Multi-Story 1: Twist

*

                                                    Twist Chapter 3:
                                                       Royal Flush

       Carlos writhed over the grimy wooden floor, his body shuddering from the bullet that had taken him in a shoulder. His struggle was soundless, silent but for the scrape of his boot heels over the dirty wooden planks of flooring. The pain was hot and fresh, burning and intense, and still he did not cry out.
       He felt the shock from his wounds setting in, the icy coldness as it tried to edge his limbs; like burning flames, but possessing no heat—instead this was a complete absence of heat, absolute zero; bringing with it an emptiness devoid of cognitive thought, devoid of reason and logic; followed only too closely by numbness, and then the harsh finality of death—but he refused to succumb to his bodies desperate pleas for surrender. Surrender to the coldness. . . After a moment Carlos refused even to move past that uncontrollable shake that threatened to pull his body into spasms. He refused to give her the satisfaction.
       Slowly, so very slowly, the erratic movement of his feet stopped.
       He waited, listening as Tannin's footsteps grew fainter; the sound echoing very distinctly down the narrow corridor that waited only a few feet from his outstretched hand. He thought he heard her speaking to someone, probably Gerard, but couldn’t be sure. The twin shotgun blasts were still ringing in his ears.
       ‘Carlos! Olvídese a la chica. Nosotros le necesitamos venir aquí ahora! Rapidamente!’
       Carlos wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, but his mind refused the action even if his body could not. Tears showed weakness, weakness meant death. Death did not cry.
       ‘—Carlos!’
       His brothers words kept replaying in his mind, over and over, digging themselves deeper, sharper, until their meaning seemed nothing more than a bright echo of gunfire. His brothers voice, and his screams. Silenced by the heavy thunder of the barrel.
       Carlos had listened to Roberto die in the parking lot in front of this hell hole—in truth it was that distraction which had allowed the girl to get the drop on him—and fought not to cry out for his brother. Tears threatened to crawl over his face, down his cheeks, warm and hot and burning despite his minds disregard. It wouldn’t happen. He couldn’t let it. He didn’t have the time, or the luxury.
        The pain burned over him, the shock too, both in different ways but both equally as painful and distracting, still, Carlos refused to move. He couldn’t. He knew when his chips were down, and he was experienced enough to understand that you could not let emotions rule your game. Right the moment Tannin and her American friend had the better hand. If either of them thought that he was still alive they’d come back and finish him off. Maybe not Tannin, maybe she would still be too stunned by his reappearance—she should know better than to leave a kill unfinished. She had missed not once, but twice, before only wounding him. And this after all of her training—He smiled bitterly despite his disappointment, more a painful grimace and baring of teeth than actual smile. What a surprise it must have been for her, after all of these years, to see la muerte; the death, returned to her in the flesh.
       —No. Maybe not Tannin. Maybe she was too frightened, maybe too. . . dazed, at the moment, but Carlos had read the dossier on señor Alandon,——señor Gerard Alandon—albeit a rather short and incomplete one; the man would pull the trigger on his own grandmother for the right price—or his own president; even if the man had only been a senator at the time.
       ‘Espera!’ Carlos heard the roar of the shotgun again, and knew that this time it existed purely in his mind.
        ‘No! —’ He tried to hold back his brothers words, the accusatory tone he felt floating just beneath their surface, but the truth slipped through. It was he who had left Roberto in charge of the men out front. He, Carlos, who had decided an up front approach would be the best, that it had the best chance of success. That Tannin and her American friend would not suspect such an open move, especially not if the American suspected they knew about him.
       ‘Carlos!—’
       ‘Nosotros necesitamos usted!’
       ‘Yo necesitamos usted!’
        ‘Por favor!’
       ‘Carlos!—’
       “Roberto. . .” He sighed, and tried to get up, but flopped back to the hard floor after only a weak attempt, his body wracking softly. Neither of his arms were working, the extra strain made it impossible to control the shuddering in his muscles.
       —La Ramera!
        Her knife was still buried in the floor, the pommel nearly pressed flat into the back of his right hand. She was going to die! She was going to fucking die! He should have fucking killed her years ago, when they’d caught her trying to escape the compound with that bitch sister of hers! Only then it hadn’t been personal. Only a job. Now Carlos could give a shit less what Billings wanted; She was dead! Dead as that fucking hombre, Gerard. The bastards would die! Bastardos! La Rameras! Lo hijo-de-un-rameras—
       They were both going to die. Carlos would fucking see to it.
