The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  Because you are a tool, like all the rest who are ‘saved’ by that side. A cog. A nut. A bolt. My side has been winning for millennia and will continue to do so. Do you wanna know why?

  “No. No, I don’t. Stop it. Please!” He was squeezing his head so hard now that he was sure it was going to pop.

  Oh. I insist. Really. You should know, she murmured. Because you all love sin. You really do. Even the so-called best of you at least love the thought of it. But. Do. You. Know . . . What you aaaall forget? Like, every damn time?

  He shook his head as he gasped for air.

  She leaned close to him, clicked her piranha teeth rapidly and said with a laugh, The cost of it.

  The room went red. He began to spin to another time. Another place. But . . . where? The past? No. The future? Not even close. He was in the present . . . but it was someone else’s present.

  Darkness, then harsh fluorescent light.

  He heard the motorized sound of the wheelchair before he saw her, coming down the waxed-linoleum hall of a hospital somewhere, avoiding medical carts along a wall as a man in a white shirt and cotton pants cheered her on.

  No.

  “Marisol,” Hector whispered. “Oh my God. It’s Marisol.”

  And it was. Or what was left of her. After what he’d done to her.

  The woman he once knew and loved was gaunt. She’d easily lost thirty pounds. There was a gouge in her throat from the bullet he’d shot through it, and both her head and her body leaned sideways in the chair, her legs so skinny that they seemed like poles, the knees collapsed together and her ankles twisted awkwardly. Only her hand, on the motorized steering bar, moved.

  Paralyzed. She was paralyzed, apparently from the neck down. A paraplegic, with only limited use of one limb. Her left arm was lying limp against her side, her left hand curled up in the bird’s nest of her lap.

  “Noooo,” Hector moaned, collapsing to his knees and doubling over. He told his eyes to close. The Black-Veiled Nurse told them to stay open.

  Do you see your handiwork, boy? she said. All because, what? Because she . . . loved . . . another man? And the word “loved” came out warped and garbled, overlapped with curse words in foreign tongues that came out of the air from all around, as if she’d come into his mind with a motley crew of evil spirits.

  The wheelchair buzzed down the hall as the man encouraged Marisol on, telling her how good she was doing, praising her for trying so hard. It was obvious now that he was some sort of physical therapist.

  But when Hector saw her passionless, destitute eyes as she stared at the man like he was an idiot, as if she didn’t care what he said, or how well she was or was not doing, as if she didn’t care anymore, about anything . . . that was all it took.

  He broke. Not in an emotional way or even so much a psychological way. No. In a spiritual way. His entire soul began to crater, from the center outward, like a porcelain shell that he had always known was there, just beneath his skin. He’d felt it resonate when he was lost in a meandering patch of prose or, yes, most certainly whenever Marisol touched him. When she would mindlessly run her fingers over his arm while they lay on the couch and watched a movie together, or when she would stand near him while he was lost in thought.

  “Marisol?” he whispered with anguish. “What have I done?”

  Incredibly, the wheelchair stopped in its tracks and Marisol’s head tilted in his direction. He was on his knees close by, his body translucent, but she saw him. Her eyes widened with recognition . . . then horror . . . then rage.

  Her physical therapist followed her gaze to where Hector was, but evidently seeing nothing, he instantly looked concerned. “Marisol?”

  Hector had looked in those eyes and told Marisol that she was his bae. Then his love. Then the love of his life. He had told her that he would always protect her . . . that someday, always someday . . . he would marry her, and they would have babies together. Those eyes had looked right back at him with something like adoration once and said the same things. He could still remember how she would hold his hand, gently but firmly, whenever they were together, and how she would laugh sometimes, so hard at his jokes, that she’d snort. Most of all, most painfully of all, he could remember how he would kiss her on the forehead, and how she would lean into that kiss, every, single, time. But the way she was looking at him now was absent any love whatsoever.

  Again, her physical therapist chimed in, this time quizzically. “Marisol, what’s wrong? What do you see?”

