Gloria stares at me for another moment, then starts walking, chewing the gum again. But it’s already too late. The half-dozen or so other girls have noticed me too, and they pause, uncertain who this new face is, why I’m here, what’s wrong.
But nothing comes of it.
Because it’s right then the other men from the SUVs find what’s waiting for them in the guards’ house. Shouting starts, two or three men outside yelling that there’s been an attack, and then the two men in the ranch house reach for their weapons.
Fuck it. Time to work.
I throw the sheet off, jump to my feet as I raise the FN 15. I aim for the guy on the left, who is already drawing his gun, but my bullet just misses him. He ducks, moves to the side. He raises his gun but thinks better of it and bolts back out through the door, leaving his friend who in his panic can’t seem to unholster his gun.
Moving forward, snaking through the girls who have started running around screaming, I keep the rifle raised as I near him. My hope is to use him as a shield, but when I’m ten feet away he manages to free his gun and starts to raise it and I have no choice but to fire three rounds into his chest, making his body do one of those crazy dances before he falls to the ground dead.
I jump over him and continue on, slide against the door to peek outside.
At once the men fire, bullets chipping away at the brick. A shard hits me in the face, cuts me on the cheek. I have to turn away for a moment before looking back out, and in the dark I can see the men spread out around the door.
In Spanish one of the men yells, like he’s a fucking cop, “Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up!”
I’ve flattened myself against the wall beside the door. I glance over at the girls, many of whom have gotten on the floor to hide behind their beds.
Silence outside. Then I hear the men begin murmuring. I can’t tell exactly what they’re saying, but the meaning is clear—they know I’m not going to come out willingly. So the same guy who spoke before, the guy who sounds like a cop and maybe that’s because he is a cop, this guy decides to up the ante.
“You girls in there,” he shouts, “whoever brings this bitch out is free to leave immediately!”
I glance back at the girls. I see the same thing enter into their eyes at the same time. That promise of freedom none of them ever thought they’d receive.
It enters their heads, sure, but I know none of them are actually stupid enough to believe it let alone consider it.
But one of the girls—she was working tonight, still in her dress and heels—stands up.
“Julio,” she shouts, “do you promise?”
I start shaking my head.
Julio says, “Yes, you have my word. Get the fucking cunt out here and you’re free to leave. Anybody who helps is free to leave.”
The girl is moving before Julio’s done speaking. Two other girls decide to follow.
“Stop,” I say and aim the FN 15 at them.
The two followers stop. The first girl keeps coming. She’s lived as a slave for years and now sees a chance at freedom, and no matter how fucked up it is, she’s going to take it.
Her face is red and her eyes are dark, like she’s hopped up on something, and she’s ten feet away from me, then five feet, and of course I’m not going to shoot her, she must know this, but I’m still not going to let her throw me to the wolves.
When she’s less than two feet away I lower the rifle, pivot it and smash the butt into her stomach. The wind is knocked out of her. She falls to the floor, wheezing, and the two followers rush me, screaming bloody murder.
I don’t have a chance.
Before I know it they’re on me, pulling at the rifle, at my gun. The men have sensed what’s happening and have hurried inside. They push the girls away, bend down and grab me, and even though I try to kick and punch and bite, they drag me outside.
They throw me down on the dirt.
Someone kicks me in the ribs, another kicks me in the butt.
Then the men stand back and form a circle, their pistols aimed at me, each with his finger on a trigger.
Thirteen
“Who the fuck are you?”
I presume this guy is Julio. He wears chinos and a brown shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A gold chain hangs around his neck. He grips a Browning 1911, aimed straight at me.
I don’t answer him.
He looks at his friends, shakes his head and grins. “Shame, we really could use a tough girl like you. I wouldn’t mind testing you out myself.”
I slowly start to push myself up from the ground. I put my weight on one knee, my hands raised in defeat.
“The problem is,” Julio says, “you seem to be a fucking cunt. And we hate fucking cunts.”
There are five men but the guy I’m concerned about right now is Julio. He seems to be the leader of the group. He has a chip in one of his front teeth and this is what I concentrate on as he speaks, no longer hearing his words, just slowly trying to stand back up, acting like I’m hurt. I balance myself on my knee and reach down, as if I’m going to push off the ground with both hands. But while my right hand is down there I reach for the Kimber strapped to my ankle, bring it up, and use one bullet to make Julio’s chipped tooth disappear.
His head snaps back, but most importantly, he shuts the fuck up. I shift the Kimber to the man next
