Max Ryker- The End Begins

by David Wayne

  After Sister smashed him with the lamp, they’d bound and gagged the Cockroach and stored him in the back room. Once I got my head together, I planned to have a little business meeting with him.

  The house was alive with the buzz of morning activity, as the Brouder family packed and prepared to leave. Breakfast was a repeat of dinner, but I ate it anyway, wanting to save the last of our MREs. The ’Wogs had a white van parked about a hundred yards up the street, where they’d left it to sneak up on us. I asked Bob to go and check it out.

  I walked into the back storage room to find the Mexican sitting up against the wall. He was tied snuggly with white twine. Bob hadn’t taken any chances. The bum looked like a mummy, with white cord wrapped around his arms and torso. As I approached, he smiled, so I frowned.

  “Get up,” I said, grabbing him by the hair and pulling upward.

  “Ouch, man, come on. I can’t move fast in these ropes. Please.”

  In one swift motion, I pulled my blade from its sheath, and cut the bindings from his ankles—nicking a chunk off his calf in the process. He howled like a stuck pig. I heard running feet from the other room and slammed the door shut before peering eyes could see what was going on.

  “Oh, shit, you cut me,” he whined, looking at the blood that was staining his pant leg.

  “Get up. We’re going outside,” I said.

  He put on a feel-sorry-for-me face. “Can I get something to eat before we go, please? I haven’t eaten—”

  “You won’t be needing food where you’re headed, amigo.” He froze for a second and then smiled thinly.

  He chuckled. “Come now, my friend. No need to be so aggressive. You’re the new boss. I get it. We’ll work this little misunderstanding out, yes?” He smiled a full grin of crooked, yellow teeth. “Let’s make a deal, señor. That’s what Bob Barker always says.” He laughed at his own joke.

  I pointed to the back door with the blade. He was playing it cool, but his eyes darted about, desperately seeking an angle, scheming on how he might escape. His facial expression finally indicated acceptance; he was screwed—at least for the moment. He walked out the door.

  He let out a long whistle. “Man, I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

  “Go right ahead,” I said.

  “I’m tied up. What can I do?” He raised his eyebrows, nodding down at the rope tied around his body.

  I punched him hard in the gut and then watched as he pissed his pants. He was bent over coughing but didn’t go down. He was a tough son of a gun. I’d slugged him with everything I had, a surprise blow to boot, and he was still standing. Rarely does anyone take a sucker punch and remain on their feet. After a moment, he stood erect.

  “Looks liked you pissed yourself there, Pampers,” I said, walking toward the side yard. He followed. We stopped where Fatty lay, right where I’d dropped him last night. I fished the smokes and lighter from his person. “No need to waste good ciggies,” I said. The Mexican’s scowl turned to concern at the sight of his friend lying dead in the dirt. He got my message. I headed down the path, toward the woodpile.

  “Hey, look, where we going, man? Can we talk a second?” he asked, the smug humor now replaced with barely concealed fear. Good.

  “We’ll talk down there, with Tex,” I said, pointing down the trail.

  “Is… he alive?” he asked.

  “He was when I left him last night. I’m sure he’ll be a little sore and stiff, though.”

  The Cockroach sighed in relief. A few seconds later, we came upon Tex, albeit minus the cowboy hat, lying in the path.

  “Oh, shit! You said he was alive, man,” Carlos said, looking shocked.

  “I said he was alive when I left him.” I rolled Tex over with my foot, like a piece of trash, scratching my head. “Hmmm, I guess that knife poke left him more than a little sore. He is stiff, though. I got that part right,” I said with a chuckle.

  Big Carlos was now nearly panicked, staring down at his friend. I watched as all pretense of badass drained from him.

  “Now, let’s do our business. Can we both agree I don’t play?”

  He nodded.

  “Here’s how it works. You tell me what I want to know, I leave you tied here to that tree. If what you say is one hundred percent true and accurate, I’ll come back and cut you loose. Otherwise, we head to Atlanta and leave you here to starve or get eaten alive by wild animals. You feel like talking?”

