by AJ Adams
“Where is he?” Rimjob slapped me across the face. A backhander. His favourite. I could taste blood in my mouth. “Where.” Slap. “Is.” Slap. “He?” Slap.
My head rocked with each blow and I was seeing stars, but I didn’t say anything. I knew that if I said one word, I’d be blabbing and begging, and Kyle would be dead. So I said nothing.
“Here, you’re doing it wrong.”
Terrific, the poison dwarf was offering expert advice.
“I’m not!” Rimjob was spitting mad. He never could take criticism.
“If you break her jaw, she’ll never talk.”
“Take off your belt and whack her,” tattoo boy advised. “She can take hours of that without killing her.”
Abso-fucking-lutely brilliant. Two experts!
First they had fun stripping me. They cut off my clothes with their flick-knives, not caring if they cut into me every now and again. Tattoo man didn’t seem too interested in nude me, but the poisoned dwarf had a bulging crotch.
“Hey, Happy, are you just pleased to see me, or is that a poisoned toadstool in your pants?”
He didn’t hit me, he just looked at me in a way that said I’d pay for it later.
Actually, it was more like sooner, because Rimjob stepped back and tried the belt. I remembered this bit from our association years ago. Whack. Wait for the pain. Whack. Wait for the pain. He started low and worked his way up, starting on my thighs and ending up with my shoulders. I rocked on my feet, awash with excruciating white hot lava invading my bones. I was so determined not to scream that I bit my tongue. With that and my broken nose and teeth from the preceding slap fest, the blood was now dripping down my face. I couldn’t keep my head up anymore. I could see the red streaked drool running down to the ground, puddling on the cement floor.
“Where is he? Where do I find him? Where is Suarez?”
Each question was punctuated by more and more pain. By now I was trying to scream, but it came out in little moans. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was just liquid agony. Rimjob stepped back, and the belt started wrapping round my ribs. I felt one soften and crush. It was excruciating, but I didn’t pass out. Not until he changed sides and broke a couple on the other side. Then, mercifully, I fell into black oblivion.
When I came to, I was so fucked up that I couldn’t even moan. There was a funny smell in the air, too. Burnt meat. Little hot spots anchoring the pain told me that Rimjob had put his cigarette out in my armpits. He did that years ago, too, after I’d sassed him one day. Back then he’d gone through an entire packet of fags.
I remembered how Kyle always went silent with rage when he saw them. I was glad that I got to be with him, even if it was just a little time. Kyle was the one good thing in my life.
“Look, she won’t talk.” Tattoo boy’s placating tones echoed around the hut.
“Everyone talks. Eventually.” Rimjob spat.
“Sure but I’ve seen people like her. It would take days.”
“I’m not staying here for fucking days.” That was poison dwarf. “We’ve already been across the border three times. One more time and someone’s going to be asking why.”
“Yeah, Ludwig is right.”
Ludwig. What a goddamn name.
“I’ll make her talk!”
Rimjob was seething. I, on the other hand, was heaving. A million years ago we had bacon and tomatoes for breakfast, Kyle and me, and now it was coming back to haunt me. Or maybe not. I opened my eyes. Not easy. Thanks to the beating, my face was swollen like a bladder, my nose was broken, and I could barely see. But there was a glimmer of pink. Rimjob.
“Where is Suarez?”
I could smell his breath. Perfect. I heaved and threw up all over him. It was wonderful.
“You bitch! You fucking bitch!” He was squealing like a little girl.
“Rimjob,” I tried to speak loudly and cheerfully, but it came out in a whisper, “you really are a big girl’s blouse. Don’t be such a fucking dweeb, for fuck’s sake. Be the man your mother was.”
Every word hurt like hell, but it was worth it because the punch sent me back into oblivion. Unfortunately it didn’t last long. When I came to, I could hear the solid clunk of a car door. Rimjob was off, driving away in his shiny Mercedes.
“Got the condoms?”
That was Ludwig. What a name. For Chrissake. Ludwig.
“Here. Pack of 24.”
“Awesome.”
