Glass from above shatters as team Delta comes crashing through the skylights. It’s almost like a movie as they land on the catwalk, and disconnect from their tethers, then aim their automatic rifles below without a blink.
But this isn’t Hollywood, and I must find my friend.
Dropping into a squat, I feel around on the ground searching for Jackson as team Charlie mows down the Hellions with their rifles. The fire exchange flickers in the dimness like a strobe light at Penthouse, allowing me to see just enough as my fingers graze an odd texture like sand. When I bring them into view, there’s white powder dusting the tips. Cocaine? I dab a finger on my tongue and taste the bitterness, along with a numbing sensation. No wonder I can hardly see. Every time the crates are struck, they explode, and send the cocaine into the air like a cloud of dust.
“Jackson!” I shout and continue to feel around while making my way to the stairs. “Jacks!”
I trip over a pair of legs and feel the ground for the body, but Jackson doesn’t have a long beard. My feet finally hit the stairs, so I begin to hike while shouting for him. Then, a pair of hands grab my shoulders and haul me onto the catwalk.
“I’ve got you, man!” Jackson’s dark bald head comes into view.
A stray bullet whizzes by, so I throw my arms around him, and we collapse with a clang onto the metal landing. For a moment, we lay there catching our breaths with hands covering our ears as the mayhem goes off with strobes of light and crackles like fireworks. Moonlight trickles in from the broken skylights, and clouds drift by.
“What the hell happened?” I shout.
“I dunno. I turned around and you were gone,” he says. “I thought you got shot.”
“I thought you did too.” But we don’t have time to dilly-dally, so I roll onto my knees and begin crab-walking forward. “Come on! Let’s get to Alma.”
From up here, it looks like a battlefield as dead Hellions and cartel lay on the ground or across broken crates. Those that remain exchange gunfire from behind cover like cowboys at dawn. Most of the tall stacks of wooden crates are in shambles and look more like heaps for a bonfire, and the cocaine is like white sand surrounding them. But this isn’t a beach, and every few feet, danger pings off the metal railings as we escape from getting shot.
Through the chaos, I spot the white vans that Lucas said the women would be transported in, and a trail of cartel from team Alpha making their way. We continue scooting along, and ducking as more crates explode, catapulting debris toward us. Carlos and the others leap off the catwalk and onto the vans, their boots landing heavily and leaving dents in the roof. Team Charlie should already be at the vans, and have hopefully killed off the Hellions guarding the women, but we won’t know until we get there. So we follow Carlos’s steps and jump from the railing onto one of the vans, landing with a giant thunk. Jackson’s ankle almost rolls, but I grab him by the shirt so he doesn’t slide off.
“You good?”
“Peachy,” Jackson grunts. “I’ll worry if I sprained it later.”
“Alright. Come on.” I slide down the hood, and land on the cement.
Broken glass crunches beneath our boots as we weave around the vans, then come upon team Alpha and Charlie holding what remains of the Hellions at gunpoint under bright fluorescent lights that dangle from beams. There is no value in fighting now, so they’re on their knees with hands behind their heads, and snarling like dogs.
Defeat sucks.
“Looks like we ruined your party!” Gustavo kicks the legs out of one of the Hellions who refuses to kneel.
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.
This isn’t going to be good.
“That Guatemalan babe was tasty as fuck. We all had our turn with her and she moaned like a good little whore.”
“Ahhhhh!" Jackson swings back, then sledgehammers his fist into the guy’s face.
The crunch of his nose cracks the air, but Jackson doesn’t stop. He gives punch after punch, knocking the Hellion over, then climbing on top to continue. No one stops him. Instead, the cartel stands by, their expressions unphased as they watch. They might even be enjoying this. Yet, I flinch with each punch, and my stomach churns. I don’t want this for Jackson. He's not a monster. So, I hook my arms underneath his armpits and haul him off, but he doesn’t go easily.
No, he kicks and screams, and swings, and it takes everything in me to pull him away from the unconscious Hellion whose face has become unrecognizable. Jackson’s knuckles are split, and covered in blood—even his face is speckled in it. However, it doesn’t compare to what oozes from the split-mouth, and swollen eyes of the very much dead Hellion.
“Now we’re going to do this my way,” Gustavo says and presses his shotgun against another Hellion’s head. “One of you is going to tell us where Alma is. So, I’m going to count to three, and if I don’t hear the answer, I pull the trigger.”
“Fuck you, you Mexican wetback piece of shit!” the Hellion spits at him.
“What a pity,” Gustavo tuts. “One… two…”
The Hellion’s head explodes, causing him to collapse with a wet thud, and Gustavo moves onto the next guy like nothing.