  For such a big meanie, he turned out to be quite amicable and forthcoming. Before leaving, I decided to give the Cockroach a teeny tiny poke with Mr. Bowie. I’d promised to only put the tip in, but like a teenage boy, I couldn’t resist and slipped it all the way in. But after what I’d just heard from him, the temptation was too great. There’s something about trafficking in women and children that rubs me wrong.

  *

  “The van works great. It’s even got air conditioning. We’re loaded and ready to go,” Sister said, pausing to look around. “Where’s Carlos?”

  “He decided to stay, lie low. Let’s hit it,” I said, starting to walk away. She grabbed my arm.

  Her eyes were searching mine, then she looked me up and down, pausing briefly at my shirt sleeve—which I knew contained a large blood stain. “Max, I don’t like the sound of that… Did…did you kill him?” she whispered.

  “Of course not. He was alive when I left him. He’ll be a little sore and stiff maybe, but…”

  Chapter 52

  I met privately with Sister and Bob. The Hogwog gang had twelve slaves held hostage at their hideout, and I intended to free them—alone. After a brief argument with the sister, we took off, dropping everyone at an empty house Carlos had recommended. It was about a mile up from the gang’s place.

  The deal I made with the Mexican was simple. Help me plan a breakout to free the slaves, one in which I survived, and I would come back and free him. If any part of the plan didn’t work, or if I died, he would become a skeleton tied to a tree. For obvious reasons, he was exceedingly motivated. Surprisingly, the guy was sharp as a tack. His plan was simple but detailed. He made a bullet list of potential pitfalls and specific things to avoid. He even drew me a map, leaving no stone unturned. He wanted to live. I want you to return, my friend. Yes? We can do some business together. These were his final words to me, just before God called him home.

  I went through the plan in my mind. It contained all the elements of my own planning tactics—surprise, boldness, and diversion. No direct assaults. The Mexican's compound was a two-story brick home with a basement. It was fed electricity by a large diesel generator, housed in a small metal shed in the back. Several times a day, it blew a rubber gasket that had to be fixed. They used a makeshift repair method because they didn’t have access to real replacement parts. That’s why it kept breaking.

  Two gang members had stayed behind—Little Bitty, whom I’d recognized as a gorilla of a man, and Brutus, who was a small, skinny dude. I’d asked the Mexican why bikers nicknamed themselves in the opposite, but he waved me off impatiently. He hadn’t been in the mood for small talk. There were three women; two were house slaves who would pose no problems. The third woman, one they called Chick, was crafty and dangerous. She would appear harmless and would probably fake being a prisoner herself. She carried a razor knife in a sheath at the small of her back. She would be wearing a red bandana on her head. She knew how to use the knife, and would do so at the first opportunity. Two bloodhounds were kept in a pen out back, opposite the generator shed. They were not dangerous but would go nuts if they saw or smelled me. I would have to enter the yard based on wind direction. That was one detail that couldn’t be pinned down in advance. I should expect his friends to be on high alert because the gang hadn’t returned last night—that was unusual, but not unheard of.

  The wind was blowing westward, so I parked past their hideout and approached from the east, assuring my scent would blow away from the hounds. As directed, I checked the front drive for two Harleys—which were parked there, indic
ating both men were on-site. I skirted around the perimeter and canvassed the place with my field glasses. Everything matched his map to a T. “Good job, Carlos,” I muttered to myself. I saw the dogs sleeping under a tree in a dirt pit, surrounded by a six-foot chain-link fence. Thick, dark smoke was emitting from the small metal shack that housed the generator. I was in a bush approximately thirty feet due east of the shed and would use it to shield my approach from the dogs.

  I bolted for the shed and hid behind it, waiting for the hounds to bark and howl. They didn’t. The next part contained another unknown—who would emerge to fix the generator? I was told to expect the small guy, but it could be the big dude, which was what I hoped for. Always get rid of the biggest threat first if possible. I had no control over that, so I reached over and flipped the generator switch to the off position. It was worse than the little Beetle Bug. It choked, coughed, and puffed smoke for a full two minutes before dying abruptly. My ears were ringing from the loud engine noise, and it took a few seconds for it to stop. I heard a door slam. Someone was coming.

