Chase
Lucas taught me to protect what’s mine. What makes me stronger. What makes me a better man.
That fucking cop couldn’t keep his ass in line.
He crossed a line—he deserved to be punished.
I thought Lucas was the silent monster. That he was the bad guy, not me. I was wrong.
We’re both monsters.
Ortíz parks in front of a food stand far from town.
There are a few cheap plastic tables and chairs next to it.
The red parasols flap in the wind like sails.
The poor guy works his ass off, and still he has to eat at this cheap stand because his salary isn’t even enough to have a few bills left at the end of the month to wipe his fat ass with.
The place is empty this morning, there’s no one here but us. It’s the perfect place to meet. I pull my hood up and reach for the door handle, but I stop when I see two little girls staring at the freezer full of ice cream.
They’re holding hands—they’re probably sisters.
The older one keeps the younger one tucked close to her side.
She’s protecting her. They’re wearing slippers and light summer dresses.
They choose their ice cream quickly, pull out the exact amount, so they don’t have to stay a second longer than absolutely necessary. Smart girls.
The cop is keeping an eye on them. Good.
Usually all that’s left of them is a photo of a shoe, a cold case file, and the sympathy of cops.
Ortíz lifts his badge from beneath his shirt and flashes it at the vendor with an air of superiority, then takes a calm sip of his coffee.
I watch the sisters’ quick steps as they cross the street, then my gaze returns to the man who looks vaguely Mexican. He slips out the side door and punches in a number on his phone. He keeps glancing around to see if Ortíz is listening.
Young. They’re too young.
“There’s a food stand south of town, on the road to Goldsby. It must be new, and it’s pretty poor. The server looks Mexican. I think he’s setting up a kidnapping right now. The girls are under twelve,” I give Lucas the fucking facts when he picks up.
“Do what you went there for and then get out of the neighborhood. Gino will go there and pick up the guy. I want to know who he’s working for.” He hangs up.
When the rat gets back to his den, I get out of the car. I approach Ortíz with heavy steps and sit down next to him without a word. He looks at me with bored, washed-out eyes, then tosses the little plastic pick he used to eat his French fries.
“What the hell do you want?”
His breath reeks of stale coffee and cheap food—sour, nauseating.
I reach out and grab his meaty fingers. His face turns red under my grip, and fat drops of sweat roll down his brow.
My lips curl into an icy smile as I twist my hand.
I break two of his fingers. And before he can yell and draw attention, I slam the photo down on the plastic table.
His terrified gaze locks on the picture, and pure terror replaces the pain.
“You touched her… and not kindly.”
“I didn’t hurt her, I just…” he mumbles. “Cyrus is a good man. He deserves better than that slut who can’t decide whose dick she wants.”
I keep twisting his broken fingers. Sweat drenches his cream-colored shirt. I keep my composure and don’t kill him, even though the temptation is strong. It pulses under my skin.
“I’ve set up a game for you.” My lips twist into a cold smile as I shove the crossword puzzle under his nose.
“If you can solve it, you’ll find your son. If you can’t, he’ll fall into a container and drown. The timer is precise.”
“Fuck you!” he spits.
My right hand clenches into a fist, and I swing it into his freckled face. Blood spurts from his nose and split lip. He spits one of his front teeth onto the disposable plastic plate.
“Hurry up. The clock started before I even sat down.”
“What?” His face goes blank—pale.
“It’s more fun this way.”