Revenge is Sweet (A Samantha Church Mystery) (28 page)

“What are we gonna do?” David asked.

“We’re going in to get them.”

***

Wilson’s yelling and banging on the door did net some results. Soon after he stopped, Wilson and April were huddled by Sam when they heard activity at the door. They got to their feet and stood in front of Sam, protecting her, the way lineman are trained to do for their quarterback.

None of the men entered the small room. They tossed in several blankets, bottled water and a few packages of cheese and crackers, then slammed the door shut.
April covered her mother with one of the blankets and wrapped one around herself. Wilson rolled up the other blanket and stuck it under Sam’s head for a pillow. He was able to get Sam to drink some water. It wasn’t much, but it did help her dry lips and eliminated the white coating that had covered her tongue. The blanket and the water seemed to help her settle and she was able to sleep.

Wilson opened a bottle for April and downed his own bottle of water, closing his eyes as the cool liquid slid down his throat and refreshed his insides. He wanted to savor the taste, but was so thirsty that the water was gone before he knew it. April was curled into a little ball asleep next to Wilson’s leg, his
thickly-bandaged left hand resting lightly on the center of her back. He had his back against the wall, dozing lightly when Sam began to stir. The slightest movement caused pain and she groaned as she tried to lift her head off the pillow. “Wilson?” She called, grimacing as she tried to turn toward him.

Wilson was instantly awake and at her side. “Sam, I’m here.”

Sam nodded and managed a small smile. “I want to sit up.”

Wilson shook his head, skeptical. “That’s not a good idea. You’re better off staying there until we can get some help.”

“No,” she said firmly. “They’re going to come back for us and when they do, I want to be up and ready. I want them to see that they can’t defeat me. Where’s April?”

Wilson looked down and patted April’s back gently. “She’s right here. Amazing little girl for all she’s been through. She’s asleep now. This ordeal has exhausted her, but she’s okay.”

“Bastards,” Sam said, her voice was weak, and her brow etched in a permanent frown, but her spirit still had fight.

Her strength fueled Wilson’s determination. “How’re your arms?” he asked.

“They hurt like hell, but I’m trying not to move them too much.” Sam noticed Wilson’s hand. “What happened?” she asked.

“Not now,” he said as h
e managed to get Sam situated to a sitting position, with her back against the wall. Wilson used the rolled up blanket for a pillow under her left knee to keep it elevated. Her left arm was broken and Wilson took care to move it as little as possible. Her right arm was not broken, but she couldn’t move it. After Sam told him what had happened in the meth house, at best guess, they decided her shoulder had been separated. It was work. By the time they finished, both were sweaty with pain and exhaustion. But Sam was, at least, sitting, ready to face whatever came through that door.

Wilson had positioned himself between Sam and April, who had slept through the entire process of getting Sam situated. Sam had fallen asleep resting her head against his shoulder. He was content to hear the sound of her slow breathing while lost in his own thoughts. He was fighting to stay clear headed despite his own pain, fatigue and anxiety.
Just a little longer. Just a little longer. I can do this a little bit longer.

Those thoughts circled about his mind as he tried to figure out how a little girl, a
n old man with a bum foot, no left hand and a broken nose and a woman with broken arms and a twisted knee would ever be able to overpower their abductors. He wondered what was going on outside these walls, and who was coordinating attempts to rescue them. He knew Juan had Sam right where he wanted her. He thought about what Juan planned to do to her and swallowed over the anxiety that had floated up his chest like a balloon.

Juan wasn’t going to kill her. Or any of them for that matter. In fact, just the opposite. Wilson could still picture Juan’s cold, dead eyes watching him as he told him of his plans for Sam. His eyes grew so round and beady that they reminded Wilson of black marbles. Juan spoke in a stiff, calculating voice and smoked several cigarettes as he told Wilson that he and April would be made to watch them maim Sam.

