Carlos dazed and bleeding from several cuts on his face sat and tried to recover his senses. Juan reached with his off hand to take the pistol from his rather immobilized shooting hand. The old man yanked the fork free of Juan's shoulder and started to stab toward his neck. His speed impressed Juan. Lacking options, Juan jammed the gun into the man's gut and jerked the trigger. After the first two rounds, the man staggered back against the stove. Juan fired until the man slumped down to the floor then put the last two rounds of the magazine in his head.
The woman shrieked again. Juan realized his head would hurt shortly from the noise. Carlos recovered himself and backhanded the woman out of her chair. He dragged her out of the room. Juan didn't stop him or ask questions. Instead he looked around the kitchen and checked his injured shoulder.
With the fork not lodged in it, he could move his arm. It hurt like hell and would take weeks to fully heal, but he could use it in the mean time.
Blood splattered across the wall by the stove and smeared along the cheap cabinets. Shattered bits of plate scattered over the table among large drops of blood from Carlos. Juan picked up the photo of their target, casting away the shards of ceramic plate.
Juan pulled open the fridge looking for a cold cerveza or tea. He found an entire case of Mountain Dew. The fridge door closed as he popped the top.
Under a magnet, among old children's drawings, shopping lists and hastily scribbled phone numbers, hung a business card. A cartoon superhero with an 'M' on a red hat.
“Motoman Transport,” he read, “Tell us where to take, just not what it is.”
“Ese fue su error, gringo...”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Fox is a National Guard veteran of seven years. He finished this work during a tour of Afghanistan. In another life, he wrote for The Lawton Constitution. Now he lives in Dallas, owned by two cats. When he isn't writing, he's working as a medical assistant and playing D&D (3.5 and 5.0).
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