Ham

by Dustin Stevens

  Now, I can’t help but be glad for the extra detail. A tiny point, but it allows me on the second pass by The Sundowner to see the walking refrigerator climbing up the stairs on one side of the building and the small, pugnacious-looking bastard standing in front of the door, about to turn and head up the other side.

  As classic a trapping sequence as exists.

  Ideally, I would give the place one more trip. I’d turn down the side street running alongside the motel, get a good look at the back. Try to find any extra points of exit.

  Scan the parking lot for additional threats.

  But there’s no time. And based on the demeanors of the two guys — neither looking like they have any business at a place like this nor any interest in actually checking in — no need.

  The cover sheet had been sanitized, but reading everything else in the file, the fear was palpable. A threat was imminent. Timing was crucial.

  That’s why I had left instantly, crossing the border and heading straight to Mikey’s.

  It’s why I can’t help but kick myself now, my damn rule about holding off on reading the file immediately after Mikey left costing me precious hours, time that meant we could have now been moving north. Away from whomever these two bastards are and whatever they want.

  Arriving earlier would have meant we did this in the middle of the night. Under the cover of darkness, we could have loaded up and stolen away. Nobody seeing or hearing a thing. Just another early checkout, a nice tip left on the dresser to ensure the maid stripped away any sign of our passing.

  Doing it this way was going to be messier.

  So be it.

  Hooking a left off the main thoroughfare, I enter the parking lot in time to see the second man exit the top of the stairwell. Attempting to peer through the first window, he goes straight to the door and knocks.

  No pausing.

  I’ve seen all I need to. Giving the gas an extra bump, I push straight across the parking lot. Pulling into the first stall, the man above disappears from view as I reach for the passenger seat and grab up the Ruger.

  Somewhere in the back, I’m sure there’s a sound suppressor mixed in with Mikey’s bag of toys.

  Right now, I don’t have time for that shit, hitting the pavement at a sprint, the keys still in the ignition, the engine still on. Going straight for the stairwell the man had just used, I am still two full strides away when I hear the scream.

  Short and crisp, it lasts no more than a second before stopping abruptly.

  Or, more aptly, being stopped abruptly.

  Every tendon and muscle in my hand flexes as I squeeze the Ruger firmly, taking the steps two and three at a time. Tension fills my body, adrenaline seeping into my system.

  Twelve hours ago, I thought I was ready for a fight standing in the ring at Shakey Jake’s.

  This is much, much more than that.

  Much more than anything I’ve felt in years.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jensen Spiers knows that the smile on his wife’s face as she answered the door wasn’t meant for him. Even before her exclamation, saying that she’s been waiting for someone to show, he knows it.

  The look is a mixture of joy and relief, the kind of smile she hasn’t given him in a long time.

  A look strong enough to push the venom he feels over the top, propelling him forward off his back foot, burying his shoulder into her chest. Hitting her square, it flings her backward, her slight form hurtling through the air and smashing into the side of the bed.

  The sound of a rib breaking can be heard as she tumbles to the floor, the bright light of morning streaming into the small space.

  Inside, the room looks exactly the way one might expect based on the outer appearance. The type of place that was considered outdated by the time construction was completed on it in the mid-seventies.

  Mustard colored carpet covers the floor. A polyester gold and burgundy comforter sits on the bed. One wall is lined with cork board and mirrors inlaid with gold filigree. The other sports a painting that was probably purchased at a yard sale for a quarter.

  Sitting just inside the door are a pair of suitcases, both packed and resting upright, handles extended above them.

  “Going somewhere?” Spiers snarls. Snapping a hand back behind him, he shoves the door closed, the flimsy gate lighter than expected. It flies back, slamming into the doorframe, hitting too hard to latch closed.

  Swinging back a few inches, a renewed stripe of light crosses the floor, silhouetting his wife against the bed. Her knees tucked up beneath her, she is wheezing for air, tears and sweat already lining her cheeks.

  “Please,” she whispers, her newly cut and dyed hair falling around her face. “Please…”

  “Please, what?” Spiers asks. Bending down, he grasps either of her forearms in his hands, lifting her from the ground. The thin appendages feel as if they might snap in his grip, the bones no match for the concentrated fury he feels.

  “Where is it?” he barks, sending spittle into her face. “Huh?”

  “I… it… ” the words barely make it out before being swallowed by sobs. Her head lolls to the side, her elbows tucked to her sides.

  Standard defensive stance.

  Bending an inch at the knee, Spiers hoists her into the air. She hangs suspended for a moment, hair a twirl around her head, before landing flat on the bed, the springs wheezing loudly as they bounce her several inches into the air.

  The instant she hits, she rolls to the side, drawing herself into a ball.

  “Please,” she mutters again.

  “Please, what?” Spiers cries, lunging onto the bed. Straddling her on either side, he pins her down, forcing her over onto her back. “What the hell could you possibly be asking me for at this point?”

  The words spill from him without the need for active thought. So many times, he’s stood in their empty home and shouted them. Sat behind the wheel of his sedan and smacked the wheel, saying them one time after another.

