The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  Immediately, Parker sensed something was very, very wrong. Not only the speed of Güero’s attack but the force of it as well was beyond the ability of a man of his size.

  Güero grunted, held Parker strong in his grip and began to smash him repeatedly against the wall, like a bull that had completely pinned the matador.

  Reaching up, Parker boxed his ears. Nothing. He karate chopped the back of Güero’s neck with three successive strikes. Nothing. With each blow, Güero grunted louder and continued to squeeze the air out of Parker’s lungs more tightly.

  At one point, Parker was able to wrench Güero’s neck so that he could see his face, and what he saw there completely terrified him. Güero’s eyes were not human anymore, but rather large, glistening black orbs that filled his entire sockets.

  Parker’s heart sank. Shit!

  It wasn’t that he’d completely underestimated his opponent. No. That wouldn’t be fair. How on heaven and earth was he ever to expect that his opponent would be . . . this.

  The battle was swiftly going south, and the Kincaid woman seemed to sense it. “No!” she screamed. “Someone! Help!”

  Güero sneered at him. “Still so sure of yourself, Detective?” And this only made things worse, because his voice had become garbled and thick. Parker tried to look away from the darkness in his eyes, because there was something about them . . . something that was calling to the dark void within himself, that had been coiled up for years in the corner of his soul.

  Desperate, Parker went to his fail-safe move. With a vigor born of the simple will to survive, he grabbed Güero Martinez by the sides of his head and blessed him with a Glasgow kiss. Then another. And another. And another. Each headbutt crashing into more of Güero’s face. First his nose, then the teeth in his mouth, then one of his cheekbones. Normally, Parker would look for his opponent’s eyes to begin rolling back in his head, to register the process of losing consciousness. But this was not possible with a man with no pupils. Still, slowly, Güero began to blink, and each blink took longer and longer to complete.

  Suddenly, his grip began to loosen, allowing Parker to pull air into his begging lungs. With that air, Parker unleashed a flurry of punches across Güero’s face, head and neck, forcing him to relent. Finally Güero let go, stumbled backwards twenty feet and fell down.

  Relief and joy came with a second chance. But some second chances only last exactly that long: a second.

  Parker stared in dismay as Güero looked up, his face a bloody mess, and smiled. In his hand was one of Parker’s stun grenades, which he’d somehow pulled from Parker’s utility belt. Without even hesitating, he popped the pin, tossed it across the floor and . . .

  “No!” Parker screamed.

  The explosion that followed concussed the room in its entirety. A violent woosh of air sent Parker crashing into a table, which crumpled beneath him. He’d been here before, in the company of a stun grenade, countless times, but usually seconds after the explosion. It was non-lethal and used only to shock and disorient your opponent, so that you could overtake him. To this end, Güero had succeeded. Parker was down, his ears ringing and his vision blurry.

  But at such close proximity, Güero had done the same thing to himself. On the ground and looking to be in a world of hurt, he instead seemed to draw again on whatever dark power was in him. Grimacing, he yelled, punched the floor and got to one knee.

  Parker struggled to do the same, but he was having a much harder time fixing his bearings. Save for the ringing in a person’s ears, the effects of the grenade were meant to be short-lived. He just needed a few minutes. Blinking, he rolled to one side, trying to get into a position to defend himself on the ground when Güero attacked. But he needn’t have bothered.

  Incredibly, evidently thinking that Parker was pretty much done for, Güero stood and began making his way towards little Luisa.

  Kincaid was screaming her protests as Luisa’s eyes grew huge in the face of her uncle, who was stumbling towards her with a face twisted in rage. Reaching the alter, he began to cut away the ropes that bound her to it. Luisa tried to fight him, but her struggles were weak. She seemed to be drugged or something. Sobbing, she cried out again as Güero ruthlessly pulled her off the altar and down to the ground. Then, he began to drag her by her hair.

  Drag her away.

  Parker blinked. Hard.

  As Luisa kicked and cried and screamed for help.

  Just like that day . . .