  Here was the first wrinkle in the plan. I had no way to see who was coming. If I stayed inside the shed, I’d be trapped—a bad deal if it was Monster Man. You don’t want to fight a bigger opponent in a small, enclosed area. If I peered around the corner, I might be seen. Another concern was the shed itself. It was narrower than Carlos had estimated. If we scuffled in front of the shack, it wouldn’t shield us from the dogs’ view; it was too small. I didn’t want them howling and bringing the others outside. I decided to stay on the backside of the shed. The question was, how could I get the approaching guy to come around back? I could hear footsteps but couldn’t tell if they were big ones or small ones.

  Then my plan came together. I pulled the pint of whiskey from my back pocket, the one I acquired courtesy of Tex, and placed it upright in the grass, a couple of feet past the shed’s outer edge. If all went well, my subject would spy the bottle, walk over, and pick it up—then whamo bamo, I’d strike. On the other hand, maybe the guy wouldn’t see the bottle or was an AA alumnus and would ignore it. In that case, I’d have to improvise. The zone was on me big-time; everything was moving in slow motion. The sound of walking feet grew louder as he approached. Like a snake in the grass, I was coiled and ready to strike.

  “Hey, cool,” a voice said. Then I saw an arm reaching down for the bottle—my knife was through the side of his neck before I even registered which one it was. Brutus the Little was down. I slid him up next to the shed. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, but I felt no pity for the lifeless form. They were slave-trading Hogwogs, and Max Ryker wouldn’t be shedding any tears for that bastard. Out of respect for the sister, I did say a silent prayer for him—rot in hell, punk.

  Now, all I could do was wait. How long before the big guy got curious about his missing friend? No way to know. I went inside the shed and bored a small peek hole through the metal siding with my knife. I wanted to see my next adversary. The shed was too smoky, so I returned outside to wait. The hot sun was beating down hard, and the metal building blocked the breeze. It didn’t bother me. Nothing did inside the zone.

  Finally, I heard the door slam, and I ran back inside to the peek hole. Bitty was a gargantuan man—thick, beefy arms, bald head, and a fat waist of at least sixty inches. He wore no shirt, exposing monster-sized abs. He was covered in thick, black body hair and colorful tattoos. Blubber boy was wearing red briefs that looked like panties—a gross sight, to say the least. But the problem was, he was carrying a hatchet. That was a wrinkle. I dashed out and took my place behind the shed. My eyes shot over to the bottle resting in the grass. Hopefully, the trick would turn twice. Then I realized I’d made a terrible mistake—I’d accidentally closed the shed door when I ran out.

  If Fat Boy went for the bottle like Skinny did, it was all over for him. If he noticed the shack door was closed, he might assume the kid wouldn’t be cooped up in there and start snooping around. I had to ambush him; I didn’t want a hand-to-hand fight with Goliath, especially one wielding a hatchet. As Blubber Man approached, I changed plans entirely. I gave him another second to round the corner, and then I stepped out from behind the shed and plugged him square in the head with a .357 hollow point. He stood frozen, appearing to stare at me, but I knew his lights were out. He was already in hell visiting his boss, Carlos the Cockroach. He crumpled to the ground. After the gun blast, I figured I had less than a minute before Chick ran out, so I bolted to the back of the house, ducking behind some bushes covered with white and yellow flowers. Their aroma was strong, sweet and pleasant—they were also covered in bees. I wanted to dash over and catch Chick as she ran out, but before I could, she came bursting out through the screen door holding a shotgun. She stopped at the concrete stairs. I watched her visually find Bitty crumpled on the ground and then scan the entire backyard. I could see her, but she’d have to pivot to see me behind the thick bush. I was at an awkward angle, so a good shot was possible but not assured. She, on the other hand, sported a shotgun—which would certainly find its mark if I missed her.

  I sat perfectly still, willing my body to become part of the landscape. Two bees were walking on my face, and another landed on my leg. They were honeybees, so their sting would cause only minor discomfort—except I’m allergic to them. One poke, especially to the face, and I would puff up like a blowfish. I didn’t have much time.