Maim and disfigure her. For the rest of her life she would have to live with a disability and be reminded every day how she ruined the lucrative drug smuggling operation that Juan Garcia—Alajandro Luis Barraza—had once so painstakingly built. And, Juan told Wilson, that his satisfaction would come knowing that nothing in Sam’s life would ever come easy for her again.

“She’s going to wish to hell that she were dead, but that would be too easy,” Juan had told Wilson, gesturing with a cigarette between his fingers as he talked. “That would be too easy and so boring. I rather like the thought of knowing that she pissed her pants because there wasn’t anyone around to get her to the bathroom fast enough, or that she had to be spoon-fed every day, or had to have someone tie her shoes, or wipe the drool from her mouth.”

Wilson wanted to spit in Juan’s face.

“That’ll be a lot better than me putting a gun to her miserable little head and pulling the trigger, don’t you think, Mr. Cole?”

When Wilson answered Juan with, “You’re a pathetic fucking asshole,” Fuzz Face slapped him so hard across the face that spit and snot flew across the room and his nose started to bleed and throb again. When Wilson told Juan that he’d never get away with his plans, Juan just laughed, long and hard.

“Of course, I will,” Juan had said when he had finished laughing and his cold, empty stare had returned. “By the time they find any of you, I will be long gone, long across the border into Mexico and on to places you’ll never know about.”

When Juan turned to leave the room, he got to the doorway and stopped. He looked at Wilson over his shoulder, a smirk painted on his face like a mask. He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it, crushing it with the tip of his shoe. “Revenge is a sweet thing, Mr. Cole,” he had said and left the room.

“Don’t bet on it!” Wilson yelled back, but Juan and Fuzz Face were gone.

There was movement at the door. Wilson opened his eyes with an abrupt start and focused intently on the knob, waiting for someone on the other side to turn it. When the door opened, the kidnappers filed into the room: the twins, tall thick-chested men, Fuzz Face, the only white guy among them, and the little white-haired man. The one that he and Sam had kicked squarely in the balls. When Wilson saw him, he couldn’t help the smirk that spread over his face as if it had a mind of its own.

Juan came into the room. Wilson knew the moment had come. He knew what they were going to do to Sam and his thought was simple.
This is it. There’s no one coming to help us.

For the first time since this ordeal had begun he felt completely hopeless. Wilson squinted, feeling his tornado of rage starting to twist and turn again. Sam opened her eyes. Images around her were a blur. She blinked several times, trying to get her eyes to focus and the cobwebs to clear from her mind. Wilson felt her lift her head off his shoulder. He looked over at her. When everything came into focus, Wilson was the first clear thing she saw. He could not help his smile, his rage quieting a little inside him. She gave him a half-smile back.

“Well, well isn’t that nice,” Juan said in a mocking tone. “She’s awake and look how happy he is to see her.”

***

At the top of the street, Howard and David were preparing to move inside the house. Howard looked at his Timex, thinking of the Christmas he had opened the gift in front of a roaring fire and a tall Christmas tree they had cut down on the property. They were all stuffed on Christmas dinner and being warmed by the fire. He wanted more memories like that.

Less than two hours ’til daylight.

Remembering what Frances Marino had said to him when he left the ranch just a few hours before, Howard started the Chrysler, the engine roaring, cutting into the nighttime stillness. They turned onto Chester Street and drove past the meth house. Howard was certain that the Town Car had disappeared into the garage two houses down.

As Howard had done earlier, he drove to the end of the block, but this time parked the wagon in front of the last house on Chester Street. Before they got out of the car, they loaded their weapons. Howard put several more rounds of ammunition for the shotgun in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt and stuffed a few more in the back pocket of his jeans.

“Why don’t you have an automatic?” David asked while he mechanically slipped bullets into the 357. His Glock rested on the seat beside him.

“Never liked ’em,” Howard said. “Automatics have a nasty habit of jamming up. Besides, they spit out hot shells. And when this is all over, we don’t want the cops knowing those came from us.”