  With . . .

  Big sun. Massive desert. Small lives.

  Waheeb.

  Something in Parker’s mind exploded.

  No. Not again.

  Not ever again.

  As Güero dragged her in a confused fashion—first towards the back of the house before realizing there was no door there, then towards the front door—the cobwebs in Parker’s head vaporized beneath the coursing vividness of his memories.

  Luisa’s hands were reaching, grasping, for the doorframe, for a crack in the wood floor, for anything to stop her progress . . .

  Just like Waheeb’s hands had grabbed at sand and stone and rocks that day.

  “Someone help me!” Luisa screamed.

  Helpless. Hopeless.

  Like Waheeb had screamed. “Mr. Parker! Mr. Parker, please help!”

  But this time Parker wasn’t pinned down behind a boulder by heavy enemy fire.

  This time he wasn’t helpless in the face of yet another meaningless death . . .

  “Let me go!” Luisa yelled through her tears as Güero pushed on.

  . . . or at the mercy of people who lived for death.

  No.

  Not this time.

  Parker got to one knee, stood with the surge of a massive adrenaline rush and advanced towards the wall adjacent to the front door. Getting a running start, he launched himself up against it with one leg, pushed off as hard as he could, then spun in midair towards Güero and delivered a crushing punch directly to his left temple.

  It was a punch that carried the weight of years of pain, anguish, horror and guilt.

  A punch for Waheeb.

  A punch that could even stop a bull.

  Releasing his grip on Luisa, Güero’s face went slack and he crumpled to the ground.

  Melon came crashing through the door with a gun in each hand, his right arm bleeding and his face drenched in sweat.

  “All clear?” Parker said.

  “They’re all down outside,” Melon replied. “Here?”

  Parker looked down at Güero and nodded. “All clear.”

  Maggie was flooded with relief as she watched the army guy spin Güero over and frisk him. Then he zip-tied Güero’s hands behind him.

  The other guy who had rushed in had a grin on his face. “We got his ass?” he asked.

  “Yep,” the army guy said.

  Calmly, with a weary smile on his face, the army guy walked over, looked down at Eenie and then to Maggie. He was wearing desert camouflage pants and a beige shirt with camouflage sleeves. His face was rugged, with a chiseled jaw partially hidden behind about three days of stubble and his blue eyes were piercing. His hair was cut tight to his head and there was a small mole on his right ear lobe. He was easily taller than her, about six foot two, with broad shoulders that stretched his shirt tightly across his chest. To many women he would’ve been a hunk of a man, but to Maggie he was just someone in the way of her getting to Luisa.

  “What the hell are you looking at? Cut me loose!” she said.

  Looking stunned, he pulled a large knife from a sheath tied to his thigh. It glimmered in the light. “Pull your hands out of the way,” he ordered.

  She complied, feeling the blade as he worked it between the ropes. It took a few passes, but the ropes finally gave way and her wrists screamed with relief at being unbound at last.

  Standing slowly, she looked around. Her bag was gone, of course, and with it her Eskrima sticks. Even with these army guys here, she wasn’t going to be left vulnerable anymore. Not for one singl
e minute. She jumped up and grabbed a mural from the wall, shook the fabric loose and snapped the wooden stick evenly over her knee. Then she ran over to Luisa and helped her up off the floor.

  “Maggie?” Luisa said. “What’s happened?”

  “Shhh,” Maggie said, hugging her tightly. “You’re safe now.”

  “You’re both safe now,” the handsome army guy said.

  She looked to him. “What’s your name again?”

  “Parker,” he said flatly. Motioning his thumb over his shoulder, he said, “That’s Melon.”

  “You guys alone?”

  “Yep,” Parker replied.

  Incredulously, Maggie asked, “No one else?”

  “Nope.”

  Great. Already Johnny Smolder and now he was going to be a man of few words, too? Maggie rolled her eyes. “Do you wanna tell me what’s next?”

  He squinted at her and her broken stick with a mild look of surprise and a smirk. “I’m guessing that you’re Maggie Kincaid?”