  Her answer was spoken electronically, through a voice box, and she struggled mightily just to get out two solitary words. But Hector’s soul shattered completely beneath their weight.

  “A monster,” she said.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Parker sighed. It was now, or never. Cover me! he said to Napoleon, and then, for the first time in his life, he made a decision based on blind, irrational faith. Moving completely out of cover, he charged towards the house.

  The guy with the Glock fired and two bullets whizzed past Parker’s head, forcing shards of glass from the Range Rover to erupt in all directions. Parker dropped and rolled as a flurry of bullets chased him along the ground. But none, thankfully, found their target. That wasn’t possible, either, and Parker knew it. The space between the car and the house, from point-blank range, was too big for all those bullets to miss. Rolling to one knee, he looked up and instantly saw the reason why.

  The bullets that had been fired at him were netted in blue light, the force of their trajectory burning white-hot at the edges as their course was bent and turned off-target. The guy with the Glock now had the same stunned look on his fact that his friends had moments earlier.

  Beyond him, Napoleon stood on the porch of the house, his hand outstretched, his fingers curled as he crumpled the blue net against the bullets and they fell to the ground. He turned as an old woman in a black robe shot out of the house and attacked him from behind. They struggled. A loud, crackling sound erupted through the air. A shockwave of heat rolled across the patio and out across the front of the house before Napoleon and the old woman disappeared through some sort of vortex that had opened across from the porch.

  “What the hell was that!?” Melon shouted. With his body pinned against the Escalade and his head down, he hadn’t seen anything but had obviously heard it.

  I dunno, Parker thought, but I hope that hell had nothing to do with it.

  Earlier, Parker had felt Napoleon’s presence. Now, he felt his absence.

  Parker was on his own again. The guy with the Glock lunged, tackled him in the chest and knocked him backwards. They grappled on the ground for a moment, each struggling for position. Parker took two vicious punches to his ribs and one to his chin. The world went hazy for a moment before he delivered a few shots of his own, both to his opponent’s head. Incredibly, Parker found himself pinned to the ground, his opponent sitting on his chest, his hands wrapped around Parker’s throat in a devastating choke hold.

  Then the world became a series of freeze-frame events . . .

  First, Melon, evidently out of ammo and separated from his backpack near the delivery truck, was yelling as he tried to get to Big Boy’s gun. The two goons that had outflanked him were advancing on him relentlessly. It was only a matter of time before they killed him.

  Then, defying all logic, the goons stopped in their tracks and quit firing at Melon.

  Napoleon! Parker thought.

  But no. It was Güero, in the doorway of the house. “Slaughter the girls! I want no evidence,” he screamed. He swiftly ducked back into the house.

  Parker was stunned. The goons slowly turned and took aim at the delivery truck that held all the women. Parker’s heart sank.

  As the guns erupted into the air, Melon—tough, smart-assed Melon—screamed “No!” at the top of his lungs, the desperation in his voice confirming the hopelessness of anyone being able to stop what was about to take place.

  He was wrong.

  The Gray Angel c
ame from the west and he came up from the sands. And when he came, the earth shook and the light from the sun seemed to bend beneath the weight of some unseen horizon. Parker didn’t bother to tell himself that he was seeing things this time because, really, what was the point? He’d accepted Napoleon being back, hadn’t he? Still, he found himself beyond stunned, past shocked, and somewhere in the neighborhood of incredulous by what The Gray Angel did next.

  Countless bullets, tens if not hundreds, screamed their way through the air towards the truck full of screaming women, none of whom had any idea that death was coming. There was no way on earth anything could save them but for the simple fact that, for a brief moment in time, this place was anywhere but earth.

  A cascade of iridescent slivers broke out at blinding speed across the air, intercepting the bullets at various points in their paths. It was so far beyond any level of comprehension that it almost numbed the mind. The slivers flashed black when struck, as if they were swallowing the bullets and teleporting them to some far-off corner of the universe. But it was the sound that got Parker the most; each sliver opened like tearing tinfoil before it crunched shut, absorbing the kinetic energy of each bullet and leaving behind a momentary blur of gray.

