barns. These in turn were flanked by a few large trees and rusty threshers. Overgrown fields, colorless under the overcast, stretched away in all directions.
Paco felt eyes on him, those of his countrymen, as the van stopped next to a pile of construction debris and wood at the cinder-block bunkhouse. He looked into the rearview mirror at John. “Is town far from this place? I can walk.”
John flashed those little teeth at Paco in the mirror. “You might as well come in and have some chow with the rest of them. You have traveled far and must be hungry.” He shoved open his door and came around the side to open the van so the illegals could exit.
One by one the illegals climbed down from the van, but none would meet Paco’s eyes.
Last from the van was Paco, and as soon as his feet landed on the dusty red dirt of the driveway, John clamped a hand on the back of his neck.
“You’ll work here or you’ll go to prison, pussy.” The little teeth seemed more plentiful than ever.
The grip on Paco’s neck was intense; his vision swam and darkened. John kicked the back of his knees and pushed him to the dirt.
Paco rolled onto his back, facing the big gringo. His little red backpack had fallen by the van, the nine-millimeter automatic out of reach.
One end of a length of bristled rope was in John’s fist. The other end of the rope had a knot in it.
“You’ll work here, sleep here, eat here.”
The rope whistled through the air, and the knot caught Paco in the ribs, delivering a bolt of pain.
Then again in the thigh, then in his shoulder as Paco rolled and tried to scramble away from John’s whip. The big man lurched after him, red dust rising and stinging Paco’s eyes, the other illegals clustered by the debris pile, watching in fear.
“And if you don’t do as I say, you’ll die here, pussy!”
The knot delivered another bolt of pain to Paco’s ribs just as he rolled. The knot lodged momentarily between his side and the ground.
John cursed and yanked the rope clear, but Paco caught the rope above the knot and tried in vain to pull the bully down.
The fat man held fast, jerking Paco toward him and thrusting a foot at his head. The boot missed its mark. John staggered forward.
Paco let go of the rope and leaped to his feet behind his attacker, hatchet in hand.
John turned in time to see the hatchet, and in time to lean away from the rusty blade an inch before his bulging eyes. His weight pivoted on his limping leg, and the fat man could not move away quickly enough to avoid Paco’s kick. It caught him in the knee, on the side, and the big man fell with a groan to the red earth.
Paco lunged into the cloud of dust, onto John’s side, and the big man shrieked and bucked. To Paco it sounded like the shriek of a whore. He slashed backhanded at the fat man’s neck with the hatchet, chopping off much of his chin instead of the jugular, so he angled the blade in on the forward thrust and drove the hatchet under John’s ear and up to the hilt behind the jaw. He felt the blade crack through the nasal cavity and give, like hacking a pumpkin.
Paco rolled off John and onto his side next to the van. Next to his little red backpack.
In the cloud of red dust before him, John staggered to his feet. There did not seem any way to open the backpack quickly enough, so Paco felt for the pistol’s grip and trigger guard.
From the red cloud John rushed toward him, the handle angled out from behind his ear, gore gushing from his nose, the little teeth swimming in blood. Paco had found the shape of the gun in the backpack, but realized he was holding the gun upside down. He pointed it anyway. He fired.
You may want to film this next part in slow motion.
Flame shot from the bag, and the slug punched John just below the navel. He was staggering forward, so the wound didn’t alter his course toward Paco. John’s hands were raised in claws, a wounded beast intent to take El Cabezador with him beyond the mortal veil of
Paco felt eyes on him, those of his countrymen, as the van stopped next to a pile of construction debris and wood at the cinder-block bunkhouse. He looked into the rearview mirror at John. “Is town far from this place? I can walk.”
John flashed those little teeth at Paco in the mirror. “You might as well come in and have some chow with the rest of them. You have traveled far and must be hungry.” He shoved open his door and came around the side to open the van so the illegals could exit.
One by one the illegals climbed down from the van, but none would meet Paco’s eyes.
Last from the van was Paco, and as soon as his feet landed on the dusty red dirt of the driveway, John clamped a hand on the back of his neck.
“You’ll work here or you’ll go to prison, pussy.” The little teeth seemed more plentiful than ever.
The grip on Paco’s neck was intense; his vision swam and darkened. John kicked the back of his knees and pushed him to the dirt.
Paco rolled onto his back, facing the big gringo. His little red backpack had fallen by the van, the nine-millimeter automatic out of reach.
One end of a length of bristled rope was in John’s fist. The other end of the rope had a knot in it.
“You’ll work here, sleep here, eat here.”
The rope whistled through the air, and the knot caught Paco in the ribs, delivering a bolt of pain.
Then again in the thigh, then in his shoulder as Paco rolled and tried to scramble away from John’s whip. The big man lurched after him, red dust rising and stinging Paco’s eyes, the other illegals clustered by the debris pile, watching in fear.
“And if you don’t do as I say, you’ll die here, pussy!”
The knot delivered another bolt of pain to Paco’s ribs just as he rolled. The knot lodged momentarily between his side and the ground.
John cursed and yanked the rope clear, but Paco caught the rope above the knot and tried in vain to pull the bully down.
The fat man held fast, jerking Paco toward him and thrusting a foot at his head. The boot missed its mark. John staggered forward.
Paco let go of the rope and leaped to his feet behind his attacker, hatchet in hand.
John turned in time to see the hatchet, and in time to lean away from the rusty blade an inch before his bulging eyes. His weight pivoted on his limping leg, and the fat man could not move away quickly enough to avoid Paco’s kick. It caught him in the knee, on the side, and the big man fell with a groan to the red earth.
Paco lunged into the cloud of dust, onto John’s side, and the big man shrieked and bucked. To Paco it sounded like the shriek of a whore. He slashed backhanded at the fat man’s neck with the hatchet, chopping off much of his chin instead of the jugular, so he angled the blade in on the forward thrust and drove the hatchet under John’s ear and up to the hilt behind the jaw. He felt the blade crack through the nasal cavity and give, like hacking a pumpkin.
Paco rolled off John and onto his side next to the van. Next to his little red backpack.
In the cloud of red dust before him, John staggered to his feet. There did not seem any way to open the backpack quickly enough, so Paco felt for the pistol’s grip and trigger guard.
From the red cloud John rushed toward him, the handle angled out from behind his ear, gore gushing from his nose, the little teeth swimming in blood. Paco had found the shape of the gun in the backpack, but realized he was holding the gun upside down. He pointed it anyway. He fired.
You may want to film this next part in slow motion.
Flame shot from the bag, and the slug punched John just below the navel. He was staggering forward, so the wound didn’t alter his course toward Paco. John’s hands were raised in claws, a wounded beast intent to take El Cabezador with him beyond the mortal veil of
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