“We got the blowtorches ready for you, motherfucker,” Harry says.
Anthony doesn’t look at them. He stares at Alejandra’s motionless body. Sees how the blood runs out of her, into the cracks in the asphalt.
“Pick him up,” Michael says, standing.
Peter and Harry come either side of him. They take an arm, hoist him. As soon as he leaves the road, the throbbing in his skull gets stronger, his stomach lurches. He throws up.
“Get him in the van,” Michael says. “Let’s go crisp our old friend up.”
“Ain’t no friend of mine,” Ronald says, hands balled on hips, spitting.
Anthony is dragged away from Alejandra, across the road, his feet dragging. Then they stop. They freeze. They haven’t reached the van yet, the vehicle that ran him and Alejandra off the road. He can see the van off to the side. They’re nowhere near it yet.
“Shit,” Peter says.
“What we gonna do?” Harry says, addressing Michael.
Anthony doesn’t understand.
Then he hears it. The sirens. Police.
And in the distance, off to his right, back the way they came, through his blurred vision he can see the lights, flashing red and blue, coming this way.
Peter drops him. Pulls out the gun he used to kill Alejandra, tucked back into his waistband. “Let’s waste him right here.”
Michael is looking back down the road. “Ain’t got time – let’s go.”
“The fuck you mean we ain’t got time?” Peter sounds pissed.
“What I said, we ain’t got time.”
“Damn it, I can do it, right here right now.”
“’Cause I wanna see him burn!” Michael says, stepping forward.
Ronald is already back at the van, climbing in behind the wheel. Harry grabs Peter by the arm. “We’ll get him at the hospital. Then we’ll barbecue him like we planned. Now let’s go.”
The sirens are getting louder; the lights are getting brighter.
Peter does as he’s told. He goes to the van with the rest. They turn, leave, speed off down the road, away from the chaos.
Anthony lies down, everything spinning. He feels like he’s going to be sick again. He tries to turn, to find Alejandra. He can’t move. He reaches out for her as the police cars come to a stop, as they get out and run over. Anthony can’t reach her. His arms aren’t long enough. He can’t see her anymore, either, not through the tears.
2
Tom Rollins is a wanted man.
He left his division two months ago. After that mission in Afghanistan, he went AWOL. He’s living off-grid now. This is nothing new to him. He’s had practice with it. He’s good at it.
Currently, he’s in Arizona. Been here a week. Doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be sticking around. He’s in a bar, though he didn’t come in to drink. He’s eating. Sits in a booth at the back, with a sandwich. It’s a Friday night, but this is a quiet place. That’s why he patronizes it. There are four other men inside, the same four in every night he’s been here. None of these regulars sit together. They all sit alone, minding their own business, staring either into their beers or up at the television behind the bar. The bartender absently wipes the counter or a glass, leans against the back and looks up at the television, too.
It plays the news. All it ever plays is the news. The volume is turned up loud so that everyone can hear it. At least one of the old men has a hearing aid.
Tom doesn’t pay it much attention. Glances at it every so often while he chews. It’s reporting on a Texas senator, Seth Goldberg. The report is from earlier in the day, and Tom wonders how many times the regulars have seen it replayed already.
Senator Seth Goldberg is probably in his forties but looks much younger, handsome like a movie star. He’s standing on some steps outside an official-looking building in downtown Dallas. He talks with the reporters about the anti-oil bill he has brought forward, his hope that it will lead to more widespread use of greener, more renewable sources of energy. Tom thinks that if they’re reporting on this Texan in Arizona, then the news about his bill likely has a good chance of going national.
The news cuts elsewhere, to a closed room. To a group of men who strongly oppose his bill. Oil men. Barons and tycoons. Lobbyists. They talk about the economy. They talk about the legacy and the heritage of Texas oil. They accuse Senator Seth Goldberg of trying to put many thousands of hardworking Americans out of their jobs.
The screen cuts back to Goldberg. They have his rebuttal fired up, ready to go, this hypothesis already posited to him by one of the many reporters gathered around him on the steps. He says it’s not about losing jobs, but creating new ones and, more importantly, ensuring the future of our very planet.
It cuts back to the oil lobbyists, but by now, Tom isn’t paying much attention. He’s finishing his sandwich, draining his glass of water. He’ll finish up here; then he’ll go back to his hotel room. He’ll take a look at his map, decide where he’ll go next. He has no destination in mind. It could come down to as much as covering his eyes and randomly jabbing a finger. Then he’ll get a good night’s sleep and set off in the morning.
Tom has nowhere to be, nowhere to go. For now, he’s just keeping his head low. Moving around. He’s sure that eventually a place will present itself to him where he can settle, if not forever, then at least for a long while.
Of course, things being what they are, he’ll always be wary. Will always be keeping one eye on the entrance and another on the exit. Checking back over his shoulder. Securing every room, every route. Examining every face that passes him for familiarity, whether it be from his past, or a face