       He listened to their heels crunching over dirt as the pair walked past his window, and realized that he had lost the moment where their conversation had laxed and the two had left the building. Now, when he heard the return of their voices, so close, too close to be drowned out by his thoughts, close enough to draw him momentarily from the blast of the shotgun and his brothers screams, Carlos forced himself to lay perfectly still, driving even the uncontrollable shudders to fade from his muscles.
       The blood seeping from his shoulder made a believable silhouette in the darkness, if either had cared to look through the narrow rectangle of glass recessed into the thick adobe. The cold gray cut of his suit billowed lightly over the floor, hiding the shoulder clutch and the Ruger mini .44 it held, without hiding the growing trail of blood that crept toward the bathrooms shower drain.
       He released his breath, and waited.
       As if perhaps sensing him their voices dropped, but the footsteps continued. Fading slowly.
       Carlos listened for the creak of massive doors as the garage he and his men had spotted as the most likely hiding place for the Impala was opened; he was not disappointed. A moment later he heard the cough of an engine, weak and sickly, but eager, and the building was sprinkled in a hail of stones as the vehicle peeled past.
       Carlos waited a second more, to be sure, then he let the rage take him.
       It drifted over his vision like a freezing cloud; not unlike the shock that had threatened to consume him only minutes before, but this ate up the shock, covered it; consumed it. It was different though, in more ways than intent; the shock would have frozen him, stolen his strength, his speed, his power; his training. The cold that drifted over him now washed everything else away. Everything but the training, the smooth, liquid grace that existed at the core of his muscles. Everything but that cold heartless center. Everything but that dark, silent place he went to when he killed. That dark place where he could enjoy every, single, solitary, exquisite, moment of it. It concentrated his thoughts, drowned away his hurts. It washed away emotion.
        His shoulder screamed when he lifted himself free of the floor, dragging his knee’s upward slowly and crawling forward onto them.. His left arm flopped uselessly at his side, the other remained firmly pinned to the floor. He could tell by the intensity of the pain, the rate of the blood flow, the return of feeling so soon, that the bullet hadn’t shattered his collarbone; it was a little to far to the left, away from his neck and into the flesh, for it to have anyway. It had struck bone though, possibly ricochet off the joint. He couldn’t tell whether or not there was an exit wound, but his shoulder refused to work; he could feel the empty lax in the socket, the pull on the muscles and tendons that weighed his arm down. Hopefully it hadn’t been a hollow-point.
       He remembered when Tannin had broken that shoulder for the first time; when she ran him down with her fathers jeep. Roberto and the others had tracked her that time, his brother had talked him out of coming, talked him into returning to the infirmary. It had hardly been an issue; Carlos could barely stand after the incident, let along raise a gun. Joseph had come back from that with only one eye, Tannin with a bruise that covered one whole side of her face, broken ribs, a shattered knee. . .
       And Mr. Billing’s had punished them all for it; even Carlos. Joseph had been the one to break her ribs and bruise her face, Roberto the one that shattered her knee; Billings had only killed one brother though. One that day—Joseph. Then he had turned and shot Roberto in the knee. When Carlos was brought before him the next day Billings explained to him very calmly his brothers actions and what punishment he had saw fit. Then he had Carlos’s freshly tractioned shoulder dislocated a second time.
      Shortly after his brothers had been drug into the room. One cold and lifeless, the other cold and hysterical from loss of blood. Two guards with AK-47's brought them to the center of the room, then let their bare arms drop. When Carlos had moved to go to them, Billings had nodded and the guard at his back had put the butt of his weapon to the rear of Carlos’s skull.
       He had woken seven hours later tied to the desert floor, with a brother on either side of him. It had taken him a week to make it back to the compound, dragging Roberto by his side. They had left Joseph buried under a cairn of rocks.
       But he had been a good boy—a good little cachorro—he had learned his lesson. And now his other brother was dead, and she was responsible for both of them.
       Now Carlos did scream. Not because it could help him, not in rage: he screamed as he slid his palm upward, over the remaining inch of exposed blade, until the warming steel of the pommel pressed deeply into the bony flesh on the backside of his hand. He screamed, and drew his arm slowly upward.
