Until I Fall

by Claudia Burgoa

  “On time to get the fuck out.” Everhart’s voice sounds anxious. “I’m climbing off the roof and heading toward the car. Kowalski get ready.”

  Be careful at midnight, they warned us. The Cinderella Effect, my informant called it. In this small town of Monajillo, Chihuahua, only miles from El Paso, Texas, the police don’t care what happens after midnight. Anyone could go from home to home on a killing spree, and no one will show up until the next morning to do a body count. Cartels pay them enough to look the other way.

  Americans cross the border to buy drugs and guns. This is the best place to acquire almost everything, including human organs. Human trafficking is a big branch. There’s always tons of shit going through here to the other side. The Mexicans might have a problem with all the fucking trafficking, but it’s the American consumers who create it. We need drugs, weapons, and sex among other things. We purchase them and our neighbors continue producing, acquiring, and supplying them. The Feds try to eliminate those groups of entrepreneurs. It’s impossible. There’s always a new guy bringing different or better shit at a better price. They’re all well trained with more gun power than any government agency, and sometimes the military.

  Working this area is dangerous. Years working as an Operator for Delta Force gives me an advantage. I don’t slack on the job, though; I’m always alert. I move my left hand to my right side. That’s when I notice a dark Suburban turning the corner, heading in our direction. The tinted window lowers and I only have a few seconds to crouch, roll and yell, “Fucker get out!”

  Gunshots ring through my ears, accompanied by an explosion and a loud report of a high-powered rifle. More bullets thump close to my head. I continue my way to the end of the building, move around and pull out my gun from the sleeve shooting toward the van. Fuck.

  “What happened asshole?” Tiago’s voice comes from behind.

  I remove the empty magazine from my weapon, throwing it and setting a new one. “Did you get—” A hand comes out from a moving sedan holding a flame or a . . .”Fuck they are going to blow out the cantina. Run faster.”

  Our ride is on the other side of the street, less than a mile away, but my legs aren’t moving the way I want. My heart rate speeds up as the bullets are sounding in the near distance. We finally reach the car and Kowalski starts the engine when he sees us. As we dive inside the car he slams the gas pedal and we’re gone.

  “Motherfucker.” Tiago sighs. “Where did they come from?”

  “Did you get anything?” I press again. We’ve been here for almost three weeks. We have one fucking job. He better have done something right, or I’ll fucking kill him.

  He grins, pulling a baggy from his leather jacket. “Samples.” He laughs. “A couple of names, we have a trace.”

  “Bradley better get off my back,” I suggest taking the bag away from him to check the ‘samples.’ “At least he won’t shoot us for losing the informant.”

  “You think it’s that easy?” He huffs. I place the shit I took from him inside my backpack. “Next time you do the talking. I’ll play the drunk fucker.”

  He takes off the facial hair he wore for the job. “We have what we needed, trust me, with those names we can find the supplier.”

  I can’t control the grin. “You mean we’ll fucking finish this job with those names? Crossing the border at night is starting to get old.”

  “I fucking love saying ‘Cerveza porfavor’,” Tiago, who’s half Cuban, pretends he doesn’t speak Spanish. This is why we were chosen for the job. We both know more than asking for a beer. “Swear to God. The next time I book a flight to Mexico it will be to one of those beaches. Instead of my guns, I’ll have two hot women by my side.”

  “Whatever rocks your boat.” I take off the fucking clothes I’m wearing. “For me it’s a visit to my mother and camping.”

  “You need to party more, or get a steady woman, Hawk.” Kowalski slows the car down as we reach the bridge to cross to the United States.

  I groan, partying is overrated. Perhaps when I get back to Seattle, I’ll hook up with a girl at the Silver Moon. One weekend of losing myself will suit me. A regular woman? I hear a chuckle inside my head. The mere thought of having one is stupid, not with my lifestyle. Shaking off the stupidity Kowalski threw my way, I finish changing my clothes, hiding the ones that stink of alcohol inside a plastic bag. The border patrol might be cool with the bribe to let us go through without checking the vehicle, but I don’t want to push my luck. If there’s a place I try to avoid it’s jail. Undercover gigs aren’t exciting anymore. Pulling my phone out of the duffle bag, I turn it on, receiving a mass of texts at the same time. They’re all from the same person.

