Jack Wilder - The Missionary

She had no way of comprehending the pain, the raw agony. She couldn’t stand up under the brutal onslaught of the pain as he twisted, withdrew, and shoved the closed knife into her again. Something caught, tore. Wren slumped, fought to stay upright. She couldn’t even sob, as she had no breath.

Cervantes withdrew his knife, and let her fall. “Maybe next time, the knife will be open, yeah?” He left, taking the lamp.

Wren’s lungs screamed from the lack of oxygen, and she gasped in a breath, shuddering, and curled on the floor as if she could curl in on the pain, the throbbing, fiery, excruciating burn inside her.

Beside the pain was something else, something burning just as hot: Rage.

16

Regaining consciousness was like vomiting, painful and unstoppable. Stone was hot, sweating. His head throbbed, and his body ached. His side was a mass of screaming nerve-endings, something beyond mere pain.

Wren.

Stone opened his eyes, saw nothing. He heard voices, though. Not far away, but muffled. His breathing echoed back to him; he was in a small space, then. His arms were bound behind him by what felt like zip-ties. He flexed his fingers, reaching to see if he could touch the restraints. His fingertips brushed smooth plastic, then the ribbed teeth. He grinned in the darkness.

Levering himself to his feet, Stone clenched his jaw as his side protested the movement. The zip-tie had been pulled so tight his skin was dimpled and throbbing. Perfect. He lifted his arms, bending forward and pressing his shoulder blades together. He raised his arms as far away from his body as he could, tensed against the coming agony, and then slammed his bound wrists against his backside. He ground his teeth as his healing gunshot wound tore open and trickled blood. His wrists were still bound, which meant he had to do it again. He sucked in a breath, tensed, drew his arms up and away, and slammed his wrists against his tailbone, shoving his hips back to maximize the force. This time, the ratchet mechanism of the zip-tie snapped, and his wrists came loose. The plastic had cut into his wrists, drawing blood, and his side was bleeding again, but he was free.

He paused to let the pain subside a bit, then moved toward the closest wall, followed it around with his palms until he found the door. Unlocked—the stupid bastards. He twisted the knob slowly, gingerly. The catch gave, and he pulled the door open a crack and peered through. More darkness, except for a sliver of light. He slipped through the door, moving as silently as he could. The light was just enough to let his darkness-accustomed eyes make out a pile of blankets on the floor of the room, which he avoided. He stopped by the cracked-open door. Beyond, a small fluorescent camping lantern sat in the middle of a table, surrounded by face-up playing cards. Pipes, syringes, joint roaches, and half-empty bottles of booze littered the table. There was only one man in the room, though, sitting on a chair facing away from Stone. His head leaned back, and he was making small groaning noises. A wet sucking sound told Stone what was happening.

Casting his gaze around the room, Stone saw a small folding knife on the table beside a hunk of wood that was being skillfully whittled into the likeness of a bull. He crept into the room, snatched the knife off the table and unfolded it partway, waiting to open it the rest of the way so the click didn’t give him away. The man in the chair groaned, long and loud, and Stone used the cover of the noise to snap the blade open.

It was a tiny knife, the blade no more than two or three inches wide, but it was better than nothing. He tested the blade against his thumb, and found it razor sharp, probably kept so by the owner. He took small, silent steps until he stood behind the thug. The man’s groans were growing louder, and he was starting to move his hands and hips in time with his groans.

Stone could now see over his victim’s shoulder. A blonde head bobbed, small, pale, dirty white hands moving below her lips. Her eyes flicked up, saw Stone, and she faltered in her rhythm. He shook his head, displaying the knife, and she only blinked, resumed her attentions. The man began to mumble, repeating a single syllable, “ oo, oo, oo, ” yes, yes, yes. He gripped a handful of blond hair in his fist and started shoving down, ignoring the girl’s whimper and gag.

Stone brought the knife around, moving slowly, found his target. Drawing a deep breath, he struck just as the man groaned a final time, jabbing the point of the small knife into the thug’s windpipe and twisting, sawing. The thug thrashed, and the girl fell backward, semen dripping down her chin. Blood sprayed over her as she cowered, clapping hands over her eyes. Stone sliced again, widening the hole he’d made, then slid the knife point between his victim’s ribs and into his heart. The thrashing stopped, but thick ribbons of blood continued to pour from the gaping, ragged throat wound, down over the man’s belly and legs and onto the floor. Blood covered Stone’s hand, wet and warm and sticky.

He wiped his hand on his shirt, and then knelt beside the cowering girl. “Hey,” he whispered. “Stay here, okay?”

“ Was? Ich spreche kein Englisch. ” Her voice was tiny, hesitant.

Stone recognized the German, but didn’t speak it. “Stay,” he whispered again, moving his flattened palm toward the floor. The girl nodded, scrambling farther away from the dead man, away from his red-painted front and limp, bared manhood.

Stone moved to the next doorway, wondering where Cervantes kept finding these mazes of interconnected shanties. Maybe he made them, cutting holes in walls and shoring up ceilings, evicting the residents. He peered around the opening, saw an empty room, and another beyond that. Slow, silent steps took him from room to room, following the faint echo of male voices, laughing.

He stopped at doorless entry way, watching shadows move, hearing voices speak. Stone was too keyed up and focused to bother translating, but his brain supplied snatches of words: “she didn’t like it…won’t hurt her price at all…”

Something gave him away. A shuffled foot, a too-loud breath. Something, it didn’t matter what. Cervantes’ voice halted, and his face filled the shadows in front of Stone.

“Ah, da American soldier. I wondered if you join us.” He grinned wickedly and gestured with the barrel of his pistol for Stone to follow him.

Surreptitiously folding the knife and dropping it in his pocket, Stone followed Cervantes into the room, the largest one yet, lit by several more of the camping lanterns. There were three other men in the room, each armed and sitting at a folding table with several kilo bricks of marijuana in the center, each of them pinching out small amounts into plastic bags, weighing, adding or subtracting until they reached the proper weight.

There were three doors: one led back the way Stone had come, one seemed to lead outside, and another was closed.

“You kill a lot of my guys,” Cervantes noted in a conversational voice.

“What did you expect? That I’d just let you take her and get away with it?” Stone kept his hand out of his pocket, but he was planning out his movements: reach into his pocket and unfold the knife while he was lunging, go for the windpipe, or the femoral artery. He’d take a bullet or two, probably, but he didn’t see any other way around it. He had to take out Cervantes. He slowed his breathing, tensed and coiled his muscles, readying for the pounce.

Cervantes was eyeing Stone with a speculative look in his eye. “I tink I recognize you. You come after my operation some year or two ago. But I ambush you. Kill many of your stupid American friends. I remember you, yeah.” He slid the rack on his pistol and touched the cold O to Stone’s cheek. “You got away den. Not dis time, asshole.”