Don Winslow - Dawn Patrol

And how does she know it's even going to be Tammy, and not some other bimbo that Teddy is shagging in his Bang for Boobs program. And where was Teddy going? What could he possibly be doing in a bed of reeds, looking for the baby Moses, for God's sake? And what, if anything, has Boone found? Should I follow him? she wonders.

She decides to go back to the van and wait.

Except waiting isn't her best thing.

She gives it a shot, she does, but it isn't going to happen. What she really wants to do is go see what Boone is finding out. She makes it about three minutes, then bails.

Mick Penner should have.

Bailed, that is.

Should have taken Boone's advice, thrown his shit into a bag, gotten into his beloved BMW, and hit the highway.

He doesn't, though.

He intended to. One of those “road to hell” deals. He meant to get moving, but then he decided that one beer and a quick toke would help him get his shit together. He's on his third Corona when the door comes in.

Dan Silver's first punch goes into Mick's liver and crumples him. Mick's on his knees, hunched over in agony, sucking for air, when the kick comes into his solar plexus and makes breathing an impossibility.

Mick flops on the floor like a fish on the dock.

Then they're kicking him, shoes and boots smashing into his thighs, his shins, his ankles, his ribs. He rolls over on one side and pulls his arms over his head and manages to blurt out, “Not my face. Please, not my face.”

His face is his living, and he knows it. Knows now in one of those stark moments of clarity that he's never going to be “SCRNRITR,” no matter what his license plate reads, that the best he can hope for is a few more years of being a parking valet/male whore.

But he doesn't even get that if they fuck up his face.

They pick him up and set him down on the sofa.

“You don't want your pretty face messed up?” Dan asks. “You better tell me what I want to know.”

“Anything, man.”

Except what he wants to know is how to find Tammy.

Love is a powerful thing.

Elusive, ephemeral, enigmatic-love can make you do some fuckedup shit. It can drive you to depths you never thought you'd go; it can lift you to heights you never knew you could climb. It will show you the worst and the best in yourself. Love can strip you down to bare shame; love can reveal pure nobility.

Mick holds out a long time.

He loves her, he knows that these guys want to hurt her, will hurt, maybe kill her, and he loves her. In the end, he gives them everything they want, but it takes them a while to get it. He gives them Teddy, gives them the motel in Oceanside, gives them Boone.

He gives up everything and hates himself for it.

Dan leaves almost admiring the dumb shit.

Had to fuck him up real bad before he caved.

When he comes to, they start beating him, kicking him, cursing him.

Barely conscious, Boone rolls into a fetal position and covers up his head as the boots, fists, and the shotgun butt rain down on him.

And the words:

Pendejo, lambioso, picaflor.

A shotgun butt slams into his ankle. A few more of these, Boone thinks, and I'm never walking out of here. He opens his eyes, sees a pair of feet, grabs them, and lifts. The feet go flying, and Boone pushes himself up and topples over on the man. Boone's real lucky, because this turns out to be the guy holding the shotgun, who doesn't really know what he's doing because the safety is still on, so Boone is able to rip the gun out of his hands.

Boone rolls onto his back, points the shotgun up, and flips off the safety. It's only a little. 410, the kind farmworkers use to shoot crows, but at this range it would do the job.

There are three men-campesinos-Mexican farmworkers.

The man who was holding the shotgun looks about forty, maybe a little younger. Deep brown weather-worn face and a black mustache already flecked with silver. His black eyes glare at Boone as if to say, Go ahead and pull the trigger, pendejo. I've seen worse.

The kid standing beside him looks scared. Eyes wide, long black hair stuffed under an old Yankees cap. Dirty long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and ancient, torn New Balance sneakers. He's holding a machete, wondering what to do with it.

The old man has his machete ready to strike, poised beside his white straw hat. He wears the old-style campesino shirt under overalls. And old cowboy boots-Boone felt the sharp pointed toes digging into his ribs.

If they wanted to kill me, I'd be dead, Boone thinks as he struggles to his feet, holding the shotgun on them. They could have blown my head off, or chopped me to pieces with the machetes. But they didn't. What they wanted to do was to give me a good beating, which they sure as hell did.

Teach me a lesson.

But what?

Boone thrusts the shotgun out a little, like, I will shoot you, and backs his way to the clearing in front of the reed caves. A little girl sits there, her arms wrapped around her knees, rocking herself. Her legs are dirty under her cheap cotton dress. Her hair is long and stringy. She looks terrified, and fingers a small crucifix that hangs around her neck from a thin chain.

“It's okay,” Boone says.

She scoots back deeper into the cave.

“Don't be scared,” Boone says. Fucking moron, he tells himself. You really think she's not going to be scared by a gьero holding a shotgun? He reaches his hand down for her.

The teenage boy rushes in with the machete.

I don't want to shoot you, Boone thinks, backing off. But the boy keeps coming, the blade of the machete gleaming gold in the light of dusk. Boone takes another step back and raises the gun, then, at the last second, ducks under the blade and swings the gun butt into the boy's stomach.

The boy collapses onto his knees. Boone sees that the boy is sobbing, more in frustration than pain. He kicks the machete away from the kid's hand, hauls the boy up, wraps a forearm lock around his throat, and sticks the shotgun barrel into the side of his head. “I'm leaving now. Take one step toward me, I'll paint the air with him.”

He turns around, puts the boy's body between him and the two campesinos and backs out of the reeds. When he gets to the clearing, he shoves the boy away. The boy turns and stares at him. A look of pure hatred. The kid spits on the ground, then turns and walks back through the reeds. Boone watches him for a second.

When he turns around, Petra is standing there.

“My God,” she says, “what happened?”

Blood drips from the corner of his mouth and from his nose, and he looks like he's been rolled in the dirt.

“You're supposed to be watching the motel,” he says.

“I was concerned about you,” she replies. “Apparently for good reason. Where did you get a shotgun?”

“Someone gave it to me.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Sort of.”

He walks back up the road to the motel.

Teddy's car is still there.

“Did you find Teddy?” Petra asks.

“No,” he says.

“We should get you to a hospital.”

“Not necessary.”

He opens the side door of the van and digs around until he finds a small first-aid kit. He gets into the front seat, twists the rearview mirror, and looks into it as he cleans the cuts and scratches on his face, swabbing them with pads and then rubbing in antiseptic. Then he places a Band-Aid on the cut over his left eye.

“Can I help?” Petra says.

“I asked you for help,” Boone says. “You were supposed to be watching the motel.”

“I already apologized for that.”

He finishes applying the Band-Aid, then grabs a vial of pills, shakes one out, and swallows it.

“What-”