Page 61 of Vice
The man is fucking certifiable if he thinks he’s doing those poor bastards a favor. Natalia grinds her teeth together, pinning her father in a furious glare. “None of it is free. None of them asked for it, or wants it. They want to go home to their families. They would never have come here voluntarily. I know the truth, I always have. There’s no point trying to hide it from me anymore.”
Fernando considers this. His expression is stormy, his eyes full of madness and anger. “All right. You are an adult now. Perhaps it’s time you knew the ways of the world.”
“I’m twenty-six years old! I’ve been an adult for a long time, Daddy. And this is not the way of the world. It’s the way of your fucked-up, evil world, and I want no part in it.”
“How do you think you would have survived without the money I make from my businesses here? Do you think you would have had such fine things if I were a fisherman, or a carpenter?”
“I don’t care about fine things. I care about honor, and kindness. And I would gladly have starved to death before exploiting another human being for my own gain!” She’s crying, a river of tears rolling down her cheeks. Her backbone is straight, though, her chin held high. She’s finally facing him, and I am so damned proud. She needs this. No matter what happens next, even if we both die, she will die in the knowledge that she spoke her mind and stood up to him. Fernando doesn’t seem to like his daughter’s new attitude, however.
“You’re an ungrateful, spoiled little bitch,” he hisses. “I have given you everything, and you’re tossing it away for what? A man? He is no good for you, Natalia. He is the dirt beneath your feet. This is why I must protect you. This is why I must prevent you from making mistakes.”
“You are the dirt beneath my feet. You are the black taint that marks my soul! You’re a murderer and a psychopath. You’re going to hell for what you’ve done.”
The prospect of hell doesn’t seem to bother Fernando. Or the fact that his daughter has turned against him. He must have expected it at the end of the day; he must have known that eventually it would come to this. “Hell is of no concern to me,” he says. “My only concern is you.”
“Bullshit! You sold your soul for power.”
Fernando steps forward, a look of pure fury in his eyes. “Don’t you raise your voice to me, child. I will cut your tongue out of your head.” This, given what he did to Ocho, is no threat. Natalia pales.
“You won’t. This is it for you, Father. This is the night you die. Don’t you see that?”
He jerks back, confusion on his face. “Why? Because my house is in ruins? My guests are all dead, or gone? Or…” His eyes flicker to me. “Do you propose this man will kill me?”
“Of course I’m going to kill you,” I say wearily. “You’re a grade A cunt. I’m actually really looking forward to it.”
“And you think she will still love you if you murder her father? You think she won’t see my death every time she looks into your eyes?”
“You don’t know your daughter, Fernando. You don’t know her at all.”
I run at him. I’m not going to wait for him to make the first move. Fuck that. It takes all of a second for me to reach him, but it’s a second that Fernando has time to prepare. I’m waiting for him to raise his hammer, but he doesn’t. He reaches behind himself, and suddenly there’s a gun in his hand.
I’m sure there’s an old adage about this. Never bring a knife to a gunfight? Well, in this instance, the adage still holds up; an axe in a gunfight is just as useless. Fernando doesn’t waste any more time. He fires the gun, and an explosion of sound rings around the inside of the shed. He misses me, but only just.
Natalia screams as he aims again. This time I’m so close that he can’t miss. Still I heft the axe upward, swinging it over my head. He’ll have to kill me with this bullet, otherwise I’ll keep coming. Nothing but a headshot will prevent me from planting this honed slice of metal into his body.
The steel sings as it cuts through the air. Fernando leaps back, dodging the first cut. He shoots at the same time, and the bullet hits me in the shoulder. The impact nearly knocks me off my feet. It feels like a drop of molten lava has landed on my skin, and the liquid metal and rock is burning its way through me, tearing me apart from the inside out. It hurts like a motherfucker, but I know what to expect. This is not the first time I’ve been shot. I’m sure it won’t be the last either. My left arm is going numb. Thankfully my right arm is still in perfect working order, though. I lift the axe, determined to finish this.
Fernando grins savagely, raising his eyebrows. “You’re a brave man, Cade Preston. But I told you what I do to dogs who attack my family, did I not?” He shrugs almost apologetically. “I gave you Kechu’s name. I suppose we both should have known how this story ends.”
I brace to take the next shot, but it never comes. One second Fernando is standing there, right in front of me, and then the next a loud shout fills the air, and Fernando is off his feet, toppling to the ground. The gun goes off, a bright flash of light illuminating the inside of the shed, but the bullet lands in the rafters somewhere overhead.
And Plato… Plato is on top of Fernando, striking him over and over again. He’s wearing his white suit pants and a pair of white, patent leather shoes, but it seems as though he didn’t have time to find a shirt. His face is bloody, and he’s sporting a black eye, but other than that he looks uninjured. He screams, his face a rictus of rage as he continues to hit Fernando with every ounce of strength he possesses. When I last saw him, he looked half out of his mind, his eyes glossed over and vacant, as he fucked a naked brunette. Now he is completely out of his mind. He’s far from vacant, though. He attacks with the ferocity of one of Fernando’s wolves, teeth bared, eyes flashing with hatred.
I want to help him, to lash out with the axe, but it’s too fucking dangerous. They’re both struggling so wildly that I could easily hit Plato instead of Fernando, and that would be disastrous. I can do nothing but watch as Plato beats the shit out of his master. With each strike he lands, I can see the victory in his eyes. He’s been waiting to do this for years.
Fernando drops both the gun and his hammer as he tries to defend himself. This is a big mistake on his part. Plato snatches for one of the weapons—I’m sure he’ll go for the gun, but instead he takes up the ball hammer, spinning it menacingly in front of Fernando’s face.
“This is for Persephone,” he growls. The hammer comes down, making contact with the side of Fernando’s head, and a shower of blood explodes everywhere, so much of it that it looks like some kind of Hollywood special effect. He hits him again and again, and Fernando makes a sickening, voiceless cry each time. It reminds me of a French film I saw once, where a man had his head caved in with a fire extinguisher. The camera didn’t pan away. Not even when the guy’s head cracked open, and pieces of skull and brains were flying everywhere. Unlike that camera, I could easily look away now, but I don’t. I watch with grim satisfaction as Fernando’s face is reduced to a bloody, meaty pulp.
It’s all over for the Villalobos cartel boss. It will be any second, anyway. But then out of nowhere Fernando’s rallying, thrusting his hips up and unseating Plato, who falls sideways onto his back. It all happens so quickly. Fernando leaps on him, fingernails scratching at his face as he tries to claw Plato’s eyes out.
I race forward, grabbing hold of Fernando, restraining him. He’s fighting with the strength of a man possessed, though. He’s hard to keep hold of. I stagger backward, and I am lost in the moment. The shed fades away. There is only the adrenalin firing through my veins, and my heart beating like a piston.
A loud, whirring, grinding noise cuts through the madness, and then Plato is in front of me, grabbing hold of Fernando by his shirt.
“You can’t kill me,” he howls. “I am the head of this family. I am your master!”
Plato spits in his face. “Not anymore, motherfucker. Now, you’re red dust in the wind.” He drags him out of my arms, and then he’s trying to lift the other man off the ground. Plato’s strong, but not strong enough to heft a grown man directly over his head. I rush to his side, grabbing hold of Fernando’s thrashing feet, and then we’re lifting him, carrying him, throwing him…
