The Beasts of Juarez

by R. B. Schow

  “She is not a robot,” Holland said.

  Refusing to acknowledge the man, Leopold said to Kiera, “We’re going to Texas. Have you ever been to Texas?” She looked at him as if nothing was going on in her mind. Now he turned to Holland. “What did you give her, Doctor?”

  “Exactly what she needed for what is in store for her,” he answered cryptically.

  “The only thing I have in store for her is dinner and a movie. I was kind of hoping to see her smile and possibly even resemble an actual human being.”

  “She will do none of that, Mr. Wentworth. But if you need her to hunt, kill, and survive, then you will need the very thing she now has pulsing through her blood.”

  “This is a very strange place,” Leopold said.

  “We are very strange people and this is a very strange universe. Good day to you, Mr. Wentworth.”

  “And good day to you as well, Dr. Holland.”

  “Are you ready, sir?” a man behind Leopold asked.

  Startled but not showing it, he turned and saw his driver standing there. With a fictitious geniality to his tone, Leopold said, “It would seem that I am.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  LEOPOLD WENTWORTH

  On the way to the plane, he checked his phone and saw several texts from Yergha. Oh, no, he thought. It would seem as though the proverbial shit had already hit the fan.

  He looked for a text from Cira, a confirmation that she had retrieved Atlas and was en route to El Paso. There was nothing there either. He called her but got no answer. He thought maybe he dialed the wrong number, which felt impossible, so he dialed again. Still, she didn’t answer.

  Were the two of them airborne but in some sort of dead zone?

  Instead of trying again, he called Yergha, who told him what had happened to Estella and that he was staking out the house of the shooters.

  Leopold wasn’t thrilled by any of the news but at least he had contact with one of his assets on the ground.

  “Are Atlas and Cira on their way?” Yergha asked, desperate.

  “That’s a big unknown right now.”

  “I spoke to her as she was picking him up. Maybe something went wrong.”

  He kept Yergha and Estella in the dark about the finer details of Kiera’s and Atlas’s situations but he knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep a lid on them much longer. His assets weren’t stupid by any measure.

  “When exactly did you speak with her last?” Leopold asked Yergha.

  “Earlier. It was just after daybreak here, so maybe you can figure out the time difference. All I know is that the bottom has dropped out of this op and Esty might be dead, or worse.”

  “Hold tight, let me try Cira again.”

  “Okay, but call me back,” Yergha said. “I’ve got eyes on the guys here but there are more of them than I have rounds in my gun.”

  “Did Richie Frank give you the hardware he promised?” Leopold asked.

  “Yeah,” Yergha said. “The vests too.”

  “You have carbines, right?”

  “A pair of M4s.”

  “And the hand grenades?”

  “Two of them.”

  “And you’re still saying there aren’t enough rounds for them?” Leopold asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have eyes on Estella?”

  “No, but I’m sure she’s here. The same guys who took her are here and there’s a long trail of red from where they dragged their dead out of the SUV.”

  “You can’t wait on us, Yergha. You’re going to have to sack up and get her out of there; otherwise, they may kill her.”

  “If she’s not dead already.”

  “I’ll call you when we’re over the border and headed your way,” Leopold said. He glanced over at Kiera who still looked as though no one was home. “I have Kiera with me and she’s sufficiently warmed up.”

  “Yeah, well, she’d better be because we got our freaking nuts clipped right out of the gate.”

  “Call me when you have her,” Leopold said, hoping to instill some confidence in the man before leaving him.

  “Will do, boss,” Yergha replied, signing off.

  He called Cira again. No answer. He called Codrin, who answered right away.

  “Leopold,” Codrin said, alert.

  “I need a location on Cira’s phone as well as Fabian Dicampli’s personal cell number, and I need it ASAP. Dicampli is the warden of NorCal State Prison for cross-reference.”

  “I’m on it,” the Romanian said.

  Leopold dialed Cira again, twice. There was still no answer. Now he was getting pissed off. Dialing Codrin back, he said, “I need to get into Cira’s cell phone. Can you get me remote access to her microphone and camera?”