Yeah. Great. So kind of them. Thoughtful rapists. Or maybe it’s because they knew I was Rimjob’s for a while and they were frightened they’d catch something nasty. I couldn’t help it: I giggled. It almost killed me. All my broken ribs, all the cuts and bruises, even my broken teeth hurt. But it was good to know that at least I was going out laughing.
“Fuck me, she’s laughing! The cunt is laughing!”
Tattoo boy couldn’t believe it.
“She won’t be laughing in a minute.”
Poison dwarf was right.
I won’t bore you with the next bit. They put on the van radio, blasting music through the desert, and enjoyed themselves. It wasn’t fun, at all—for me, at least. I never did like being a party favour. Mercifully I passed out pretty quickly. I must have been out a while because when I became aware again both of them were taking a break. They were sitting on some packing cases, drinking beer by the sound of it.
“Time to go?”
“Ok.”
So that was it. I was going to be topped at last. At least Kyle was safe. They’d never get him. And he would figure out Rimjob was to blame. It was a comforting feeling. Kyle would eat him alive. Now all there was left was the hope that my end would be quick and Rimjob’s slow.
I was aware of one of them coming near me. It was tattoo boy. “Come on,” he wheedled. “Tell us where he is, babe, make it easy on yourself.”
Like I’d tell him. No fucking way. I couldn’t speak, but I spat at him. I couldn’t see if it hit, but he was swearing.
Suddenly the music stopped. I actually thought at that point that he’d killed me, cut my throat maybe.
But then the dwarf spoke, “Fuck. The battery must be dying!”
“Go check it. We don’t want to be stuck here.”
There was a soft sound. Like shifting sand. Maybe they were going to stand me on a crate and hang me. That would be ironic. The last time I’d been hanged I met Kyle. There was a gasp, a thud, and then I heard this growling sound.
I opened my eyes and saw Kyle standing in the doorway; terminator style. He took a flying leap and tattoo boy went down in one blow. I heard his neck break.
I looked at Kyle and tried to smile. At least I got to see him one more time. I tried to speak, to tell him I loved him, but then I couldn’t hold on anymore. I died.
Chapter 15: Kyle
When Pedro Rojo called me, I was halfway to Cerralvo.
“Boss, you’ve got to come right back now.”
Pedro’s palpable panic went straight to my gut. Chloe was in trouble. I turned the Blackbird around and high-tailed it back to town.
“What happened?”
“There was a shootout, half a block up from us.”
Christ, I thought, Chloe’s been shot.
“There was a stampede. People are hurt, and a few dead.”
“Chloe’s hurt?”
“That’s it! I can’t see her!”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“Eight minutes, maybe nine.”
That was fast. “Are you sure she’s not just out of sight? Under a stall? Hiding?” I knew in my heart that she wasn’t. Pedro has a nose for trouble. I trust him. That’s why I let him ride shotgun with Chloe.
“Something’s wrong. I can smell it. I’m getting all the halcones to report in. Gordo is turning over every stall. Wait...” Pedro disappeared and then came back. “Two Gringos were seen carrying an injured girl. I’m getting a description. Call you in two minutes.”
It took five. “It’s a black van with a Texas reg
istration.”
“Ten thousand dollars to anyone who helps us trace it.”
“Boss, it’s too much. Every mula in the world will call, hoping to strike lucky.”
I wanted to scream but I knew he was right.
“A thousand, boss. For any lead that pans out.”
“Do it.”
The bike was flying into the city now. I was hitting 170 miles per hour. Time to slow down or I’d be taking out half the population. Five minutes later I zeroed in on Pedro. Twenty five minutes since Chloe disappeared.
Pedro was white as a sheet. There was a gash on his face that was bleeding sluggishly. Gordo’s shirt was ripped to pieces and by the way he was moving, he’d clearly broken some ribs. There were dead and wounded lying in the street. Pedro hadn’t exaggerated; the shooting had started a deadly stampede.
“Boss, the van went south. Heading to Monterrey.”
“Certain?”
“Yes. They did a U-turn at the airport road and headed south. While they were doing so, the back doors opened. There was a girl, tied up and screaming.”
