The young girl was possessed by seemingly endless energy, and kept fighting and screaming for the entire four or five minutes her father was gone. I have done many horrible things, but this one was certainly on the top of the list. I stood there nude, covered in blood, and gripping a small, shrieking child in my arms. Anyone who walked in on the scene would assume the worst, and they’d be right.
Her father came back in the room, and I was relived to see he was sobbing still, not chomping at the bit to tear me limb from limb. He threw a fresh pair of pants that were way too fucking large at my feet, and placed a beat up .38 on the floor with a half empty box of ammo, a small plastic bag with a few stacks of american currency, and an unopened bottle of tequila. I motioned for him to back up and he complied, while I grabbed the gun and inspected it. Loaded. This guy was taking some serious chances by handing this over. Bad idea. My index finger was badly twisted so I fed my middle digit through the trigger guard and raised it at him. He didn’t flinch as I fired three shots into his torso. The fucking sound deafened me to the world, but I could tell the was screaming at an extra few octaves now that I had dropped her, and was crouching over him as a large bubble of blood formed in one of the holes in his chest.
I put the pants on and the promptly fell back off, so I kicked the half-blind girl off her father and sloppily dragged the belt off his corpse before tying it around my waist. I had no shirt, but fuck it, three quarters of the people here didn’t wear them anyway. I gathered up my goods and headed for the door, glad to put the memories of torture and the sound of wailing behind me.
I was surprised to see that it wasn’t some back country shed I was being kept in, but a seemingly nice middle-class house upstairs. Out the window I could see a pickup with the windows down and a shine near the wheel. Keys. I didn’t waste time in stumbling out the door and tossed my gear onto the passenger seat before sitting down and starting up the truck. The leather was burning a hole in my back, but I was happy to have it. Some dreadful mexican polka music flooded the car and I quickly shut it down, then tore the cork out of the tequila bottle and drank deeply. With any luck I would forget this shithole in a few hours of drinking.
I was about two miles down the road, a gringo covered in blood, shirtless driving a stolen pickup while half drunk, when I saw the federales behind me.
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