Some day.
After I had gotten to enjoy the fuck out of her for as long as she would allow it.
Which was why I caught myself smiling like a fucking fool as I closed in on the door to our room, a bag full of dinner, drinks, and snacks to hold us over until we hit town the next day to meet her mother.
Nothing seemed amiss.
I walked in, figuring she was in the bathroom.
But then I moved to put the bags down on the small desk just inside the door.
And my eyes caught sight of the bat, laid out across the floor where it most definitely did not belong.
The bags dropped from my hands, the tops slipping off the stew containers and spilling dinner all over the floor.
But I was barely even aware of that.
Because that bat... it had fucking blood on it.
And Evan was missing.
"Fuck!" I yelled, slamming my fist backward into the wall, the pain ricocheting up my arm, somehow managing to ground me.
I moved across the room, getting my cell, grabbing my hoodie, and a wad of cash, and heading out, knocking on the doors to the side of the room, clearly waking everyone up.
No one had heard a thing.
Of course not.
I tore back down the street, my heart hammering in my chest, trying not to get too ahead of myself. Wherever she was, whoever had her, they couldn't be far off.
I needed to fucking focus.
I needed to keep my cool.
We were in mother fucking Brazil.
I didn't know how shit worked. I didn't know who the major players were. I didn't know why someone would take her. I didn't know how not to get caught if I went sniffing around. I didn't know dick.
But I did know one thing.
I couldn't do shit without the right tools.
"Yo," I called to a group of men standing outside the convenience store I had just left. Every town had the type. Didn't matter if they were black, white, Latino, Asian; it didn't fucking matter. You knew the type when you saw them. They could be in wifebeaters with their underwear hanging ten inches out of their jeans, or they could be in tracksuits, or dress shirts. It didn't matter. You could spot them. There was just a vibe in the air around them. There was a laid-back cockiness to criminals. "Yo, anyone speak English? Falar inglês? No?" I asked when they all turned, giving me a once over. "Fuck. Alright. I need a gun. A... arma," I tried, reaching into my pocket to wave the money. "Jesus Christ. Tell me who can get me a mother fucking gun."
"Hey, amigo, you need to take a breath. A aí?"
A aí?
What's up?
"My girl was just taken from my mother fucking motel room. I need a gun, and I need to know the players in this bumfuck backward jungle town. That's what's up. So if you're not who I need to be talking to, point me where I need to be."
"Or what?"
"Or I will pick up that broken beer bottle right there," I said, pointing to the ground near my foot without looking, wanting to keep my eyes on the trio, "and I will slit your jugular," I said to the main guy, "take that knife you have in your belt and stab the other two of you. My reputation might not precede me in this place, but trust me when I say you do not want to fuck with me. So I will repeat myself one more time. I need a gun, and I need to know who might have a problem with Alejandro Cruz."
There was a hush following that name, making me realize maybe I should have brought it up before right that moment.
One of them men in the back mumbled estuprador.
Rapist.
The other said envenenador.
Poisoner.
So my reputation didn't mean shit, but his sure as shit still did. Apparently, word hadn't made it this far that the rapist poisoner was long dead.
And, if I wasn't mistaken, and I fucking wasn't, there was a certain level of fear in their voices when they said those words.
"You work for Cruz?" the leader asked, looking me over again.
"And Cruz's daughter was just taken. You want me to go back, pull him away from business, and tell him you stupid fucks wouldn't help me get a gun, and point me in a direction? That what you are telling me? I'd be happy to go get..." I started, turning to walk away.
"Whoa! Wait. Okay, amigo. No need to call o chefe. You want a gun? You can have my gun," he said, reaching behind his back to pull it out of his waistband.
"Does it work?"
As an answer, he raised it above his head and fired off two shots.
You knew the people inside were used to these guys because they barely even flinched at the sound of gunshots.
"It works."
"Bullets. And information," I demanded, slapping the pile of cash into his hand as he handed me the gun with the other. "Who wants Cruz to suffer around here?"
One of the guys in the back snorted. "All the fathers of the girls who he put his hands on maybe?"
"Yeah, I get it," I said, tucking the gun away. "He's got a bad rep. But I think you shitheads know that if you don't start giving me some answers, that if one goddamn hair is out of place on that girl's head, that he will drag his ass down here, get each of you strapped to a chair, then get his jollies off by finding new and inventive ways to make you pay for her pain and suffering."
"Fuck, man," the leader said, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture, letting me know just how bad a rep Cruz actually had on the streets. When you looked around online, you had to figure that at least half of the shit was hearsay, was embellished.
In the case of Alejandro Cruz, apparently, all the information was on point.
"Talk," I demanded, pointing the gun at him. "Or I start with the dick and work my way around other, more vital organs for such an ugly fuck."
"The Diaz crew," he rushed to say, voice actually fucking shaking. So whoever they were, they were low level. Dealers or pimps, not people used to having guns pointed at them.
"Who are they? Where are they? Why would they want her?"
"Cruz came through, I don't know... ten years back or something. He was hired by some nobody dealer with a big ego to take out the leading cartel around here."
