Valiant Page 6

“Your mujer amiga will be dead before she hits the ground,” he says.

  Even with a slice to the artery, I would still have a good minute or two before bleeding out. But Mateo isn’t planning to let me bleed. He’s going to shove that eight-inch blade up through my jaw and into my head.

  The trembling comes from me, not Mateo.

  He’s serious.

  He won’t hesitate, even if it means catching a bullet between his eyes.

  Death isn’t something he fears, and by killing me, he would be leaving a message.

  Dax stops moving but keeps Mateo’s head in his sights.

  The weather girl said nothing about snow, just that it would be cold. Some people used to say I was crazy when I would tell them, but there’s a certain scent in the air that smells, well, like winter. That’s what I focus on; the season is finally changing. My eyes lock on the three bright stars that make up Orion’s belt.

  Dax takes a step back, holstering his gun and laughing. He puts his palms out to his sides and walks backward to the side of his car.

  Mateo stands firm with his knife still to my throat.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks Dax, snickering a bit.

  Dax leans his back against his cruiser, shaking his head and folding his arms.

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

  This is how Dax and I work. This is how we communicate. Mateo thinks he has the upper hand, and a moment ago, so did I. However, if the situation favors me, Dax will often let me handle things on my own, even something like this.

  The message he sending to Mateo is that he’s backing off and allowing this thug to have control.

  The message Dax is sending me: Mateo has his stance wide open.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking. A good swift kick to his groin with the back of my boot would catch him off guard. But let’s be real; that’s such a cheap shot.

  With the loose cuff, I pull Mateo’s arm away and drop to my knees, throwing my elbow to the inside of his thigh. The femur is the strongest bone in the human body. I’m not sure if the crack I hear is from it breaking or dislocating from his kneecap. What I do know is Mateo’s screams are the only kind you hear from someone in extreme amounts of pain.

  When he falls forward, the base of my open palm meets with the bridge of his nose. As he falls back, he drops the knife. I yank the cuffed arm around and when he lands facedown, I bend his arm behind his back. His other hand is free, and to get him to submit, I need a pressure point. With all my weight on one leg, my knee buries into the back of his thigh, the injured one. It doesn’t take long for him to throw his hand back for me to lock it with the other.

  “That was rude,” I say.

  Dax hurries over to help me secure him and lift him to his feet, but Mateo is only able to hobble on one of them. With his huge arms, Dax holds Mateo by the elbow while I open the back of the van.

  Inside, seated on the floor with his arms wrapped tight around his bent knees, is a young boy. His whole body trembles. His eyes are wet and puffy. His dark hair hasn’t been washed in days.

  Crawling in the back to console him, I ask his name, but he’s too terrified to answer.

  Red bruises cover his wrists, damage from trying to break free from the thick black zip tie that bind his hands. This is what I expected to find, another victim of El Toro. Yet, something is out of place. Something doesn’t fit.

  The Bull’s victims are adolescents. All of them are teenagers or young adults.

  This boy can’t be any older than six or seven years old.

  Too young to defend himself.

  Too young to be in this situation.

  9. PLAYING THE GAME

  There’s a woman whose path has crossed with mine before. She’s conniving and manipulative. She has a reputation for being seductive and unfaithful, leading the men she spins in her web to their breaking point. She can create a storm in anyone’s life and never find herself the one to blame. The eye of the hurricane. Except in one case.

  This woman had lost her only daughter to the hands of El Toro. The eighteen-year-old curly blonde beauty who was left to die in a ditch. The last time I saw the mother was when Officer Cole was bringing her to the scene where her daughter was found. Her screams are the most recent to echo and haunt me, but this woman has a gift. You can weigh the pros and cons, but either way, emotions are something she has always been able to turn off. In the blink of an eye or the flick of a switch. It’s a sign of weakness. A way to push away her feelings so she doesn’t have experience them. In a way, it makes sense. The only thing worse than losing your child is knowing you’re somehow responsible. Had she kept faithful to someone special, she wouldn’t have found herself messing around with the man who took her daughter away.

