Chapter 13
December
“Three guards. Heavily armed with tactical weapons. Semi automatics and some hand guns.”
“Roger that,” I mouth clearly, quietly in the mic clipped to the collar of my black shirt.
I adjust the earpiece when he continues.
I adjust the goggles on my face, equipped with facial recognition and voice activation.
Designed by Riggs, it has proven particularly useful when I’m conducting reconnaissance.
They look like a pair of thick black glasses.
The man is a genius with technology, next to the other Legion members, Ansel and Linc, who are set up in Canada, helping to locate a branch of the Mestizos there.
Ansel and Linc are brothers who joined right after I got out of prison.
Riggs swears the brothers are undercover FBI, but in the seven years they’ve been loyal.
Easton and Scout are best friends and joined together.
“Three are in the front cab. Possibility of hidden guards in the sleeper cabin. Two are stationed inside the trailer.”
I memorize the information, mentally checking my ammunition in case things go sideways. Scout, Easton, and Cade, three of the other Legion Lord Members still loyal to Riggs, are all in position. Ansel and Lincoln are back at the club, keeping an eye out in case this is a diversion.
Scout’s voice comes over the channel. “Ten minutes out.”
“Ready.” Cade’s deep voice echoes, followed by Easton’s, then Onyx’s.
I remove my Sauer, flicking off the safety.
The routes the Mestizos use are always a guessing game, the result of the last three years of blocking their passage. They’ve gotten better at using local roads and have increased their security, now traveling with armed guards.
Minutes later, the headlights of an 18-wheeler come into view. From Riggs’s intel, the unused ramp is where they will change drivers and rest before the next leg of their journey.
A nasty smile covers my lips.
Right on time.
My blood sizzles with anticipation.
The large rig, with its deceptive food logo on the side, pulls over.
To the rest of the world, it might be a tired long-haul driver pulling over for rest, unbeknownst to them, it’s anything but that.
It is a human transport system, on its way to sell human cargo, stolen human cargo into different forms of modern slavery.
Some were sold on the belief that they were going to start fresh.
Have a new life filled with opportunities.
But they had no idea the dream sold to them hid a darker side.
Domestic workers, sex trade, and forced manual labor are part of their futures.
And their numbers are not just from one part of the world, as the news would like to portray.
They are Russian, Ukrainian, African, and Central American.
Some from the good ol’ US of A. Old, young, wealthy, poor, educated, uneducated.
It didn’t matter. Los Mestizos aren’t picky.
Once it parks, three men hop out of the front cab.
I register everything about them. There’s a clear leader.
The man who starts parking orders, telling them to check on the cargo in the back.
He pulls out a cigarette and stretches. His AR-15 rests across his large stomach.
He pulls out a cellphone and starts talking.
I spot Easton close in on the front of the truck, easing inside. He will disable the truck from inside. The other two men return, and they start talking among themselves. One is young. No more than a teenager. The third is older, darker-skinned, with a full head of close-cropped gray hair.
Since working to stop the Mestizos, I’ve come to realize that their group has no affiliation with any one ethnicity or culture.
The men who make up the gang are the outliers, the unwanted or neglected incel male culture that feeds off the idea that the world has wronged them, and everyone else is the enemy.
It’s what makes them so dangerous. They feel humiliated and rejected.
They rape and kill because they feel they are meting out punishment.
The back of the trailer opens, and one man hops out, landing on the ground.
He’s buckling his pants, grinning like a fool.
Another man hops out, and a young girl follows.
No more than 9 or 10, she hops out behind him.
The two assholes exchange conversation with the shorter one pointing at the man dragging the young girl along.
“You wanted a young one this time, huh?”
The sick bastard pulls her along. Her mouth is bound, and her hands are tied behind her back.
He leads her into the forest a few feet ahead of me.
He has no idea what’s to come, and that’s the way I like it.
I follow, stealthily. I slow down as I approach him from the rear.
I smoothly take off the safety on my gun just in case, while also removing my knife, taking in the disgusting sight of him.
The young girl on her knees, head bowed, clearly, she’s been through this violation before.
