Page 76 of Mouse Trapped

I’ve seen the store in passing before. A quick word with the assistant and I have what I need, and head home. Parking in my usual spot, I don’t go straight to the storeroom, knowing my brothers will have the two men ready and waiting. They’ll give me the time I need, Blade’s giving me the lead, and we all know anticipation is all part of the preparation. The longer they’re kept stewing, the more worried they’ll be.

In my suite, I take down the trunk from the top of the wardrobe, brushing the dust off the top. A treasure trove of memories. Reverently reaching in, I take out my grandfather’s centuries old flint knife, handed down from generation to generation.

As a youth, I’d been fascinated.

Wide-eyed I stare at the blade my grandfather’s holding. “Would it have killed the Spanish? Or the white settlers?”

A gnarled hand ruffles my hair. “Probably more likely used as a hunting knife, my boy.”

He was probably right. But it’s a wicked-looking knife, and the two Hispanics wouldn’t know the history. If it truly hasn’t been used in anger before, it’s probably going to be now.

I pull out my grandfather’s buckskin trousers, fringes down the sides, the ones he would wear at pow-wows. Together with the knife he’d passed them down to me, a reminder of my Navajo heritage. On his deathbed he’d also given me the right to use his face paint patterns and colours.

I stand, moving to the mirror, and bring out the bag of shit I’d purchased. Again my victims aren’t going to know the difference between stage face paint and the dyes traditionally used, made from animal, vegetable and minerals. I’ve bought four colours, the ones that represent our four sacred mountains; blue, white, yellow and black. I grin at myself, then start painting the bottom half of my face yellow. The colour that denotes the heroism of the wearer, which shows he’s prepared to fight to the death. In this case, their deaths, not mine. I harden my features, preparing myself. Vowing that before they take their last breaths, they’ll be telling me all their secrets. Yellow also reflects the intelligence of the wearer. I’ll take my brain over theirs any day.

Removing my shirt, I smother my hands with the black, and press them to my naked chest leaving two hand prints. Though it’s not made from powdered charred wood and black earth, Iam hoping the markings will still channel energy to me, the wearer.

With the other colours, I paint symbols my grandfather used to wear. Opening my mind to memories as I do so, letting my white blood drain from me.

Paint on, I brush out my long straight black hair, then pull it together at the top of my scalp, twisting it four times, then folding it the same number. Reaching for a strand of the white wool I also purchased, I fasten it into a bun which stands erect from the top of my head. As I prepare my hair in the traditional style, I find myself mellowing. To the Navajo the process is a form of prayer, of meditation. Calm I might be, but that just equates to being more controlled in my quest to harm those who would hurt one of mine.

Remembering once more who I’ll be facing, with a smirk, I find a loose eagle’s feather in the trunk, and secure it in the top oftsiiyéél,the hairstyle unique to the Navajo.

I breathe deep, standing tall. Channelling my inner warrior.

Slipping the knife into my belt, leaving my chest naked, I exit my suite.Time to get some answers.

I skirt the clubroom taking a direct route to the storage room. On my way, I pass Drew. He’s walking with Matt, talking animatedly, and with some actions, describing the touchdowns he scored.

As I pass, his jaw drops at the sight of me. “Mouse? You look like a Red Indian.” Then his face falls, and he hurriedly corrects himself, “You look like, you look…”

“It’s alright, Drew.” I grin as I pass him. Seems like I’m making the effect I was aiming for.

I push the soundproofed door to the storage room open. Outside there was silence, in here, there’s a buzz of conversation. It dies down as I enter.

“Fuckin’ hell. It’s Chief.” Joker’s staring at me, nudging Lady on the arm so he turns around, fixing his eyes on me too.

Seeing the two bodies strung up in front of me, I scowl, my expression while not aimed at them is enough to make my brothers part, leaving the way clear so I can get to my targets.

Blade looks me over from head to toe, a grin slowly forming on his face. It’s the one he wears when he’s anticipating pleasure in the form of blood and torture. He gives me a nod, and steps back. “Over to you,Chief.”

Throwing him a quick look that tells him he’ll pay for that later, I stalk towards the men hanging by their arms from the overhead beam. My brothers are practiced at this, strung up precisely so their toes only just touch the ground. They’ll be feeling the strain on their shoulders already.

They were protesting as I walked in. Their voices quiet as I approach. Two pairs of eyes seem to bulge out of their sockets as they look around the leather clad men, and then back to me.

“We weren’t doing anything,” one of them says.

“Names,” I snap. Not wanting to keep thinking of them as number one and number two.

“Why?”

“So I know what to write on your grave.” I’m standing my full height, mytsiiyéélgiving me another couple of inches. My voice is deep, a hint of a Navajo accent.

Blade growls when they don’t immediately answer. It prompts a response from the first one.

“I’m Castro. This is Rodriguez.”

I step up. Castro is shorter than me by about a foot. Even strung up I can reach his head easily. I take the flint knife out of my belt, noticing Blade’s eyes flaring with interest. I take hold of Castro’s thick curly hair, bunching it in my hand and pulling it back from his forehead.

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