Hollow Point

by Robert Swartwood

  One of the men jiggles the padlock on the large door, while the other shuffles over to the side door.

  The one closer to the side door calls out.

  “Over here.”

  The one playing with the padlock leaves it be and hurries over to his partner.

  A moment passes, and then the door pushes open, and I can see the man in the cowboy hat from last night standing just outside. He has a gun in his hand, a flashlight in his other hand.

  I’m stationed on the other side of the tractor, crouched behind the overlarge wheel, the 1911 aimed at the door. From this angle, I have a clean shot at the cowboy. A slight squeeze of the trigger, and it’ll be lights out. But if I do that, I’ll alert his partner, and I don’t like the idea of his partner being outside while I’m trapped in here with Eleanora. Best to wait until they both enter, take the two of them out together, one after the other.

  The cowboy doesn’t enter. He stands at the threshold and sweeps his flashlight through the room. I have to duck when the beam comes my way, and I close my eyes for a beat, steady my breathing, my heartbeat.

  That’s when Eleanora can’t contain herself any longer, and lets out a frightened cry.

  It’s mostly muffled by the duct tape, but at once the flashlight beam jerks in her direction.

  The cowboy says, “Holy shit, there she is.”

  There’s something about how he says it—almost with surprise—that makes me frown, but before I can think too much about it, the cowboy steps inside.

  His partner doesn’t.

  He says, “Let me see if I can get that generator going.”

  The partner drifts away. I track him from the sound of his footsteps on the dirt outside the shed, and I consider firing at him through the wood. At least the cowboy is already inside; I could easily pivot and take him out, too. But it’s still near pitch-black, and I would be aiming at the cowboy’s flashlight which isn’t a reliable target.

  Better to wait for the lights to come on, if that’s what’s going to happen. For the partner to step inside so I’ll have both of them in one place.

  The cowboy doesn’t wait for the generator. He moves forward, the flashlight beam trained on Eleanora’s face.

  She has her eyes closed, flinching at the bright light, and she’s sobbing again, the tears falling down her face, and the cowboy murmurs as he approaches her—“Don’t worry, darlin’, we’re gonna take real good care of you”—and the way he says it, the smarmy tone of his voice, makes me squeeze the 1911’s grip so tight I’m afraid I might snap it in half.

  I won’t let the cowboy place one finger on Eleanora, I decide, but I can’t do anything until his partner joins him in the shed.

  The cowboy’s close to her, his voice going even lower.

  “You ever get fucked by an American? A whole hell of a lot better than those wetbacks you’re used to back home.”

  Outside, the partner cranks the generator’s starter cord—once, twice—and it’s on the third time that the thing roars to life and a few dim bulbs in the shed’s ceiling begin to flicker on.

  The cowboy pauses, tilts his face up to the ceiling, and lets out a whistle.

  “That right there—that’s a sign from the good Lord Almighty. He approves of what we’re about to do to you.”

  Eleanora keeps sobbing, but her eyes are open now, wide in terror, and it’s her eyes that give me away.

  They shift, just slightly, enough for the cowboy to turn to find me running at him, the 1911 in my right hand, the opened SOG in my left, and the cowboy spins and fires at me right as I fire at him. His shot goes right over my head, but I hit him in the shoulder, send him reeling to the side. I want to take him out before his partner enters the shed, but his partner’s already at the door, his gun drawn, and fires at me a second later.

  I twist and fire three shots at his chest. He’s wearing a light green polo shirt, and three red flowers bloom just below his neck.

  I turn back to the cowboy, but he’s already coming at me, his gun aimed at my face.

  I dip back just before he fires, readjust for a head shot, but he swats the 1911 from my grip, sends it clattering to the ground. I still have the SOG, though, and I toss it to my right hand as I step toward him, grabbing the knife with the blade pointed down and slicing him across the stomach.

  The cowboy grunts and backhands me across the face.

  I stumble back, the SOG still in my hand, and plan to step toward him again when I realize the distance between us—no more than five feet—isn’t enough for me to reach him before he pulls the trigger.

  I dive to the side, in front of the tractor, as the cowboy fires off several rounds.

  I rise up on one knee, pull the P320 from the small of my back, flick off the safety.

  The cowboy calls out, “You cut me, you fucking bitch!”

  Using the tractor for cover, I glance over at Eleanora, her eyes wide as she watches the two of us.

  The cowboy shouts again.

  “Fucking bitch!”

  “You called me that already.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  I hold the SOG in my left hand a beat before tossing it toward the rear of the tractor.

  The cowboy, holding his bleeding stomach with his left hand, tracks the knife with his eyes but not with his gun. He keeps that aimed toward the front of the tractor, from where he expects me to jump out. He’s not a total moron, it appears, so I have to hand him that, but he’s still one step behind. Because I don’t go toward the tractor’s front or back—I go over, using the metal step to jump into the seat, the P320’s sight trained right on the cowboy’s face.

  His head snaps back an instant after I squeeze the trigger. He stands there for a second, his gun in one hand, his other hand pressed against his bleeding stomach, and then falls to the ground.