  In the corner of his hotel room, Jace sits next to an empty bottle of whiskey, and breaks the seal to another. After a swig, the screen on his cellphone illuminates with a text message: “I’m here.”

  With his back to the wall, he pushes himself to his feet and peeks through the hole in the door, watching the hallway. For minutes he waits until the sight of a young woman in her thirties comes into view. Thin and busty, dark chocolate brown hair falling straight past her shoulders. Dressed in a black jacket and blue jeans. In her hand, a crumpled white paper bag. Jace flips the hotel lock, turns the deadbolt, and examines for anyone else passing by before letting the young woman, Miranda Neal, inside.

  “You look like shit,” she says.

  Jace brings his full whiskey bottle to a chair in the corner of the room and sits as he takes another drink. Miranda, scenting the room with her flowery perfume, sits the white bag on the table and observes the unmade bed, the wet towels on the bathroom floor, the clothes scattered everywhere.

  “Thanks,” says Jace, ripping open the white paper bag. “You’ve always known what to say to make me feel better.”

  Inside the bag is an orange plastic bottle capped with a white lid.

  Printed on the label: Two milligrams of Clonazepam. Take one tablet as needed for anxiety.

  He tips the remaining contents of the bag out to the tabletop and sipping from his whiskey in one hand, he turns the label of the second bottle to read: One-hundred milligrams. Take once daily for depression.

  “The pharmacist told me the depression medication has to build up in your system for two weeks to take effect,” says Miranda.

  Chasing a pill for anxiety with another sip of whiskey, Jace leans back in his chair. His head hangs so he can stare at the floor.

  “I didn’t want to call you. Despite the fact you’re a liar and a cheater, you’re the only person I can trust.”

  Miranda snickers and her arms fold.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Miranda kicks off her shoes and peels her jacket from her shoulders. Her red-buttoned blouse is sleeveless and thin. She leans back on her hands and bounces her crossed feet.

  “You don’t have to stay,” says Jace, pointing to the door with a finger from the hand supporting his forehead.

  Miranda, with her head tilted to her shoulder, watching the misery eating through the man in the chair, she replies.

  “Just like that? I bring you something you need and you kick me out?”

  Jace swallows a mouthful of liquor.

  “You should be used to that.”

  “Oh stop it,” says Miranda, walking toward him and kneeling down with her hands on his knees.

  “You were always the one I cared about,” she adds. “You’re my best friend. Being with you feels like home.”

  Jace turns to the pill bottles on the table. The anxiety tablets lay spread from the open lid. Debating with himself on whether or not he wants to know the answer to the question he’s about to ask, he pushes another pill through his lips and chews, chasing the bitter taste with another drink of whiskey.

  “I thought you moved on,” he says. “Last I hea
rd you were engaged to some software engineer. What was his name?”

  Miranda tilts her head and through the top of her eyes, she holds her stare, smirking.

  “You’re the one who has always had my heart,” she replies.

  “Is that what you told him?”

  “Of course not,” she answers. “You said you were moving to Florida and never wanted to see me again. Why would I ruin a good thing with him if I didn’t matter to you? Besides, we’re not together anymore.”

  Jace scoffs.

  “You mean someone was able to get away?”

  He hangs his head, his pouting chin almost touching his chest and his eyes closed. Knowing full well Miranda’s ex-boyfriend is who came between them. Remembering the times he had to sneak around just to see her. Still, there’s no point in arguing. She will come up with another excuse to add on to the ones before.

  Lies upon lies.

  Pain on top of pain.

  “You need to go,” he says.

  Nursing another drink from the rim of his bottle, now almost halfway empty, he keeps his eyes closed so he doesn’t have to watch her leave. With the floor lamp being the only thing to dimly light the room, he sits waiting to hear the hotel door open and shut, but there’s only silence.

