Chapter 9 Augustine
Augustine
You don’t ever plan for Dulce. You just end up there, usually as the punchline to a story that started two counties away and got meaner with every stop.
Tonight was no exception. Me and Carl Dalton sat in my Chevy truck outside the Dulce Budget Inn, sweating and freezing at the same time, counting the minutes until something went wrong enough to be interesting.
The heater was out, but the engine was running, and even though my cut still stank of blood and old sweat, the only thing I could really smell was nerves.
Carl passed the binoculars, eyes twitching toward the second-floor walkway.
The Leatherback guards were still there, just like the last two hours.
One was perched on a plastic chair, the other pacing in lazy circles, both in turtle cuts and both packing like nobody told them about open carry.
I clocked their rotation down to the second.
Carl did the same, but he had a tic where he’d tap the butt of his pistol every time he saw something he didn’t like.
By now, the inside of his thigh was probably black and blue.
“Two outside,” Carl muttered, voice sandpaper. “Saw a third when you went for coffee. Must be inside. Figure he’s got the keys.”
“Yeah,” I said, hand going to my ribs out of habit. They still hadn’t knit right after the Nipple Tip, and every time I breathed, it felt like a wet tooth gnawing my lung.
“You good?” he asked, not bothering to look at me. There’s a kind of man who can’t face another man’s pain, only his own. Carl was that kind of man.
“Good as I’ll ever be.” I thumbed the slide on my Glock, then set it on the dash. “You remember the plan?”
Carl grunted. “I go loud by the dumpster. You hit the bathroom window while they’re checking my mess.”
“If I’m not out in three,” I said, “come in shooting. Don’t matter who’s in the way.”
Carl nodded, and we sat like that for another couple minutes, engine idling, the heater fan whimpering like a wounded dog.
I watched the room, every so often catching a flicker of Melissa’s hair in the flickering TV blue.
I wondered if she knew we were coming. I wondered if she’d forgive me if I failed.
“Ready?” I asked.
He checked his magazine—one of those ancient habits that never dies—and tucked a second Glock into his waistband. “This goes sideways, tell my kid I made it quick.”
I snorted. “You don’t even know his name.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t care,” he said. He grinned, a sliver of white in the dark, and I almost liked him for a second.
He climbed out, toolbox in hand, and disappeared behind the row of parked cars.
I watched him in the side mirror, boots crunching on gravel.
He hugged the shadows, a big man moving with the patience of a wolf, and settled behind the overflow dumpster.
The guards didn’t even flinch. They were bored, cold, and probably fighting the kind of stomach bug that turns your insides to pudding.
The seconds ticked off. I checked my phone, then set the timer on my watch. Three minutes, maybe less, if things got ugly. I counted breaths, every one a spike in my side. I was sweating under my cut, but my hands were cold enough to numb.
Carl made his move with a little flair. He hurled the toolbox against the motel’s cinderblock wall, the metal-on-concrete pop echoing through the lot like a gunshot.
Both guards jumped, the one in the chair toppling backwards, legs flailing.
The other went for his gun but didn’t draw—just jogged toward the sound, his buddy close behind.
I didn’t wait for the echo to die. I sprinted low, knees bent, lungs on fire, and cleared the lot in five long strides.
The back of the motel stank of piss and cigarettes.
I skidded to the window and found it locked, just like I’d expected.
I slipped the crowbar from my belt and jammed it under the frame, popped it once, then twice.
The glass gave with a whimper. I ducked my head, sucked in a mouthful of blood and cold air, and hauled myself through.
Every rib in my body screamed. I dropped to the tile, boots barely making a sound.
In the next room, the TV was still on. Cops, maybe, or one of those shows where they blur out the faces but leave in the screams. I heard the faintest clatter—metal on metal, the sound of handcuffs against a headboard.
I pressed up against the wall, one hand on my gun, the other clutching my ribs. I didn’t breathe for a full ten seconds. Then, slow as sin, I crept forward and listened at the bathroom door.
There were three voices. I recognized one as Saint—low, oily, the kind of voice that sounded calm even when it was slicing your throat. The second belonged to the inside man, probably the “key” Carl had mentioned. The third was Melissa, raw and cracked, but defiant.
I heard Saint say, “You’ll want to look pretty for your daddy. Wouldn’t want him to see you like this.” Then a slap, loud and hard. Melissa’s grunt was pain but not surrender. I smiled, despite everything.
I eased the door open. The light was off, but the TV made everything flicker blue and ghostly.
Saint was leaning over Melissa, one hand gripping her jaw, the other holding a knife so close to her face it caught the TV glare.
The inside man was by the door, probably expecting trouble from the hall, not the shithole bathroom behind him.
I raised my Glock. I didn’t say a word. Just put the round through the inside man’s neck, then swung back to Saint.
Saint didn’t even flinch. He just grinned, a horrible, wet grin, and put the knife against Melissa’s throat. “Augustine,” he said. “I was hoping for more scars.”
I stepped into the room, gun still up, and nodded at Melissa. “You good?”
She licked her lips, tasted the blood, and said, “Better than you look.”
