Sugarman

by Vincent Vargas

  I like killing bad guys in their beds.

  I ghost out into the hallway. Everything about this home says upper middle class family. I wonder if they’re in on it, or did they fall foul of the cartel, and the smiling people I see in the photos are out in the desert right now, but their mortgage keeps getting paid so the house can be used by Lopez and his gang…

  I’m certain now that I can hear a TV, probably for the guys ‘on watch’, but I don’t want to start a fight with them that will go noisy, and alert the people upstairs. Sleeping beauties first.

  I creep up the stairs, careful to put my feet on either side of the boards where they’re strongest, and less likely to make noise. For a split second an image flashes into my mind of the one time I’d tried to play Santa, but this is no time for memories, and I shake it out of my head.

  Finding the first of the enemy isn’t hard. The snoring sounds like someone’s sawing logs. I quietly push open the door an inch, and see an overweight guy asleep in his boxers. He doesn’t realize it, but his snoring has bought him an extra two minutes of life. I look into the next room, and see a younger guy tucked into the sheets, cartel ink on his arms and neck. There’s a pistol by the bedside - a gift to me - and that’s all the proof I need to convict him. I take a screwdriver from my pocket, and drive it into the base of his skull.

  Next bedroom. This one’s a woman. More ink. She looks like a tough bitch. She’s asleep on her back. I have to think about the best way to take her out, standing over her like some kind of fucking demon. I pick up a piece of clothing and clap it over her mouth. Her eyes open wide and she tries to bite me, but the cloth stops her, and then I’m opening her neck with the knife. It’s louder than I want to be, but I have one pistol already, and once she’s drained out into the mattress, I look for hers, and find a second semi-auto and a spare mag. I quietly chamber a round and then go back for the guy sawing --

  Fuck. The snoring’s stopped.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Bits of plaster spray over me as a shotgun shell explodes through the wall. I dive across the bed just in time to miss the second blast, and before the third can come in I reach up for the dead woman, and pull her down on top of me. Hot blood runs onto my face and I feel the body jerk as round four, five, and six turn the bedroom into a hell of shrapnel.

  Through the ringing in my ears I hear the frantic signs of reloading. I push the corpse off of me and get up to one knee, dumping a mag from left to right across the wall. I hear a grunt of pain, and I take that as my chance to move.

  Fuck coming out through the door way. The shotgun has torn apart the wall and so I just put my shoulder to it as I run and crash through. The snorer is trying to get to his knees, clutching at his stomach, but I bring the machete down into his skull before he can reach back for the shotgun. I want that weapon but I don’t see any more shells close at hand, and this isn’t the time to look; shouts are coming from downstairs.

  I change magazines and rack the slide. I turn to look down the staircase and punch the pistol out to scan for bad guys. As I expected there’s the TV watching bad guy waiting, but his aim is loose and wild, and mine is tight. He goes down with two in the chest. My third shot missed his head, but my machete takes care of that as I pass him and move down into the basement.

  Two seconds later, and I wished that I hadn’t.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  At first I thought what I was seeing hanging from the basement ceiling was a pig’s carcass, but then I saw the long hair, and realized I was looking at the butchered remains of a human. I can only think that it was there as a horrific warning, because chained looking at it were three other women, their mouths gagged, hands cuffed and tethered to a metal bar set in the floor.

  The room stank of shit, blood, and guts, and I had no desire to stay any longer. With my strength behind the blows the machete broke the thin chains, and the girls were on their feet. I left them gagged, though; I knew the screams would be coming.

  “This way!” I said in Spanish. “This way! Follow me!”

  Like terrified sheep they followed me up the stairs. I was on the final step when all of the lights went out, the noise from the TV died, and I heard sirens in the near distance.

  “Fuck.”

  Chapter Forty

  The bad guy cavalry was coming, and I needed more weapons. I needed more time.

  “Hold this.” I said to one of the girls, and gave her a thin flashlight from my pocket. By that light I went to work on the cuffs, and quickly had them out of them. “Follow me.” I told them again, leading them to the window that I’d taken out. My plan had been to drive the girls to safety, but now that the police sirens were on the street, that was out of the question. We were out of time, and I’d need to cause a distraction as they figured out the rest themselves. I didn’t even have a second to enjoy the irony that the police arriving here was possibly the worst thing that could happen for the girls’ survival chances, and my own. Either way, the course for them was to run.

  They didn’t hug me. Didn’t thank me. That’s some movie bullshit. They were too terrified for any of that. They were acting on instinct, pure and simple, and they bolted like a farm animal with the gate left open.

  Checking my pistol, I moved toward the front door, checking myself as I saw it was already open. That pause saved my life as a bat came swinging out of the dark, missing me by inches. I fired two shots into the darkness, got rewarded with a scream, and got six more shots back at me.

