The Divorcee Murder Club

Cincuenta Y Dos ~ 52

The man’s legs buckle and he slams down, releasing a screech. “Fuck you, man!” 

A glop of spit flies from his mouth, and lands on Gustavo’s boot. He glances down at the slimy goop grimacing, then backhands the guy with his gun causing some of his teeth to scatter onto the ground.

"Let's get those vans open," he orders.

Team Bravo begins searching the vehicles, so we crack open doors too, and the women's eyes squint as we wave flashlights into the darkness. Their clothes are dirty, and some have blood crusted around their mouths and nostrils like someone knocked them around. And yet, the Hellions took the time to put lipstick on the women, as if it would make their bruised faces more attractive. 

So far, non of them are Alma and I can feel Jackson’s anxiousness as his nervous fingers fumble over the rope binding the women together.

“Hey, I got this.” I nudge him and slice through the rope with my knife. “Find Alma.”

He doesn’t argue and hops out of the van to move on to the next one. Meanwhile, I busy myself with cutting the rope, so the team can carry the victims out. They groan in pain when lifted from the van, and can barely raise their heads. Their eyes struggle to open while their limbs dangle like rag dolls. They must have been drugged. And some look as young as teenagers. Where did they all come from? Somewhere out there are parents who are worried sick about their missing daughters. My vision blurs so I wipe my eyes.

There are many dark things I’ve done, like bash my stepfather’s skull, but only monsters are capable of doing this to women. 

“Where is she!?” Jackson shouts. “Where!”

The slide on his gun clicks, so I whip around to find my friend charging up to the Hellion Gustavo drop-kicked. He presses the barrel to his forehead and asks again. A few cartel step forward, but Carlos shouts for them to stand down. I hop out of the van and push through the men, but Gustavo shakes his head at me. 

“Let him do what he needs to do.”

Every instinct wants me to take the gun away from Jackson and unburden him with the aftermath of killing someone. Because even when it’s completely justified, there’s no way to shake the darkness that spreads in your soul like an ink drop on white cloth, permanently staining it with death. 

Yet, I don’t interfere.

“Where is Alma!” he shouts in the Hellion’s face, but he snickers back with blood coating his teeth and mouth.

“Eat shit!” 

“I’m going to ask one last time. Where!”

“I don’t even know who Alma is,” the Hellion laughs. “Do you think we give a shit about any of these women?”

“Women?” I gasp. “Half of them are teenagers, you sick fuck!” 

“Well, if there’s grass on the field, play ball,” he cackles, and it chills my spine with a shiver.

But his laughter is cut short when Jackson pumps a bullet into the guy’s left arm, which turns it into a shrill. His body recoils, so, Jackson grabs him by his long biker hair and jams the barrel under his chin. 

“Where is Alma!”

“I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about, man!” 

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the flyer with her photo on it and walk forward. “This woman. Where is she?” 

“Oh… her.” 

“What about her?” Jackson growls and a wicked grin spreads across the Hellion’s bleeding mouth.