by I N Foggarty
“Anna, don’t antagonise them,” he blurted out without thinking. Quickly Dylan clamped his hands over his mouth. That counted as sound, right?
The large man let out a howl of laughter. “The bitch has more balls than this cissy eh, Rae.”
“Shut it!” When he turned to scowl at his associate Dylan could see the vein in the bruised man’s temple begin to throb; his patience slowly eroding. He then turned back to Anna. “That’s not for you to know.”
Anna sighed. “Fine.” She then turned to look at Dylan. “Sorry, Dylan, I guess I was wrong. I do have a use for you.” He looked at her blankly. What on earth… “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to kill you.”
“What!” Dylan exclaimed in unison with the bruised man, his mouth falling open. He knew Anna was crazy but this put her on a whole other level. What could she possibly gain from killing him? Their captor clearly agreed with him. Slowly he began to back away from her.
“It’s simple.” The look in Anna’s eyes told Dylan that she wasn’t bluffing. Had he gravely underestimated her wrath? “He’s no use to you dead so if you want to keep him alive I suggest you answer my questions. Or just let me go. As you can probably tell I don’t care what happens to him.”
“Not going to happen.” The momentary look of shock had gone from the bruised man’s face. Dylan glanced between him and the slowly advancing form of Anna. He had clearly underestimated her level of insanity.
“Please,” Dylan begged though he had no idea what to do.
The moment Anna reached out a hand to grab the front of his shirt a loud pop sounded and the girl’s body convulsed and crumpled to the ground. Dylan looked down in horror as sharp buzzing bursts pierced the silence. A wire ran from Anna’s shaking body, out through the bars and up towards a gun-shaped device in the large man’s thick hands. A Taser he realised. All of a sudden his back hit the wall and he tried in vain to force himself to dematerialise through it. As fingernails dug into palms his breathing became increasingly more erratic. Yet Dylan found himself unable to move his transfixed gaze away from Anna’s continually jerking body. Was she having some sort of seizure? From beyond the cell, the laughter of the big man filled his ears?
“Damn it, Roca, you’re going to fucking kill her,” the one referred to as Rae yelled and Dylan realised that it was not a seizure. The big man had continued to shock Anna.
“STOP IT!” he yelled without thought, a split second before Anna’s body came to rest. Now able to divert his gaze he could see that the one referred to as Rae had seized the weapon from his comrade. Instinctively Dylan knelt down beside Anna. She was still breathing, but by the looks of it, out cold. Hesitantly, partly scared that she would suddenly snap out of it and carry out her earlier threat, he took hold of her wrist between his thumb and fore-fingers. “You could have killed her.”
“Teach her not to threaten us then won't it.” The big man had a cruel, twisted smile on his face that told Dylan he had enjoyed what he had just done. “Better make sure she gets that when she wakes up.”
“Enough!” Rae cut in as he walked over to the cell door. “You,” he pointed at Dylan. “Turn around and stand against the wall.” Dylan complied without question. Behind him, he could hear the door being unlocked and the man entering. “If the two of you behave we’ll feed you and nothing else unpleasant will happen to you. Understand?”
“Yes,” Dylan whispered as he heard the man bend down beside Anna to remove the Taser prongs. However, after all that had happened since last night, he did not believe him.
After the gate had closed, Dylan waited until he heard the door at the opposite end of the room shut before he dared to move. What had he done to deserve this? Huddling himself into a corner he hugged his knees and watched the limp body of Anna lie awkwardly the way it had fallen in the centre of the cell. What was he going to do about her when she awoke? Would she really kill him? Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he flashed through the incidents of violence he had witnessed from her over the years and the information he knew about her family. Yes, she would. Deep down he guessed some part of him always known or suspected it. At least now he knew. She was like two different people the one Matt knew, the one Dylan knew…, and now the third option who did not seem panicked that they had been kidnapped, so maybe three people. Questions filled his head to which he had no answers. The only thing he knew, for now, was even though they had been kidnapped together he was very much alone and either Anna, these goons or his father were going to murder him.