  Cute Neighbor: You left a day before without saying goodbye. A note on a basket filled with different kinds of purple candy wasn’t enough.

  Cute Neighbor: Yes, we’ll keep an eye on your mom.

  Cute Neighbor: Off the grid. Tattoos and off the grid . . . you really have to work on your excuses.

  Cute Neighbor: How hard is to turn on your phone?

  Cute Neighbor: Your mom is doing fine, she misses you.

  Cute Neighbor: Just confess, you’re a spy.

  Cute Neighbor: Week one and no sign of life from the ‘tattoo artist’ aka ‘man of international intrigue’.

  Cute Neighbor: Sophia is doing well.

  Cute Neighbor: Will you be home before we leave for San Jose?

  Me: I think you miss me.

  Cute Neighbor: Who is this?

  Me: The tattoo artist.

  Cute Neighbor: I take it the mission was a success.

  Me: Were you worried?

  Cute Neighbor: Yeah, you promised a vacation to Hawaii. I can’t cash it in if you die.

  Me: I never break a promise. I’ll call in a couple of days. Take care of yourself, Doc.

  Standing outside of the barn, I let Tiago speak. His fake Texas drawl slides off his tongue like butter. “We only need the space for a few days.”

  “As I explained, the boss will be here soon and—”

  An ATV approaches, cutting his voice. A tall, slender blonde hops off the bike and marches toward us, sporting a huge scowl. “What’s going on, Javier?” She takes off her sunglasses and narrows her gaze, sizing us up.

  “These men want to rent the empty barn as a warehouse, Miss Scarlett. I explained to them that we don’t do that kind of business.” Javier repeats the same words he said to us.

  Oh, fuck me! No, not her. Her best friend can fuck me.

  “Good afternoon, gentleman.” she sizes up.

  Yes, it’s definitely Scarlett, the little Texan who was just visiting Aspen a couple of weeks ago. I should have run a background check on her. ‘They are nice girls’ wasn’t enough information.

  She gives him a sharp nod. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Look, little lady.” Tiago turns on his sleek charm. The blonde arches an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “We’d like to speak with your boss about renting the barn for a couple of weeks—a month tops.”

  She snorts, releasing her hands. “I don’t see any little lady around here. But I’ll tell you what, big boy. If you get your ass out of here, I won’t call the authorities on you.”

  Tiago lifts his hands shaking his head. I could interrupt and save his face, but how fun would that be?

  “This ain’t one of those places where you come to store the shit you pass from the Mexican border.” She pokes him with her index finger.

  “Feisty.” Tiago grins grabbing her finger and kissing the tip. I flinch when her knee delivers a blow to his balls. He doubles over, groaning in pain. Fuck that’s gotta hurt.

  “Out!” She turns her attention to me and studies me. “Do I know you?”

  I sober up, taking a step back. My heart’s racing fast. She shouldn’t know me. I changed my nose and my facial hair and I’m wearing a wig. Straightening my back, I run a hand through my head, flipping down my sunglasses.

  “Doubtful.” Tiago’s voice c
arries some pain. “He’s new to the area. We planned on using your barn for cattle, no merchandise from the Mexican border.”

  “No. I’ve seen him before. It’ll come to me, I never forget a face—but I’m bad with names.” She’s fixated on me. “What’s your name, cowboy?”

  Tiago hands her a business card. “Assuming you run this place, give us a call if you need us.”

  “Now you’re going to offer me ‘protection’.” Her voice comes out aggravated. Suddenly, she slides her hand close to her lower back, pulling out a gun. Fuck. How did we miss that?

  Pointing it at Tiago, she speaks, “listen, fucker. You’re not the first or last asshole coming onto my land, offering some special treatment or threatening me.”