  They’re so rehearsed, at this point it’s little more than muscle memory.

  “I’m not the one who did this!” he yells, his voice rising, unable to contain his rage. Shooting both hands down, he grabs her wrists again, peeling her upper body from the mattress.

  In the sheer rage he felt seeing his wife standing at the door, hearing her words, he had completely lost track of his daughter. He hadn’t thought to clear the room, his sole focus on the woman and what she had taken from him.

  So enraptured by her, on getting what he needed, he lost all sense of the world around him, not realizing his folly until the bathroom door swings open, the squeal of rusted hinges audible.

  Snapping his head upward, he sees the young girl standing rigid on the threshold to the bathroom. Arms extended straight down, her eyes are wide, her jaw gaping.

  “What are you...what are you doing to my mother?”

  Mind fighting to transition from anger to reasoning, to process and communicate something beside the litany of planned remarks sitting on his tongue, Spiers merely stares. He keeps his wife’s wrists grasped securely, every physiological function he has fighting to reverse course.

  “Run...” his wife gasps beneath him, barely able to get out the word. “Run...”

  Frozen by the scene before her, the girl stands and stares. Spiers can visibly see her taking in his stance atop the bed, her mother pinned down, crying and broken.

  He watches as the information is processed, the girl fighting against inertia, unable to sort between helping her mom and doing as told.

  “Am—” Spiers manages to get out, the name no more than a syllable before a shadow passes over the front door, blotting out the sun.

  Enough to jerk the girl’s attention away, her eyes go wider still, her body clenching before unleashing a guttural scream.

  A scream that lasts no more than a second before Lucas is across the room. Lifting her from the ground, he pins her back against his chest, the child like a doll in his enormous arms.
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  Clamping a hand down over her mouth, the shrill cry dies away as he backs her toward the bathroom, her feet swinging free more than a foot above the ground.

  “Is it here?” Lucas asks. His face is red and drawn, just a moment inside the room enough for him to succumb to the strain permeating the space.

  “Don’t know yet,” Spiers says. In the last thirty seconds, the initial haze of blind rage has passed. Years of training begin to resurface, his mind putting together a sequence.

  Things need to get done. Fast.

  “Get her in the bathroom and turn the fan and shower on. I’ll find out what we need here.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Up close, the man that was already on the staircase when I pulled up is enormous. Thick arms and chest, he sounded like an elephant as he came thundering the length of the exposed hallway running along the second floor.

  Sprinting with arms and legs pumping, he didn’t even notice as I came up from the opposite side, catching just a glimpse of him before spinning through the median and climbing the second set of steps.

  Triggered by the same scream that had sent me hurtling forward, he disappeared straight through the first door. Nothing more than voices drift out as I now reach the top, heart thundering.

  I have no idea what my sister is involved in. No clue why two men are bearing down on her, even without uniforms, the stink of police clinging to both.

  No concept of why the first word I’ve received in years is this.

  And I don’t give a shit about any of it.

  All I care about is reaching that door. On bursting through and beating the holy hell out of someone, using knees or fists or feet or even the Ruger if I must to put them down.

  Badges be damned.

  The door to the room is still wedged open a crack as I arrive. Extending one hand before me, I shove it back the rest of the way, bright light streaming in around me.

  Not once do I bother breaking stride, my mind seeing and registering everything in real time. Skills that have been dormant for ages surface immediately, fast twitch muscle and processing speed both working in concert.

  Two suitcases sitting by the door. No sign of the big man or the girl from the picture. The smaller asshole in a sport coat from outside the front lobby on both knees atop the bed.

  My sister pinned beneath him, her forearms in his clutches, face streaked with tears.

  Crossing the room in two long strides, I push forward off the ball of my right foot. Aiming for the small of his back, my shoulder connects square with his kidney, his body seizing under the impact as the air rushes from his lungs.

  Having no reason to expect me, his focus aimed straight down, he is no match for my power or momentum. Propelling my entire body forward, we lurch together in a tangle across the bed. End over end we topple forward, him keeping my sister’s arms in his grasp, dragging her along.

  Teeth clamped together, the Ruger in hand, I let the force of the contact carry me forward. Waiting until the flat of my shoulder blades touch on the far side of the bed, I snap my feet outward, flinging my body away from the fray.

  Behind me, they both go crashing into the nightstand, smashing the ceramic lamp to bits. The particle-board piece of furniture crumples beneath their combined weights, both landing hard on the floor, the entire room quivering under their impact.

  Allowing my own forward motion to take me a step forward, I brace myself against the opposite wall before flinging my body back their direction.

  “Ames! Down!”

  The words are little more than grunts, closer to war cries than actual language. Concentrated vitriol surges through my veins as I line up a second shot, throwing my body at the man with thinning hair and a terrible jacket.

  Whipping my right elbow across my body, I aim for the exposed bridge of his nose as he lifts his gaze toward me, his eyes having just enough time to widen before I smash into him a second time.