  It was obvious that not everyone could see The Gray Angel. Parker could. And probably one of the goons, too, who’d gone hysterical and was now shouting “Dios mio!” over and over as he dropped to his knees. But no one else seemed to be dialed in. The other goons, either standing or down with injuries, were baffled at what was happening, as was Melon.

  What was happening was a miracle, on full display.

  Whatever.

  To Parker, it was an opening. At last.

  Cars were barreling in from the distance, probably from a nearby safe house. Three Chevy Suburbans down one road, another Cadillac Escalade from the main highway. The Gray Angel waved his hand at the larger caravan, sending all three of the Suburbans airborne like so many toy Hot Wheels Parker had played with as a child.

  But it appeared that the effort of this move, and of teleporting away all the bullets, was taking a toll; The Gray Angel was beginning to fade away. There was something in the way he looked at Parker that said time was running out. For everyone.

  Parker moved instantly to take out the guy with the Glock.

  Using a classic Krav Maga move, he positioned his legs wisely to gain as much leverage as possible, thrust his hips upward, then rolled to one side, flipping his opponent off him at a forty-five-degree angle. Then, with tenacity, Parker reversed their positions entirely. He wasted no time in putting an end to things. Instead of a classic, school-yard pin intended to punch someone repeatedly in the face, Parker kept his own head down tight to the ground and to the side of his opponent’s right shoulder, forcing him flat, pinning him hard. And in rapid succession Parker came up, shot an open hand into his opponent’s trachea, sat up further and struck him hard in the stomach, before he pivoted back a few feet and punched him as hard as he could, directly in the groin. Incapacitated in so many ways, the guy with the Glock was done for.

  Parker continued his advance.

  The two goons who’d been shooting at the delivery truck had emptied their guns and were now retreating to the house. The Gray Angel tried to wave his hand at them, too, but his face looked pained and exhausted. He glanced at Parker one last time and then he was gone. But Parker knew that look all too well. It was the look that the fallen give to those who are left behind to finish the fight.

  And Parker was going to finish this fight.

  The goons made it through the doorway of the house and were just turning to slam the door behind them when Parker planted his boot directly in the middle of it, the wood cracking beneath the force as the door flew backwards and caught one of the goons in the face, shattering his nose. He screamed and tried to take a swing, but Parker grabbed his gun and twisted it upwards, cracking him in the chin and knocking him out cold.

  “Look out!” a girl screamed from his left. Parker barely had a second to glimpse that way; he saw a blond girl tied to a wooden post. The Kincaid woman. It had to be. She was in an adjacent room where there was another girl, partially naked, tied to an altar. That had to be the minor. Crazy, sick bastards. If they had killed her? He was going to lose it, for sure.

  The second goon was bearing down on him, but he was too slow and too close. Parker deflected the gun barrel away. A spray of bullets cut loose and exploded into the wall beside them. Pivoting, Parker shot his right fist out directly into the man’s face, grabbed him by the collar and punched him three times in his right ear. He was out cold before Parker dropped him to the ground.

  “Get him!” a man with a deep voice yelled. When Parker saw him, he didn’t need the fine clothes and manicured look to tell him who he was. Parker had seen his file photo and knew his target completely. It was Güero-freaking-Martinez. In the flesh. And within reach.

  Another man, bigger and more of a bodyguard-looking type, came at Parker from the right, lowering his handgun to fire in the process. Parker dropped to the ground and did a foot sweep to take him down. The bodyguard fell, getting one shot off into the ceiling before the back of his head hit the ground. Dazed, he tried to sit up. Parker gave him a solid elbow to the face. He rolled over and looked at Güero for the briefest of seconds before he jumped up and fled out the front door, Güero cursing at him the entire way.

  Parker turned to face Güero, who had already raised his hands over his head in full surrender. “I’m not resisting,” he said solemnly.