  She was surprised. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”

  “Your Facebook post.”

  It worked. She smiled. “Is the military in on this?”

  “Nope.”

  She looked him up and down. “Well. You look military.”

  “Private contractor, Ms. Kincaid.”

  “But—”

  He looked at her intently. “Let’s just leave it at that for now, okay?”

  She wanted to argue, but her relief finally overcame her. “Sure,” she said. “And thank you. For coming to help us, I mean.”

  Parker shrugged and looked around again. “Don’t thank me yet. We still gotta get out of this shit hole.”

  Maggie nodded. “And the sooner the better.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Pain was a promise of nothing if not more of the same. Trapped in the two words that Marisol had just said to him like an animal in a cage, Hector realized that he’d done a foolish thing challenging The Black-Veiled Nurse. She was far too powerful and far too . . . vicious. Even this agony? She was just toying with him. Like a cat with a ball of yarn.

  He stumbled backwards, seeking a corner of his mind where he could escape everything, but it was his mind that would not leave him alone. There was Hymie again, shaking his hand and laughing, just two homies on the streets, chasing skirts and tricking out their rides. Hymie’s smile, so bright, that same mouth squeezed tight, not that many years later, in the morgue.

  Then there was the little gangster from four streets over that Hector had ordered to be killed, and the one girl outside Grand Central Nightclub, who’d given herself to him more out of fear than anything else. That was a “yes,” for sure. He hadn’t raped her. But was a “yes” when you can still see a “no” in someone’s eyes, still a “yes”? Eyes couldn’t speak, could they?

  Yeah. They could.

  David Fonseca’s eyes had spoken, too. Standing there in that supply room of The Mayan, backed up against those palettes of potatoes, that frying pan over his head in a pathetic, last-ditch effort to defend himself. His eyes had said plenty. They’d said “no,” too. No to losing whatever dreams he still had for his life. No to all the goodbyes he wasn’t getting a chance to say to the people he loved. No to dying so young. Hector had shot him in the head anyway.

  The blue inside him began to glow like a bulb, swinging back and forth in the distance. He had this power, so much power, with absolutely no idea how to use it.

  Stop. Grab a hold of something. Grab a hold, he told himself. But . . . nothing.

  More images of violence: stabbings, shootings, bodies, spotlights from police helicopters circling, circling. Sirens. A life lived against a backdrop of red and blue flashing lights. All those tragic ends, like in the stories he read. Except he was the one who had written these ones, wasn’t he? He was the author of the horrors in his little corner of the world. For a time, at least. There were those before him who’d had the job, and now Burro was out there doing it. Each of them simply scribblers of doom.

  The blue kept swaying, calling, beckoning to him. But he’d backed himself into this corner of fear, as far away from The Black-Veiled Nurse as he could get, as she squirmed around there in his mind . . . seeking him.

  Suddenly, it occurred to Hector how to get to the blue. How to get out of here.

  He had to let go, one stubborn finger at a time, of the past. But how? He’d just been thinking of stories and authors, hadn’t he? Yes. Jamming himself into the fetal position, still clutching at his ears and with his eyes squeezed shut, Hector wondered why his mind had turned to such thoughts. Then he remembered The Gray Man. What had he said back at Twin Towers? He’d said that to Hector, prose was his version of . . .

  Prayers.

  As if sensing his realization, The Black-Veiled Nurse began to scramble through his head faster, like a maggot hungrily feeding on a piece of meat. If she found him this time, he would be lost forever. He was running out of time. He needed to find the right words . . .

  And the words came, clear as day, causing the blue light to glow bright. Brighter. Then brightest.

  It was Hemingway. From The Garden of Eden. “When you start to live outside yourself, it’s all dangerous.”

  It was time, at last, to live outside himself. To be dangerous enough to change.

  The sweet bliss of abandoned truths, written large in a heart that never wanted to be so dark, sprang up inside Hector Villarosa. Words broke the bars of the cage. Words became the yarn that entangled the cat that was after him. And as the blue exploded, he was back on the floor of his cell block, with The Black-Veiled Nurse screaming with rage. “You pathetic little pig!”