"Let me guess," I said, putting the gun down, "the Diaz crew."
"Took out Luis Diaz," the guy agreed, nodding. "But not before he held down his wife and daughter and raped them in front of the man."
I felt my jaw tighten, wishing I could have resuscitated the fucking bastard so I could have killed him myself.
"Who would be left? Who would come for her for revenge?" I asked, teeth grinding so hard that a pain shot up to my temples.
Because if the crime was rape and murder, the revenge would most likely be the same. Eye for an eye.
I needed to get to her.
Five goddamn minutes ago.
If that mother fucker touched her...
No.
I couldn't go there.
I had to shut it down.
I had to keep a clear head.
The only reason I had survived so long in the criminal underbelly was because I kept my feelings out of shit. I went in cold and calculated. I kept my head on straight. I handled my shit.
I could feel later.
Right now, I needed to shut it the fuck down.
"The crew disbanded, went on and joined the new o chefe to keep food in their stomachs."
"All except who?"
"Diaz's only son. Miguel. He was seventeen at the time, out on a job. Comes home to find his mom and sister broken, his father murdered."
"Where do I find Miguel?" I asked, raising the gun when they paused, looking at each other, pointing it at his dick, and cocking it.
"Whoa! Okay. Calm down, amigo. Back the way you came, you saw that big house on the hill on your way? That is Diaz's place. His father's place."
I turned to go walk away, but then turned back. "Where did Cruz kill Diaz?" I asked, figuring if this was going to go, it was going to go exactly how it did a decade ago.
"Guest house out back," one of the guys in the back suppl
ied.
"Good. Now if I find out that Diaz got tipped off about me coming, what you imagine Cruz would do to you will mother fucking pale in comparison to how I will make you suffer. Got me?"
"Compreendo!" the leader said, holding up his hands.
Convinced they were scared enough, that I had enough headstart, I reached out, took the knife from the guy's belt, turned, and fucking ran.
Try as I might, as I ran, the thoughts swirled, the ideas of what could be happening to her rushed through my mind. I knew she had already been bashed, likely on the head, by the bat. For that and that alone, the bastard was going to get what was coming to him.
But it had been at least twenty minutes.
The shit that could have happened to her in twenty minutes...
No.
Fuck no.
I couldn't let my mind go there.
Because for the split second that it did, my vision flashed so red that I had to stop moving because I couldn't see a goddamn thing.
I took a deep breath and pressed forward, completely shutting down my brain. It was something I was good at. It was something I had needed to do countless times in my life. Not when taking out scumbags. No. I was fully present during all that. No. I'm talking about before that, before all the killing, before taking up the cause of vengeance for all those people who couldn't fight back.
Like me once upon a time.
If I could shut it down back then, then I could shut it down again. Just for another eight minutes, tops. Eight minutes of keeping my mind blank. Then the second I got inside that guest house, I was opening everything back up.
While I understood Diaz's desire for vengeance, while I respected wanting an eye-for-an-eye for shit as whacked as what Cruz pulled on Diaz's sister and mother, you did not get that revenge by hurting other innocent women.
You did not get an eye-for-an-eye using your cock as revenge on someone who never did a goddamn thing wrong. You know, or at fucking all.
Because there was no other word for that but evil. Marrow deep evil.
If he was willing to do that shit then, well, he was every bit as big a dirtbag as Alejandro.
And he was going to die a slow, painful, brutal death for even thinking he could do something like that to Evan.
God help his ass if he actually accomplished any of it.
The red flashed over my eyes again, making me need to shake my head, and take a deep breath before I could move on, rushing past the massive three-story home belonging to the dead Diaz.
A house like that was built to be protected, was built on a hill so guards could see for miles all the way around.
But since his father's business collapsed, Miguel Diaz obviously could not rebuild the ranks, thanks to them jumping ship, and likely a heavy presence from the rival cartel that took over.
There were no fucking guards.
All there was was the far-away sound of wolves, some night insects, and my thundering heartbeat.
I heard it as I rounded the small guesthouse. It was set back from the main house by about an acre. It was a small, rectangular building the size of Evan's mother's place, squat, with only two windows and a door out front. Nothing fancy, but as I crouched down beside it, I heard it.
A scream.
Evan's scream.
At that point, there was no keeping the anger down, no keeping a cool head.
The rage bubbled in my veins as I rounded on the door, taking the gun into my right hand, and the knife into my left, then raising a foot, and slamming it into the door, sending the shitty thing flying open.
"Fodssse!" the man who must have been Miguel Diaz yelled, springing backward from the crumpled form of Evan on the floor.
Miguel Diaz was darker-skinned with long black hair, dark eyes, and a medium build. And maybe if he didn't have Evan's shorts around her ankles, maybe I could have said he was reasonably good-looking.
But being as her shorts were around her ankles, all I saw was ugly.
"Yeah, fuck is right," I agreed, voice low and vicious. Because not only were her shorts around her ankles, but she was openly bleeding from her temple where, I assumed, the bat had struck her hard enough to knock her out since no one had heard any screams from her as he dragged her away. Her other eye was blackened, her lip split and swollen. There were bruises around her wrists from, I assumed, being held down.
