The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  As they got into tight crouch positions, Juan gave them a mock salute and said, “Don’t let the rattlesnakes bite you in the balls.”

  “Thanks, chavala,” Melon grunted, earning a scowl from Juan as they walked off.

  “Shit,” Parker said with a sigh, “is there anyone you don’t find a way to offend, dude?”

  Melon smiled. “Not if I can help it.”

  They moved in good time, over shrubs and rocks, alongside boulders to rest their backs and then on again, slowly and laboriously over open dirt patches. Parker kept his eye constantly trained on the sentry at the front of the property. When the sentry turned away or looked down, Parker, in the lead, would pick up the pace. When the sentry looked out in the direction of where they were, Parker would freeze, and Melon would too. Again, Parker had memories come his way, and again he pushed them away. But there was no hiding the fact that he’d missed this . . . feeling. It was the feeling of the hunt. And the game was getting closer and closer.

  Eventually, after carefully crawling through a collapsed section of the fence at the far east end of the property, they came in as planned, just behind the delivery trucks, a little more than two hours later. Nostalgia aside, it had been a long time since Parker had done this and as he looked at Melon, he realized the same was true for him; they were both drenched in sweat, their faces and arms covered in dirt. The sun had been a relentless companion the entire journey, both threatening to reveal them and cooking them alive in the process. Parker’s back and quads were killing him, so he laid down for a second and took a break.

  “What now?” Melon said, before exhaling deeply.

  Looking under the delivery truck nearest them, it was easier now to see what they were up against. Once again, Parker realized Güero was old school. Just like the goons at his apartment building when they’d gone after Trudy, these guys all had Uzi submachine guns. It was a glamour weapon of the 80s, not very accurate and almost a collectible now. But Güero must’ve seen a movie where all the tough guys had them, and the image must’ve been part of his idea of how your goons looked when you were finally branded The Boss Man.

  All four of the sentries were wearing them loosely, barely paying attention to things, and even more interesting, the sentry at the front door looked like he wanted to be anywhere on earth but there. Best of all, his view of the back of the delivery trucks was next to zero. From his vantage point the only guy he could most likely see was the sentry at the front of the property.

  “So,” Parker whispered, “you got eyes on the guy at the front of the property and the guy at the front door. I got these two.” Parker motioned at the two goons guarding the delivery trucks.

  Melon nodded.

  It was all about stealth . . . and watching your prey. The goon at the back of the truck was looking the wrong way when Parker came up behind him, and that was good. But Parker had to wait, patiently, for the one at the other delivery truck to turn away and spit some chew before he made his move. Moving in quickly, Parker cracked the goon nearest him over the back of the head with the butt of his knife. He dropped like a stone into Parker’s arms and Parker laid him down in the dirt. Without pause, he swiftly advanced to the second goon, but he was a little sloppy, scuffing a rock with his left boot at the last instant. The goon turned in shock, but it was still too late; Parker got him in a choke hold and bent his neck forwards, just enough to cut the oxygen supply to his brain. Shortly thereafter, he slumped in Parker’s arms, also unconscious. Wasting no time, Parker dragged him next to the other goon, removed their Uzis, checked for other weapons, then zip-tied their hands and feet and gagged them, even though it was doubtful that either of them would be waking up anytime real soon.

  He was just turning to check on Melon when Parker heard the familiar phut sound of a silencer. He looked over just in time to see the sentry at the front of the property collapse, his head partly blown off.

  Parker’s mind raced. Shit! He hadn’t told Melon about non-lethal measures. “That’s not on me,” he murmured to Napoleon.

  There was a moment of silence, then Nap’s voice, sounding disappointed. Not entirely.

  Evidently having seen what happened, the sentry on the porch was just opening his mouth to yell something when a puff of blood plumed from the back of his head and painted the door of the house. He crumpled to his knees, his eyes in a death stare before he hit the ground.

  The second sentry at the door got off a few shots, ducked and ran for cover.

  Dammit! Parker thought.