He hugged his knees tighter and rested his forehead on them refusing to cry. With no one around to see him, his resolve diminished with each sorrowful breath that quickly became a sob.
A quiet day
Evening slowly slid into night, in the same manner as patrons of several nefarious establishments slid onto bar stools and into countless booths. Inside Los sin techo’s very own dwelling of disreputable demeanour sat Sergio Gutierrez, a bottle of tequila on the bar in front of him. Things had been quiet that day. Ramone had called him in the early hours of the morning, with word that his task had been completed. After that, not much had happened. There had been no catastrophic events. No one bursting through his office doors, or called to tell him X had gone wrong with Y. In fact, he could scarcely remember a day when there hadn’t been at least a minor scrap between some of his own people.
It was typical on such days that he found himself in a reflective mood. Peering through the glass at the worm inside the bottle, he sighed. Was this how it would end for him? Overweight and dead from alcohol poisoning? At least the worm had the excuse that it had not voluntarily drunk the tequila. Dismissing the thought he picked up his glass and drained the contents.
“If you don’t lay off d’at stuff, not even d’e worms will a’ve you.” Sergio looked up at the balding barman who gave him a toothy grin. “D’ough if you did d’at I would be a poorer man.” The barman laughed at his own joke and absentmindedly wiped the bar with the corner of a dirty towel.
The place was quiet tonight. Like everything else that day. Though Sergio suspected his presence in the bar had something to do with it. Some were still reluctant to come within a mile of him, given his reaction to the events of the past week.
“Have you ever killed a man, Ronaldo?” he asked before the barman turned away.
“O’ boy,” Ronaldo sighed. He pulled a stool from behind the bar over and sat down. Fetching a glass of his own, he picked up the bottle and poured himself a measure. Sergio gave no objection; he hadn’t paid for it yet. “I killed a man in Panama once. Stabbed ‘im in d’a liver and watc’ed d’e blood ran black as ink.”
Sergio looked at him unfazed. He’d asked this question of him before and each time got a different answer. Maybe Ronaldo had killed each of the individuals he spoke about, or maybe none at all. In the end, he didn’t really care. Bar some of the newer kids he doubted anyone within Los sin techo had not taken a life at one time or another. “Have you ever killed someone you knew?”
“Of course. Me and d’at idiot in Panama went way back.” They always went way back Gutierrez thought. He watched the barman sip his drink.
“How about someone you cared about?”
“If I did not care about ‘im I would not ‘ave remembered him,” Ronaldo replied, refilling his glass. “You only remember ‘de ones you care about. All ‘de rest just fade into the background like meals you ate or drinks you drank.”
That was certainly true Sergio thought, taking a drink from his own glass. He’d long since lost count of all the people he’d killed over the years and whether it had been hatred, love or regret he had felt something towards the ones he could remember. “Did you regret killing him?”
The barman sighed and downed another drink. “No. ‘de dirty bastard stabbed me in ‘de back beforehand, literally.” It figured, Ronaldo never admitted to having felt remorse for any of his supposed killings. The victim had always done something to him prior that had merited death.
Reachi
ng into his pocket Sergio pulled out a folded piece of paper, badly worn around the edges and seams. He looked at it. “So ‘oo is it you regret killing?” Ronaldo enquired as he peered over at the old photograph Sergio had just unfolded. A picture of him in his younger days having a drink with an older man. “’Dat ‘im?”
Sergio sighed. “Andrés Rivera. He led Los Hermanos de Sangre.” He paused to refill his own glass. “And was the closest thing I ever had to a Padre.” Downing the shot he then brought the glass down hard upon the solid surface of the bar.
“So… wot ‘appened?”
“Ramone and me, we followed an old friend of ours, Jose, over here from Juarez. Lots of opportunity in Chicago for a man to make something of himself and make lots of money… or so he said.”
The bartender scoffed at him. “Pfft. D’ats wot d’ey all say.”
