Andrew Klavan - If We Survive

“I was a Marine, actually,” Palmer said pleasantly through his mouthful of nuts. “But not anymore.”

“Big strong United States Marine,” said Mendoza. “And you are not going to rush to the aid of your countrywoman in her distress?”

Palmer shrugged. He turned back to the TV, lifting his beer. “Your country, amigo. Your revolution,” he said. “It’s none of my business.” Once again, he started to lift his bottle of beer to his mouth. But he paused. He glanced at Mendoza sideways. “Of course,” he added, “you never know how these things are going to turn out in the end. Do you?”

With that, Palmer went back to watching the soccer game.

Suddenly—and for no reason I could tell—the expression on Mendoza’s face changed. The white grin beneath his mustache disappeared. The light of cruel humor in his eyes went out and was replaced by something else, something that looked to me a lot like fear.

Without another word, he let Meredith go—that is, he tossed her away from him like a toy he was bored with. She lost her footing and stumbled, fell to one knee on the cantina floor.

I ran to her then. I forgot about the guns. Or maybe I figured, Let them go on and shoot me . Whatever: I ran to her. I stooped beside her. Took her by the arm and helped her to her feet.

“Thank you, Will,” she said. I was shocked to hear how quiet her voice was—breathless, but still calm. She rubbed the spot on the side of her head where Mendoza had gripped her.

Holding her arm, I walked with her back to the table. Pastor Ron pulled a chair out and we both helped her to her seat.

I thought Mendoza might come after me next, angry at me for going to Meredith. But when I turned back to him, he was standing right where he’d been, still gazing across the room at Palmer Dunn.

Palmer glanced away from the TV for a moment, met his gaze, and smiled. Then, calmly, he turned away. Swigged his beer. Watched the soccer game. Something had passed between the two men—something important—but I couldn’t understand what it was.

Now Mendoza looked around the room at his gunmen. His gunmen quailed, looking frightened. Easy to understand why. Mendoza looked angry now—really angry. He looked like a man who felt humiliated and was searching for someone to punish.

He stood there glaring a long moment. Then he made a quick, harsh gesture with his hand. “Vamanos!” he barked.

As quickly as they had come thundering in, the gunmen started to thunder out again, storming to the cantina door and through it, out into the plaza. Mendoza continued gesturing at them, continued barking orders in Spanish. Two gunmen broke away from the pack. One grabbed Carlos by one foot and one by the other. They dragged the dead waiter to the door and out.

More orders from Mendoza. Two more gunmen broke away from the pack as it filed out. Mendoza pointed this way and that, and one gunman took up a post at the doorway in back, while the other stood with his machine gun at the front entrance.

The thunder of footsteps faded. Aside from the guards at the exits, the gunmen were gone. Mendoza stood alone and finally quiet in the center of the room.

The killer looked around slowly—looked around at all of us—one, then another, then another. When his eyes passed over me, I felt dread blow over me like a chill wind. It made goose bumps rise on my flesh.

“No one is to leave this place,” Mendoza told us. He gestured toward the guards at the doors. “These men have orders to shoot anyone who tries to get away. Or tries to use the Internet. Or the phone.”

He paused as if he would say something else. But then he just gave Palmer one last angry glance.

This time, Palmer didn’t even turn from the soccer game.

And with that, Mendoza made a sharp pivot on his heel and marched out of the cantina.

Nicki fell apart. The moment Mendoza was out the door, the second the tension in the cantina broke, she let out a little hiccup sound, raised her hands beside her head, rigid and shivering as if she were suffering a massive electric shock. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her mouth opened and closed a moment without making a sound. And then she did make a sound: strained, tearful words coming out of her in little coughing bursts.

“What… is… happening? What… they… killed… they killed… What… ? What… is happening?”

I knew how she felt. It was as if, with Mendoza gone, we finally had a chance to feel just how shocked and scared we were. I know I felt my own heart suddenly speed up, as if it were going to break out of my chest and run for the hills in pure terror.

“No! I mean… no! I… I… I…,” Nicki said. “No…” Meredith got out of her chair. Went to her. Put her hands on her shoulders.

“Ssh. Quiet, Nicki,” she said—calmly like that, as if she hadn’t just been roughed up by a murderer. “Quiet. It’s going to be all right.”

“All right??? They killed… that man! They killed… ! All right???”

“Well, what did you all think?” asked Jim. “This has been building for years. How long did you think these people were going to tolerate—”

“Not now, Jim,” Meredith said quickly, and Jim’s mouth closed into a tight line as if he could only hold back by force what he wanted to say. Meredith leaned down and set her cheek against Nicki’s as Nicki hiccuped out another sob. “It’s all right. It’s going to be fine.”

“No. I… I… What is happening?” said Nicki again. She was weeping steadily now. “What is happening?”

I looked from them to Pastor Ron. “What is happening?” I asked him. “What are we going to do?”

Pastor Ron stared at me, and I felt my racing heart drop in my chest. Pastor Ron—he was our leader. He was the only real adult we had with us. He was the one who was going to have to take charge. But the way he looked just then—his eyes big as dinner plates behind his glasses, his lips parted as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words—it was… well… not inspiring, to say the least.

But now another voice came from across the room.

“You oughta shut her up, for one thing.”

Palmer. He had turned around, was leaning back against the bar, the beer bottle still in his hand. He gestured with the bottle at Nicki—Nicki, who went on sobbing and babbling out unfinished sentences and disconnected words.

“If you want to know what to do,” said Palmer, “that’d be a good place to start.”

I saw Pastor Ron blink—almost as if he were coming out of a trance. He looked at Nicki.

“Are we going to die now?” Nicki sobbed to no one in particular. “Are they… going to kill everybody? Are they going to shoot us?”

“Ssh,” said Meredith.

“I mean it,” said Palmer. “Shut her up and fast.”

Pastor Ron licked his lips. “There’s… there’s no need to talk to her like that,” he said. “She’s upset.”

“I don’t care if she’s the queen of England,” Palmer answered him. “You oughta quiet her down before these clowns do it for you.”

He gestured with his beer again. I followed the movement to look at the guards—the one at the front door and the one at the rear. They were watching us. Staring at us. Staring at Nicki. The looks on their faces sent that cold wind of dread through me again. They didn’t look happy. Not at all. They looked annoyed. They looked angry. As if they wanted Nicki to stop crying. Fast. As in: Right now. And permanently. The one at the rear door looked like he was about to lose his temper for sure. And everyone else in the bar—the local people, I mean—were sort of cowering together, as if they were expecting an explosion at any moment.

I saw Meredith look at the guards too, same as me. She gave a single nod. “Palmer’s right,” she said.