moustache and a
sweat-stained San Diego Padres baseball cap. “Why? Why you in Mexico ?”
Vivian sighed.
Christ. If it weren’t for bad luck, she wouldn’t have any at all. “That woman
took my boyfriend hostage!” she screamed, hoping they’d find her utterly
pathetic and just let her be. “He’s…he’s in terrible trouble. You have to
understand. Muy malo, por favor! Please! I need help !”
The old man
chuckled, and Vivian watched the others as they watched him—waiting for a cue
on how to proceed. While the driver was the physical threat, it was clear the
farmhands took their lead from the old man.
The old man
stretched a wrinkled palm toward her and she flinched as his finger brushed her
temple. He showed her the back of his hand—the crimson swatch of blood there.
Vivian bit her
lip hard, keeping the tears at bay. Her knee was swelling by the second, and
she was bleeding from a dozen abrasions. The sun beat down, pummeling her with
its intensity. Insects thrummed amongst the rows of withered tomato bushes.
Was this place
hell? Wasn’t it just yesterday that she thought it might be paradise?
Her lip quivered
as the driver stepped toward her. He reached out with the rifle and used its
barrel as a prod. “Go,” he said, nudging her toward the truck.
“Por favor!
N-n-necesito…” she began.
“Silencio! Go!”
he snarled, jabbing at her with the gun.
She turned and
limped toward the truck, her mind racing. This was the place, wasn’t it?
Before they’d
had Katie, she and Ryan had gone to the movies a couple of times a month. They
loved thrillers—devouring anything with a suspenseful plot or a little bit of
action. Once, while walking out to the car after another Denzel Washington
flick, she’d remarked to her husband that she’d rather go down swinging than
marching placidly to the slaughter.
“Might as well
give it the old college try, eh sweetie?” Ryan had laughed.
“You bet your
ass, Jake!” she’d replied, parroting a line from the movie.
And here it was.
She shuffled forward, a strange little smile on her lips.
Here it freaking was , her moment of personal clarity, and it all actually made sense. If
this was it for her—if her destiny had included being taken hostage in a
Mexican tomato field all along—then it was time to rail hard against that
future.
What was there
to lose?
She heard the
farmhands behind her, scuffling through the dust, talking quickly in their
native tongue. They were relaxed. What threat was a hobbled, 110-pound woman to
them?
She limped
toward the truck, selling the wounded animal routine even as she waited for her
opportunity. The rifle barrel brushed her back from time to time, hovering
loosely above her right kidney.
The pickup was
close. Twenty-five yards.
Somebody made a
joke and her captors erupted in laughter. Vivian spun to the right, swiveling
her hips even as she jabbed the barrel of the rifle away from her with her left
hand. The driver yipped his surprise and the rifle belched an errant shot.
Smoke obscured
his features for an instant, and Vivian stepped forward and punched him hard in
the throat. She felt his larynx buckle—like crunching a Styrofoam cup—and he
dropped the rifle, his hands clamped to his throat. He keeled over on his side,
tongue lolling as he struggled for air.
Vivian snatched
up the rifle and leveled it at the stunned quartet. The old man, who had tried
to hit her with the car door, studied her with flat, dark eyes. His lips
twisted in a snarl and he pointed to the driver choking to death on the ground.
“Mi hijo ,”
he pleaded. “Por favor, mi hijo!”
Vivian took a
step back, steadied herself and pulled the trigger. The shot cleared the old
man’s head by a foot, and he and the others hit the ground, screaming in fear.
“The next one
won’t go high!” she shrieked. “Keys! Give me the damned keys to the truck!”
The young one
scrambled over to the driver, who had stopped struggling. He was
sweat-stained San Diego Padres baseball cap. “Why? Why you in Mexico ?”
Vivian sighed.
Christ. If it weren’t for bad luck, she wouldn’t have any at all. “That woman
took my boyfriend hostage!” she screamed, hoping they’d find her utterly
pathetic and just let her be. “He’s…he’s in terrible trouble. You have to
understand. Muy malo, por favor! Please! I need help !”
The old man
chuckled, and Vivian watched the others as they watched him—waiting for a cue
on how to proceed. While the driver was the physical threat, it was clear the
farmhands took their lead from the old man.
The old man
stretched a wrinkled palm toward her and she flinched as his finger brushed her
temple. He showed her the back of his hand—the crimson swatch of blood there.
Vivian bit her
lip hard, keeping the tears at bay. Her knee was swelling by the second, and
she was bleeding from a dozen abrasions. The sun beat down, pummeling her with
its intensity. Insects thrummed amongst the rows of withered tomato bushes.
Was this place
hell? Wasn’t it just yesterday that she thought it might be paradise?
Her lip quivered
as the driver stepped toward her. He reached out with the rifle and used its
barrel as a prod. “Go,” he said, nudging her toward the truck.
“Por favor!
N-n-necesito…” she began.
“Silencio! Go!”
he snarled, jabbing at her with the gun.
She turned and
limped toward the truck, her mind racing. This was the place, wasn’t it?
Before they’d
had Katie, she and Ryan had gone to the movies a couple of times a month. They
loved thrillers—devouring anything with a suspenseful plot or a little bit of
action. Once, while walking out to the car after another Denzel Washington
flick, she’d remarked to her husband that she’d rather go down swinging than
marching placidly to the slaughter.
“Might as well
give it the old college try, eh sweetie?” Ryan had laughed.
“You bet your
ass, Jake!” she’d replied, parroting a line from the movie.
And here it was.
She shuffled forward, a strange little smile on her lips.
Here it freaking was , her moment of personal clarity, and it all actually made sense. If
this was it for her—if her destiny had included being taken hostage in a
Mexican tomato field all along—then it was time to rail hard against that
future.
What was there
to lose?
She heard the
farmhands behind her, scuffling through the dust, talking quickly in their
native tongue. They were relaxed. What threat was a hobbled, 110-pound woman to
them?
She limped
toward the truck, selling the wounded animal routine even as she waited for her
opportunity. The rifle barrel brushed her back from time to time, hovering
loosely above her right kidney.
The pickup was
close. Twenty-five yards.
Somebody made a
joke and her captors erupted in laughter. Vivian spun to the right, swiveling
her hips even as she jabbed the barrel of the rifle away from her with her left
hand. The driver yipped his surprise and the rifle belched an errant shot.
Smoke obscured
his features for an instant, and Vivian stepped forward and punched him hard in
the throat. She felt his larynx buckle—like crunching a Styrofoam cup—and he
dropped the rifle, his hands clamped to his throat. He keeled over on his side,
tongue lolling as he struggled for air.
Vivian snatched
up the rifle and leveled it at the stunned quartet. The old man, who had tried
to hit her with the car door, studied her with flat, dark eyes. His lips
twisted in a snarl and he pointed to the driver choking to death on the ground.
“Mi hijo ,”
he pleaded. “Por favor, mi hijo!”
Vivian took a
step back, steadied herself and pulled the trigger. The shot cleared the old
man’s head by a foot, and he and the others hit the ground, screaming in fear.
“The next one
won’t go high!” she shrieked. “Keys! Give me the damned keys to the truck!”
The young one
scrambled over to the driver, who had stopped struggling. He was
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