“Chloe.”
Ice-cold rage flooded through me. I would find her, and I would kill them all.
“Yes. She was shouting your name.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ!”
Pedro flinched. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
I wanted to say it was. I wanted to hit him. But I knew it wasn’t his fault. Who the hell can provide security during a stampede?
“You’re not to blame.” I was moving the Blackbird, pointing her south. To Monterrey. To find Chloe. “Keep me updated.”
“Boss. Wait. Please.” Pedro sounded urgent again.
“It’s here.” Gordo pointed to the street. An Audi S7 pulled up at the kerb. Chema got out, threw the keys at Pedro and waited for the keys to my Blackbird.
“It’s faster than my BMW and it has the same clearance as the van,” Pedro said. “Where it goes, we go.”
“My bike’s faster.”
“You need backup and equipment,” Pedro said, trying to keep calm. “You can’t do this alone.”
“We’re picking up gear at the crossroads,” Gordo announced. “Binoculars. Military grade. And enough fire power to take out a platoon.”
This is why I hire the best. Pedro and Gordo are both ex special forces, Mexican and Guatemalan. They’d taken the right decisions every step of the way. My rage was clouding my judgement. Rage and fear.
“Why the fuck are we standing here?” I asked, now moving fast to the Audi.
Gordo sat in the back, coordinating the halcones while Pedro took off, gunning the engine to clear traffic out of the way and taking the kerb to get around snarls. He used to rally, so he’s got a knack for speed. I wanted to be doing something, but letting him drive left me free to track Chloe. I’d tracked Al Qaeda, Hezbollah and PIJ; now I was praying I could find Chloe.
We had to wait ten minutes at the crossroads. I sweated and swore. While we were fucking about, Chloe might be dying. Gordo reported that the halcones saw the van passing through Anahuac, but it hadn’t been seen in Lampazos de Naranjo. That meant they’d gone off-road. That part of the highway is just over 100 clicks long, and that meant we had to check east and west. Christ, and all that time Chloe... It didn’t bear thinking about.
When Little Ricky, Chema and the gear finally arrived, Gordo cursed them up and down for being slow, but they’d done a good job. Binoculars, infrared equipment, a Recon Scout rifle, a couple of CMSGs, an Mk 20 Mod 0 grenade launcher, six MP5 submachine guns and a case of ammo topped up with smoke bombs and grenades. We could take out more than a platoon; with this equipment we could take out half of Nuevo Laredo.
They also brought a map. It was a good thought, but I knew the intel was shaky. All of us build structures in the middle of nowhere to house meth factories, warehouse merchandise and other projects, and we don’t exactly apply for planning permission or give out addresses. Still, it was better than nothing.
The second the gear was in the Audi, Pedro gunned it, and we were off again. The others tried to follow, but they fell behind quickly. We made it to Anahuac in record time, and then we crawled along, with Gordo and me scanning for off-road tyre tracks.
It was a bitch of a job. The ground was baked into rock, which meant only fast moving vehicles had left tracks. The slow ones wouldn’t show until they hit patches of dust and loose dirt lying 50 metres or more beyond the tarmac. With Pedro driving slowly, Gordo and I took a side each and scanned each repeatedly, getting out to look when we saw anything that looked like a lead.
Half an hour after we started, the others caught up. It was a godsend to have help, because we found quite a few tracks. Bikes and trikes out for some off-road fun, and articulated vehicles, probably veering off course when drivers had dozed off – they were simple to spot and discount. Our target had a distinctive wheelbase, but as vans are versatile, there’s a million of them in Mexico. Time and time again we chased red herrings: all of them ranchers except for two kids looking for some privacy while they cooked their meth. Poor bastards almost shat themselves when I burst in on them.
It took us three hours before we spotted a dusty lane with two sets of tracks, one left by a van and one by a passenger car. The car had gone in and out once, and recently. There were multiple van tracks, some up to a week old. I knew in my gut that this was it. I wanted to run this down ASAP, but we had to decide if we wanted to take the car and risk being heard, or walk. I thought about it and decided speed was more important. The Audi was quiet, and every second meant more trouble for Chloe. If she was still alive.