  “Yeah, that’s easy,” he said.

  The link came through and all he saw was darkness. He put his ear to the phone’s speaker and listened to the muffled sounds of people talking.

  “Dammit.”

  Codrin called back. Leopold closed the patch and answered the phone. “Her phone is at NorCal State Prison in California.”

  “Can you find out how long the signal has been coming from there?”

  “Yeah,” Codrin said. “I’ll call you right back.”

  “We’re clear to take off when you are, Mr. Leopold,” the pilot said.

  “Give me a few minutes, then we’ll be set,” he replied.

  The pilot looked a bit uncomfortable. “Our window is tight, sir.”

  Leopold’s cell phone rang. He picked it up right away. Codrin said, “Her phone has been there since early this morning.”

  Covering his microphone, Leopold addressed the pilot. “All right, let’s go.” The pilot nodded and returned to the cockpit. Removing his hand from the microphone, Leopold asked Codrin, “Can you patch me back into Cira’s line?”

  “I’m dropping you a link now.”

  “Great job, Codrin.”

  They hung up, Leopold accessed Cira’s phone again, then tried to boost the audio. But then something happened. The darkness moved away, and not only did light appear on the screen, but a face appeared as well.

  “Dicampli,” he hissed under his breath.

  A moment later, Fabian Dicampli’s personal number appeared in a text from Codrin. He texted the hacker back and said, “Get me a photo of Dicampli’s kid and find out where he’s at right now, and do it as fast as you can.”

  “You got it.”

  He sat there seething. Kiera barely even noticed. When they were in the air, another text came through—a photo of a boy as well as a link similar to the one that allowed him access to Cira’s phone. When Leopold clicked the link, he saw a classroom full of kids, but it was the child in the front row that interested him most.

  He dialed Dicampli’s personal number. The man answered on the second ring, not sure about with whom he was speaking.

  “Fabian, it’s Leopold Wentworth.”

  “I’ve been expecting your call,” the warden said.

  “Whatever you’ve done with Cira and Atlas, if they’re not out of your prison in thirty minutes flat, I’m going to have a local asset pick up your kid and gut him in the school parking lot. I’m talking about his intestines sitting on the asphalt in a steaming heap. You had better read me loud and fucking clear because you’re standing in front of a raging bull right now.”

  The man hung up. Leopold screamed.

  He waved off the co-pilot who came to check on him, then sat there stewing. When most of the heat burned off, Leopold forwarded the boy’s photo and the classroom’s live link to Fabian Dicampli. He poured himself a Scotch and waited.

  Fortunately for all parties, he replied with much haste. Like a punk bitch, though, he did so in a text. Dicampli indicated that Cira and Atlas would be released within thirty minutes.

  “Good dog,” he muttered as he finished three fingers worth of the Scotch. The only pity was that, at four hundred dollars a bottle, and because of the warden, he hadn’t enjoyed a single si
p.

  Leopold called ahead to El Paso, reached Richie Frank, and said, “I need a car for El Paso, something clean that I can take into Juárez, and I’ll need entry into Mexico.”

  “Do you want bang bangs?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Consider it done.”

  A few minutes later, a picture of a black Audi S6 sedan showed up in a text. Below the picture, Richie indicated that the Audi would be left in short-term parking and that he would forward him the number of the parking space the minute it arrived.

  He then texted Richie back: IS IT HOT?

  NOT ANYMORE. FRANKENSTEIN. FEEL FREE TO ABANDON IT EITHER IN OR OUT OF COUNTRY.

  It was a Frankenstein car—multiple parts, nothing identifiable. If he left it in Mexico, or if it didn’t survive the journey back to America, it was apparently okay.

  THX.

  The last thing he did before sitting back and trying to unwind for a few minutes was look up the address of the border attendant who helped the carpet van into Mexico. The man was identified as Gill Franklin. He didn’t live that far from the airport.

  “We’re coming for you, Gill,” he said.