  “Sweetheart, calm down. We are business men and come in peace.” I smooth my tone, hands lifted, palms facing her. “My partner is somehow slow and has trouble expressing himself. He meant if you change your mind and would like to help with our cows, give us a call. His mama taught him well and wanted to offer his help. Sounds like you’ve been harassed.”

  Her breathing evens, her head drops, and she remains silent for a few seconds. Slowly, I begin to lower my arms.

  Tiago’s loud exhale breaks the silence, his eyes set on the blonde. “I like you, Goldie Locks. Next time, I’ll be ready for you.”

  “Anderson Hawkins?” She snaps her fingers, my stomach cramps hard over the name. My facial muscles remain still. “Is that you?”

  Her steps are firm, those eyes remain fixated on me. “Am I right?”

  “Nah, ma’am, but good luck with your farm.” Saluting her, I give her a lazy grin and turn around. “We have to go, asshole, get in the truck.”

  Once we’re off the property, he hits me with the first of many questions. “Where does Goldie know you from?”

  “Nowhere. It’s after five,” I cut him off before he drills me with this stupid nonsense. “We’ve gone through seven properties. We can check the other six properties tomorrow.”

  “Do you think Bradley will let us set a couple of men on this property?” I slam the brakes, his torso jerks forward. His hands clinch the dashboard.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I bark at him. “Blondie busted your balls and doesn’t want our business.”

  “Take a moment to discern the information we received from her,” he continues. “We are not the first ones coming to rent her space, and the others have offered protections in exchange—maybe demanded it. They’ll come back and we can trace them.”

  “Your boy scout shit is gonna blow our cover.” I remind him of who we’re supposed to be, without adding that I might’ve just fucked our cover. “Someone has the merchandise, we find it this week and head back home.”

  “What’s with the attitude?” he demands.

  I grunt, ignoring him.

  “I trust you with my life and you won’t tell me who the fuck peed on your Cheetos?” He laughs. “If we’re done, why don’t we go to a bar and pick up a couple of chicks? A little fun might loosen that hardcore asshole inside you. We can bring that cute blonde with us.

  ANDERSON

  MOM SAID ONCE I was born a warrior, a protector. I don’t remember if that was before or after I began to say I’d be a Ranger, like my father. Back then, at the tender age of four, it sounded kind of cool. Dad agreed with me, not that I saw him often. He was never home because he was saving the world. His father had died in the line of duty during the Vietnam War. Dad was only a year old when my grandfather was killed.

  I don’t remember him well. He died when I was six.

  For years, I continued with the idea of following his footsteps. Mom wanted to stop the cycle with me by persuading me to choose a different path. She tried everything in her power. As a librarian, she had access to a vast number of books. Every day there’d be a new one on top of my bed. She tried law, medicine, architecture, even computers, but nothing enticed me as much as becoming a Ranger.

  Tired of listening to her lectures on why I shouldn’t follow in Dad’s steps, I directed my attention to sports and drawing. She sent me to camps and different classes in hopes that I’d find my call. If I wasn’t on the field, the court or the track, I was holding a sketchpad and a pencil. Mom didn’t understand that my call found me long ago, it’s in my blood. The path I traced made sense. My father’s best friend, Arthur Bradley, remained close to my mother. He helped me with my military career and instead of becoming a Ranger like him and Dad, I became part of the Delta Force.

  My missions were my life, the men under my command were my responsibility. We trained together, fought together, and risked our lives together. One visit to my mother and I started doubting the future. I had two broken arms, a bullet wound that’s missed my heart by a couple of millimeters, and two of my men in body bags. Arthur suggested I find a new cause. Mason, his son, owns a security company with different specialties including designing, creating and installing custom security alarms while working for agencies like the FBI, Interpol, and the DEA. Foreign countries hire us to execute operations they can’t, or won’t, do. We fight human trafficking, drug cartels, and terrorist cells among other things. The options are wide. I still defend the innocent, protect my country, and do it at my own pace.