We drove for four clicks, and then we started hearing music. Pedro sped up, knowing the sound would cover any engine noise. We ended up on a small hill overlooking an arroyo, looking down at a van parked by a shack. Texas plates. Bingo.
We parked out of sight and left Gordo sighting down at us with the Scout, ready to pick off anyone coming out. Chema and Little Ricky moved to the back, ready to take down anyone who tried to escape through the back.
“I want them alive,” I warned them. “If they’ve moved Chloe, I’ll need to talk to them.”
It didn’t bear thinking about, but it had to be a possibility that she’d been taken by someone in that passenger car.
Pedro and I geared up and went in. It should have been slow and steady, but I set the pace at a run. Less than two minutes later, we were outside the shack. We could hear voices.
“Come on,” a voice wheedled. “Tell us where he is, babe, make it easy on yourself.” Then shortly after, “Fucking bitch! She spat at me!”
My gut turned to ice. My poor Chloe was in there all right, and Christ knew what they’d done to her.
I reached into the van and switched off the CD player. Pedro stood to the side of the door, ready to take on anyone who came to investigate.
“Fuck. The battery must be dying!”
The door swung open, revealing a short square type. While Pedro dealt with him, I dived inside. Chloe was hanging from a beam, bleeding, broken. I didn’t shoot the one in front of her. I hit him once, and felt his neck break. He was dead before he hit the ground.
“Kyle.” Her voice was a whisper. “Love you.”
And then she just faded out. I’m usually cool under pressure, but this time I totally lost it. I held Chloe and roared for Pedro to get the fucking chain off her. A second later, he was there, unwinding it from that hook. We got her down, and I picked her up and flew to the car, Pedro running beside me, yelling at the others to secure the area.
Gordo had the engine on and her nose pointing the right way. As I jumped in the back with Chloe, he was phoning Quique, arranging for a team to wait at the hospital, prepped for immediate surgery.
Chloe was limp in my arms. Her face was one big bruise. She had a broken nose, and several teeth were missing. Her body was black, purple and marked with red raw patches, all oozing blood. She looked fucking awful. Her breathing was ragged. I could see blood bubbles
coming out of her mouth. My girl was bleeding in her lungs.
All I could do was to repeat one single prayer, “Stay with me, Chloe. Stay with me.”
We’d reached the main road, and Pedro was gunning it. He was almost as fast as the Blackbird and a fuck of a lot smoother.
Gordo was on the phone to Quique again. “How the fuck do I know what she fucking needs?” he was yelling. “Get in every fucking type of fucking specialist there fucking is!”
Then he was on to Arturo, getting him to tell the mayor and the police chief to halt all traffic and clear the way to the hospital.
The drive back was a blur. Suddenly we were at the hospital. People were running around, fighting to get Chloe out of my arms. I let her go, but I wouldn’t leave her.
“If you want me to help her, move away,” a doctor, a young guy in green scrubs was trying to prise my fingers off the gurney as we raced down the corridor.
“I’m a universal donor.”
He blinked. “Then come along, but stay out of my way!”
We entered a pre-surgery room, filled with people. I’d seen enough of those in my day to recognise one.
“Nurse, get a pint from this man. Two if you can.”
I held out my arm and watched as the doc and his team swarmed over Chloe. They were snapping information at each other, each working his or her part. It didn’t sound good. Punctured lung. Broken ribs. Broken shoulder. Broken collarbone.
“I’ve got blood bank credits here,” I told the nurse who was bleeding me. “Give them to her.”
“All right.” She was what Chloe would call a real old cow, but ten seconds later she was tapping at a keyboard, locating my records. “She’s all right,” she informed me. “She’s O positive. We’ve enough of that.”
“Good.”
She looked again at the computer and then looked at my other arm. “You’ve been shot recently. You can’t donate!” She was horrified.
“Too late.” There was a full pint in the bag already.
The old cow knew I was terrified and took advantage. “Next time you come here to donate blood, tell those cartel friends of yours to come too,” she said severely. “Those of you who aren’t addicts.”