  He scrambled to get away from her on his hands and knees as she pulled out a long black whip with sharp barbs and began to snap it at him. It missed twice, then caught him on the left calf. His entire leg screamed with agony as he fell forwards onto his face.

  “Stop!” he begged.

  “What? Stop?” she mocked him. “No. I don’t think so. I think you’re the dumbest human I’ve ever encountered. All the others broke way earlier than this. But you? You think you’re something special, don’t you? Fine. I think we should go spend a little time with Hymie now.”

  “No!” Hector screamed.

  “Yes. It’s hot there, but he’ll love a visit from his precious cousin.”

  Hector shook his head vigorously, stood weakly and called on the blue.

  Evidently sensing its powers, she lowered her chin and stared at him. Tossing the whip aside, and with a cunning look, she flicked out her hand, like a magician using sleight of hand to reveal a playing card. Except in her hand was a straight razor, gleaming under the overhead lights. Panicked, Hector looked to Curtis. He was only a few feet away from her, still pinned helplessly to the table.

  Hector glanced at her nervously, then back to Curtis. An idea came to him. Holding up his left hand, he signaled for her to wait. He took a few deep breaths and tried to shut out the agony in his leg. Whatever was in that whip had left behind something in the wound that was searing his flesh.

  “No, no, no. You got the wrong idea. Please. Don’t hurt me anymore,” he said to her. “I’m done. I’ll do it.” He looked over at his friend sadly. “I’m sorry, Curtis. No father. Barely a mother. No brothers or sisters. All I ever had was you, bro. But she’s doing shit to my head, man. I can’t take it anymore. I . . . can’t take it no more.”

  The Black-Veiled Nurse smiled.

  “Hector. What are you talking about?” Curtis said nervously, concern in his face.

  Shaking his head and looking to the ground, Hector willed the blue into his right hand and spun it in his palm like a pitcher with a baseball.

  If The Gray Man had only taught him better, if they’d only had more time to train, it might not have come to this.

  Curtis looked at the orb in Hector’s hand with disbelief, then evidently seeing something in Hector’s eyes that he didn’t like, he began to thrash around in panic. “Hec
tor! What are you doing?”

  “Quit wasting time!” The Black-Veiled Nurse said, lowering the blade.

  Hector nodded, wound up his arm and threw the orb as hard as he could directly at Curtis’ head. Seeing what was coming, Curtis screamed.

  When the orb struck him, his head would be vaporized, plain and simple. It would be a painless, instantaneous death . . . if the orb struck him.

  But The Gray Man had said that this whole thing wasn’t that complicated, really.

  You simply had to know your right . . .

  . . . from your left.

  To remember that sometimes a weakness could be a strength.

  Just like in his cell, dozens of times before, just before reaching its intended target . . . the orb veered sharply to the left.

  It was the worst throw of his life and the best throw of his life.

  Frustration and stunned disbelief twisted the face of The Black-Veiled Nurse as the orb curved directly towards her chest, casting a blue glint off the straight razor as it went by, before exploding a hole in her large enough to see through.

  All four of her eyes blinked erratically as her piranha-like teeth chattered against a gasp of pain. Her mouth opened, and orange blood began to dribble from her nose slits. She looked around, then dropped the razor. Finally, managing to fix her gaze on Hector with palpable disdain, she sneered at him.

  “Arrogant until the end, huh?” he said.

  She stumbled a bit, then swayed. “I’ll see you in hell,” she said.

  Hector stared at her for a second, then said, “I really hope not.”

  Then she collapsed and her body vaporized.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  As promised, Juan had done his job and watched everything that had gone down through his binoculars.

  Well. Not everything.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked Parker as he arrived in a caravan of four pickup trucks. Instantly, men in civilian clothes began swarming the property. “Why did they start trying to shoot the trucks and why were they shooting blanks?”