  Some things never changed. Just like before, it was always Melon who started shit. Always. And it was Parker’s job to come in and mop up the ensuing chaos.

  But as he stood with his M-4 and began to advance on the adobe house, he realized he was actually fine with it. Partly because it was too late to do anything about it now anyways, but also because he’d missed this feeling, too. The point in every battle when there’s absolutely, positively no turning back.

  It was time to dance.

  Maggie’s head was bowed. She was trying to block out the sound of the chickens the witches were now slaughtering. Luisa, drugged and mumbling, was flat on her back on the altar, one hand stretched off to the side, her fingers clutching spasmodically at the air. She turned her head suddenly and vomited onto the floor. “M-M-Maggie,” she moaned.

  “Why did she puke?” Güero asked.

  “The drink was only to prepare her stomach. We don’t want to harm the baby, obviously.”

  “Is she giving birth now?”

  Delva scoffed. “No. Not yet. The baby is much too premature. We will induce labor after all the rituals are complete—they will speed up the development of the fetus.”

  Luisa tried to turn onto her side, but Delva pushed her down.

  Güero looked around. “So . . . what next?”

  “She will be bathed in blood, practically immersed in it, by the time we’re done,” Anastasia said from behind him, a wicked glint in her eye.

  “Yes,” Misha said with a deep sigh. “Once immersed, we will call on the moon to bring us the power we need to call on The Master, who will send us the spawn that is to inherit the baby’s body.”

  “Yes. Inherit,” Delva said, “and infest.”

  “With the ability to curse all that is good,” Anastasia added.

  “At that point, at that perfect moment, we will make her drink the blood . . . and this will provoke the birth.”

  Luisa screamed out. “It’s dark in here. Someone help me. Where am I? Hello?”

  “It’s begun,” Delva said.

  “Is that all it will take?” Güero asked.

  “No. The wrathful things are needed now.”

  “Okay. The whores are outside in one of the trucks,” Güero said softly.

  Delva nodded. “Good. Send one of your men to get a few. Have they been used yet?”

  “No,” Güero said. “Just shipped in.”

  “Ahhh,” Delva said with a sickening smile. “All the better, right ladies?” She laughed, looking at Misha and Anastasia, who chuckled in return. “Afraid. Desperate. And mostly unspoiled.”

  As quietly as she could, Maggie pulled and tugged, twisted and contorted the ropes. They were old, and the wooden post was dusty and splintered. She had to be able to get loose somehow. She had to, or they were done for.

  Güero began to ask something. “Will she be . . .”

  Delva looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “The baby will grow to be the most beautiful woman you have ever seen, Güero. She will give you the sex of the gods, warm and deep, like the soil of the earth, and together you will produce spawn that will lay waste to tens of thousands of souls. Her love will be so dark that you will never love another again.”

  “Yes,” Güero said calmly. “I can’t wait.”

  “But you will have to. For years. The child will grow at twice the normal rate, but you will still have to wait. Do we have an understanding, Güero? You’ll have to wait.”

  “Ye
ah, yeah. I know. We’ve already talked about it. I’ll wait. There’s plenty of women to keep me entertained until the moment arrives. Until the child is grown.”

  Sonia suddenly spoke up. “What are you all talking about?”

  “Why, it’s about his new lover, about to be born and bred for the moment, silly woman,” Anastasia said.

  “Sister!” Delva admonished her.

  “What did you say?” Sonia asked, a look of deep hurt coming over her face.

  “Oh. It doesn’t matter, child. Men will be men, after all. You should never expect them to be any better than their worst selves,” Misha interrupted.

  “No! No, that can’t be right. What are they saying, Güero?”

  “Nothing,” Güero said dismissively.

  “You can’t be telling me that I let you do this to me . . . to my face . . . all the crap I’ve put up with, moving down here and helping to manage all these girls before they’re shipped to you . . . so that you could . . .”

  “Shut up!” Güero said.

  “No! I’m done shutting up. You promised to marry me. You said we’d have children!”