  “I’m so glad you found a new place,” Mom said when I shared that I planned on becoming a tattoo artist.

  It was a partial truth. As I settled into my new life, I also found a job; or maybe the job found me. Mason referred me to Kevin. He had an apartment available right above his tattoo parlor. We got to talking, discussed my artistic side, and I became his apprentice. Kevin, who is also a musician, hired me part time and leased me one of the apartments above the shop. He taught me everything he knows. I learned fast and was able to use my drawing skills. A couple years later, he offered me half of the business with the stipulation that I’d cover for him when he’s out of town and vice-versa.

  “You’re not a tattoo artist,” Mom protested when she noticed a few bruises on me.

  “I am.” I revealed the few visible tattoos I had to her and then slumped my shoulders. She caught me. “But I also found a new place where I can use my training, Mom.”

  Needless to say, that didn’t make her happy. I convinced her that what I did was safer—but it wasn’t. She insists that I have to settle down. Doubtful, but for now I am keeping the missions to a minimum while we find a cure. Losing Mom isn’t an option.

  Bradley: Heard from Wings that you arrived a couple of hours ago. Tiago sent both reports, you didn’t approve either. Is there something you wanted to add before I file them?

  Me: No. I prepared the information, Tiago uploaded them. I haven’t signed onto my computer to approve either.

  Bradley: Will you be ready for the meeting?

  Me: At what time is it?

  Bradley: Nine. How’s your mother?

  Me: We’re going to San Jose in a couple of days. This doctor you recommended is our last hope.

  Bradley: Everything will work out.

  Will it?

  What if it doesn’t? Mom is the only family I have left. She tells me daily that I have to stop risking my life.

  Cute Neighbor: You’re a drug dealer?

  Oh fuck, blondie!

  I rub my forehead. Months of work blown by the people who live next door to my mother.

  Me: You’re confusing me with someone else.

  Cute Neighbor: No. Scarlett saw you. She warned us that you look a lot different with long hair. Not as hot. And scary, very scary.

  Cute Neighbor: Yep, that’s her primary concern. Not that you could be a dangerous person.

  Me: You think I’m hot?

  I stand in front of my window, facing the coffee shop, thinking about Mom’s cute neighbor. Her love for coffee to stay awake, wine to relax her and tea to chase the insomnia. Aspen intrigues me like no other female has in a long time. She is a beauty, but there’s so much more to her.

  Cute Neighbor: I never said you’re hot.


  Me: Scroll through your texts.

  Cute Neighbor: That’s not what I meant to say.

  A chuckle escapes me. I’d love to see her cheeks flushed and her teeth chewing that bottom lip I want to bite. Her long, dark, wavy hair resting on her shoulders shaking lightly, as those chocolate color eyes melt as I tease her for whatever she blurted. Shit, why do I miss her? These few weeks without talking to her felt incomplete. The need to listen to her voice increases. I miss those late nights talking with her, playing Scrabble, or reading in silence.

  Although I have to shower, check in with Kevin, and catch up with some of my sketches, I call her.

  “Hey.” The sweet ring of her silky voice makes me grin.

  “You sound tired, are you waking up or heading to bed?”

  “Heading to bed.” She sighs. “I just finished my last shift for the next three weeks. I know you said it wouldn’t take more than a week, but what if they want to keep her longer or she’s accepted into the program? I want to be there for her—at least at the beginning.”

  Aspen and Brooklyn work odd hours. I admire their dedication but I worry about the amount of time they spend in the free clinic and the emergency room.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m well.” There’s a hint of annoyance or defeat in her voice. How long has she been home chasing some zzz’s?

  “Insomnia?” I guess.

  She growls instead of answering.

  “You could use a cup of tea and a book.” I guess after so many days observing the next-door neighbors I had some of their patterns memorized.

  “Wine,” she retorts. “No. A few margaritas.”

  Running would help—or sex.

  “The world got to be too much for you today?”

  “Something like that,” she whispers. Her tone isn’t sleepy, nor sad. It’s that tone she uses when she’s hiding her true feelings.