  He glanced over at Kiera and saw she had her eyes closed. If she was sleeping, it wasn’t deep because who the hell sleeps in perfect posture? Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned to look at him. For some reason, this animatronic gesture scared the crap out of him. Leopold turned away because he didn’t want her to see his fear.

  Putting all these strange Monarch encounters out of his mind, Leopold reclined in his seat, closed his eyes, and prepared for war. Thirty-five minutes later, he received a text that woke him up and put him right back in the fight.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ATLAS HARGROVE

  When Atlas woke up, he didn’t know if it was day or night and he couldn’t understand why his side hurt so badly. Then that thing putting pressure on his side moved and he sort of freaked out, scooting back into the wall.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, startled.

  “Cira,” the soft voice said.

  “Cira? Really?” He reached out to her, found her, and then it all came back to him. He thought he’d had a dream, but it was no dream. “Why are you here?”

  “We need you, but Dicampli got one over on me. He screwed us both and he might have gotten four people killed.”

  “Dicampli is a jackass.”

  “No kidding.”

  She started to tell him what had happened with the Fox family when he heard activity outside the door.

  “Shhh,” he told Cira. “Wait a second.”

  The door opened. He lifted a hand to block out the light. A set of clothes was thrown at him, hitting his arm. Then someone threw one shoe at him, hitting him in the leg, and another, which bounced off his skull.

  “Get dressed, maggot,” Dicampli snarled. “Cira, get up, you’re getting out of here, too.”

  Atlas put on his clothes and shoes, and then he walked out into the hallway. Before he could turn his eyes from the light, a bag was pulled over his head. The guard gave his shoulder a shove, but he didn’t budge.

  “I need to go to my cell first,” he said.

  “You’re not going to your cell,” Dicampli replied, firm.

  “Is the bag really necessary?” Cira asked. “He’s not a dog for God’s sake.”

  “Yes,” Dicampli said. To the guard, he said, “He’s not going to his cell. Walk his ass out to transport then leave him with this blonde nightmare.”

  “Take me to my cell, I need the photograph,” Atlas said. He’d missed seeing Alabama for so long that he needed to see her face again, even if the photo was a bit blurry and even if he’d committed her face to memory months ago.

  “You’re not going to your cell so just shut up already,” Dicampli said.

  “Just take him to his cell,” Cira said.

  “You don’t get to talk in here anymore, young lady,” he hissed. “You’re not going to your cell, Atlas.”

  He stopped walking, the guard bumping into him. “This is the hill I’m going to die on, Warden. And if you don’t take me to my cell, others will die, too.”

  “Are you threatening me?” he said, now almost toe to toe with him.

  “Yes, I am.”

  A stiff shot to his kidney had him sucking air. He knew he wouldn’t be able to take a breath for a minute, that the wind was knocked out of him, so he drove a short elbow into the guard who ooofed and bent over by the sound of it. Underneath the bag, his frown turned into a hard grimace.

  “Why don’t you hit me, Dicampli?” Atlas growled.

  “I don’t hit prisoners,” he said.

  “Take me to my cell right now or I don’t move a muscle from here on out.”

  “For a picture?” Dicampli said. “Really?”

  “Yes, for a picture.”

  “This bitch ass prima donna,” Atlas heard Dicampli mutter. To the guard, Dicampli said, “Take this maggot to his cell but let’s make it quick. I’ve been put to a time limit I’d prefer not to exceed.”

  “I see Leopold contacted you,” Cira said as they changed direction. She dropped the bait but Dicampli refused to bite. Atlas smiled inside his sack. He really did like Cira. “You’re up the creek either way, Dicampli. He’s going to turn you inside out and feed your guts to the rats for that crap you pulled.”

  “Shut your mouth,” he hissed.

  “You really should learn how to talk to a lady,” Atlas said.

  “I hope you die out there,” Dicampli barked.

  “That makes two of us,” he replied.

  “You’re here,” Dicampli said, ripping the sack off of his head.

