The Savage(55)

Making it to his truck. Pushing her against it. She screamed. “Release your grip from me!” Opening the driver’s door, Angus gritted, “Get your ass in there.”

The female’s knee came up from the ground, trying to knee Angus in the crotch. Angus palmed it hard with one hand. Brought the pistol butt down like a sword, parted her forehead. Her single eye went golf-ball white. She went lax. He shouldered her. Took her weight. Dumped her across the front seat. Heard the squeak of the screen door behind him. Felt a presence on his heels. Turned to a man grunting. Two other men met him from the side of the house. If not for the weeds they’d be feasting on his ass like a pack of starved hyenas.

Angus segmented the first man’s face with gunfire. The second man came with an axe, swung, Angus sidestepped, watched it jag into the driver’s door. Pressed the pistol to the side of the man’s temple. Indexed the trigger. The man’s head sprayed the truck’s fender with brain matter.

The third man held a sickle, only he’d turned and ran. Angus saved his ammunition.

Two men now lay in the weeds, wetting the yard with self. Turning to get into the truck, Angus felt the thud of a rifle butt across his complexion. Everything spun. He staggered. Reached for the door to balance himself. Tried to pull his world back together. His breathing sped up. He dropped the pistol. His vision somersaulted. Turned the image over and over, trying to focus. He grabbed at the rifle, felt the tension give. Then release. He fingered a forearm. Then another. Heard the rush of air fast expanding the lungs within the body attached to the arms he gripped. Eyes focused on the female. Drool lathered from her lips. One crazed bitch, he thought.

Bringing his crown forward, Angus met her face. Once, twice. Stunned her, released his grip. Punched her below the nose, hit a pressure point, knocked her the fuck out. She fell from the truck, hit the ground. Angus grabbed his pistol. Took in the bloody mess of abrasions. Scooped the female up again, dumped her across the seat, face-first. Reached for the rifle, laid it across the backseat. Walked to the other side of the Tahoe to restrain and fasten her in when he heard the explosion of noise from the barn.

A lime-colored Scout truck with an assembly of motley shapes rumbled. BBs from shell shot dinged the roof of the Tahoe. A man was mounted out the passenger’s side. Pointing a shotgun at Angus.





COTTO

What he remembered was how blood dripped from Raúl’s hand as though it were wax being heated. Perspiration peppered his lips and eyes. His back pressed into the chair. Hands cuffed behind him. Discomfort was his posture.

Cotton cleaved tight over his chest with spots of wet. Manny had kicked the table out of the way. Stood before Raúl. Service revolver down his front. Cotto fanned off to the side, holding the wallet in his left, weight of the antique Colt in his right, watching his father.

Paling in his face and arms, the puddle from his missing thumb behind him, Raúl tells Manny, “You … you’re making a mistake, se?or.”

Like Manny, Cotto would never conceive, why? Why had Kabeza left before Cotto and his father to meet this piece of filth without them? Excitement? Some unknown surprise for them? He’d never know, and his father told Raúl, “You made one the second you forced your will upon my wife.”

Raúl laughed. “It was not me.”

“Then who?”

“I left her with the other coyotes waiting for you and your boy to show up. To transport you across the border. To the drop, then to a safe house.”

Manny palmed the revolver from his waist. Stepped toward Raúl, parted his lips with the barrel that scuffed against the upper enamel. Asked, “How do I find these men who’ve wronged me?”

Trying to speak into the bored-steel opening, Raúl told him, “It’s not that simple, he—”

Manny thumbed the hammer back. The cylinder revolved. Raúl’s eyes veered to the lead shapes. And stammered, “He … he … they…”

Cotto watched his father smirk. Saw a glare prism in Manny’s vision. His father had crossed over to his old trade of being. Of survival. Manny stepped back. Smiled. “He? They? What? What? Speak or I shall remove that soft muscle you use for tasting.”

Raúl’s complexion wrinkled. “They.” He hesitated again.

“They what, are on their way to here for a pickup?” Manny pointed the pistol at Raúl’s left knee. “Tell me, Raúl, or I let one of our friends free.”

Raúl shook his head. “No. No.”

Indexing the trigger, Manny pierced everyone’s ears. Laced the air with gun smoke. Cotto dropped the wallet and pistol. Pressed his hands to his ears. Watched the denim of Raúl’s leg cauliflower. Knee cartilage and blood flinted and dispersed. Raúl screamed, “Son of a bitch! Okay. Okay. His name … his name … it is the Ox. He … he.”

“He what, you piece of shit?” Manny demanded.

“… will be here tonight with his men. He is the one.”

“The one what?”

“That did to your wife the awful that you speak of.”

Pressing the pistol barrel into the splayed wound, Manny demanded, “And he and his men have walkers to transport from here?”

Cotto shook. Lowered his hands. Kneeled to the floor. Grabbed the pistol. Stood up. Looked at Raúl, who was gritting with perspiration and answered, “Sí, sí. From here, from here.”