  Maggie was stunned. Sonia’s anger grew and she continued shouting.

  “I let you do this,” she yelled, waving her hand over the piercings, “because you said it was the only way another man would never want me, that it wouldn’t matter because you . . . would never leave me!”

  Apparently unable to help herself, Anastasia sniggered.

  Güero looked away and back at Luisa, and that’s when Maggie saw the unholy lust in his eyes. His own niece, pregnant at that, and he was looking at her that way, too. Maggie’s revulsion was instant. She continued to work on the ropes.

  “Look at me!” Sonia screamed.

  “Girl,” Güero said, turning to sneer at her as he did so. “Don’t you dare give me orders. You were nothing when I found you and you’ll always be nothing. A dumb, babbling little hood rat. That’s your problem—you never shut up! Anything I ever told you was to just get you . . . to . . . shut . . . the hell . . . up!”

  Something in Sonia’s face, in her eyes mainly, reflected the level of utter betrayal that she felt. Maggie could see it coming. She was cracking.

  “You son of a bitch! I should’ve known you never cared about me. Ever. Fine. If that’s how it is? Then I’m done caring about you!”

  With that, she pulled out her dagger and began to charge Güero with a look of utter disdain, and for one brief moment, Maggie had hope again that something unexpected like this was going to save them. One of this bastard’s own was going to betray him and stick him like a shrimp on a kebab. And as Sonia came on, full of fury, she came close. So. Very. Close.

  Until Misha and Anastasia both drew long, curved daggers of their own from their cloaks and turned on her. Sonia, evidently too blinded by her passions, hadn’t expected this, or maybe she never expected two frail looking old women to be able to move so incredibly fast, but when they began stabbing her mercilessly, she let loose a blood-curdling scream.

  Eventually, as her own weapon was knocked free and Sonia was left completely defenseless, the daggers began to do their work. Over and over again, the thump of metal into flesh sounded out as Sonia’s screams morphed into pure terror. Then, when she began begging for her life, the unimaginable happened; they all began to laugh. Güero. The witches. They all thought it was funny.

  Maggie wanted to just shut down. Close her eyes. Close it all out. But there was no time for that.

  While they were all distracted by the action, she began tugging violently at the ropes. It was true; they were loosening. They weren’t coming undone yet, but she could crouch now, and with a little more effort she could stand, for sure. She pulled and pulled. If she could get them loose enough, she could maybe shimmy up the pole and work them off another way.

  When the stabbing was finally over, Sonia’s body was a bloody lump on the floor. “Foolish, foolish girl,” Anastasia said. Looking at Güero, she added, “She really felt hate for you.”

  “Yes,” Misha said, “and it’s that hate that will now carry her to hell.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” Güero said. “Let’s get on with it!”

  Instead, Delva froze and cocked her head to one side.

  “What is it?” Güero asked. “Hurry up already!”

  “Shhhh!” Delva said.

  “Sister,” Anastasia said. “Do you feel it, too?”

  “Yes,” Delva said.

  “What? What’s going on?”

  “The spawn. Something has gone wrong.”

  “What?” Güero replied, anger in his voice.

  “No. It . . . can’t be,” Delva murmured.

  The room filled with a strange sound. Barely there, but growing, it took a moment to register with Maggie before she realized it was the distinct sound of wood scraping on the walls. From all around them.

  “No!” Misha hissed.

  Maggie’s jaw dropped as all around the room, in methodical succession, every single crucifix began to right itself. Slowly, deliberately, carefully. As if each one was being touched by some unseen hand.

  “You will leave the girl alone,” a voice said from the shadows in the far corner of the room.

  “I will . . . not!” Delva screamed, her face twisting with rage as she spun and glared into the corner.

  Maggie watched in awe as a man stepped out of the shadows wearing tan pants and a blue short-sleeve shirt. He appeared to be Latin, with dark skin and salt-and-pepper black hair, which was disheveled. He had sad eyes, like those of a St. Bernard, with large bags under them.

