making a
strange whistling sound, his eyes unfocused. The kid rooted around in his
pockets until he found the keys. Shouting in Spanish, palms raised, he tossed
them at her feet.
Vivian stooped
to pick them up, the rifle steady on the men, before scuttling backward toward
the truck.
The last thing
she saw before climbing up into the passenger side of the truck was the old man
cradling his son there in the dirt. She put the rifle on the seat, slid over
and fired the truck up. Instead of backing up she floored it, screaming down
the road until she found a spot to turn around.
“Gas, Vivian.
Jesus, girl— think !”
She sighed with
relief when she saw there was more than half a tank. Her eyes darted to the
rearview, where she saw the scab of a nasty cut forming near her hairline.
Dried blood tracked down the left side of her face, branching over her cheek
like the tributaries of the Rio Grande. When she passed her would-be captors,
they were now standing in the field, watching her exit.
All but one,
that is. The old man, arms at his side, did not look up. His eyes were instead
fixed on his son ( Mi hijo! ), who lay unmoving in the soil.
“Fucking
assholes,” Vivian said, pressing harder on the gas pedal. She blinked back the
tears, then slammed the palm of her hand against the steering wheel.
Perhaps she’d
killed the driver. In fact, she thought she probably had. Her blow had caught
him flush in the Adam’s apple, a lucky shot to be sure.
She turned her
eyes to the rifle, then onto the seat, where the iPad lay silent—broken and
impotent.
She said a quick
prayer and then took a deep breath, trying to clear her conscious. If she’d
killed him, she would come to terms with it another day. For now, though, she
had more pressing matters.
She also had
more advantages than she’d ever thought possible, just an hour before. She had
a truck and a gun, though she had no idea how many bullets were left in the
rifle. She had a plausible excuse for keeping the iPad switched off, which gave
her the element of surprise—at least for as long as she could remember her
route.
And she had time
to get to Miguel.
The truck was no
great prize, but it moved along at sixty miles an hour without any problems.
She pushed
forward, ignoring the knee injury and the sting of the road rash as she surged
into a destiny of her own creation.
EIGHTEEN
Miguel had never
felt so utterly devoid of hope. Even when he’d left the firm, amidst all of
those emotions of anger and doubt, he’d always maintained a sense of confidence
that the future would be better.
Now, looking
down at his mangled legs, he felt nothing of the sort. The one called Chaco had
rubbed a numbing agent over his thighs and calves, but it hadn’t been enough.
There were enough toxins in his flesh and bloodstream that his entire body had
become a cinder. Sweat tracked down his temples. He could feel it trickling
down his ribcage.
His heart
strained in his chest as his system struggled with the ant bites. The insects
had covered his lower body, and he couldn’t bear the sight of his legs.
They didn’t even seem like they belonged to him. Instead, it looked like
somebody had stuffed a pair of tanned sausage casings with dozens of golf
balls. Enormous welts pocked the landscape of his body, weeping blood and puss
in equal amounts.
Chaco had used a
whisk broom to brush the ants off when the screaming had become unbearable, but
it was too late. Miguel couldn’t picture a future in which he would ever walk
again.
“We had to stop
it, Terri. Look—he might still die anyway. You’re taking this…” Chaco said, and
Miguel turned to study his captors. They stood in the shade, Chaco using his
hands to underscore his points while Terri stared at the ground, her arms
crossed over her chest in defiance.
“Terri?” he
called. His voice cracked. “Water? Please.”
“Water?” she
parroted. “You want some water, Mike? Okay! Okay, we can do that…”
She left
strange whistling sound, his eyes unfocused. The kid rooted around in his
pockets until he found the keys. Shouting in Spanish, palms raised, he tossed
them at her feet.
Vivian stooped
to pick them up, the rifle steady on the men, before scuttling backward toward
the truck.
The last thing
she saw before climbing up into the passenger side of the truck was the old man
cradling his son there in the dirt. She put the rifle on the seat, slid over
and fired the truck up. Instead of backing up she floored it, screaming down
the road until she found a spot to turn around.
“Gas, Vivian.
Jesus, girl— think !”
She sighed with
relief when she saw there was more than half a tank. Her eyes darted to the
rearview, where she saw the scab of a nasty cut forming near her hairline.
Dried blood tracked down the left side of her face, branching over her cheek
like the tributaries of the Rio Grande. When she passed her would-be captors,
they were now standing in the field, watching her exit.
All but one,
that is. The old man, arms at his side, did not look up. His eyes were instead
fixed on his son ( Mi hijo! ), who lay unmoving in the soil.
“Fucking
assholes,” Vivian said, pressing harder on the gas pedal. She blinked back the
tears, then slammed the palm of her hand against the steering wheel.
Perhaps she’d
killed the driver. In fact, she thought she probably had. Her blow had caught
him flush in the Adam’s apple, a lucky shot to be sure.
She turned her
eyes to the rifle, then onto the seat, where the iPad lay silent—broken and
impotent.
She said a quick
prayer and then took a deep breath, trying to clear her conscious. If she’d
killed him, she would come to terms with it another day. For now, though, she
had more pressing matters.
She also had
more advantages than she’d ever thought possible, just an hour before. She had
a truck and a gun, though she had no idea how many bullets were left in the
rifle. She had a plausible excuse for keeping the iPad switched off, which gave
her the element of surprise—at least for as long as she could remember her
route.
And she had time
to get to Miguel.
The truck was no
great prize, but it moved along at sixty miles an hour without any problems.
She pushed
forward, ignoring the knee injury and the sting of the road rash as she surged
into a destiny of her own creation.
EIGHTEEN
Miguel had never
felt so utterly devoid of hope. Even when he’d left the firm, amidst all of
those emotions of anger and doubt, he’d always maintained a sense of confidence
that the future would be better.
Now, looking
down at his mangled legs, he felt nothing of the sort. The one called Chaco had
rubbed a numbing agent over his thighs and calves, but it hadn’t been enough.
There were enough toxins in his flesh and bloodstream that his entire body had
become a cinder. Sweat tracked down his temples. He could feel it trickling
down his ribcage.
His heart
strained in his chest as his system struggled with the ant bites. The insects
had covered his lower body, and he couldn’t bear the sight of his legs.
They didn’t even seem like they belonged to him. Instead, it looked like
somebody had stuffed a pair of tanned sausage casings with dozens of golf
balls. Enormous welts pocked the landscape of his body, weeping blood and puss
in equal amounts.
Chaco had used a
whisk broom to brush the ants off when the screaming had become unbearable, but
it was too late. Miguel couldn’t picture a future in which he would ever walk
again.
“We had to stop
it, Terri. Look—he might still die anyway. You’re taking this…” Chaco said, and
Miguel turned to study his captors. They stood in the shade, Chaco using his
hands to underscore his points while Terri stared at the ground, her arms
crossed over her chest in defiance.
“Terri?” he
called. His voice cracked. “Water? Please.”
“Water?” she
parroted. “You want some water, Mike? Okay! Okay, we can do that…”
She left
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