"Think you're lost, amigo," he said, standing fully, and I wasn't sure if I could feel relief yet that his pants were fastened.
I could have simply been too late.
"Luce?" Evan's pained, desperate voice reached my ears, making my eyes move to find her frantically trying to drag her pants back up her legs, furious tears streaming down her face.
"Can you walk?" I asked through gritted teeth as she shakily moved to stand. I took a breath as she stumbled slightly, knowing I needed to keep it together for her sake. "Come here, doll," I said softly as she started moving across the floor. "You take this," I said as she got close, pressing the gun at her.
"You..."
"Take this gun and go outside," I said, voice soft, but firm. I needed her to follow orders. I needed to get her safe.
Because I was about to blow.
And she needed to be as far away from that as possible.
"And if you see anyone but me, you fucking empty the clip into their bodies. Okay?"
Her eyes went up to mine, making my stomach clench hard when I saw her bottom lip tremble as she moved to take it.
"Okay?" I repeated as her hand closed around it.
She gave me a tight nod, and moved almost robotically toward the door.
"What now, amigo? You have no gun."
"I don't use guns, amigo," I said, switching the knife to my right hand. "I like working with my hands."
"As you can see from your little girlfriend out there," he said, his head tipping to the side, "I do too."
"Oh, shithead, that was the wrong fucking thing to say."
I let it out then, the rage.
He must have underestimated me because when I flew at him and plunged the knife into his side, just under his lowest rib, just deep enough to hurt like a mother fucker, but not deep enough to cause any actual damage, his eyes went round as hell.
People did tend to underestimate me.
I wasn't a huge guy. Tall, sure, but thin, wiry, unassuming-looking.
No one thought the skinny guy in a hoodie with pale computer-geek skin was any kind of threat.
But, fucking hell were they wrong.
They were always shocked when the bag went over their heads, or the garrote around their throat, or the knife to the jugular.
It was like they all thought I was a bunch of talk.
Just some shithead who got off scaring people.
So it was always a shock.
"Just an inch deeper, and angled upward, and I'd be hitting lung. They'd fill up with blood, and you would suffocate from the inside out. It's a particularly awful way to go. So that seems like a fitting end," I told him. "Just not yet," I added, yanking the knife out, twirling it into my hand, cocking a fist, throwing every last bit of strength I had into the blow to his jaw, sending him flying to the floor.
"You protect her?" he screamed from the floor. "After what her bastard father did?"
"Key words there being her bastard father," I said, standing over him, waiting for him to make a move to stand. "She wasn't the one who put her hands on your mother and sister."
"He needs to pay for what he did to them!" he shrieked. "My sister, she killed herself three weeks later. Slit her wrists so deep that there was no repairing them. My mother died from the heartbreak! He needs to know that pain."
"See, now," I said, shrugging back into the coldness, the darkness like a favorite shirt, feeling much more comfortable in it. "That is why I am the vigilante, and you are just some two-bit schmuck so blind with rage that he can't see all he is doing is hurting more innocent women."
"Vigilante," he hissed, spitting a molar and
a healthy mouthful of blood on the floor as he pushed up to stand. "Yeah, right."
"See, given the proper time, I'd let you stand a little mock trial, give you a chance to come clean, to turn yourself in, or choose death. I would take the time to get some lye, heat it up, melt you down. But I got a woman outside who needs me. So we are going to do this the fast, brutal, bloody, messy fucking way."
Then I charged, plunging the knife into his chest and stomach six times before he could even cry out.
I didn't often use knives.
They were a torture instrument unless it was a quick slice to the jugular so they could bleed out in a matter of seconds.
I didn't get off on pain.
I wasn't a fucking psycho.
I wanted people to pay with their lives for the misery it had brought to the world.
Usually, it was done as painlessly as possible.
Not this time.
This time it was personal.
This time it was about him putting his ugly hands all over the most beautiful fucking thing I had ever been lucky enough to have in my life, something I didn't deserve, but cherished nonethefuckingless.
For that, for putting those marks on her perfect face, for putting those tears in her eyes, for putting that quiver of fear in her voice, yeah, he had to pay.
It was a testament to my own darkness that his cries, that his begging, that his useless apologies, that the sounds of him literally choking on his own blood, blood that was saturating my hoodie, did nothing to me.
It simply didn't penetrate.
Because all I could see was Evan's face.
All I could hear was the desperate way she called my name.
All I could think was what thoughts she must have had swirling through her head when she woke up alone, with a throbbing head, in an unfamiliar room, with a man there who didn't even see her as a person, just a body he could exact vengeance on. She had to have thought of me, maybe even cried out for me while his hands struck bruises into her flawless skin. And there had to have been hopelessness. Because Evan was a smart woman. She knew it was a foreign country. She knew I didn't have contacts here. She knew the only parts of the language I knew were the parts I had heard her say, or the people on the TV say. She knew that I would have no idea who took her, or where, that she was completely and utterly alone, and at the mercy of a man who, as he was peeling off her clothes, she knew wanted to rape her.
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