       Blood did flow then, as the skin was torn or cut. The wound widened. The shaft pulled loose of the floorboards with an eery squeal, every inch turning a crisp, dark red as fresh blood began to flow. The rise of the blade slowed, stopping altogether after a moment, and Carlos bared his teeth into a snarl, pulling harder. He bit down on his lip, drawing fresh blood there also. The gold plated pommel dug into his skin, the edges biting. The floor squealed.
       Finally it came loose with a phup!—a sound that was half releasing lumber, half quiet vibration. Carlos collapsed a second time onto his haunches, breathing heavily through his nose, his body covered in a thick sheen of sweat. His eyes burned with hatred, deep, blazing, fury that was almost a visible thing behind the dark brown iris’s. He slapped the tip of the knife into the worn floor with a hard movement that produced a second phup! and slid his hand back down the length of the blade. His face relaxed. His eyes grew quiet, peaceful, blank. When he lifted his hand free a second time he turned it upward, gave a little wiggle, and the knife fell free.
       He stood and his legs didn’t shake. His feet found their way around the wreckage of the room; hesitating near the shower rod that Tannin had used as her weapon of choice.
       The walls were a random assortment of printed pictures in gaudy frames—things that were meant to look renaissance but looked more third rate action film set in Russia, or some equally picturesque land of war time plunder—and cheap hangings; fake prints and faker velvet, arranged too expertly over the plain adobe for it to have been a man who did it. It wasn’t hard to find a clear spot, just hard to find a smooth one. Carlos settled for an area between a faded white image that might have been flowers and some rag that appeared to have once portrayed a trio of banderilleros impaling the infuriated form a black bull with their banderillas. He settled into the spot, rubbing his damaged arm over it, getting a feel for the surface and preparing himself.
       Carlos moved downward one last time, letting the texture of the wall grab at his suit. When his arm was in place he inched away and shoved violently upward. The joint slid into place with a combination of a wet slurp and a pop. Carlos fell to the floor and wheezed weakly. The bullet had only grazed the joint. He blacked out.
       He woke up five minutes later. The pain in his shoulder was exquisite. He didn’t feel it. Roberto was screaming again.
       Outside he found the dirt tracks of their van leading off in the same direction of the Americans car. So, some of the men weren’t dead after all. . .
       —Roberto?!
       ‘No!’
       No. He was dead.
       Above him the thin metal sign whispered on it’s iron chains; a death rattle in the still desert air.  Death, like la muerte; quiet, discreet. It’s screams carried on the wind, the non-existent wind, but reached no one’s ears but his own; just as theirs would.
        White-gray dust climbed from the soles of his boots onto the rich black hem of his slacks, hanging like bone dust on the thick, plush cloth. Blood dripped lackadaisically from the tips of three fingers on his right hand to the warm, barren earth, puffing out little white clouds of colorless steam in the as yet chill morning air. In a few seconds the earth had swallowed it, welcoming the unexpected moisture. It was like it had never been.
       Carlos frowned down at the armless form that might have been his brother. The exit wound in the corpses back had left a deep red crater of glistening bone and shredded meat where the tattoo of the blesses virgin would have been; just as the arm wound would have removed  the son and the cross, and his holy wreath of thorns.
       Slowly Carlos knelt next to the still form, resting his hands lightly on his knees so that he might resist the urge to brush lightly at the dust that settled over the expensive Itallian slacks, so like his own. The small lightweight flak jacket hadn’t been much protection against the pincer rounds the American had used in his shotgun. They’d all been using pincer rounds, Carlos even had a special hollow-point round for his Ruger called Glasner Safety rounds. The special bullet was designed to expand on contact, shredding, but remaining inside the body. He’d seen the results up close and personal; they weren’t pretty. Carlos had never liked pretty. Neither Gerard or the girl were injured. They hadn’t received so much as a scratch. His brother was dead. How could things have gone so wrong so quickly?!
       It didn’t matter, did it? No. Because there was nothing he could do about it now. Nothing to change that. Nothing to prevent that death. All that was left was revenge.
