Vice(5)

I hadn’t been able to cross over into Mexico with the items I was scanning through, now. I had to buy them at a hardware store in Río Bailando, but that was easy enough. The weight of the gun I also procured down a seedy back alley in Juarez presses reassuringly into the small of my back. I don’t need to check on that. It’s fully locked and loaded—I already tested it out in the desert. It’s good to have a weapon, but in this instance it’s a last resort. I’ll only draw the gun if every other tactic I plan on employing fails. By that point, Julio will be a bloody, broken mess, and I’ll simply be putting him down. He won’t die quickly, though. A shot in the stomach means he’ll have plenty of time to reflect on his shitty, worthless life as he dies in agony over a period of days, and I’ll be long gone. Hopefully with Laura on the back of my bike.

Tiny sand flies swirl up from the damp grass as I hunker down and run quickly toward what looks like the main building. I swat at them with my hand as I hurry. Takes a long time to reach the perimeter of the building, though I’m sure I am unnoticed. White paint peels from the window frames of the crumbling two-story building. Inside, the sound of a rowdy game show blasts from low quality speakers.

Laughter. Applause. Someone speaking in Spanish, in that game-show-host voice that seems to translate across any number of languages. I crouch down below an open window to the front of the house, listening. How many people are inside this damn room? If I had the time, I’d sit in the grass and watch the comings and goings of the people arriving and leaving the house, but time is something I’ve run out of. Or rather I’ve run out of patience. I’ve already had to wait three months. Holding off for another hour is unacceptable. Another minute. Another second. I just can’t.

Inside the house, a chair leg scrapes on the floor, followed by someone coughing loudly, and then clearing their throat. A woman doesn’t clear her throat like that. No way. So there’s at least one male in the room. Loitering below the window, waiting to see how many people cough, sneeze or fart, will drive me crazy, though, so I do something reckless. Something we’re trained never to do in the military. I edge up, standing just enough so that I can peer over the splintered, sun-worn windowsill, and I take a look.

Four men, all over the age of thirty, as far as I can tell. One of them’s asleep, the back of his head resting against the sofa behind him, mouth hanging open as he snores lightly. Another of the guys is bent over a low coffee table, plastic card in his hand, finely chopping up what looks like an obscene amount of cocaine. The other two men are fixated on the television, watching the redundant antics of the show’s host as he bounces around, shoving a microphone into a stunned woman’s face.

None of them see me.

None of them are Julio Perez, either, which makes my life that little bit more difficult. Where the f*ck is he? Kitchen? Is there a downstairs dining room? I haven’t had time to assess the footprint of the building, but the place is pretty big. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are bedrooms on the lower level of the house. Either that, or Julio’s family is much, much bigger than I anticipated. The game show cuts to a commercial break, and one of the men groans as he heaves his ass of the couch.

?Alguien quiere una cerveza? Does anyone want a beer? It’s only eleven thirty in the morning. If these guys are relaxed enough to start their day drinking so early, then they must have grown complacent. They’re not waiting for anybody to storm the building. They’re just enjoying their downtime. Do any of them have guns? I can’t see a single handgun or a rifle within arm’s reach of these *s, so it’s unlikely that they’re even armed. Things are never as they seem in these circumstances, though. I’ve been involved in enough sieges and attacks on people’s property to know there’s always one guy ready and willing to throw down. Always one dude with a gun jammed down the back of his pants, just like me, complete with itchy trigger finger.

I duck back down again, continuing around the side of the house, counting under my breath.

Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve…

I reach a much smaller open window on the western facing side of the property, and I do the same thing—squat low on my haunches, thumbs looped underneath the shoulder straps of my backpack, holding my breath. My pulse thumps in my ears, but it’s slow and steady. I’ve been in this situation too many times to count over the past ten years. The fear wears off after a while, replaced with a strange, flat kind of calm that eventually becomes a part of you. I suppose it’s an acceptance of fate. I might die in the next fifteen minutes. I might not. Either way, I won’t be sorry that I did what I had to do.

?Dónde está Javier?

No lo sé.

Encontrarlo. Tenemos que irnos pronto.

Two men inside, talking about finding a third, Javier. Talking about moving soon. I can’t be sure if the guy throwing around orders was Julio or not, but it could have been. I risk a quick peek into the room, but when I look over the sill, the small kitchen inside is empty, the door slowly swinging closed behind someone who has already left.

“Fuck.” I keep going around the house. The next few windows are all closed, blinds pulled down. I move round to the back of the property, and a low, rumbling snarl stops me in my tracks. A brindle pit bull, jowls pulled back, baring his teeth, is staring straight at me. He’s chained, but from the links of steel pooled at his feet it looks like he’s been given a lot of leeway. He can definitely reach me, only four feet away from him. I lock eyes with him, clenching my jaw, pressing my lips together. Sometimes simply refusing to back down from a dog is enough to make them submit. Even as I attempt to stare him down, I already know this isn’t that kind of dog, though. He snarls louder, taking a step forward, and I slowly reach into the pocket of my leather jacket, groping with my fingers until I find what I’m looking for—a small, four inch balisong butterfly knife. Cold hard steel, sharper than sharp and ready for action. I yank it from my pocket just in time. He leaps, and I flick the knife open, the blade snaking out and landing with a sickening wet sound, sliding past the dog’s ribcage, puncturing his lung. He barks madly, hackles raised, claws tearing into the hard packed dirt beneath us as he lunges for me again. The wound only seems to have riled him up even more.