“And for the record, my family has been in this country ever since California belonged to Mexico.” He props the shotgun against the Hellion’s temple. “Now what’s it going to be?”
“Fuck off, you cartel bitch!”
“Suit yourself. One…”
“Rot in hell you asshole!”
“Two…”
My chest rattles with the next shot, and Jackson flinches too. Pieces of brain ooze onto the floor like cottage cheese mixed with strawberry jam, and if one of them doesn’t speak up soon I’m going to puke. Gustavo wipes his boot on the dead body to get some of the gunk off, and I almost beg them to answer just so he’ll stop.
“Nobody wants to speak up?” Gustavo barks. “I guess I’ll just keep going.”
But when he presses the barrel against the third guy, the Hellion sputters for him to wait. So Gustavo bends to be at eye level with him and doesn’t move the shotgun.
“Are you going to play nice?”
“She’s upstairs, in the loft,” he says. “She and a few others were supposed to go out on a different shipment headed for Thailand with the cocaine you just blew up.”
He doesn’t have to say another word. Jackson takes off like a rocket and practically leaps up the metal stairs to search for the loft.
“My, my…” Gustavo says. “You boys are in some deep shit then. Whoever your buyer is won’t be happy when their boat full of dope doesn’t arrive. Not to mention that the Reddy family doesn't sell cocaine. They push heroin. So I doubt this side hustle is on the books, which will be bad for you when they find out.”
"Yeah, well, Richie is missing, and is probably dead, so we're improvising. We all got families to feed and we're sick of the Reddy's thinking they own us."
"Oh, but didn't you hear?" Gustavo arches a brow. "Rohan is taking over, so you better pray this doesn't piss him off."
The Hellion swallows, and sweat beads on his forehead. He's in deep shit and he knows it. “Hey, I told you where that woman was. Now, how about you show me some compassion, and let me go? I cooperated.”
“No.”
Gustavo gives hand signals to his men, then steps aside, and the remainder of the Hellions begin to rattle as they’re peppered with bullets before flopping onto the ground in pools of syrupy blood. I back away, then jog after Jackson, taking two steps at a time up the stairs. The loft is directly to the right, and my dear friend is trying his hardest to kick the door open.
“Let me help you,” I say, so he steps aside, and together, we ram our shoulders against the wood until it splinters around the frame.
We give one more shove, and the door slams open, causing the women inside to shrink back. Red light bathes the room like a bordello, and unlike the women in the vans, these ones are clean and wearing skin-tight dresses. Even their hair is styled, and makeup is done, rather than just lipstick smeared on their lips.
But there is one big problem.
Neither of them is Alma.
“No. No!” Jackson yells.
“She’s gotta be here somewhere,” I say. “Have you seen her?” I hold up the flyer, and they eye each other as I begin removing the gags from their mouths. “You can trust us. He’s Alma’s boyfriend, and we’re here to rescue you.”
“He took her,” one of them says as soon as her mouth is free.
“Who?” Jackson says, his voice cracking.
“The guy they had watching us. He had a lot of tattoos.”
“Fuck.” I cut through the rope tying them to the bed. “Was his name Gino?”
“I think so?”
“When the shooting started, he took her and they went into the closet,” another woman says.
My gaze darts to Jackson and his eyes widen as he whirls around. When he spots it, he swings open the closet door, and tears down the clothes hanging on the rod.
Then he gasps.
“There’s a hidden passageway in here! This wasn’t on the blueprint.”
Jackson disappears through the door and doesn’t wait for me as I shout. So, I hand the blade to the women and tell them to head downstairs where the rest of our team will help them. I hurry after Jackson through the closet, where I’m met with a winding staircase. His footfalls echo somewhere further down, so I begin descending, my boots clacking against the metal steps with each twist and turn. I finally land at the bottom and burst through a metal door, then spill into the back alley of the warehouse where everything is painted in shadows. Sirens wail in the distance, so our rescue has caught some attention, which means we have to get far away from here.
So, I dash through the alley and reach the sidewalk to search for Jackson, but I don’t have to look far. He’s in the street on his knees, rocking himself, like he's given up, but I can't let him.
“Jacks…” I graze his shoulder, causing him to flinch.
However, he registers that it's me, a smile spreads across his face with tears flowing from his eyes, and snot running down his nose. My brows furrow, but only for a second.
There curled in a ball in his arms is Alma.
“Holy shit!” I drop to my knees.
Emotions hit me like a punch to the testicles, as a sob explodes from my mouth, and tears blur my vision. I brush the dark hair out of her eyes which she can barely open.
But she does.
For a few seconds, she holds them open to look from me to Jackson, then presses her palm to his cheek.
“You found me.”
Yes. Yes, we did.
But a question remains.
Where the fuck is Gino!