Valiant Page 16

  Oxygen is highly flammable. The nozzle hisses air past my face.

  With his free hand, Bull pulls a cigarette lighter from his pocket and with one flick, the flame ignites.

  The tip of the fire hovers close to his fist.

  The tiny hairs of his knuckles singe and the skin turns red.

  He ignores the pain, glaring his empty eyes at mine.

  The thick zip tie will take a moment to melt, but in these few seconds hides the question of whether or not that flame will ignite the gas and scorch my face.

  “Burn the bull,” he says, gritting his teeth.

  The plastic tie around his hand liquefies in one spot. Small trails of black smoke rise across his knuckles. A cold breeze of oxygen blows into my ear. This close, it could ignite.

  Finally, the plastic breaks free but as he reaches his free hand toward my throat, the oxygen cylinder loosens enough for me to swing it up under his armpit. The shock alone weakens him. His lighter falls and the flame extinguished.

  My foot goes behind his ankle and with a shove against his chest, he trips backward slamming his shoulders into the grass. He stances off and my legs are too weak to kick. Sweating from the struggle to breathe, I twist my hips to add leverage to my punch but as my fist reaches his body, he pushes it away and swings the back of this other hand like a baseball bat toward my face. The top of his forearm smashes my nose, sending my head back and an intense eye-watering pain throughout my head.

  He steps behind me.

  Both his hands grip my chin and snap my neck back.

  Out here on a night light this, I can see the stars.

  With my face up, he yanks my chin, pulling me back and throwing me off balance.

  The grass pads the back of my head from smacking the dirt.

  The Bull picks up my gun and tosses it over his shoulder, far behind him and continues to walk toward me.

  “This gets old after awhile,” he says. “You’re not going to kill me. You’ll never find your daughter. Something tells me, if you were strong enough to subdue me, it would have happened by now.”

  Through my watery eyes and blurred vision, I see him stop, both his legs on each side of me. His hand reaches in his pocket and removes another looped zip tie. Wet strands of my hair hang in my face. Bloody spit strings from my lips.

  “You have no control,” he says. “Accept things as they are. My children were taken from me…”

  His boot presses hard against my broken foot.

  The pain is overwhelming.

  Agonizing.

  “…and from my loss, I became stronger than I’ve ever been before.”

  With a quick whip, the zip tie flies over my head, past my face and around my neck.

  The heart-stopping sound of it clicking tight around my skin.

  “Freedom from pain lies in apathy,” he says. “But I get it. People like you are not strong enough reach this level. You’re terrified by the worst case scenarios, so it’s better for you to play it safe…”

  He stops and spits a wad of blood and saliva to the ground.

  “You’re frightened of what will be if nothing in your life works out. You want to protect what’s yours and try to keep everything perfect.”

  The zip tie pulled tight around my neck came too quick for me to stop. My eyes shut tight, waiting for The Bull to finish me off, but he hesitates for a moment.

  “You’re too afraid of death,” he adds. “You worry too much about whether or not it’s going to hurt. But don’t worry, you’ll fall asleep before you die.”

  With all the pent up rage inside his soul, El Toro yanks back on the cord.

  The horrifying zipping sound is nothing compared to the plastic digging into my skin.

  Even with my long hair stuck with it, it’s tight enough to stop blood from circulating to my head.

  Or it would be, had I not been able to get my fingers underneath the loop.

  Both hands, the four main fingers of each of them, are locked tight under the plastic. Even if I could free them, I wouldn’t want to. They’re the only things creating enough space to keep me conscious. To keep me from dying. With both hands stuck tight, I’ll have to fight with my feet, even with what I think is a broken foot.

  The Bull watches me struggle.

  He picks up a fire extinguisher that had been tossed from the ambulance.

  The red canister hangs from his fist to his side as he comes to a stop, towering above me.

  He shakes his head.

  “I think you’ve earned a choice. Not a lot of people get that from me.”

  He spits again to the ground.

  “Let go or I’ll break both your arms. Either way, I’m going to finish this. It’s a matter of you going out in the the pain you’re in now, or worse.”

  This is where it ends for me.

  The Bull’s intention is to repeatedly smash my arms until my bones shatter, leaving me defenseless against him tightening the cable.

  My eyes close to the vision of my daughter’s face.

  The last time I saw her smile.

  The last time I heard her laugh.

  And here I sit.

  A choice to be made.

  If I could stand, I would.

  If I could fight back, I would.

  But there is a time to lose all hope and a time to lose your faith, and for me, that time hasn’t come yet.

  I refuse to beg for mercy.

  With a last glimmer of hope, there’s still a chance I could make it out of this.

  From the lit wreckage, the silhouette of a man fighting to walk comes from the shadows behind The Bull, but The Bull doesn’t see him.

  At first, I snicker. Then a chuckle. And soon enough, it’s an uncontrollable laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks.

  Between giggles, I try to speak.

  “Oh you came close to being in trouble, but you’ve really fucked up now.”

  Two of my fingers, one from each hand, the middle ones, they come loose and stick straight up.

  From my gritting teeth comes a smile, and I can’t stop laughing.