  “So,” Parker said. “You’re the famous Güero Martinez, huh?”

  Güero looked at him defiantly. “What’s it to you?”

  Parker shrugged. “Not much. I just wanted to meet, face-to-face, the pussy who sent his thugs to hurt my girl.”

  “You’re girl?” Güero said disdainfully. “Who the hell are you?”

  Parker gritted his teeth and replied. “I’m Detective Parker.”

  The name registered in Güero’s eyes immediately. Slowly, his face began to melt with defeat. Then, quietly, over his head, Parker noticed that the fingers of Güero’s hands came together and he slowly began turning the rings on them inward, towards his palms.

  Parker smiled.

  Good. A surrender would’ve been no fun at all.

  Maggie Kincaid stood and watched in awe at the symphony of destruction that the army guy who had charged into the house was unleashing. His moves were smooth, confident and polished. She was happy he had arrived.

  But it wasn’t like she really needed him.

  Luisa started to come around, forced awake by all the noise and chaos. As Güero and the army guy stood and faced each other, there was only one other guy left in the room: Eenie the Perv. Still hiding behind the altar like a little bitch, he was now coming around it, slowly, his hand shaking as he tried to free his gun, which was stuck in his jacket. He cursed, tugging and pulling on it. But that’s not what mattered to Maggie. What mattered was that he was so focused on the army guy that he’d completely forgotten about her . . . and was now backing up towards her.

  She stood tall and waited . . . waited . . . waited.

  As he grew closer, she moved her hands up the wooden post as far as she could, pressed her forearms against the wood, and like a poor man’s lumberjack, she spur-clawed a few feet up it. Then a few more. Without actual spurs, it wasn’t easy. But adrenaline helped her dig her right foot into a natural indentation that she realized would give her some much-needed leverage. He was finally within reach. It was now or never.

  She was on him like a crab. Leaping up with all her strength, she reached out with her legs and pulled Eenie in by his shoulders, swiftly and violently yanking him backwards into her and trapping his head between her thighs. He reached back to grab at her, but she pulled her head and face up and away from his hands. His weight had jammed her ribs against the post painfully, but Maggie couldn’t have cared less. With one leg on either side of his head, she began to squeeze. Hard
and then even harder. Hopelessly scissored between her thighs, he struggled to get away, but she pulled him back.

  She was losing her grip. C’mon, c’mon. Get him down and finish him.

  As if he’d heard her and was actually granting her request, Eenie dropped to his knees in a last-ditch effort to escape. In doing so, he’d given her all the leverage she needed to choke him out completely.

  He desperately clawed at her legs, then reached up to punch her in the stomach. But punching backwards wasn’t nearly as effective, and she barely felt it. Finally, he began to grab for his gun again, but it was too late for that.

  She looked down over his forehead and into Eenie’s panic-filled eyes. “Probably not how you fantasized it, is it?” she sneered.

  Using her thighs to squeeze at his ears with all her might, his eyes bulged in their sockets as his face flushed red from all the pressure. He gasped, clawed weakly at her a few more times, and then finally, as he fell backwards, lifeless, she rode him down and landed on her feet.

  Looking up, she saw that the army guy had his handgun trained on Güero, who had his arms raised in surrender.

  But then, Maggie watched as Güero began turning the rings on his fingers in, just like he had that day before he’d viciously attacked Felix at the warehouse.

  His surrender was a ruse.

  Parker lowered his gun and snapped it back into his holster, causing a look of surprise and then a smile to come across Güero’s face.

  “Maggie!” the girl on the altar cried out, forcing them both to look her way. “Maggie?”

  “I’m here, Luisa,” the blond woman replied, officially confirming that she was Kincaid.

  Okay. I’ve got both my hostages in place. Just one last—

  Güero screamed and charged him like a bull. Parker was only able to partially pivot out of the way and throw a glancing blow at his cheek before Güero wrapped his arms around Parker’s waist, picked him up and violently slammed him backwards against the wall, forcing the air to rush out of his lungs and his ribs to groan in protest.