  Standing tall in the open cab of the tractor, I spin to confirm both the cowboy and his partner are indeed dead, and then I drop to the ground and retrieve the SOG and the 1911 and hurry over to Eleanora.

  I peel the duct tape from her mouth, cut her free from the chair, help her to her feet. Her first impulse is to hold onto me, sobbing. I step away from her, and motion at the door.

  “Let’s go.”

  Her eyes are still wide, taking in the dead bodies, and she looks at me, her face ashen, her mouth agape. But she doesn’t speak, just nods her head, ready to follow me anywhere.

  I scan the shed again. Focusing once more on those metal barrels. Thinking about the stench of oil and gasoline.

  I tell Eleanora to go outside. She’s scared, shaking, but finally she waddles toward the open side door. Once she’s gone, I check both men’s pockets. I find their wallets, check their IDs. Light green polo is named Samuel Mulkey, the cowboy Philip Kyer. Kyer has his badge clipped to his belt, while Mulkey has his in his pocket. Both badges look legit. Which somehow makes it even worse. There’s nothing more disgusting than a corrupt cop. And here are two of them.

  Both men also have cell phones. Mulkey has some nicotine gum packets, but Kyer still hasn’t given up the habit. He doesn’t have any cigarettes on him—those are probably in the car—but he does have a lighter. It’s a fancy one, too, stainless steel with his initials engraved on the side.

  It takes me five minutes before everything is set, and then I step outside into the fresh air.

  Eleanora hasn’t gone far. She stands there, her arms crossed, trying to keep herself warm. She’s only wearing shorts and a T-shirt and sandals, not the most ideal outfit for the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere.

  I take my first look at the car parked in front of the shed—the same sedan from last night—and then I take Eleanora’s arm and steer her toward the field of frozen oil derricks—and my car parked in a field two miles away.

  We’ve gone maybe two hundred yards before the fuse I’ve set finally catches. The shed starts to burn, and the fire hits the cluster of barrels in the corner. The ground shakes with the explosion. It’s louder t
han I anticipated, and I’m worried it’ll draw attention much quicker than planned, so I keep my hand on Eleanora’s arm and whisper to her in Spanish to hurry, hurry, hurry.

  Fifteen

  Leila Simmons is already at the rest stop by the time we arrive, and the moment we park beside her, she opens her door and jumps out.

  The rest stop has no exterior lights—not even a single lamp—but the half moon provides just enough light to see she’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. Probably the first things she managed to grab after my phone call.

  Leila leans down to see the person in the passenger seat, and as soon as she confirms it’s Eleanora, her eyes go wide as her hands shoot to her mouth. The next moment she rushes forward to open Eleanora’s door, reaching out to touch the girl’s face, like she can’t believe it’s truly her.

  A flurry of Spanish ricochets back and forth—Leila asking Eleanora if she’s all right, if she thinks the baby’s okay, if she’s hurt, and Eleanora doing her best to answer before Leila lobs another question—and all the while Leila helps Eleanora from my car and walks her to the Jetta.

  I step out and watch them without a word.

  After Leila helps Eleanora into the passenger seat, she gently shuts the door and turns to me.

  “I … I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “How”—she pauses, shakes her head in wonder—“how did you do this?”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  In the dark, I note a speck of confusion on her face but it quickly morphs to understanding.

  “Were … those men there?”

  I glance past her at Eleanora in the car. I figure Eleanora will probably tell her everything. Not only what happened between me and the two men, but what those men may have done to her after they abducted her. I’d tried asking Eleanora about her abduction, in case anybody else was involved, but she was exhausted once we made it back to the car, and I didn’t want to put any further stress on her.

  “Is she an illegal?”

  Leila says nothing. Which is all the answer I need.

  “Then I’m going to assume you won’t report what happened to her. I would keep it that way.”

  Understanding flicks across her face again.

  “Those men—”

  I cut her off.

  “Are no longer going to be a problem.”

  I pause, watching her in the dark, not wanting to ask the next question but knowing I have no other choice.

  “Are there others?”

  “Others?”

  “Who were taken.”

  She shakes her head, a deliberate back and forth.

  “Not that I know of.”

  My first impulse is to tell her to call if she hears of any other girls being abducted. Mulkey and Kyer can’t have been the only two running this particular racket. There are no doubt others, but … no, I can’t get involved in this. I’ve already done more than I should. I killed two men tonight, and while I’ve killed several in the past, that was a different life. I’m no longer that person, and I can’t risk any further exposure.

  When I realize Leila Simmons is waiting for me to speak, I softly clear my throat.

  “Good.”

  I wait another beat, and then tilt my chin at the car.

  “Take care of her.”

  Leila Simmons nods.

  “I will.”

  I don’t tell her to call if she needs anything else. I don’t tell her that the phone I’d called her on will be stripped apart and its pieces scattered along the highway. That as far as this woman is concerned she’s never going to see me again. I don’t tell her any of that, because I think she’s smart enough to figure it out, just as she’s smart enough to know she needs to be the one to leave first.

  Leila doesn’t say anything else. She just looks at me one last time before climbing into her car.