  The impact of this collision is strong enough that it sends a tremor clear to my shoulder. I can feel my own skin split as his nose breaks, the joint sensations of warm and wet both spreading across my arm.

  Driving him onto his back, I land flat atop him, his head pinned into the corner formed by the wall and the bed.

  Beside us, my sister is on her side. One hand is extended before her, reaching out, trying to make sense of her surroundings. A spot of blood is visible on her side, spreading quickly across the white cotton T-shirt she’s wearing.

  “Go!” I say, reaching out and slapping her leg.

  I don’t bother identifying myself, trusting she’ll recognize my voice, that she’ll put together that she had reached out and asked me to come.

  A low moan is all she can manage.

  “Now!” I demand, slapping her a second time.

  I know she is hurt, but right now I can’t let that stop us. Once we’re free of here, I’ll be able to get her help. But we have to make it that far first.

  The man beneath me grunts. He pushes out air in a huff, sending droplets of blood spatter across my exposed arms and the front of my jeans.

  Meekly, he begins to raise his hands, attempting to push me aside.

  Jerking the Ruger across my body, I swipe it in a vicious backhanded chop. Finger still outside the trigger, the barrel slashes across the matted remains of his nose, jerking his head to the side.

  More bloody spray flies out, dotting the wall and the bed skirt.

  “Ames!” I yell, turning her way just in time to feel a pair of enormous paws grab me beneath the armpits. With a mighty yell, they jerk me backward, lifting me from the floor.

  Sending my arms and legs both out before me, I hang suspended in the air. The big man appears before me as I go, having flung me like a discus, his body turned sideways in the center of the room.

  Veins bulge the length of his arms, his eyes lit with hatred.

  I know the look.

  And I know I have no interest in standing toe to toe with it.

  My short flight ends abruptly at the base of the wall, my back and ass both absorbing the blow, pain rippling the length of my body. Arms and legs still extended before me, I bring my hands together around the base of the Ruger, sighting in on the man’s chest as he turns to face me square.

  Twin orange blossoms erupt from the front tip as I pull the trigger, the narrow confines of the room serving as a sound chamber. Amplifying the report, all other noise fades to the background as the man teeters in the middle of the space.

  A pair of trickles splash down the front of his navy polo, just barely visible against the dark material. Glancing down to them, his jaw sags as he looks up at me. Eyes dilated, the color drains from his face as he manages to stagger a single step before collapsing sideways onto the bed and falling to the floor.

  From where I sit, I can see nothing more of the men but four legs, two crossed over the others.

  Easily the best view I’ve had since leaving Mexico this morning.

  “Amy? You with me?”

  Another moan tells me she’s alive. It also tells me she is in serious pain, the injury I saw moments ago pulling any energy she had from her.

  If not worse.

  “Amber?” I call, raising my voice slightly. “You in there?”

  Hearing nothing, I add, “Get out here and help me with your mom. We’ve got to go.”

  III

  The Hide

  Chapter Nineteen

  The woman looks like she is absolutely terrified. Standing in the front doorway, her shoulders are bunched up beneath her ears. Hands clasped before her, she clings to either side of a small leather purse, knuckles flashing white beneath her grip.

  At least sixty years of age, her eyes are the size of saucers, magnified by the thick glasses she wears. Glancing in either direction, her top teeth are pushed out over her bottom lip, both with an equal amount of pink lipstick.

  If pressed, Hector Lima might say he has seen her before, though it would be hard to remember where.

&n
bsp; “Good afternoon,” Lima says, smiling as he holds the door open. “How are you, Tia?”

  The woman glances in either direction once more, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, retreating an inch or two from the door.

  “Hola,” she says, her voice heavily accented. “Are you Mr. Lima?”

  “No,” Lima replies, flashing her another smile, “that is my father. My name is Hector. What can I do for you today?”

  Uncertainty is plain on the woman’s features. Abject fear seems to roll from her, every indicator being that she wants to turn and run.

  Which was why Lima makes a point of staying behind the threshold. Keeping a shoulder pressed against the door beside him, he is careful not to seem too large or imposing.

  Moments like this are part of what he’s been building toward. It is the reason he bought the place, hoping that it will serve as a gathering place. A spot people in the community can stop by for whatever they may need.

  “I...I don’t know if I’m in the right place,” the woman says, “but I heard you were someone I could talk to.”

  Bringing his brows together, Lima replies, “Of course. What’s going on?”

  Opening her mouth to begin again, the woman pauses. She presses her lips into a thin line before saying, “Let me start over. My name is Consuela Ramirez.”

  Despite the slight familiarity of the woman’s face, the name fails to connect. “My name is Hector. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “You too,” Ramirez says. Releasing one hand from the bag, she motions over a shoulder and adds, “I live a couple of blocks from here on Tremont. Over by the school.”

  A lifetime resident, Lima knows the area well. He’s driven down Tremont hundreds of times, that probably being why the woman looks so familiar.

  He attended elementary at the very place she is referring to.

  “Okay,” Lima says, nodding that he is following.