  All detail was lost at that point. I’ve been involved in close quarter battle more times than I can count, but never like this. I don’t know how many of them there were, how many I killed, who was police, and who were cartel. I just know that I fired the pistol until it was empty, hacked with my machete until it broke, and stabbed with the kitchen knife until it got stuck in somebody’s chest. I had blood in my eyes, my mouth, my nose, my ears. I could taste my enemy. Smell them. I probably pissed myself. I definitely tasted puke. I had to get out. I had to run, and in the darkness I tried to fight my way back to a window. Any window.

  But something hit me hard across my leg, and I went down.

  Chapter Forty-One

  I didn’t have time to worry about what put me down, I just knew I had to get back up. There were voices screaming and shouting in Spanish, and by the washing light of the police cars I saw a boot flying in towards my face. With my switchblade in my hand I swung out to protect myself, and felt the metal cut into leather. The boot pulled back, coming in for another try, but then there were gunshots, and a scream.

  “Stop shooting!” Someone shouted. “You hit Sebastian!”

  Friendly fire. It happens to bad guys too. This was my chance. Probably my last. I took it, and charged for the window. There was no stopping me, and I came on like Aaron Donald, feeling my shoulder smash into god knows who…

  And then I was out of the window.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I threw my jacket onto the glass on the wall but it still tore into me as I pulled myself up and over, and I felt blood running from my hands and legs. My heart was beating out of my mouth and my lungs were hanging out of my ass, but I ran like a fucking Olympian for the Camry. I expected a chase, but the cops were either looking the other way, or in the house, and so I forced myself to be calm, and to pull away from the curb like I was heading to the store to pick up a paper. My eyes worked overtime on my mirrors, but after two minutes of driving my pulse began to slow, and I could finally breathe again; I’d made it.

  Now I just had to make it home.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Do you know what’s not fun? Washing blood off of you in a dirty ass little river in Juarez, but what choice did I have? I used a bridge for cover, and went to work under that thing like a fucking troll. I had a basic med kit with me in the Camry, and I used butterfly stitches to close up my cuts as best as I could. Lucky for me desert nights were cold, and so I’d be able to wear gloves to cover the wounds on my hands as I cross
ed back into America. My face was another matter. A ball cap would give me shadow, but I knew I’d taken a beating. I put makeup on the bruises, but I’m no Kim Kardashian, and I washed it off when I saw I looked more like someone from the Adams family. I dumped my bloody kit in the water, and in fresh clothes, struck out for home.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  If you ever want to cross a border after committing a crime, try and do it at the busiest time of day. Luckily for me, four AM in Juarez was one of those times, as migrant workers began their daily crossing into The States. With my American plates and passport, I hardly even got a second look.

  I dropped the Camry at the rental place and then walked to my truck. It gave me ten minutes to finally think of something more than immediate survival, and I could look back on the night.

  I knew that I was lucky to be alive. I had no right to walk out of that place alive. I took my switchblade out of my pocket, and thought about the boot that had been coming for my face. If that had connected, I’d probably be getting skinned alive right now.

  Instead I picked up my truck, and after putting in some anti-tail maneuvers through El Paso, headed to my ranch.

  I surprised myself that I was disappointed when I realized that Diego wasn’t there. The house felt kinda empty as I took a beer from the fridge, and warmed up some food. The microwave hadn’t even pinged before I’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table. I must have been there for eight hours before I finally came to, feeling about as bad as I ever had done in my life. I thought back to the cartel guy I’d hit with the truck; I guess I knew how he felt.

  I was about to drift off again when my phone began to vibrate. I looked at it, and saw two missed calls; they were from Anna-Maria.

  “Hello?”

  The voice on the far end sounded almost as worn out as I felt. “What do you have going on tonight?” She asked me, straight off the bat. “I need a drink.”

  I sat back in my chair. Every muscle ached. Every bone throbbed. “You know what?” I grunted. “I think I do, too.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  When I get to the bar Anna-Maria is waiting for me, and so is a cold beer.

  “How are you doing?” I ask her. She looks almost as tired as I feel.

  “I hate this border.” She tells me honestly. “It’s selfish of me, but I just feel like going away for a while.”

  “So do it.” I shrug, but she shakes her head.

  “There’s people dying down here everyday. Shit, I don’t need to tell you how it is, Dom.” She says gently.

  That’s probably why I’m here, I realize. She wants someone who can talk about the border without actually needing to talk about it. Just someone who knows. It’s the same reason that so many war veterans hang out together. Doesn’t mean you talk about it all the time, but everyone knows.

  I stand up. “Let me get us another beer.”

  I get the feeling that it’s going to be a long night, and honestly, my body’s feeling a little less beat up after the first. Anna-Maria’s eyes don’t hurt either. There’s still something behind them that lures me. That spark of danger.

  “You don’t strike me as your usual charity type.” I tell her honestly. “You got a bit more… edge.”

  She smiles. It’s a good smile. “And how many charity workers you met, Dom?”

  Shit. She’s got me with that one. “I guess I’m stereotyping, huh?”

  That smile again. She doesn’t hold it against me.

  “Hey, let me get dinner tonight, make that one up to you.”

