Page 5 of Vice
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 fuck 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 assholes, 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.
Someone slams a door inside the farmhouse, swearing loudly, but no one comes outside to see what’s going on. Lucky. Really fucking lucky.
The dog’s jaws close around my forearm, and he begins to jerk his head from side to side, growling furiously. Pain rips into me. My forearm feels like it’s going to snap under the pressure. Thankfully my leather jacket is stopping his teeth from tearing into my skin, but if he carries on for much longer he’s gonna be breaking bones.
I punch him in the side of the head, but he doesn’t let go. I fall back onto my ass in the dirt, grinding my teeth together as he tries to climb on top of me, probably hoping to go for my throat.
I don’t have a choice. I take the balisong and I drive the honed edge of the blade into his body, over and over again. He yelps, and then whimpers as he finally releases my arm. I have blood all over me, my shirt and jeans are covered in it, red and warm and sticky, reeking of copper. A twinge of guilt snaps inside me as he staggers and falls onto his side, chest rising and falling too quickly. His eyes roll, whites showing, as he watches me get to my feet.
Poor bastard. He was just doing what he’s been trained to do his entire life: Attack. Kill. Such a shitty situation. If I hadn’t acted when I had, he would have done some serious damage, though. He would have barked more, and I couldn’t risk it. It’s a miracle no one came out the first time he sounded the alarm. I stoop down and place my hand on his laboring chest.
“Sorry, buddy.” I whisper the words, and his ears swivel in the direction of my voice. He whines, and I know I should do the merciful thing and finish the job. I just can’t, though. I don’t have the stomach for it. I step over the dog, heading for the back door. It opens first try. The Perez peach farmers are not very security conscious, apparently. Seems strange, given what a cowardly bastard Julio is.
The kitchen is neat as a pin. No dirty plates or cups on the sideboards. The tiled floor is gleaming. A pot bubbles on the stove, and I have the urge to lift the lid and see what’s cooking inside, it smells so damned good. The smell of home cooked food after a week of eating gas station food will make your stomach rumble no matter the circumstance you find yourself in.
There’s only one door leaving the kitchen; I walk through it to find a skinny, ill-looking guy sitting on a wooden chair in a narrow hallway with an assault rifle laid out across his lap. When he casts his bulging brown eyes up at me, I see the shock register, and then I see disappointment follow and I jam the balisong into his neck and swipe sideways, cutting his throat open from ear to ear. He didn’t even get to raise his rifle. The light fades in his eyes, and I move on down the hallway without casting a look over my shoulder. The room with the four guys inside is to my right, television still blaring loudly, now with raucous high-pitched music. I can’t hear a thing over the TV. The men sitting on the couches could have heard me come into the house, and they could be waiting for me to burst in on them. It’s unlikely, though. Julio’s guys charge at the first sign of a fight. They aren’t the patient types. The door is ajar, but not enough that I can see in properly. If I can’t see in, then they can’t see out, either.
Quickly I dart past the doorway, trying to time my footfall with the thump of the pounding music that’s practically rattling the windows in their rotten frames. I make it past the door, but I don’t release the breath I’m holding until I’ve turned the corner in the hallway. I’m faced with a stairway running up to the second floor, and a single door to the left. Somewhere up there on the second story, someone hammers on the floor, yelling for the music to be turned down, and I lean back against the wall, waiting to see if anyone comes racing down the stairs.
No one appears, though. The music turns down a fraction, just enough that I can hear the steady thrum of my heart still keeping a slow and steady beat, like a metronome. A metronome of death.
I have two options: I could go into the room on the left and find out if it’s occupied, or I could go upstairs and locate the guy up there. I allow myself the luxury of thinking about it for a while. Julio’s what would kindly be termed as morbidly obese. No way is the lazy, lumbering bastard jogging up and down any stairs. I doubt he’s up there very much, which makes the decision actually very easy. I need to clear the upper floor. No sense in heading straight toward my target, only to be lynched by god knows how many angry Mexicans the moment he opens his stupidly loud mouth and starts hollering for help.
I take the stairs two at a time, reaching for my gun. I may want Julio to suffer as much as physically possible, but I don’t have time to be toying with anyone else. The feel of the gun’s handle in my hand is all too familiar. I’ve held a thousand different handguns in my lifetime. Glocks. Brownings. Colts. Remingtons. Sigs. The make and model doesn’t matter. I know the kinks and quirks of any weapon the second I curl my fingers around it, and this gun is no different.
I land in the upstairs hallway, scanning the area quickly. No one to be seen in the hallway. There are two doors to my left, and two to my right. I hurry forward, trying the handle on the first door I reach. It opens, and I startle the lone guy inside, who happens to be pulling up a pair of jeans.
“Motherfuc—” He fumbles, trying to jerk up his pants and reach for his gun laying on the bed in front of him at the same time. I don’t give him the opportunity to do either. Rushing into the room, I squeeze the trigger, planting a bullet neatly between his eyes before he can finish the word that’s made it halfway past his lips. He slumps to the ground, his head bouncing hard off the end of the bed as he makes his way to the floor. Blood starts pouring everywhere; I can’t tell if it’s from the bullet wound or the huge gash that’s just cut his forehead wide open.
It’s academic at this point. The job’s done.