  Eleanora twists in her seat when Leila pulls out of the rest stop, the girl raising her hand goodbye.

  I don’t bother returning the gesture. I don’t even acknowledge her with a nod. Because I can’t invest any further time in the girl or the woman. It may sound harsh, but they’re strangers to me, and that’s all they’ll ever be.

  The Jetta accelerates as it heads west, its taillights a dim red before fading completely.

  I wait there for another minute, listening to the silence of the night, the distant chorus of insects calling from the desert, before I slip into my car and head back to the place I’ve come to think of as home.

  Sixteen

  Another brown paper bag is waiting for me outside my apartment door. This time the gift inside is big enough to tell exactly what it is. It’s squat and circular, and the note on top—another folded piece of paper—simply says, In case you run out.

  A roll of toilet paper. Hardy har har.

  I consider knocking on Erik’s door, playfully tossing the toilet paper at his face, but I feel sticky from sweat and smell of gasoline, and besides, I still have my weapons.

  Inside my apartment, I set the toilet paper on the kitchen table next to the box of Imodium A-D, as well as the knife and the pistols. They’ll need to be cleaned, which is something I’ll do after my shower. It’ll feel good to clean the weapons—a familiarity I’ve long missed—but they’ll have to wait.

  I head to the bathroom, stripping out of my clothes as I go, so that when I flick on the light I’m only wearing my bra and panties. I study my face in the mirror, at the place where the cowboy backhanded me. A slight bruise, but it’s not too noticeable. Nothing a healthy dollop of makeup can’t hide.

  I slide the shower curtain back and turn on the water and adjust the faucets until the temperature’s just right, and then I step into the tub and pull the curtain shut and tilt my face down so the warm water beats at the back of my head.

  Part of me hopes the shower will not only rid me of the sweat and gasoline but also my exhilaration. Tonight for the first time in a year I felt alive again. Like I had a purpose. For once my existence didn’t consist of the mundane—shelving books, serving drinks—but for a couple hours I had felt like the old me.

  And it wasn’t only saving Eleanora—that should have been enough—but what I did to those two men. Making them pay for their crimes. Making sure they would never hurt another helpless girl.

  Stop. Just stop it.

  I don’t want to be that person again, do I? I made the choice to walk away from everything. To tell Walter Hadden I was done—not just being a bodyguard to his two children, but to all of it. The non-sanctioned work I’d done for the government. The covert missions. The assassinations. The knowledge that with every life I took it was in service to the country and to normal Americans who went about their every day lives completely oblivious to the constant danger surrounding them.

  Of course, it wasn’t only Walter and the work I’d walked away from. It was the knowledge that my father—our team leader, who all my life I’d considered a hero—wasn’t really dead. That he’d only faked his death. That he’s out there somewhere, having aligned himself with terrorists, and part of me wants nothing more than to put a bullet through his face while another part … well, another part dreads the idea, because despite what he’s become, he’s still my father.

  My mother never knew the truth about her husband, just as Tina, my sister, never knew the truth about her father. All they knew was he worked for the military. Not that he was an assassin for the United States government. That when the government needed full deniability and couldn’t afford to risk sending in a CIA asset, they’d send my father and his team.

  Besides myself, the only other person left from the team is Nova Bartkowski, who I haven’t seen or talked to in a year, not since we came back from an impromptu mission in Mexico, and now that I think about Nova, where did he end up, anyway? He mentioned something about finding his father, but he didn’t tell me much else. For all I know something bad may have happened to him. For all I know he may be dea
d.

  I blink, realizing all at once I’ve been lost in my thoughts, still standing in the shower. How many minutes has it been? I feel the tips of my fingers, realize they’ve started to prune, and decide enough screwing around.

  A couple minutes later I step out and dry myself off. My hair’s still wet, but at least it’s short now, not long like it was a year ago.

  Wrapped in a towel, I walk into the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. As I twist off the cap and start to raise the bottle to my lips, there’s a soft knock at the apartment door, followed directly by a whisper.

  “Police, open up.”

  I eye the two pistols and the knife on the kitchen table next to Erik’s two gag gifts. I cross over to the table and collect all three weapons and place them in a drawer before heading to the door.

  A quick glance through the peephole confirms Erik is standing on the other side. But he’s turning away, having concluded I’m asleep or maybe mad at him, and is about to head back into his apartment.

  I open the door.

  He pauses, and glances at me over his shoulder.

  “Oh, hello.”

  He says it all innocently like he’s surprised to find me answering my door at three o’clock in the morning.

  I say, “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  He turns to me, and shrugs.

  “I was reading. Thought I heard you come in not too long ago. Wanted to check to see how you’re feeling.”

  I glance down at his empty hands.

  “What, no beers?”

  He offers an embarrassed smile, and shrugs again.

  “Figure you probably wouldn’t be in the mood for a drink. Why were you out so late, anyway? I was at Reggie’s earlier; they said you called out sick.”

  “Keeping tabs on me, are you?”

  Another shrug.

  “I’m merely a concerned neighbor, is all.”