  The Mexican said Chick was decisive, and he was right. She scanned the backyard one more time and then turned her focus to the shed. Her grim face indicated she was confident the assailant was hiding there. She pumped the shotgun and started running straight for the shack, shooting and pumping as fast as she could into the metal enclosure. Chick was indeed a very aggressive chick.

  She was zigzagging and running randomly, so I estimated an eighty percent chance of popping her in the back. If I missed, she’d swing around, and I’d be in a handgun fight against a shotgun. I don’t play odds with my life—better to ambush her from inside. I sprinted from the bushes while brushing off the bees. I hopped the steps and entered the screen door, making sure it didn’t slam shut. I ran head on into another woman carrying a shotgun, knocking her flat on her ass. When I pointed my pistol, she dropped the gun and covered her face.

  “I’m here to rescue you,” I whispered, pretending to look out the door but watching her with a side glance. If she grabbed for the shotgun, I’d know where she stood. She didn’t. “Go hide,” I said, and she scurried off.

  At the sight of her two dead comrades, and finding no perpetrator behind the shed, Chick would realize she was vulnerable outside in the open. Her instincts would tell her to head for cover. She wouldn’t consider the assailant might be hiding inside the house—until it was too late. I watched her return, the red bandana blowing off as she sprinted. She didn’t stop to pick it up—just jumped the stairs, opened the door, and was trying to lock it when I put the .357 to the back of her head.

  “Hi, Chick, how are you?” I said. “Drop the shotgun, or join your friends in hell. Makes no difference to me.”

  She dropped the gun. I nudged her toward the main house and heard a noise that caused me to look briefly in that direction. Her swiftness and daring caught me slightly off guard. She spun around while grabbing her razor knife, all in one fluid motion. That swiftness would have ended most people’s life, but I was ready. I punched her square in the nose, and she went out like a light. I swung around to the noise that had startled me earlier, only to find Betsy the pet pig poking her nose in the trash. I guess these guys had done some business with my friend Dougie as well.

  I ran halfway down the basement stairs—guns drawn. I yelled for the two house slaves by name, asking the women to come out alone, with their hands raised high. Neither of them did. I promised not to hurt them, but advised I wanted proof I was in no danger. Finally, they came out, arms raised and crying.

  After a brief conversation, I entered the dark basement. It stunk; a thick stench of defecation fille
d the small, putrid room. Twelve dirty people huddled in the corner, mostly young girls and women, along with two teenage boys. They looked matted, filthy, and petrified. I fought the dry heaves, leaning against a wood post to balance the dizziness. I’ve seen and done many horrible things, but nothing can prepare one for their first sight of human slavery.

  Chapter 53

  We spent the night at the farmhouse, where I’d dropped off Sister and the Brouders earlier. Breakfast for twenty the next morning was a major ordeal, to say the least. But the ’Wogs had a nice stash of food, and we’d brought it with us. We had a little powwow consisting of me, Sister, Bob, and the two slave women. The rest of the group went down to a nearby lake for much-needed baths, fresh air, and sunshine.

  The two slave women were sisters—Donna and Sam. Both in their late thirties. Both elementary school teachers. Both spinster types, for lack of a better word. They were different yet complementary, like peanut butter and jelly. They had an odd habit of completing one another’s thoughts and sentences.

  Since Donna seemed to be the dominant of the pair, I started with her. “Donna, what do you know? What can you tell us? We’ve traveled from Birmingham and know nothing of what to expect in the Safe Zone."

  “We only know what we’ve heard them talk about,” Donna said.

  “The deviants,” Sam clarified.

  “They’re human traffickers—”

  “Sex slaves,” Sam added.

  The sisters looked at one another, frowning and holding hands.

  “It was an awful experience,” Donna said.

  “Dreadful,” Sam added.

  I was growing exhausted by the back and forth. “Donna, could you please just tell us what you know? We’ll let Sam add some detail afterward."

  The two sisters looked at one another, appearing to speak without words, and then Sam said, “Tell the story, Donna.”