  The Bull sighs and shakes his head. He lifts the fire extinguisher, ready to swing hard at both my elbows and wrists. As the red metal cylinder hangs behind his shoulder, a long beeping sound rises in octave, like an electronic device being charged. Once it’s ready, the beeping sustains, preceding the sound over smacking hands against The Bull’s skin.

  His head tilts down to see two defibrillator pads stuck to the side of his chest, just under his arm.

  Turning, his eyes follow a thin cables to a machine with a flashing yellow light from a button labeled, ‘Ready.’

  The machine is held by a bruised and broken man standing behind him with blood oozing from his nose and mouth. The shirt of his paramedic uniform is unbuttoned and its sides hang open. His dark tactical pants have shredded holes exposes his scraped knees. With one arm bent guarding his stomach and his finger held over the flashing yellow button of a defibrillator, he holds the machine with every last bit of strength he has left.

  The name stenciled above the front pocket of his tattered white bloodstained shirt, is Jace Marshall.

  25. A NEW LIFE

  KANSAS CITY, KANSAS - 2019

  Jace sat in the recliner in his living room, watching cartoons with Randin sitting on his lap. Chewing on his fingernail, he pretended to be as entertained as his son, but he merely gazed off, staring at the noisy characters on TV.

  The rapid beeping of his cellphone snapped him back from his trance. Rolling his son off into the seat, Jace got up to answer the call. On the other end of the line was Michael, asking for a favor. Someone he knew was in trouble, and needed help getting out of town. More specifically, this man needed to fake his death to avoid repercussions for him leaving. This person wanted to start a new life, far away from Kansas City, and the only way it would work, is with Jace and Michael’s help.

  At first, Jace was skeptical. It sounded dangerous and illegal. No
way was he putting his neck on the line for a total stranger. It wasn’t until Michael explained the favor was no different then his job as a medic: Saving someone from certain death. That, and the large wad of cash they both would receive for their troubles. Jace was always the type of person to do things out of the kindness of his heart as opposed to earning a profit, but watching his son Randin giggle at cartoons, it didn’t take him long to say yes. It was an easy fix for someone else’s broken life, and a few thousand dollars to deposit in his son’s savings account.

  Shift change for the ambulance crews came at 7:00 P.M.

  Michael arrived at the station early to take over in case the day crew caught a late 911 call. He sat in the front seat, writing down miles from the odometer and marking boxes off a checklist. In the console next to him, he would check for any missed calls or messages.

  Jace arrived, startling Michael, tossing his bag in the passenger seat.

  “Sorry, I would have been here sooner but I had to drop Randin off to the babysitter.”

  Michael chuckled with relief.

  “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Who did you think it was?” asked Jace.

  Michael’s cellphone blasted its ringtone, causing him to jump.

  “Goddamn it,” he said, scoffing.

  Pushing it to his ear, Michael listened as a man on the other end told him to go. The call went dead.

  A moment later, a loud tone came from the stations speakers, followed by the voice of a dispatcher.

  “Cardiac arrest. Red Flag Motel. Interstate 70. Possible drowning.”

  The two men jumped into their seats and fastened their seatbelts.

  The garage door opened as Michael started the engine. Red and white lights flashed all around and the siren began to wail as the ambulance drove toward the city streets.

  Before the phone call, the man on the line was crawling toward an indoor swimming pool at a ratty motel just off the interstate. He had been punched hard in the gut and was spitting up blood. He was weak and dying. His short blonde hair was soaked with cold sweat and a lens of his thin eyeglasses had been cracked. Before calling Michael, he had already called in to report his own dead body.

  Before falling into the pool and sinking to the bottom of the deep end, a second call was made, and the last word from Craze’s old life was telling Michael to go.

  By the time the medics arrived, Craze had drowned. The two dove in to drag his lifeless body from the water, resting it next to the pool’s edge. The hotel clerk stood by, watching as Jace searched for signs of life.

  “He’s got a pulse,” he said, with two fingers pressed against the victim’s neck.

  Michael and Jace loaded Craze onto the stretcher and into the back of the ambulance.

  In the back, behind closed doors, sirens from fire engines and police cars grew louder as they approached.

  Jace pressed a plastic mask over Craze’s blue tinted face and squeezed the attached bag to breathe for him. Feeling again on his neck, Jace paused to find a heartbeat. There was none.

  “Fuck.”

  With one hand on top of the other, he pressed hard in the center of Craze’s chest.

  Soon, the sirens fell silent. Michael peeked from the back windows where the responding rescuers were walking toward them. He whipped back to the sound of a gurgling and the spatter of liquid smacking the floor.

  Craze rolled to his side, expelling a lung full of water and gasping for air.

  “That was my boot,” said Jace, relieved to see his patient breathing on his own again.

  “Was I dead?” asked Craze.

  “You were.”

  “Good. Keep it that way.”

  It’s a rarity for someone to instantly be revived with a few chest compressions and a couple of assisted ventilations. The purpose of CPR is not to bring the dead back to life, but to keep their heart beating and their lungs breathing until they can receive proper care.

  “That fucking water was freezing,” said Craze, shivering and hugging his arms across his chest.