  Who’s this guy? Maggie thought.

  “You dare to come here alone, creature of the light?” Delva mocked.

  “Alone?” the man replied. “No. Actually, I haven’t.”

  And that’s when something outside the house exploded and all hell broke loose.

  Never in a billion years would Maggie have thought that such a sound could bring with it so much hope, but it did. Her head shot up and she saw everyone in the house panicking. Eenie and Miney pulled their guns and faced the door as the witches screamed.

  Someone was coming to help.

  At last.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Father Soltera awoke back in the real world much as he had awoken in The Hanging Forest. Eyes open, suddenly. One place one instant, and another place the next. But no hesitation was in him at all. Not even a little bit. He sat up instantly.

  I’m running out of time. I’ve got to get to her!

  He struggled out of bed, pulling the IV needles from his arm. He had to get to Gabriella. Had to touch her and bridge the gap. Just one touch and he could free her to come back to the world and finish her life. She still had so much of a life to live. Not like him. His days were done now. He looked around for Michiko, but she was nowhere to be seen. As wounded as she was, he imagined that she had gone off to wherever angels go to heal.

  A stout Filipino nurse rushed into his room in a panic. “Sir! What are you doing? Stop!”

  “I’ve got to get out of here!” he insisted with a gravelly voice.

  “Stop it! Lie back down,” she said, trying to guide him back to his bed. “You’re in no condition to be sitting up and walking. You’ll open all your wounds!”

  He pushed her away, desperately and a little too hard, almost knocking her over. “I’m sorry. You don’t understand. There’s something I must do. Someone I have to get to.”

  “Catalina! In here!” she cried out. Footsteps were coming from down the hall, causing him to panic as he made his way to the closet, feeling weak and off balance.

  A janitor and another nurse, this one Latina, rushed into the room.

  The first nurse stepped forwards. “Sir. My name is Ana. Please, get back in bed.”

  “Ana? Good. That’s a pretty name. Now, Ana. Please tell me. Can you force me to stay here?”

  Ana ignored him and instead looked worriedly at the other nurse. “Catalina, help me
get him back in bed.”

  The janitor was a tall black man in a gray shirt. His name badge said “Rudy.” Even though he was close to Father Soltera’s age, Rudy looked easily strong enough to wrestle him back to bed. For a moment, a brief and painful moment, Father Soltera felt helpless.

  Then, like three lights from a distant shore, he saw them: Ana wore a gold crucifix around her neck; Catalina’s was silver and on a beaded chain; Rudy wore an empty cross, made of marble, on a leather cord knotted at the side.

  Even here, even now, his savior was with him. All around him, in fact.

  It was time, truly time, for his walk to Calvary.

  “You are all believers,” Father Soltera said, as he calmly walked to the closet.

  “Father,” Ana said, almost pleading with him now.

  “No. Listen. I have to do something, to save a soul and maybe even help save my own. Do you hear me? Do you understand!”

  The three of them stood there, stunned, speechless, before him.

  “There’s someone I absolutely must see. Now. As quickly as I can get to her. Someone I was trying to help before all this all happened,” he added, waving his hand over his sick and sore body.

  “Yes, but—” Catalina tried to protest.

  He looked at her with earnest sincerity. “Child. This is God’s work. Do not get in the way.”

  Once at the closet, he opened it, expecting a hospital bag of his clothes, like the few other times he’d been in this place. After his surgery. During a particularly brutal reaction midway through his chemo treatments. Instead, there was only a small bag, on a hook and . . . he saw a navy blue suit, hanging over a pair of polished black shoes. Then it dawned on him. Of course they wouldn’t have the clothes or shoes he was wearing the night Felix had attacked him. Those were no doubt a bloody mess.

  “How did this get here?” he asked.

  “The woman from your church, Carol, your secretary. She brought everything.”

  “But . . . why did . . .” he began to question, because he was obviously a long way from being discharged by their looks, before it dawned him. “These were for my funeral, weren’t they?”