  Anna-Maria looks at the drink in her hand. “We could do that,” she says, placing the bottle down. “Or, you could take me home and fuck me?”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  We didn’t make it home, at least not at first. It started in the parking lot, and we’d just about cleared the limits of town when Anna-Maria told me to pull the truck down a dirt road. We just about made it home for the second round, and I lost count after that. I’ve had women before that felt like they were trying to fuck their demons away - who the fuck would come to me if they had their life together? - but Anna-Maria was something else. By the time that we finally stopped to sleep, I felt like the cartel guys at the house had beat the shit out of me for a second time.

  A few hours later, dawn begins to spill in through the open window. We’re both naked on top of the sheets, her arm across me but face in the pillow. I hope she doesn’t wake up, not yet. Not because I don’t want her to, but because I do want her to. This is not the time to be catching feelings for someone. Shit is complicated enough as it is, and I still need to get my hands on that motherfucker Lopez.

  Maybe she feels my tension, because she suddenly comes to, like she was having a bad dream.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her quickly.

  She sees me, and the moment of panic drops away. She looks calm. Maybe I’ve deluded myself, but it’s like she feels… protected.

  I want to ask her what happened in her life to make her wake up like that, and that’s as sure a sign as any that this woman is under my skin, now.

  “Hey.” I say. “Can I make you some breakfast?”

  She smiles, and moves her hand to my chest, but then… “Jesus, Dom, how’d you get all these bruises?”

  I prop myself up, and look down at my body; Fuck. I look like a piñata that had a really hard day at the office, but you don’t last as an NCO if you can’t scramble bullshit quickly: “I came off my goddamn dirt bike.” I tell her, doing my best to sound like an embarrassed idiot. It must work, because the next second she starts kissing me at my shoulders, and she doesn’t stop.

  When we’re done, I insist that she relax and I walk to the kitchen to bring us breakfast in bed. I know I’m playing house. I know it won’t last. But you know what? Fuck it. I want to play house with this woman. She gives a fuck about people. She gives a fuck about me.

  “Do your thing, Dom.” I have to say to myself, like I’m a third person. It’s so rare in my life that I think this way that it almost does feel like there is a different person in the room.

  I’m battered and bruised but I’m feeling pretty proud that someone like Anna-Maria would be interested in me, and so I’m trying not to move like an old man as I put the eggs on the stove, and start mixing pancakes. Once everything’s rolling, I look around the kitchen; our clothes are everywhere. We didn’t make it to the bedroom before they came off.

  I feel a hundred years old as I bend down to pick up and fold the clothes, and finally I get to the first things to come off; our boots.

  I’m setting them next to each other, loving every second of happy families, when I see the groove of a knife’s blade cut into the front of her boot.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The first thing I feel when I see the cut in Anna-Maria’s boot is acid in my stomach, and panic. The next thing is embarrassment, and I call myself an idiot. There are so many ways to fuck up a boot. What I’m thinking is just stupid. It’s impossible.

  But my stomach is churning. There’s one easy way to know for sure if Anna-Maria’s boot was the one that tried to kick me in the safe house.

  I keep the boot in my hands and step over to my pile of clothes. I reach inside the pocket of my jeans, and take out my switchblade.

  I click it open, and pause. It’s like I already know, and I can feel a tide rising in my throat. I’ve never wanted to be wrong so much in my life.

  But then I move the blade to the boot, and I know that I’m not.

  It’s a perfect fit.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  I smell food burning. It snaps me from me trance. I look one more time at my switchblade sitting snugly in the groove it had cut into Anna-Maria’s boot.

  I put her boot down, but keep the blade in my hand. What the fuck do I do now? I know there has to be a rational explanation for this, but how do I find it?

  By making breakfast. I tell myself. Make breakfast. Maintain. Pretend that everything’s still perfect. The answers will come. />
  I take a deep breath. Her voice comes from the bedroom. “Everything okay in there, Dom? I smell burning.”

  Suck it up. Maintain. Get your answers. “All good. I just suck at cooking, that’s all.”

  “Want some help?”

  “Nah, I got it. On my way.”

  I leave my switchblade open beneath my pile of clothes, and then I shovel the burnt food onto a couple of plates. Finally I pour coffee. I watch the steam rise before I put everything onto a tray, and carry it into the bedroom.

  “Hey, babe.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  I deserve a fucking Oscar for the way I pushed my acid back into my stomach and ate that food with a smile on my face. Benefits of having the shit kicked out of you by your parents and classmates, I guess. You get good at hiding the hurt.

  “That was good.” She smiles at me, and I feel sick. “What do you wanna do now?”

  There’s an invitation in her words, but I’ve got my own. “Let’s take a walk. It’s beautiful out right now.”

  That’s no lie. The sun close to dawn is like a hug from a friend, not the punch in the face it becomes later in the day.

  “Sounds good. Do you remember where my clothes are?”

  Yeah, I fucking remember. “This way.”

  I offer her a hand so that I can make sure I’m behind her as I playfully steer her towards the kitchen. I pull my boxers and jeans on first, then my boots. She starts top down. My switchblade is a few inches from my hand, hidden beneath my t-shirt. She begins to tie her laces. It’s time to ask.