       Carlos opened the top two buttons of his shirt and removed a tiny silver cross, gently unclasping it’s chain. He spread it over a clean spot in the shredded black vest, his fingers tracing lightly over the powdery white lines that had developed where the fabric wrinkled and trying to smooth them. He only created more, more white lines mingling his own blood with his brothers. After a moment he gave up and settled back on his haunches, restraining himself from touching further—though his fingers still wrangled absently through the air—and whispered silently—  
       “Decir nuestro madre yo amor ella. . . .”
       —an AK-47 sat in the dirt near the undamaged, outstretched arm. The black shape was splattered in drying blood, the rich redness already turning a scabish brown in the rising heat produced from the rising sun. It’s sliding mechanism was jammed open. Carlos had told his brother so many times to get rid of the worthless thing. He wished he had never had to have been proven right. A shotgun was laying near his feet, the first blast having carried it’s strap from Roberto’s shoulder. Carlos picked it up and stood.
       Carlos moved away from the armless form and then past two more black clad figures lying in the drive, following a worn path around the side of the building. A fence blocked his progress not far beyond, made of hard desert lumber and nails. It was padlocked. Carlos blew away the flimsy lock with a single blast of his brothers Remington. He drug the gate to the side, then followed the shallow indents to a second garage, this one smaller, less well cared for. Tar paper sagged from it’s sides, draped over the slanting roof. Wooden supports jammed against one side held the walls from falling. Beneath an awning of hanging debris that might once have been a lean-to sat the rusting hulk of fuel barrel. An antiquated pump rested on a cement slab behind it. His eyes followed the tracks until they vanished beneath locked doors. The man owned a business. He had to have transportation. He wouldn’t be needing it any time soon.
       Carlos returned to the front of the building, following the hardening trail of blood and gore through the shattered doorway. He moved past the body of the owner then that of  his wife, to the empty space beyond the bar. From there he went through a wide entryway and into a kitchen, down the narrow aisles of cookware.
       The smell of burning food was stifling, hot and close, burning at the back of his throat; so he cut it from his senses. The action was as easy as closing an open door. Easier than ignoring pain, say a shoulder wound, or a knife through his palm. The air was already heavy with smoke and the odor of burnt bacon. He watched flames licking at the splattering grease from an aisle away. With luck the place would take care of itself.
       He should have called for clean up of the bodies out front, but the thought was there and gone without nearly a consideration; he didn’t give a damn where they ended up anyway. John Does in a morgue, John Does in a ditch; what fucking difference did it make?
       He found what he was looking for past a doorway hidden in the back. An office, small and uncomfortable, reeking of stale sweat and body odor. A ring of keys—bar, gate, shed, the large garage the American had taken his car from; the padlock to it sat on the edge of a stand next to the door—hung from a hook just to his right. More hooks displayed extra sets of keys to each of the rooms.
        Carlos rifled through the desk, through the mess of papers on it’s top, and through the drawer in the stand. No car keys. Of course not.
       He found them in the dead mans pocket, next to a crumpled receipt from a parts store in Jiménez. The American was running on new tires, a radiator, and a tune up. They wouldn’t last long. Not in that car, in this heat. Not if they weren’t pacing themselves. Carlos doubted they would be.
       The first set of keys saved him from putting a slug in the second lock. The second set fit the aging form of the Nova beautifully. It wasn’t a stunner, but it was well cared for. The chrome was polished, the paint faded. When he hit the ignition the engine ran smooth and even. The rumble let him know it was a V-8 under the hood.
       Carlos slid the Remington onto the riders side floorboard and climbed in after. The seats were broken and pressed into him uncomfortably, but none of that mattered.
       They could run fast and hard; Carlos would catch them.

       The small receiver in Carlos’s jacket pocket rang out once more in a steady cadence as he pulled from the derelict shed out onto the narrow pathway that would lead him back around front. The nova responded eagerly, engine snarling, wheels spitting pebbles and chunks of the hard desert pan, as though anxious for the chase.
       They were already miles away, every second putting more distance between themselves and their pursuers, but the signal continued to come through clear and strong; as it was designed to.
       Carlos tapped the wheel expectantly, signaled to the dealer; two.
       ‘Dues, por favor.’
       —Snap! Snap!
       ‘Gracias’
       Two more cards.
       He added them to his hand.
       The King and Queen of hearts.
       Royal Flush.
       Game Over.
       You Lose!