He sneers down at her as he unbuckles his pants, pulling out his dick.
I quickly position myself behind him and wrap my arm around his neck.
I put the tip of my knife to his neck. “Move and I’ll slice your throat.
” He brings up his hands in defense. His pants drop, and the young girl looks up at me.
Her gag is gone, and I quickly put my finger to my lips, telling her to be quiet.
She nods and crawls to a tree and crouches down near the roots.
I drag him back, father, to the woods and force him to his knees. “My gun is trained on the back of your head. Don’t move. And if you shout, I’ll shoot you anyway.” I tie his hands and feet. Then I circle to face him, crouching. “Where’s El Jefe?”
His eyes widen when I remove my bandana. So he can see my face. “No sé.” He whispers. He is sweating, and I can see he doesn’t know. It was worth a try.
“?Quién eres?” Who are you?
I smile. “El Búho.” His eyes widen right before I slice through his throat and watch in satisfaction as he slumps to the side, falling over, his dick shriveled up and exposed.
I quickly slice through it, remembering what he was about to do to that poor girl, and I open his mouth with the tip of my knife and stuff the bloody mess that is cock and balls in his mouth.
Standing, I wipe my knife on my pants and re-sheath my knife.
I return to the little girl. She hasn’t moved from her spot.
She studies me with wary eyes. I give her space and squat four feet away from her, speaking in Spanish.
She doesn’t respond and tries French. She perks up, looking at me with wide eyes.
“Tu es en sécurité maintenant,” I reply, and her eyes tear up at me, telling her that she’s safe now. I continue and ask her to wait until I give her the signal to come out. She nods and then asks me what signal I will use. I tell her I will hoot like an owl twice. She smiles.
“La chouette.?” She nods and says thank you before I leave her there. It’s the safest place she can be right now.
When I finally return, Scout, Easton, and Cade are standing behind the other five as they kneel on the ground, hands and feet bound, weapons removed.
I walk toward them, my bandana back up, but my pants are covered in blood.
All of them widen their eyes. The one in charge virulently curses.
The youngest whispers my nickname in awe, in horror.
El Búho. Rumors about El Búho are everywhere.
Legends of a ghost who wears a bandana of a skull over his face.
The un-killable one who comes like a reaper eating souls like prey.
I don’t mind it if it makes finding assholes like these easier.
He calls me half-crazed. A flesh-eating monster who cuts up his enemies.
Getting closer, I crouch down in front of him and lean close to his ear, whispering softly, almost like a lover.
“It’s all true.” He starts to sob, praying in Spanish, chanting the Alma de Cristo.
? I repeat it with him, mocking his call for divine protection.
Prayers don’t exist for me. I stopped believing 13 years ago.
“Soul of Christ, sanctify me,
Body of Christ, save me,
Blood of Christ, inebriate me,
Water from the side of Christ, wash me,
Passion of Christ, strengthen me,
O good Jesus, hear me.
Hide me within your wounds,
keep me close to you,
defend me from the evil enemy,
call me at the hour of my death,
and bid me to come to you,
to praise you with your saints,
forever and ever. Amen.”
Our amens are said simultaneously, and I laugh at the fear in his eyes.
I shake my head. “You think the blood of Christ will save you? You believe he will hide you in his wounds? Defend you from evil? He wants nothing to do with garbage like you.” His eyes widen, and he starts to cry harder, hanging his head.
I turn his neck to the side and spot what I need to see.
The brand. The side profile of a dog with the letters MZ burned inside.
They are no more than cattle to El Jefe.
I stand and walk over to the one I want. The fat bastard in charge.
“I want this one.” He stares up at me with hatred. Hatred that I’m sure is mirrored in my own gaze. He reeks of sweat, unwashed bodies, and bravado. Good. I need to release some frustration tonight. It will be fun to watch him bleed and beg.
I hoot twice, and the little girl slowly exits the forest and waves timidly at me. I tell her in French to wait by the truck. She sits down, huddling, waiting.
Easton hauls up the youngest, and Cade takes the other two and loads them up into another van waiting with Onyx inside. He will take care of them.