The Savage(82)
Settled where Sergio had told them they’d be out of eyeshot, away from trip wires and traps that would alert the militia to their presence.
Sergio had been stopped by Cotto’s hand gripping hard at his shoulder, his one eye duct-taped over from the torture; he staggered at the sudden halt, the plastic that lined his body like thick sponging leeches in a stagnant pool of pond was rechecked, the restraint cut from his wrists, Cotto armed him with an empty rifle and pistol, shook his head. “This is how you repay the loyalty you’ve lost with me. You could call it martyrdom, but it is only the beginning of your demise.”
Sergio stood tart tongued, duct tape and ripped cloth rounding his head to patch his sight, wanting to say, “Or the end of your reign.”
But he did not. He only bowed his head in acceptance with daylight peeking behind him, the sounds of bird, squirrel, and unseen wildlife within the surrounding woods. Sergio walked the path, placing one foot before the other, imagining himself upon a high wire, crossed the grooves of dirt where ATVs, horses, and booted feet had trodden, concentrating upon the air he pulled into his nose, pushed from his lungs, and out of his mouth as though a vacuum being started and stopped; he thought of why he’d come upon the decision as he did, growing tired of the struggle, the fighting, murdering, killing, and what it settled or created, nothing but more of the same. Blood. Bodies, death of others and no future for quiet, for rest, only unrest. The loyalty he’d discovered within Manny and Bellmont McGill was much greater than what he now held for Cotto, who was unrestrained, lost in the old-world ways; the man would rather gut you, toss your entrails to starved coyotes, than have words.
Before he even trod close to the large gate constructed of rough-cut cedar, Sergio was stopped by four men armed with Bushmaster rifles who looked upon him. One man questioned, “Why the hell do you trespass without warning?”
Sergio spoke. “Scar holds the answer.”
Two of the four men nodded, their eyes glancing to the surrounding woods, feeling the burn of unseen but camouflaged sight upon them. “Bring yourself.”
Within the recesses of morning, blemishes of bruise and disfigurement were viewable upon Sergio’s face as he was led into the encampment. And one man uttered, “The Mutts had their way with you.”
“Was lucky to extend my breathing to now.”
Outside the encampment, surrounding the perimeter, the others waited for Cotto’s command. He sat with the Mutts, remembering how Manny had taken down the King. And now he’d do the same with Scar and her rural militia types. One step closer to capturing Dorn. Using Sergio to open the encampment, create a distraction of disorder and the unexpected attack.
From his side pocket Cotto removed a detonating device. Smiled. Waited for Sergio’s outline to disappear into the encampment. Walked with him in his mind’s eye. Waited. Waited. Imagining Dorn learning the young to hone the land and its ways. Cotto’d not been this anxious since being left by Manny to run his own clique of bangers, to transport drugs from the south, across the border and into the United States.
Cotto pressed the button.
An explosion did not ring out. He pressed the button once more. The signal the Mutts had been waiting on did not come. Before Cotto and his men and the doped-up boy soldiers could move, the ground opened up all around them. Men came camouflaged, pointing Bushmaster rifles; the air around them lit up, was peppered like sections of firecrackers at a Chinese New Year celebration. Complexions parted and split. Blood sprayed around Cotto from the veins of limb and face, warmed the land. Some of the young boys fired their rifles. Others ran. Mad, scared, and screaming. Some were shot point-blank without discernment. It was hell and it had broken loose with the slaughter of Cotto’s men as they returned rifle fire. They were surrounded.
It was a trap, Cotto cursed to himself. With the HK33 assault rifle strapped across his torso, he grabbed at one of the boy soldiers, motioned for several others to follow him. Looked to Ernesto, motioned with fingers to a thicket of trees. Ernesto motioned with his head until a bullet pierced his jaw and his face became a puddle of blood. Cotto ran toward the thicket of trees, kids followed. The ground exploded all around him. Heaving hard, pressing his back into the bark, he rummaged into his pocket, removed a vial of dope. Inhaled hard to clear his thoughts. To level the hazed anger that adrenalized in his head. Ears rang with rifle fire. Thoughts of Van Dorn saturated Cotto’s mind. He’d become obsessed with this young man and his skills, overlooking what was beneath his nose this entire time, this fucking mole. And here he sat. Ambushed. This was not how he’d envisioned his situation. Several of the boys turned, opened fire at their surroundings. That’s when Cotto caught a glimpse of Van Dorn, the Sheldon girl, a loping young man, and a feral hound fleeing toward the woods, away from the firefight. This was his moment to pin them each, take them back to his encampment.
PART III
SIRENS OF LIGHT
Oh, my God above, save this faithless, wretched sinner
Oh, my God above, I don’t see myself in this here mirror
I see rage and fire and brimstone
—Lincoln Durham, “Rage and Fire and Brimstone”
RAGE AND FIRE AND BRIMSTONE
No words were spoken at first. Only actions from a raised hand. A slap. The reverberation of sting. Stabs of pain. The embrace of arms that hugged with the wet of eyes.