“He was right,” Sergio continued, gazing into his younger self’s dark eyes. “We arrived in Chicago with nothing but the clothes on our backs till Jose introduced us to Rivera. He took us in. Gave us food, shelter and work.”
Ronaldo looked at him sceptically. “I give food and lodgings ‘ere and no one ever said they made a lot of money out of it.”
“The work that made us the money. Old Rivera, he came to see me as his number two. Taught me everything he knew.”
“D’e problem with number two’s is d’at sooner or later d’ey get flushed down d’e toilet.” Ronaldo grinned over the rim of his glass. “Is d’at how you ‘appened to get ‘ere.”
“No,” Gutierrez sighed, taking a drink directly from the bottle. “Ramone and me, we were young, greedy and foolish.”
“Isn’t d’at always d’e way.”
Sergio laughed with him but it held a hollow tone. “Old Rivera had a saying. You stick to what you know and who you know.” Ronaldo gave him a funny look that suggested people who spoke in riddles to him generally were cut off and had their asses kicked out the door. “He meant that you only do business in a market you know and with people you know. That way you are always in control.”
“Good advice I’ll give ‘im d’at.”
“If only I’d thought so at the time. I argued that we were making less money than we coulda. Than we shoulda. He told me such jobs were too risky. I disagreed with him.” Sergio paused as he pulled out his desert eagle and slammed it down onto the woodwork. “In the end, I shot him in the head and Ramone and me took over his organisation. Los sin techo. It’s what we called ourselves back in Juarez.”
“You don’t sound like a man ‘oo regrets his decision,” Ronaldo stated, his eyes studying Sergio’s expression.
“I tell it like it was. It’s only now that I realise what he meant by, stick with what you know and who you know.” He filled his glass and raised it into the air. “Here’s to you Andrés. Eight years to the day...” he contemplated the liquid in the light a moment “…El padre que yo tenía nvere.” He downed the shot.
“I’ll drink to d’at.” The barman raised his glass and followed suit. He pursed his lips and contemplated the empty bottle between them, “I’ll get a new bottle.”
Sergio carefully folded the photo and popped it back into his pocket. It was at the same moment that his phone rang. Grumbling he reached into the pocket and pulled the device out. He didn’t need to read the name to know who it would be.
“Can’t a man have one fucking night to drink in peace?” he growled upon bringing the device to his ear.
“Business never stops, Serg,” Tanya replied, chirpy as ever.
That was certainly true. If it did, he would probably stop drinking; his liver would probably thank him. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
“That’s like so the beauty of it, you don’t have to. I’ve already taken care of it. Just thought you’d want to be up to date.”
Did she ever stop working he wondered, glancing around the room for any sign of Ronaldo and the new bottle of tequila? “Then get on with it.”
“Ok, so two of your bigger idiots fell one short of their quota last night. So they went and grabbed a random off the street.” That was never good he thought, a hint of concern floating into his mind. “So I like did a background check and it turns out she’s the daughter of a cop. I know, so not…”
“Wait. What!” Sergio bellowed with enough force that had there been any other patrons in the bar they would have disappeared into the woodwork. “Which idiots are respons… In fact, I don’t care just get rid of her!”
“Hey, Serg, chillax. I’ve got it all under control. I’ll make her disappear and that’ll be the end of it.” Tanya’s sweet tone betrayed the fact that this could be a major problem if not dealt with swiftly and correctly. Any idiot knew that messing with a cop’s family unprovoked or otherwise was a recipe for disaster.
“Make sure she never gets back home and no one can trace it to us,” he said his tone expressionless.
“Aye aye, Serg.” The line went dead.
Sergio did not like the manner she had ended the call. There was something about what Tanya had just told him that she didn’t want him to know... he could figure it out later. Pocketing his phone Ronaldo returned with the tequila. He would not let this incident ruin his quiet day. Yet on staring at a new worm in a new bottle, he had a strong suspicion that his blood had gone from pickled to boiling despite his calm outer demeanour.