David nodded as he finished loading. He cast a half-suspicious look in Howard’s direction, wondering if he had done this sort of thing before. He gave Howard his full attention, his eyes wide with fear. “I don’t have any spit,” David said with a nervous chuckle.

Howard spoke in an even,
collected voice. “We’ll go in together. You only have to remember one thing, David. Trust your instincts.” Howard looked in the rearview mirror toward the house. “They’re probably in one of the bedrooms. If that house is anything like the one we were just in, and I’m sure it is, then it’s probably that back bedroom.”

“The one with the window facing the backyard?” David asked.

Howard nodded without looking at him.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” David said and took a deep breath.

They got out of the car. David did as Howard had done earlier and slipped his weapon into his waistband. He grabbed the ax handle and headed with Howard for the house. Howard carried the shotgun at his side, nozzle down. They easily reached the house unseen, stepping quietly on the porch with cat feet. When they got to the door, they waited a moment, listening, then slipped quietly into the house. David followed Howard. Hearing voices coming from a back room, Howard nodded and brought the shotgun up to his chest, firmly with both hands. He kept his index finger extended over the trigger of the shotgun, ready to fire. He motioned with his chin toward the murmur of voices. David nodded to confirm. The two men swept quickly and silently down the hallway like shadows before they burst into the room like balls of flame.

Juan and the rest of his men looked as surprised to see them as did Wilson and Sam. Howard made immediate eye contact with Sam. David locked eyes with Wilson.

“Howard!” Sam shouted. “Help us!”

One of the twins lunged for Howard. He stepped back and fired. The spray of bullets hit the twin square in the chest, knocking him off his feet. He hit the wall with a thud and landed hard on the floor, the front of him a bloody mess.

Before the white-haired man took a single step, David brought his leg up with as much force as he could and kicked him squarely in the groin. As the little man began to fall over in pain, David swung the ax handle as though it were a golf club. It connected with center of the man’s forehead. He dropped to the floor without even a whimper.

Sam screamed. Wilson watched wide-eyed. April stirred and started to sit up.

David was standing an arm’s length from Wilson. “David!” Howard yelled. “Get her out of here!”

Wilson summoned all his strength and lifted April off the ground and into David’s arms. David held her as tightly to his chest as he could, as he managed to retrieve the 357 Magnum from his waistband and toss
it to Wilson. Wilson caught it between his right hand and the bandaged left hand and immediately raised it to shoulder height, gripping it tightly. David hunkered down, protecting April using his forearm as a shield and bolted from the room.

The other twin was trying desperately to retrieve his weapon from his shoulder holster, but it was caught on something. He yanked and pulled, then looked up and into the single barrel of Howard’s shotgun. Before the twin could make another move, Howard grasped the arm of the gun firmly, heard Frances Marino telling him to …
bring them home…

And fired.

Another spray of bullets blew from the shotgun and made direct contact. The impact lifted the hapless twin off his feet. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Before Howard had the chance to reload, Juan pointed his weapon at his face. Howard swung the shotgun and knocked the pistol out of Juan’s hand. Juan lunged and hit Howard with such force that his glasses flew off his face. Howard stumbled and fell. Juan toppled over him and the two men started to struggle and fight with each other on the floor. Howard’s boots were just in front of Sam and Wilson. Fuzz Face jumped in and grabbed Howard by the throat and began to choke him. Wilson aimed the 357 Magnum and fired. The shot grazed Fuzz Face’s shoulder and he fell off Howard, rolling to the side, clutching his shoulder in pain. Wilson fired again. The bullet struck Fuzz Face, lodging in his chest. He sl
umped to one side, clutching his shoulders.

Howard was still trying to recover from the chokehold and Juan struck him several times about his head and shoulders. Shouting obscenities with each blow. Wilson turned the gun on Juan, but in the struggle, Howard’s leg flew up and knocked the gun from his hand. It slid across the floor, well out of Wilson’s reach. Sam tried to move in the direction of the weapon, but the pain forced her to stop. She looked on helplessly as Juan and Howard continued to fight on the floor.