The Beasts of Juarez R.B. Schow (reading the story of the .TXT) 📖

pain radiated through his torso and down into his legs. Incapacitated, outmanned, and outgunned, he watched them drag Estella through the dirt right past him. They had a hold of her ankle and were taking her back to the SUV to do God knows what with her body. Thinking he was already dead, they ignored Yergha completely.

He told himself to man up, to not let them get away with this, and then he summoned the last of his strength and picked up his M4. Much of the feeling hadn’t returned to his fingers, but he’d come this far, so he would fight for that one last chance.

The men loaded Esty’s body into the back of the SUV then they climbed inside. The driver backed up the SUV and was turning around when Yergha lifted the M4, aimed at the passenger windows, and squeezed the trigger. The first few rounds blew out the glass in the second-row seating. The man in the seat had a red bloom on his cheek. Yergha wasn’t sure if he hit him with a bullet or if the glass had cut him. Either way, he cleared the rest of the magazine, pumping every last round into the head of the asshole with the bloody cheek. He had missed at first, but then he managed to put three or four rounds right into the side of his face.

There was nothing more he could do. He dropped the carbine and watched the SUV tear out of there.

As he lay slumped against the car and listening to the sounds of passing traffic, his chest felt like he had been kicked by a pissed-off mule at least half-a-dozen times. Fortunately, he was coherent enough to get the SUV’s plates. They might be real or they might be stolen; he had them nevertheless.

Flexing his fingers, blood and feeling returning to them, he dialed Codrin Pichler, thankful that the hacker answered within a couple of rings.

“Yeah,” Codrin said.

“This is Yergha; I need you to run a plate for me. Forward it to the entire team. Well, not Esty. Don’t forward anything to her until I say otherwise.”

“What happened?” Codrin asked, as serious as he’d ever been.

“They shot her and took her body.”

“Is she dead?”

“I don’t know; just write down this plate number.” He gave Codrin the number together with a brief description of the SUV, hoping neither the plate nor the SUV was stolen. “Text me what you have immediately.”

“I have you grouped but I’m pulling Estella’s number now,” Codrin said. “Why do you sound out of breath?”

“Esty wasn’t the only one who was shot.”

“You’ve been hit?”

“Yeah.”

“How bad?” the Romanian asked.

“Four or five to the chest, I lost count. Don’t worry about it, though. We’re wasting time.”

“I can dispatch an ambulance your way.”

“Not here, I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry, didn’t you just tell me that you were—”

“Codrin, run the damn plate!” he barked, quickly paying for the outburst. So as not to tempt the man to ask any more questions, Yergha hung up the phone and sat there for a long time trying to stabilize his breathing.

He glanced down at himself, not sure he wanted to see the damage he’d taken. His legs lay there useless before him, the bend at his waist abnormal. Slowly, he turned and looked at the superficial damage to the embarrassment on wheels, a.k.a. the baby blue Chevy Spark.

Pulling himself up, breathing a little easier, he managed to work his way back into the car. There, he took a few shallow breaths, followed by a few more that were deeper than the last, and finally a few very deep breaths just to assess any damage.

“No broken ribs,” he said to himself. “Well, there’s a plus.”

Glancing over at the passenger side of the car and then into the back seat, he saw broken glass. It was everywhere. The two back windows were gone, but the hatchback was intact. He turned the key in the ignition and the Spark started right away.

Sitting there, praying for a return text to come back from Codrin, he waited. The longer he had to wait, though, the more he wondered just what the hell they were doing to Esty. Breathing shallow, his chest an absolute mess, he wiped the sweat from his eyes then gingerly shifted his butt from side to side. He wasn’t sure if he’d soiled himself in the exchange. A moment later, he had confirmation.

“Looks like it’s a shit-free Sunday,” he said with some relief.

The text from Codrin came in a few minutes later: PLATES NOT STOLEN; SUBURBAN NOT STOLEN; LAST KNOWN ADDRESS. To his relief, Codrin provided him with an address in Juárez.

He looked up the listed address on Google maps, took another breath then checked his Sig Sauer P226. He had a full mag. He charged the slide then set the gun on the seat where Esty should be sitting, unconcerned with the broken glass for now.

“I’m coming to get you,” he said.

Before taking off, he took off his shirt, unstrapped and removed the lightweight tactical vest he had picked up at Richie’s before crossing the border, then set it on the seat so he could breathe. He forced himself to look down at his chest. This was a stark reminder that he was now neck-deep in the shit.

“Good God,” he said.

His entire chest was one nasty, inflamed bruise. He glanced down a second time, found five welts rising, the one closest to his armpit maybe an eighth of an inch inside the vest’s protection zone. He was not just lucky, he had been blessed.

“Good guys always win, assholes,” he said as he buttoned up his shirt.

Using Google’s built-in navigation system, he indicated that he wanted directions to the house where they were holding Estella. From there he would