Korma’s a bitch
The day had been warm and stuffy, at least so his comrade had told him. However, ‘told’ was not the way to have put it. Gloated would have been a far better choice. In the morning Ramone and El Roca had flipped a coin to see which one of them had to stay and hold the fort, while the other ventured off into the world in search of supplies. Needless to say, Ramone had lost.
Stuck underground he had spent the day trying to force the old television set to work lest he be stuck with only Roca to entertain him upon the man’s eventual return. He had not been successful and now the piece of junk sat in the corner of the room with a hole in its side, courtesy of a misunderstanding with Ramone’s handgun. Worse still he had run out of roll-ups mid-afternoon. Though even that paled in comparison to the fact that Roca had returned four hours late. The only noteworthy accomplishment of his day had been getting the ancient CCTV monitor working; it now displayed the goings on inside the cell room.
Ramone threw himself down onto one of the ghastly sofas and looked at the blue plastic bag Roca had brought back. A supposed apology for having been ‘stuck in traffic’ but Ramone could tell that the man had gone to a bar to watch a game. The smell of cheap beer coming from him a dead giveaway. He opened the bag and found what must roughly be El Roca’s weight in Indian food. Unsurprisingly it barely had any warmth, having had to travel nearly an hour from the nearest takeout. Hiding out in the middle of nowhere was a pain in the ass.
Rooting around amidst the plastic containers he found the packet of tobacco he’d requested. Astoundingly, given the fact that Roca did not smoke and it was... well Roca, he had procured the right stuff. Opening the packet his hand trembled slightly as he pinched some of the contents into a line along a paper; a sign he had gone too long without a smoke.
Lighting the end he took a long draw and allowed his tense body to relax. It had only been one day and already he teetered on the edge. Maybe he’d go out for a drive after dinner. Emptying the rest of the contents of the bag onto the table Ramone scooped something from each container onto a plate of questionable hygiene; he was not fussy when it came to Indian food. For a moment he pondered waiting for Roca, having had to force him to feed the prisoners. However, he wasn’t in the caring mood. Swallowing a mouthful he heard the door open and the heavy sound of Roca’s footsteps enter the room.
“Aw, you dirty prick you could’ve waited for me,” Roca exclaimed indignantly.
Ramone looked up at him his mouth full of food “I waited all fucking day for you.”
The other man didn’t reply, just sat down and helped himself to a plateful along with a can of beer.
For a while, the only sounds either of them made were ones that were associated with the consumption of food and drink. Eventually, Ramone broke the silence. “So why’d you bother getting them sandwiches?”
Roca looked up at him as he ripped a piece of naan bread off with his teeth. “It’s like my old Grammy used to say, share the wealth reap the health.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Share the wealth? This look like fucking wealth to you?” Ramone asked with genuine interest.
“No idiot. But it’s all about this Korma thing you see.” The big man rolled his eyes.
Ramone shook his head and almost burst out laughing. Did he mean Karma? However, the man was continuing.
“I won money on the game today which is good Korma right? So by sharing my wealth with the kiddies, by giving them good food, my Korma stays good and I’ll get lucky again. Hey, I even got them two bottles of water so it’s bound to be an even bigger win next time…if you don’t do nice the Korma you get is bad… Korma is a bitch like that!”
Yep, he meant Karma all right Ramone realised. Granted the fact Roca even understood such a concept was amazing. Only the idiot seemed to be neglecting the fact that he had been party to the kidnapping of two kids. Somehow he couldn’t see that counting as anything other than a serious case of bad karma. Still, who was he to piss upon the rock’s misnamed beliefs?
An hour passed and the conversation devolved into Roca giving him a blow-by-blow account of the game he had watched. So much for him being stuck in traffic, Ramone thought bitterly. When he got to the part where the referee had apparently awarded a dubious penalty Ramone almost felt thankful that his phone rang. He looked at it blankly for a moment. How on earth did it have signal? They were in the middle of nowhere and underground to boot. He glanced at the screen.
“It’s Tanya,” he said aloud without thinking.