I was about to smile when the guards from outside crashed through the front door, guns blazing.
Three minutes, I thought. Fucking clockwork.
Saint came around the bed, and all hell broke loose.
***
The first bullet chewed up the bathroom door, missed my head by an inch, and drilled a crater in the cracked tile.
I shoved forward, boots sliding on the scummy floor, as another round popped the light above me and sprayed glass everywhere.
The whole room went from shit blue to darker than a coffin, but I didn’t need to see to know where the next Leatherback would be. Between the girl and me.
I hit the main room low and hard, Glock out. Melissa’s wrists were cuffed to the bed, her face a constellation of fresh damage, but her eyes burned bright when she saw me. I pressed a finger to my lips, thumbed the lock pick from my boot, and crept to her side.
She grinned, even with a busted mouth. “Took you long enough.”
“Had to make sure I looked pretty for you.” I said it with my teeth bared, not because I was trying to be cute, but because every movement made my ribs scream.
She nodded at the key ring on the dead guy’s belt. “Cuffs.”
I snatched it, hands shaking but steady where it counted. I was halfway through the mechanism when the next two Leatherbacks crashed in, guns drawn, yelling so loud it shook the ceiling tiles.
I shoved Melissa down behind the mattress, got off two shots. The first hit the lead Leatherback in the meat of the shoulder—blood geysered, and he fell back against the wall, shrieking. The second was wide, but it put the other guy off for half a heartbeat. That’s all the time Saint needed.
He came straight for me, knife low and fast, the blade glinting.
I brought my gun up, but he batted it away with a forearm and drove the knife into my side, right between the busted ribs.
The pain was so pure I lost my vision for a second.
It was just white, then black, then I was on the floor with Saint on top of me, hand grinding the blade in until I thought it was going to punch out the other side.
I’d been stabbed before, but never like this.
Saint did it like he was tuning a guitar, little half-twists and yanks that found every nerve and made them dance.
I tried to bring my gun up, but he grabbed my wrist and bent it backward until the bones popped.
The gun skittered under the bed. He leaned close, breath hot on my ear.
“Should’ve stayed home, Augustine.”
“Fuck you,” I grunted and headbutted him. I felt his nose go, cartilage crunching, and he reeled back just enough for me to get a hand around his throat. We rolled, him on top, then me, then back again, blood and spit and curses everywhere.
The girl didn’t waste time. She snapped the handcuff chain with the key and launched herself at Saint, biting into his ear so hard I saw red spray on the wall.
He screamed, let go of the knife, and tried to shake her off.
I reached down, fingers shaking, and yanked the blade out of my own ribs.
It made a wet slurp, like opening a yogurt. I almost puked.
I jammed the blade into Saint’s thigh, twisted until he howled, then rolled off him.
He staggered back, clutching his leg, and tried to swing at Melissa.
She ducked, spat out a piece of his ear, and went for the dropped Glock under the bed.
She got it and leveled it at his head, hands steady even with the blood running down her arm. She handed me the gun.
Saint froze, bleeding from everywhere. He sized us up—me, leaking from a dozen new holes, her, wild-eyed and steady—and smiled, a death’s head grin. “You’re both dead,” he said, “You know that?”
“Not before you,” I said, and fired.
The round hit him square in the sternum, knocking him back into the cheap motel art. He slid down the wall, leaving a red trail, and didn’t move again.
The room went quiet, except for the wet rattle of my own breathing. I collapsed next to the bed, blood soaking through my shirt. Melissa knelt beside me, hands pressed to my side. “Don’t die,” she whispered.
“I’m not planning on it,” I lied.
From outside, I heard sirens, or maybe just the echo of my own pulse in my ears. Either way, time was up.
“Can you walk?” I asked.
She looked at her legs, shrugged. “Sure.”
“Good. Grab the bag.” I pointed at the duffel on the floor, the one Saint had brought in, probably filled with whatever they thought they’d need for a weekend of torture. I didn’t care. I just wanted the painkillers.
She hefted it, then slung my arm over her shoulder. We staggered to the bathroom window, me leaving a trail the whole way. She popped it open, then hauled me through like I was a sack of garbage.
I landed in the cold night, pavement rough against my knees. Carl was there, blood on his face, one eye swollen shut.
“You get her?” he slurred.
“Yeah,” I said. “Help me up.”
He grabbed my good arm, and together we made for the truck. Melissa ran point, Glock in hand, eyes scanning for movement. I liked her style.
“Did you kill him?” Carl asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “He died ugly.”
Melissa smiled, then started to cry, not the loud, movie kind, but soft and silent, like she’d done it a million times before. “He’s not dead,” she said. “The asshole was wearing Kevlar. He’s out from shock. He’ll be back after me.”
“Take the truck,” I told Dalton and nodded at the bikes in front of the hotel. “They could use one less bike.”
We mounted a Leatherback bike and hit the road. I closed my eyes and listened to the hum of the road, the whine of the engine, the wet gurgle of my own lungs. I wondered how many more nights like this there would be, and whether I’d ever see another sunrise.
I hoped so. I wanted to see her face in daylight again.