probably wrong to think this way, she couldn’t help herself. This was going to be at least as hard, if not harder, than listening to what they’d done to Felix back in the warehouse. Yes. Murder was murder. But God only knew how many people he’d killed himself by that time. And after what he’d done to Father Soltera it was hard not to think—sinfully, she knew—that he finally got what he had coming to him.

  But this goat had done nothing, to no one. And as it bleated a second time it seemed to look around the room with a dense, animalistic confusion, before those blue eyes fell on Maggie and she looked away.

  No. Not dense. She felt a sob catch in her chest. Innocent.

  “Are you ready?” Güero asked.

  “Yes. You step back. We’ve done this many times before,” Delva said. “Misha?”

  Misha stepped forwards and took the rope from Eenie, who seemed more than happy to hand it over and retreat back into the main room.

  The goat bleated again. The room grew quiet.

  Delva held a wooden bowl in both hands as Misha yanked the goat’s head up and grabbed its chin, fully exposing its neck.

  Maggie stared at a crack in the floor and told herself that this wasn’t happening. A little denial was okay. Everybody had some, sometime. She wasn’t here in this house and neither was the goat. This was all just stuff happening in her head. Lame to call it a dream. Even lamer to call it a nightmare. Especially when she trafficked in dreams and nightmares all the time and knew one full well when she saw it. No. This was just a little trip down a winding road—

  The goat screamed.

  Hell.

  Sounds of a struggle followed.

  Just like Felix, who had begun to swing his fists wildly when he knew he was done for, after Güero had turned the rings on his fingers in and attacked him. Before Güero’s goons had held him in place.

  Kicks. A primal sort of cry.

  Again, like Felix, begging for his life as Güero beat him to death with his bare hands. Like a sick, savage brute.

  Gurgling sounds followed.

  Then death.

  Maggie closed her eyes tight as she heard liquid filling the bowl.

  “Yes, yes . . .” Misha said. “Perfect.”

  “Anastasia, put the knife away. Grab the brush, right there. Now, cover the entire altar with the blood. Side-to-side strokes only. Misha? You handle the prayer.”

  “Really, sister?” Misha said, sounding pleasantly surprised.

  “Yes,” Delva said. “You did the cut. You earned it. Drink a cup of the blood first, to bless your tongue.”

  Evidently, she did as she was told.

  “Eh!” Güero said with a voice of disgust.

  “Oh, mijo,” Delva chastised him. “So sensitive.”

  Misha suppressed a laugh.

  Delva spoke again. “You there!” she shouted.

  “Yes?” It was Eenie again.

  “Go get three chickens now. I will need their warm, still-beating hearts next. Hurry!”

  Maggie heard Eenie scramble outside.

  Chickens? Chickens were next. And what about after that?

  The room was quiet for a bit before Maggie heard the sound of a brush, going over and over
, across the stone surface of the altar. That’s when she made the mistake of finally opening her eyes.

  As she did, instantly, she saw that Luisa had awoken and was staring right at her, with the same, accusing look that Zossima had that fateful day, when she’d come home to find him lying in her apartment.

  How, that look said, have you let this happen to me?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Father Soltera forced himself not to panic. To focus.

  “You’re doomed! You’ll never escape this place!” Tabitha yelled.

  He looked at Michiko. “I can’t—”

  I know, tomodachi. Leave her to me. I will buy you time. You try and figure this out.

  Michiko attempted to draw her sword, but Tabitha was upon her again, obviously intent on not allowing that to happen. They spun and fell back into the water as Father Soltera did the hardest thing he ever had to do.

  He walked up the stairs and turned his back on them, to better study the door.

  The door. Which was locked.

  And a door that was locked needed . . .

  “A key,” he said softly.

  He looked around at all the jars, many of which Tabitha had shattered and some of which looked as if they’d been shattered a long time ago. As if . . .

  He ran over to one of the jars. The top was sealed with a clear wax plug. But inside he could see a key, clear as day. Excitedly, he lifted the jar above his head, intent on shattering it to the ground, before something told him to stop.

  No. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? If it were . . .

  He looked to the door. It hadn’t been opened in a long, long time. Moss and vines covered almost its entire surface save for the wood at the front. The handle, too, was old and very rusted. Looking to the creases and seams it was obvious that they were filled with foliage and dirt.

  He looked down at the jar in his hand again, the key glinting at him from beyond the wax.

  “Do it!” Tabitha screamed. “Get the key!”