  “Hypothermia,” replied Michael. “That’s probably why you’re talking to us right now.”

  Craze smirked, his jaw trembling from the cold.

  “That was the plan.”

  Jace covered Craze’s body with a thick blanket, hiding his face just as the rear doors to the ambulance swung open. Dax leaned in, standing next to a firefighter.

  “You need any help?”

  Michael shook his head.

  “He’s not responding. We’ll work on him until we get to the hospital so our unit doesn’t become a crime scene. They can pronounce him there.”

  Jace pretended to fumble around with medicines and needles, sharp catheters which made Dax’s stomach queasy.

  Michael hopped into the front seat and sped away from the scene.

  Inside the emergency department, the two medics rolled a hidden Craze through the hall, past curious nurses, to a room in the back corner. A doctor followed and closed the door behind him.

  “Time of death: 01:43,” he said softly, opening a folder that contained Craze’s medical records.

  Jace and Michael looked to each other and then to the physician.

  The doctor scribbled his signature on a form, closed the folder, and opened another. On the top sheet of paper was a form, a patient record for a John Doe.

  “I’ll have him admitted for observation. We’ll keep an eye on him until things smooth over.”

  “You’re in on this?” asked Michael.

  “No, and neither are you. In fact, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Craze sat up, still weak and in pain, and crawled from the gurney to a bed. The doctor reached into the pockets of his white coat, removed two thick rolls of cash, and handed them to Jace and Michael.

  “Keep your wits about you,” he said.

  As the two men turned to leave, Craze called out to them.

  “Thank you. I promise to earn this.”

  Michael and Jace both nodded and left as though they had delivered any other patient.

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  It was routine for Randin’s babysitter to bring him back home before leaving for work. Kathryn was eighteen, and still lived at home with her parents. They were like a second family to Randin, always welcoming him to stay the night when his father had to work. Kathryn had a key and would wait with Randin and fix him breakfast. Like any other morning, Jace came through the front door and greeted the two. No matter how groggy he felt, he never skipped a bowl of cereal with his favorite little man.

  If Randin were in school, Jace would sleep all day until it was time to meet him coming off the bus. On the weekends, he would lie on the sofa, sleeping with one eye open as his boy played with toys and watched TV.

  Jace could rest through silly music and loud commercials. Cars and trucks smashing together on the carpet never disturbed him. One morning, however, something woke Jace from the deepest of sleep—silence.

  He sat up quick, looking around an empty living room. The television was on but the sound was muted. Building blocks lied untouched, scattered across the floor.

  Jace called out as he rose from the couch.

  “Randin?”

  Scratching his head and yawning, he checked the kitchen and bathroom.

  A sheer terror paralyzed him from the sight of a tall man standing at the end of the hall. The light from the window in Randin’s room lit the scar on his pitted chin. Standing in front of him, with his shoulder being held by the tall man, was Jace’s little boy. He was shaking, the front of his pants wet. His eyes watery and wide, like a monster crawled from under his bed into real life.

  “It’s not your fault you didn’t know, amigo,” said Mateo. “Your friend Michael has no niños, so for him it was certain death, but not after he sang your name. Unfortunately for you, El Toro won’t let me kill you. He says you deserve to suffer a fate worse than death, to make sure you learn.”

  Jace stood frozen. As much
as he tried, the only movement he could make was a small step forward. Mateo whipped a thick plastic cable tie over Randin’s head and pulled it snug around his neck.

  “Move again and I’ll zip it tight. Then I’ll break both your legs and make you watch him die.”

  Jace’s hands shook as they rose to each side, his sweating palms facing away from him.

  He pleaded with Mateo not to take his boy, to let him go. He offered the money he was paid to help Craze fake his death as a payment for his mistake.

  “El Toro has mucho dinero. Your niño will do. Sorry I can’t take your head, but give it a few days, ese. Without your little boy here, you’ll be itching to top yourself off.”

  There was nothing Jace could do but watch as the tall man escorted his son toward the back door, gripping the cable around his neck like a tight leash.

  Randin called out and sobbed for his father, but for the life of him, Jace couldn’t get past his fear. He stood like a trembling statue, watching Randin reach for him and scream as he was dragged away.

  Every thought was a blur.

  Every direction seemed the same.

  One second Jace would think to call the police, but his mind would race and switch to hide in a place other than his home. He would rush to the door, but before giving chase, his fear held him back.

  He grabbed a large garbage bag from under the kitchen sink and stuffed as many clothes would fit. He snatched his keys from the wall when his panic took hold.

  Running in his socked feet into the streets, he screamed for Randin.

  Parked along the side of the next block, Mateo’s face reflected from the driver’s side mirror of a dark van. It rocked as the back doors swung open and the unfamiliar face of a man emerged.

  Black boots hopped to the ground, and the smiling face of fear stopped Jace from running any farther.

  The man simply smirked, turning his back to close the doors.

  As he moved toward the passenger side, Jace’s eyes locked onto one thing.

  Even blurred by distance, this one thing was a detail so clear, it would haunt his thoughts and dreams from then on. The scar of what was once a bull on the back of the man’s right shoulder.

  Jace could run no further, but only watch as the van pulled away with his son.