  He heard Cira gasp at the sight of him. He didn’t care, though. He wasn’t there for the photograph, not entirely. But this moment…oh God, this moment he had to get all of this hostility out of him so he didn’t take it into the field and cost someone their life. That’s why he was there waiting for his cage door to open. The second it opened, he saw Baxter “Butane” Kirtman sitting on his bed wearing only his underwear. The creep was curled up with Atlas’s pillow.

  BBK’s eyes went wide the second he saw him. Atlas was already in motion. He grabbed Baxter’s ankle and violently yanked him off the bed. The child killer and self-professed cannibal landed on his belly and his teeth on the concrete floor. Atlas looked over his shoulder in time to see the guard rushing in. He fired a side kick into the man’s sternum, knocking the wind out of him. He threw another kick and knocked him right out of the cell.

  Back to BBK. He wasn’t moving, but that didn’t matter. Atlas jumped up, bent his knee then dropped all of his weight right on BBK’s spine, breaking it for sure. The serial killer didn’t move after that. He wasn’t dead, maybe just knocked out.

  There was a scuffle at the door. Atlas glanced over his shoulder and saw Cira pushing Dicampli back so he couldn’t enter the cell. The guard was still sucking wind.

  Atlas had made this opportunity for himself, so he needed to capitalize on it big time. This was how he would right an incredible wrong, not only for BBK’s abuse of his pillow and sheets but for all of the families whose kids were now dead and digested because of this repulsive blight on humanity.

  Leaning down, Atlas saw broken teeth and blood all over the floor. He grabbed a handful of hair on the back of BBK’s head and then he cupped his chin in a tight grip.

  “Don’t you dare!” Dicampli hissed.

  Atlas looked back with a wicked grin, saw the guard recovering, then turned and cranked Baxter Kirtman’s neck so hard, it made a loud popping noise as it broke. Satisfied and standing up tall, Atlas rolled his neck, then looked down at the dead man and spit on him.

  “Good riddance,” Atlas said.

  With that, he found the picture of Alabama, gave it one last look then put it back where he had hidden it. Turning to Dicampli and the guard, he said, “All right, fellas, I’m ready to go when you are.”

  The guard threw the burlap bag
at him and said, “Put it on yourself, asshole.”

  Atlas obliged him and then he took a swift and immediate kick to the balls, one he was not expecting. If he was wearing a smile on his face right then—which he was—that kick turned his smile upside down.

  The guard grabbed him, hauled him out of his cell, then pushed him forward and made him walk with busted nuts all the way to transport. They moved so fast, Atlas stumbled forward most of the way, the pain in his groin more intense than he wanted to admit.

  When they were finally outside, Atlas was hustled into a van and shoved inside. The bag was torn off his head again. He found himself staring at a very upset Fabian Dicampli. Atlas was about to say something cute when the man spit in his face.

  Slowly wiping the saliva off his cheek, Atlas said, “I see you’re a spitter. I’d heard from reliable sources you were a swallower, so imagine my surprise.”

  Dicampli handed Cira her phone which she took begrudgingly. “You dropped this when you assaulted me.”

  “When I kicked your ass,” she said.

  To the driver, Dicampli said, “Dump their asses off a mile down the road. No sense in wasting valuable gas.”

  The transport driver did exactly as he was told, and from there, Cira arranged for an Uber. Within four minutes, they were picked up and taken to a private airfield where she had a chartered flight scheduled for a one-way trip to lovely El Paso. When they got to the airfield, they had to call the pilot. He’d gone home when they didn’t show earlier that morning.

  “Your face looks like a seventies porno,” Cira said without cracking a smile.

  “It kind of feels like it.”

  “I mean, seriously. I can’t even see you behind all that…hair. My God, Hargrove, you look like you sleep in a garbage can for a living.”

  “Do you want to have sex with me?” he asked.

  “Hell no, not now.”

  “Imagine being one of those scumbags inside, always looking for that perfect catcher, that prison pocket that no one has managed to violate just yet. Looking the way I did going in…I was a target in the showers. Guys thought they could rape me, break me, molly wop me, and leave me bleeding from every conceivable hole. Not then and certainly not now.”