Prologue #2
“Good work, men,” Cortez says, wiping a smear of blood with sick satisfaction only a sociopathic sadist can revel in. His eyes immediately cast an amused, assessing glance at the women, little girls and boys.
Hand falling to one side, he smiles over at the group. His gaze resting briefly on each of the twenty or so souls.
He strides over to us. The contingent of soldiers, along with Júlio and me, falls back as he approaches like a conqueror eager to enjoy his spoils of war. Only this battle was won against unarmed men, whose only sin was trying to protect their families and lead them to a better life.
Sick rises in my chest so fast I nearly rush to the woods to retch. I’m nearly seconds away from it. The fresh blood on his uniform, the sick glee in his gaze is enough to fell even the strongest of men.
Seeing evil this close almost stuns you into disbelief. He bypasses the young and older women. His intent is clear as he approaches the mothers who have children clinging to them.
“Ah, what do we have here?” His smile is almost beatific as he drops down for the second time tonight in front of the child with the halo of cotton-candy-like hair. Her eyes, like wet onyx, look on him with a special horror dipped in hatred.
“Come with me, nina bella.” Taking her wrist, he pulls her as he stands.
Her mother flies at him, clawing his face, arms — anything she can get a hold of to stop him. He drops the little girl’s arm, backhanding her mother with a vicious fist. The woman falls unconscious to the ground.
“Dispose of her when you finish with her.” He says to the group of soldiers at large.
“Roger that,” Ortiz gleefully chimes in. “Hey, you two.” His gaze narrows on me and a confounded Júlio. “Get her out of here unless you like yours with some fight in them like me.” He grabs a girl no older than sixteen, who struggles within his hold, dragging her with him to one of the tents.
“Hey, man. What the fuck?” Julio’s whisper is harsh, for my ears only as our fellow officers fall upon the remaining women and children like a pack of wild dogs.
I notice a few others hanging back, not taking part. There were eighteen of us in total. At least ten are not participating. Four are guarding the remaining women and children, not taking any into the tents. The disgust and shame are palpable among them all.
The grim resignation on their faces says it all. They won’t take part, but are powerless to stop it.
“All it takes is one good man. You have to decide if that will be you, son.” My father said that moments before he stepped out to give his life for his people.
“Stay here.” Picking the woman up, I take her into the underbrush.
The scene before me is the stuff of horror — traumatized children and teens crying uncontrollably. Grown men either relishing in their torment or too cowed to act.
With no plan, but full of purpose, I double back, to the south, skirting around the camp until I come to the tent at the edge of the clearing I saw Cortez drag the little girl into.
His form is a bestial silhouette against the canvas. He’s nearly shorter than me by a foot, but he makes up for his lack of height with a barrel-like chest and trunks for extremities.
I watch for a moment. Relief washes over me — he’s taking off his kevlar. Disgust rises on its heels as I realize he wants to take his time with her.
Quiet as a phantom, I enter the tent, palming my knife.
“Hey, wait your turn. I haven’t even gotten started.” Practically salivating, his tone’s guttural, its octave tinged with anticipation. He can’t even bring himself to look away from the child he’s stripped and tied to the bed as he palms himself with lewd delight.
In two steps, I’m in his space.
“Hey, I said wait—” his words cut off in a gurgle when my Bowie knife slices his carotid.
Blood sprays like a geyser. Sparing nothing, not me, not the little girl, or the walls of the tent.
Pink mists everything as Cortez stumbles back, eyes round with surprise, trying but failing to stop his life’s blood from erupting out of him like Mount Vesuvius.
Tripping backwards into pots, dinnerware and other sundries some family had painstakingly packed neatly in the corner, his body crumbles like a broken marionette among dashed pottery, forks and spoons.
A wind-up toy ran out now, his hand drops limply in his lap.
His vacant, dead eyes look out into the abyss.
“Hey—” shots ringing out cut off my words.
Taking my knife, I make quick work of the zip ties holding the girl.
“Here.” Grabbing some clothes stacked neat, beside the bed, I hand them to her. The bastard cut her clothes off. Taking a clean shirt, I do my best to wipe the blood spray from her face.
“Now, listen.When we go out there, you need to stick close to me. I’m going to take you to your mom and get you out of here.
” I don’t know how much registers through the trauma she’s experiencing.
Not waiting for a response, I slice down the back of the tent, cleaning my knife of the commander’s blood.
Her tears stopped, leaving bloody tracks instead.
Silently, she follows closely behind me as we pick our way back to the opposite end of the camp.
I don’t have time to shield her from the horror that greets us. Bodies litter the encampment, smoke and burning flesh singe my nose, gunfire ripples around us in short bursts, the cries of children and the heartwrenchingg wailing resound with every step we take.
“Fucking animals.” Ortiz stops short, seeing us when we reach the opposite side of the clearing.
“The fuck are you doing with the Commander’s treat?
” He whisper-shouts before spitting in the exact spot I left her mom.
She’s gone. He’s here looking out at the melee of officers fighting men in camouflage, signifying one of the rebel groups known in these parts.
There’s too much smoke and moving bodies to see their insignia.
“Leave her or kill her. We have to get out of here. This whole thing is fucked.” He swears, turning away. I don’t wait for his body to drop before I pick the girl up and step over his twitching form.
We trek for hours on foot through the jungle, with me switching between carrying her on my back and letting her walk a little. It’s early morning by the time I make it back to my aunt and uncle’s home.
Reaching the outer wall of their garden, I use the same footholds to haul myself over the top as Ellie and I did when we’d sneak out to play with friends in the forest whenever we came to visit.
Bending at a precarious ninety-degree angle, I reach down for her small hand. “Put your foot in that hole. Yes, just like that.” She takes instruction, not saying a word. Not sure how much she understands, or if she’s just smart, I gently encourage her to on the assent.
Once she’s seated beside me, I hop down.
“I’ll catch you.” Holding up my arms, I do as promised when she launches herself into my arms without hesitation.
Cradling her in my arms, I make a mad rush into the house.
“Dios mìo.” Startled gazes meet mine as I burst through the kitchen with my bloody bundle.
“What happened, hijo?” my tia rises, hands trembling. She reaches out to me only to snatch them back, covering her mouth.
“Let’s get you all cleaned up.” Tio Manny says, like I didn’t just enter their home blood soaked with a child in tow.
“Hey, sweetheart, what’s your name?” Tia Pauline’s soft gaze rests on the little girl, who turns her somber eyes to meet hers.
“I don’t think she speaks Spanish, Tia.” Grimly, I supply as eyes, I now see are a deep espresso edged with amber meet mine now.
“What then?” My aunt asks. The little hand that has yet to relinquish mine tightens.
“Sabine. Sabine Touissant.” The soft lilt of a voice chimes out of nowhere.