Wicked Break

Thirty-three

“Is that Moreno’s sister?” Carter asked, his voice edged with surprise.

“Yeah,” I said, the muscles at my neck coiling into knots as I slid my eye to the scope for a closer look.

Malia’s eyes were wide, fear radiating from them. Dirt caked the sides of her face, held there by streams of tears. Blood leaked out of her nose and the corners of her mouth. She was wearing a tank top and one of the straps had been torn. She wasn’t fighting Mo or the rope, her body sliding along the ground like a bag of sand.

“We gotta get closer,” I said, sliding back and rising to my knees.

Carter pushed away from the ledge and popped to his feet like he was riding his surfboard. “Work from opposite sides?”

I nodded, reaching for one of the rifles. “Try to stay just above them. I’ll get to the ground and take the ones closest to her. You take the others. Try to herd them to their trucks and get them to run.”

He grabbed the remaining rifle, stuffed several of the extra magazines into his pockets, pivoted, and disappeared into the trees.

I took the rest of the magazines and moved quickly through the trees in the opposite direction and down the slope, staying close enough to the edge to monitor the campground.

Malia was near the fire ring now, the skinheads in a semicircle around her. She was attempting to move, rolling around like a wounded insect. Several of the skinheads moved toward her like they were going to kick her, then held up at the last second, laughing as she tried to roll out of reach. Mo dropped the rope and headed to the back of the crowd.

When I reached level ground, I was about twenty-five yards away from Malia and the assholes.

“Boys, check it out,” Lonnie said, standing near Malia’s head. “Got ourselves a pretty little porch monkey here.”

Their cheers and jeers melded together, exploding into the air.

Lonnie squatted down. “And there’s nothing I like better than putting a motherfucking little porch monkey out of her misery.”

I lay down behind a thick pine, my left shoulder pressed into the trunk, the pine needles sticking me in the elbows, and got the Ruger Mini-30 in position. I felt my chest heaving and took a couple of deep breaths to steady myself. We were outnumbered and I knew that even with both Carter and myself armed, we were going to have a hard time gaining control of the situation.

“Hey, Lonnie. We get a shot at her before we off her?” somebody asked from the group.

I checked the magazine.

“You know? Do her before we do her?” The guy stepped over Malia. He was tall and thin, black suspenders holding up his camouflage pants over his dirty white T-shirt. “Show the bitch what she’s gonna miss?”

Lonnie stood up and laughed as the group screamed its approval.

I felt my breathing level out, my hands relaxing on the rifle.

Malia’s body bucked in the dirt, the group roaring again at her movement, epithets ringing into the air.

The thin guy pulled his suspenders off his shoulders, straddled Malia, and dropped to his knees.

I adjusted my eye to the scope and brought the guy’s torso into focus, and took a deep breath.

“What do you think, nigger?” he asked, his lips curled into an arrogant sneer. “Want a little of me?”

I exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

The thin guy jerked back, a small red puff popping out of his chest, and fell off Malia.

I took another deep breath, trying to get the action to slow down in front of me.

Two more fell to the ground near him, shots coming from the far side of the campground.

Panic set in. Some dove for the ground and some ran for their guns, screaming and yelling, their heads swiveling in both directions. Lonnie dropped to the ground, obscured by the fire ring. My shots skimmed over him.

The guns near the trucks came to life and fired toward Carter’s side. I shifted to my left and fired in that direction and saw several of the shooters scatter farther into the cover of the pines.

We’d caught them unorganized and unprepared and it showed.

More yelling, then bullets whistling over my head and off to my right. My muscles tightened, involuntarily trying to make my body smaller. I wanted to move, but I would be too exposed.

The two that Carter shot were being dragged away, two guys firing pistols from near the trucks to cover themselves. The one I’d hit was still down next to Malia, not moving.

I couldn’t see Lonnie.

Heavy gunfire erupted from near the trucks. Mo was kneeling just inside the tree line, firing what looked like an AK-47 in Carter’s direction.

I fired twice at Mo. The first one missed, the second one caught him in the thigh.

It didn’t faze him. He shifted to his left, got his body behind one of the trees, and kept firing.

More shots came from our original position up on the ledge, aimed at Mo. I jerked my head in that direction, surprised and confused. I couldn’t make out anyone up on the plateau and wondered who in the hell might be helping us.

Mo moved to a crouch and returned the fire up on the ledge.

A shot boomed from near the fire ring, a large-caliber handgun burst, and Lonnie was up and running low toward the tree line. Mo rotated and fired at me, covering him. I tucked in tight behind the trunk of the pine, my forehead scraping against the bark. Bullets thudded into the trees around me, wood chips showering my neck and face.

The truck engines revved to life, drowning out the screams for the rest to hurry.

Mo waited for the last of his buddies to get into the tree line, then limped back quickly, still sweeping the entire outer edge of the campground with the AK-47. He disappeared into the trees.

Doors slammed, tires spewed rocks and dirt through the trees, and the trucks U-turned and headed out to wherever they’d come from.

The entire skirmish had taken maybe two minutes.

The quiet was overwhelming.

“You good?” Carter yelled from the other side of the circle.

I couldn’t see him. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

I moved from my stomach to my knees, my throat aching and burning from the gun smoke and dirt.

Malia was still next to the fire ring, her would-be rapist beside her.

Carter emerged from the trees across from me. His rifle was aimed up at our original spot.

I rose to my feet and walked slowly toward the fire ring, holding the rifle at a ready position and watching the entire tree line.

“Who was our helper?” I asked, squinting up at the trees.

“Not sure. I saw somebody when the first shots came out of there.” He lowered his gun. “But they’re gone now.”

We turned to the fire ring.

The skinhead was dead. The entire right side of his body was soaked in blood, an expression on his face that assured me my bullet had caught him by complete surprise.

I wanted to feel good about that, but I couldn’t.

The first thing that had struck me about Malia Moreno when we’d met her at her home was the color of her eyes. They were the same unique amber shade as her brother’s, the kind of eyes that stopped you in midstep.

Now, lying in the dirt, the right one still looked like that, still held on to that mesmerizing quality as she stared up at me.

But the left one was gone, taken by the bullet that had taken her life, replaced by a socket full of red, thick blood.