“Where’s she?”
“Over there.”
At a wave of Sancho’s hand, Pedro checks on the sleeping woman. “She’s stinking like a pig. Probably too stoned to hear a thing.”
“Let go of him,” Sancho says. Before a shadow of hope could appear on Pete’s face, the thug leader adds, “and close the door, mano. So, what shall we do with him? We’re supposed to set an example for the other drogadictos in Florencia territory.”
“A la chingada with this two pieces of shit. Let’s burn down this shithole with them inside.”
“Agree with Pedro, jefe. Let’s finish here, pick up Horacio and the three manos waiting for us outside and vámonos.”
“I’m tired of talking to this shithead.” Sancho works off the safety on the UZI. “It’s a waste of bullets but since I’m losing cash on this zombie anyway, a few bucks more or less wouldn’t make a difference. ¡Adiós, cabrón!”
Pete doesn’t look up. He hears his own heartbeat for a second. Then comes a loud bang.
But not from Sancho’s submachine gun — it is the door being busted open. The silhouette of a hugely built man appears in the darkness. He immediately grabs the thug standing closest to the door and smashes him against Sancho, who is swept off his feet by the impact of his henchman’s body. His jerking index finger fires a short burst from the UZI which hits the ceiling. Pedro hisses a Hispanic swear and draws a jagged combat knife. A powerful kick hits his wrist, causing him to let go off the weapon. The intruder catches the knife in its fall, flips it, slashes the thug’s throat and throws the knife into the other thug’s chest whom he smashed against Sancho a few seconds before.
At the far end of the room, Sancho desperately reaches for his UZI that fell off his hand and now lies a few feet away from him. With two giant leaps, the intruder reaches Sancho. For the length of a breath, he towers over the thug leader who looks up to him, his eyes almost popping out from fear, his fingernails breaking on the wooden floor as he still tries to get his weapon. Then the intruder lets the full weight of his massive body fall with knees kept forward. Blood fountains up from Sancho’s mouth as the heavy body impacts on his chest, crushing his ribcage.
Struck with awe, Pete watches his savior getting to his feet and adjusting his long raincoat from which rainwater is still dripping.
“Are you a fucking Terminator?” he asks with a throat dry and painful from the thug’s choke-hold.
“No. I am a Stalker,” the intruder replies with a hard Russian accent, trilling the Rs. “My name is Tarasov. Mikhailo Tarasov. You are Peter Leighley, I presume?”
“What the hell are you stalking me for?”
“I am not stalking you. I am saving you.”
“Are you one of my father’s… mutineers?”
Mikhailo Tarasov shakes his head and offers Pete a hand to help him up. But Pete crawls backwards to the wall, perhaps in even greater fear than while facing the thugs.
“Yes you are! Leave me be! I don’t want to have anything to do with you mass-murdering bastards!”
The stairs creak. Someone is slowly walking up to the room. Pete darts a fearful look towards the door but the man with the strange name doesn’t seem to care.
“Pete,” he says calmly, “it’s time for us to leave.”
“Do you need assistance?” a hoarse voice asks.
Another tall shadow enters the room. To Pete’s astonishment, this man is even taller and stronger built than the first. The shoulders of his leather pilot jacket are wet with rain, just like the Tennessee Titans baseball cap. His steel-blue eyes under the bushy, dark brows scan the room, then get fixated on Pete.
“It’s all right, Top,” Tarasov tells him over his shoulder. “We were just in time.”
“So this is Pete?”
“Yes that’s me,” the youth says. “And who the fuck are you?”
The man who Tarasov addressed in US Marine slang raises his hand in salute. “It’s an outstanding honor to meet you. You’re the son of the greatest warrior the world has ever seen. I’m Sergeant Major Elliott Hartman and you may call me Top. And now haul your skinny ass, Marine! We’ve probably stirred up a hornets’ nest!”
“Unless you want to wait until Sancho’s buddies arrive,” Tarasov says.
Pete looks at them with distrust. “Don’t know which is worse—the Florencia guys or you!”
The two men share a smile.
“Guess it’s us,” Tarasov says with a chuckle. “You better believe me.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To a safe place, son,” Hartman says.
“I won’t leave without Nelly.”
“Nelly?”
“My girlfriend, Michael Tarasov. She is sleeping right over there.”
“My name is Mikhailo. Not Michael.” Tarasov picks up Sancho’s torchlight. On a rotting piece of cardboard stretched out on the floor, somebody lies covered with a ragged coat and other trash. Only a few strands of dark hair visible between the rags tell of a woman being nestled under this pile of filth.
“Oh Gospodi,” Tarasov exclaims with disgust. “How can she sleep in a place like this?”
“She can sleep there good enough. She even dreams, man!”
The Top steps towards the sleeping woman. “I’ve a very bad feeling about this.”
Ignoring the rotten stench, he kneels down. Using his own small torchlight, carefully avoiding touching the filth, he lifts the rags covering the sleeping woman.
“Don’t wake her up!” Pete begs. “Please!”
“Mikhailo, the big man’s son is in deeper shit than we thought,” Hartman sighs looking at the woman. “Looks like an O.D. She’s been dead for at least three days, I’d say.”
Tarasov’s face turns into a grimace of disgust.
“No!” Pete shouts. “She’s just sleeping!”
Hartman pats down his pocket and slips a McDonald’s napkin from his pocket. He wraps it around the index and middle finger on his right hand and touches the artery on Nelly’s neck. Then he looks up to Pete and Tarasov and shakes his head.
“You don’t know nothing! She is not dead! She can’t be!”
“If I tell you she is dead, Marine, then she is!” Hartman snaps at him. “Believe me, I have seen enough bodies to know. Let’s go, it’s high time to get outta this hellhole!”
“No! She’s alive! She’s all I have! We must take her with us! Nelly ain’t dead, you stupid bastards! She can’t be dead!”
“Enough of this,” barks Tarasov, now in a commanding voice. “Top! Take him and let’s go!”
“On me, Marine, it’s shove-off time!”
The Top hoists Pete and carrying him on his shoulder as if he were weightless, hurries down the stairs where he carefully steps over another body. Looking down from the Marine’s shoulder, Pete recognizes the face of a Florencia thug. He lies at the entrance, his neck jolted to the side as if broken by someone who is extremely good at hand-to-hand sneak attacks.
Tarasov peeks out to the street and signals them to move on. The smell of rain gives a refreshing feeling, appearing almost pure compared to the stink of decay and death inside the hovel. They cross the street into a dark passage where their SUV is parked, covered by darkness save for a flickering neon sign.
“What happened here?” Tarasov asks.
“Nooria gave some cholos a bit of attitude readjustment. All right, Marine…” He puts Pete down. “You’ll use your own boots from now on except when we drive or fly. We gonna do that a lot in the coming days!”
Pete, stares at the bodies piled up between two garbage containers.
“Oh no. No—”
He is already looking around to find a way to run away when the car door opens and a tiny woman emerges from inside. She pulls back the hood of her raincoat and gives Pete a warm smile.