  The soft touch of Miranda’s fingers graze his hand and grip the bottle, pulling it away.

  “Give that back,” he says, raising his face to her as she stands between his knees.

  With her free hand, her fingertips unbutton her blouse from top to bottom. The sides spread apart and roll from her shoulders, exposing her firm black bra and smooth flat stomach.

  “I will,” she replies.

  With her red lips placed over the rim of the bottle, she fills her mouth with the golden brown liquor, but doesn’t swallow. Whiskey pours over her chin and streams down her neck, and along her chest to the center of her stomach. As she set the bottle to the table, she runs her fingers through Jace’s thick messy hair, pulling him closer to her. For a moment, he’s hesitant, but when she grazes her red fingernails along his scalp, his head falls back and his lips press against her stomach, licking, kissing, and sipping the whiskey from her skin.

  With her other hand around his neck, rubbing along his upper back, Miranda smirks like a predator about to catch its prey. Jace’s fingers unbutton her pants and pull them down to her ankles. Wearing a black lace thong, she steps from the crumpled jeans at her ankles and drops her blouse on top of them. His hands pull the hips of her panties to her knees and lets gravity take them the rest of the way. Women like Miranda, a player, a cheat, a manipulator; she had planned ahead for this. A hint of scented shaving cream still lingers from between her thighs.

  Never mind the other men she had toyed with. Where they were at that exact moment. What they were doing. How long they had been waiting for her. How many there were of them. Who’s to say? Each with something to give to her, each with something for her to take. Never mind how their hearts would break. Never mind the worry they felt. The betrayal. Sex is her wicked game and she knows how to play it.

  Jace knows her all too well. He was her play-toy before, and had been manipulated to the point of falling in love. Over time, when he caught on, Jace realized she was nothing but trouble. But at this moment, the past doesn’t matter.

  Jace’s tongue slides over her smooth hairless skin and his finger slips inside of her. Miranda’s long hair hangs over her back as she flips her head, her mouth wide open and breathing heavy. The more his tongue works its magic, the heavier her panting and the louder she moans.

  For Jace, it’s not Miranda he wants. The front of his pants hardens and throbs, but it’s not sex he’s after.

  It will take a while for the pills to dissolve and absorb into his bloodstream. It will take time for them to ease his burdened mind. The whiskey is only to get by, and more so than not, it only enhances his pain. What Jace wants is a distraction. Something to make him feel anything else other than misery.

  There’s a shallow barrier between pain and pleasure.

  The sounds Miranda makes are all too familiar. In his mind, he tries to focus on how good this felt before. How sweet she tastes. He grips tight both her arms and charges from his seat, pushing her toward the bed.

  Her back slams the mattress as she ripped apart her bra, welcoming Jace’s mouth to her soft chest. She pulls away his shirt, only to resume with them shoving their tongues together. Miranda chuckles, biting his lip, pulling his pants from his waist and grabbing ahold of his swollen part. Licking her palm and stroking it, she watches and grins at Jace’s eyes rolling and his face flushing. Seeing his pleasure, his lust, thinking he has reached a point where the only thing he wants in the world is to be inside of her. And with a slide of her hand, she lets him in.

  Jace powers himself into her, almost violently. He doesn’t care who it is, Miranda Neal or a fifty-dollar street hooker. What he wants is to feel this. Not because of desire or the need to satisfy an itch, but to alleviate the pain. Soft and slow, or fast and hard, Miranda’s fulfillment, like a junkie getting her fix, shows through her devilish eyes before they roll back.

  To Jace, each noise of hers is familiar. Each touch. Each motion. Each expression. What haunts him is knowing that if he had experienced all these things before so many times, so did others. Flashes of the same sex with Miranda burn behind his eyelids, only with different men playing his role. Faceless men. All fooled like he had once been before. Miranda’s face glowing with ecstasy and her voice telling each of the other men they were the best she’s ever had. The more Jace’s soul fills with anger and jealousy, the harder and faster he pushes himself into her.

