Adrian McKinty - Fifty Grand

I nodded.

He kneeled between my legs and put down the knife to take off his boxers.

There would be one play.

I knew that he had the capacity to kill me. I knew that as a wetback my life wasn’t worth anything and more than likely if he did kill me, he’d have to kill all of us. Six deaths for what?

No two ways about it. A commitment. A trade. Your lives for ours. In advance I ask forgiveness.

His tossed his cartoon-covered boxers and when they were gone he grinned and reached for the knife.

The knife that wasn’t there.

“Huh?” he said.

Watching his brain tick over was like watching a dinosaur step on volcanic glass. Confusion showed between his eyes and before he could say or do anything his own treasonous hunting knife slashed him across the belly.

Maroon venous blood, stomach fluids, coffee.

A deep laceration, nothing punctured, but enough to sear his nerve endings and get his attention. He reacted faster than I was expecting. His fist hammered into the ground a few centimeters from my swerving head. I slashed at his face and the serrated blade opened his cheek like a sushi knife into yellowtail.

“Christ,” he screamed, lurched back, and fell.

With his weight off me, I got to my feet, and before his head had hit the ground I slashed him again. Gut shot. The blade cutting vertically from his belly down through his urethra and into his scrotum-gravity helped and this one was deeper, piercing his bladder, cutting a chunk from the head of his penis and opening his epididymis. Blood, piss, one of his testicles rolling onto the ground.

I scooted away from him, kicking up a tornado of dust with my hands and feet.

“Fuck! Fuck! She cut my balls off,” he managed between screams.

Bob was horrified. It had happened in about four seconds. He couldn’t compute it. I kicked up more dust and he didn’t even see me running at him until I was three meters away. He tried to raise the shotgun but in his panic discharged both barrels into the ground in front of me. Pellets struck me in the legs, burning like fat flying from the pan. Didn’t stop me at all.

He looked at the gun. Had he really shot both barrels?

Yes, Robert, and on such things turn the world. We’ll live and you’ll die.

I jumped at him like a fucking puma. He didn’t even think to hit me with the seven-kilogram wood-and-metal shotgun. He just sort of crumpled, absorbing the blow and falling.

The dagger entered his throat, my momentum so great that the serrated edge tore through his larynx and embedded itself in the cerebellum at the bottom of his brain stem.

He was probably killed instantly, but when we crashed into the ground I removed the knife and stabbed him hard in the forehead just to be on the safe side.

A crunching sound as the blade wedged itself into his skull.

I left the knife between his eyes, broke open the shotgun, and took fresh shells from his gun belt. Everyone was up now and the deaf woman had started to scream.

I pointed at Francisco.

“Calm her down,” I said.

He nodded, put his arms around her.

I found my underwear and jeans and pulled them on. My skin was crawling. It was ninety degrees but I was shivering. I gagged back vomit. No one had ever touched me like that. I wanted to lie down and cry. I wanted to shower for ten hours. I wanted Hector, Ricky. I wanted to swim in the current. I wanted moonshine or a fix. No time for any of that.

I pulled myself together, loaded the shotgun, and walked over to Ray, scrabbling like a redneck Uranus among the blood and sand for his missing testicle. His voice had taken on the high-pitched whining so familiar to those of us who have worked in abattoirs or the torture chambers of the police headquarters on Plaza de la Revolución.

He yelled when he saw me coming and threw an arm over his face.

“No, wait, no,” he said.

Despite the pain he scrambled to his knees and brought his hands together in a gesture of supplication.

“Please, I’m a family man,” he said.

I gave him both barrels from a foot away.

His head disintegrated.

His body quivered and fresh oxygen-rich blood spouted like a fountain from his neck. It flowed for half a minute before slowing to a trickle when the heart had no more of it left to pump. His torso kept kneeling there, spookily, until finally I kicked it over.

I looked at the crew. They were pretty junked.

I was pretty junked.

I walked to Francisco, who had calmed the deaf woman. I took the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

“Lighter?”

His eyes glazed.

“Lighter?” I asked again and snapped my fingers in front of his face.

“Oh,” he said and reached into his pants.

I lit three cigarettes, put one in my mouth, gave one to the deaf woman, gave him the other.

“We’re gonna need to get these bodies in the pickup. I’ll bring it over,” I said.

He nodded. I passed out smokes to the others, walked to the red Chevy, got in the cab. Keys were in the ignition. I moved the seat closer, turned the key, hit the gas. I drove it next to the Land Rover, wiped my prints from the wheel, and got out.

Pedro was looking at me.

“Why did you move the car? Are we going to call the police? This was self-defense,” Pedro asked.

“What police?” I asked dismissively.

I left him to think things over and went to the Guatemalan kid. He was sitting on the ground with his arms wrapped around his knees, crying hysterically. He was freaked. He’d never seen anything like this, not even in those jungle border towns.

“What’s your name, partner?” I asked him.

“F-f-f,” he tried, but he couldn’t get it out.

“Ok, Fredo, we need you to help us.”

He looked at me.

I was covered in blood and brains and bits of skull.

He shrank away.

I took him by the wrist. He disengaged my hand immediately.

“Are you ok?” I asked him.

He nodded.

“Speak to me. Are you ok?”

“Yes,” he managed. “You?”

“I’m fine. We gotta move fast. We’re going to need to get everyone back in the Land Rover. You gotta help us. Help the lady first, you and Francisco. Understand?”

He nodded. I left him, went to the old man and kneeled beside him. “Can you stand, abuelo ?” I asked.

“Yes.”

He didn’t look too bad.

“We have to go,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. Somehow his cheek was bleeding. He was touching it, staring at the blood. Fixated.

“You’re ok. We’ll get you a Band-Aid in the car. Come on, Poppa,” I said and offered him my hand.

“You speak English good,” the old man said.

“I studied it in school,” I replied.

That fact helped him. Anyone who could speak English that well was practically a Yankee. And Yankees could do this kind of thing to other Yankees. He blinked slowly, rubbed the tears from his cheek. I got him to his feet.

“Pedro, you and Francisco get over here. Everyone else back in the Land Rover,” I said.

I rebuttoned my shirt and slid some of Ray’s face from my hair.

When the Guatemalan kid and the old-timers were in the Land Rover, I rifled the two corpses and took back our money and possessions. Both bodies were still warm.

“What the hell are you doing?” Pedro said.

I gave him his billfold and that shut him up for a second.

“Is there anywhere we can hide this truck?” I asked him.

“What?”

“Is there anywhere we can hide their vehicle?” I repeated with more urgency.

He thought for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “I don’t remember any gullies or canyons around here. Nothing back on the reservation.”

“Gotta leave it then. We’ll put the bodies inside, buy us some more time,” I told him.