  As they both reach toward climax, digging her nails deep into Jace’s lower back, Miranda pulls them upward, breaking his skin and leaving long deep scratches. Each gash swells with red and spots with tiny specks of blood.

  An orgasm only lasts a few seconds. After breathing calms and sweat dries, a feeling of fulfillment and relief is left behind before those experiencing it find their way back into their normal routine. Jace knows this. He anticipates his anguish returning at any moment. Yet, it doesn’t come right away. Something else remains.

  “So,” says Miranda, panting to catch her breath. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  This newfound lack of misery gives Jace the opportunity to relive the hell he’s recently been put through. Granted, Miranda only asks to satisfy her curiosity, and doesn’t really care, but she’s an ear for Jace to vent to.

  “I got a call from a colleague, Michael,” he replies, wiping sweat from his brow. “He said a friend of his was in danger. Michael was going to help him disappear but couldn’t do it alone; he needed my help. This friend of his worked for some mercenary and was involved in some messed up shit. He and his boss were stopped by a cop who was snooping around. Michael said this mercenary took a prom picture from the cop’s wallet and threatened to take the children in the photo if the cop did anything. I guess that’s when this friend realized he needed to get out. So he called Michael, and Michael called me.”

  “How did you guys help him?” asks Miranda, drying sweat from her face with a sheet.

  Jace shakes his head, staring at the ceiling.

  “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have done it. The other day, I came home to my son and this tall Hispanic guy holding him by the throat. The man had a plastic cable tie around his neck and he said if I didn’t get out of his way, and let him take my kid, he’d pull it tight and make me watch him die.”

  Miranda picks up her clothes from the floor and tells Jace she would have kicked the man’s ass right then and there. A tear streams from the corner of Jace’s eye, down his temple, and onto the sheet.

  “I was terrified,” he says. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. A parent is supposed to protect their children, and when he needed me the most, I was too much of a chicken-shit to help him.”

  As she gets dressed, Miranda watches a naked Jace lay on his back with
his glistening skin and his limbs spread apart.

  “El Toro,” she says. “He killed my daughter.”

  Jace sits up, his eyes widen, and reaching for her hand, Miranda pulls away.

  “I’ve got to go.” she adds, masking her emotions.

  Taking the opportunity to lean over while putting her shoes on, she kisses his bare knee.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jace. Everyone is a victim.”

  She throws her jacket over her shoulder and once the door closes behind her, Jace feels no fear of leaving the locks unhinged. Noticing the deadbolt latch turned loose, he tries to understand where his fear has gone. Perhaps the pills had finally kicked in.

  Putting on a pair of shorts, he feels warm ooze on his lower back. His body turns to the mirror to show the lashes from his recent encounter with Miranda, and one of them leaking a small streak of blood.

  Physical pain causes a rush of endorphins.

  Euphoria, fearlessness, confidence, sustained much longer than any orgasm.

  The scrapes along his back burn and sting, swelling small mounds of redness.

  It’s a subtle pain, but a pain that feels good.

  “Ouch,” I say, examining my elbow after bumping it against the door to my patrol car.

  Dax and I were dispatched to a residence for a woman claiming her children are missing. It’s not the kind of call I prefer to take. Any other time, the first thing to pop in mind would be a runaway or a teenager disappearing after losing an argument with their parents. Most of the time, the person in question would be running late past their curfew. Too involved in associating with their friends, or too intoxicated to drive home. But with all of the city’s children vanishing over the past two weeks, I’m not looking forward to taking the report on this call.

  Dax pulls his cruiser in front of a driveway and parks behind mine. On the front porch of a small house, a woman waits. With her straight gray hair hanging past her chin and both hands in her pockets, she nudges a small rock from her porch as we approach.

  “Are you Ms. Pritchett?” I ask.

  She sighs and apologizes for having to call. Her foster children, twin daughters, haven’t been seen since late last night.