The Beasts of Juarez: A Vigilante Justice Thriller

Book 2: Atlas Hargrove

by R.B. Schow

Genres: Horror; Terrorism & Assassination Thrillers; Vigilante Thrillers

Synopsis

USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR AND AMAZON ALL-STAR AWARD WINNER!

When a family is stolen…

....Leopold receives a desperate call…

....it’s time to unleash the dogs of war, and Atlas Hargrove.

After a midnight call, Leopold scrambles to gather and deploy his assets to Juarez, Mexico - one of the most crime-ridden cities in the world. The members of his original team, Cira, Estella and Yergha, quickly find themselves in over their heads, prompting Leopold to call in his wild card, Atlas Hargrove.

 

The problem?

 

Atlas has been causing trouble in prison.

 

This caged lion is itching for a new job, something to bring him closer to finding his daughter. Unfortunately, his enemies inside the joint are stacking up and he no longer has the protection of the warden.

 

The only way to survive one hell might be to dive head-first into another. Juarez has never looked so good, or so dangerous…

 

If you like Jack Carr, Mark Greaney, Lee Child, Vince Flynn, and Blake Banner, you’re going to love Atlas Hargrove in the bold new series-starter early readers have calling, “An absolutely intense addition to the Atlas Hargrove series," "fast-paced and relentless," and "Another showstopper!"

 

Fire up your kindle, grab some caffeine, and prepare yourself for a wild night with the pride and joy of NorCal State Prison: the enigmatic, unpredictable Atlas Hargrove.

 

NOTE: This book contains the kind of brutal violence, strong language, and sexual content one might expect in a R-rated movie. The Betrayal of Prague is now available with The Devil in Cologne arriving in April, 2022!

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SELECT PRAISE FOR R.B. SCHOW:

"I've never read a book from Schow that wasn't great. I know a good book, and I recognize excellence in writers. Schow is amazing. This novel is amazing."

– Trinitron212, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

“This tale will grip you, make you laugh and cry, and keep you racing to its dramatic conclusion! I await Ryan’s next book the way sports fans wait for the Super Bowl, World Series, Stanley Cup, or NBA Finals!”

– Mikkfinn, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

"OMG! This story grabs you by the heart! Ryan always delivers a gut wrenching, thought-provoking story where right and wrong, and good and bad, walk the edge of a blade."

– Teresa, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

"This author is a masterful story teller. A ferocious thriller. Frightening, deadly & for keeps. Brilliant."

– JenFox, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

 

Read more

Release date: April 29, 2021

Publisher: River City Publishing

Print pages: 412

Sample

CHAPTER 1

ATLAS HARGROVE

 

Some would argue that more serial killers were born and raised in California than anywhere else in the world.  The hot sun and all the pretty girls had the propensity to bring out the worst in people.  If this particular argument held water—and more than a few scholars have maintained the merits of such a statement given the company, the hour, and the libations consumed—one could also posit that if there was such a dense population of ruthless killers in the state, one would likely find them at NorCal State Prison under lock and guard. 

Baxter “Butane” Kirtman was exactly five foot seven with lean arms, strong hands, and the kind of wild eyes last seen in Charles Manson after he carved an X in his forehead and sent a bunch of kids on a blood-soaked killing spree.  

Baxter K., as he was sometimes referred to, or later BBK, used a butane torch to cook his victims alive, eating them a few layers of skin at a time.  It was rumored that the last girl he ate took him seven months.  How she lived that long under such monstrous distress was a mystery not even the medical community wanted to solve. 

The authorities finally caught Baxter after a neighbor’s dog dug a hole under their adjoining fence and squeezed into Baxter’s rather spacious backyard.  With unrelenting curiosity and some serious investigative sniffing, the mutt discovered a femur bone that looked scraped clean, save for a few suspicious markings.  That night, Sacramento PD paid Baxter a visit, questioned the man extensively, and then took him to the precinct for questioning.  They fast-tracked a search warrant after one of the investigating officers unearthed a human skull.

Over the next week, a team of experts exhumed what appeared to be the various parts of more than fifty different bodies.  They then located seven more corpses in various stages of decomposition inside a handful of fifty-five-gallon drums situated around his property.  The Sacramento native was charged with a whole host of murders.  When questioned by the press about the validity of the charges, the spokeswoman for Sac PD simply said, “This will be the easiest case we’ve ever tried, the evidence is that plentiful.” 

Days later, when the lead detective paid Baxter a visit in his holding cell, BBK was on the shitter, purportedly mid-dump.  In a Twitter post, according to one of the guards who happened to overhear the conversation, Baxter completed that number two then said to the detective, “If you’re looking for Missy Rodriguez, there’s a little bit of her in the toilet right now.  Should I flush or will you add ‘destroying evidence’ to my list of charges?”  In a follow-up Twitter post, the guard said that BBK started laughing so hard at his own joke that he started squirting piss out everywhere, almost like an excited puppy with an overactive bladder.  For a while, #shittingvictims was trending on Twitter, which only fueled Baxter’s notorious status.

Before Atlas was remanded to the state prison for the duration of his life, back when he was still walking around as a free man, he had followed the case of Baxter Kirtman.  Everyone wanted this human filth to burn in hell, and by the time Baxter was hauled before a judge and jury, he had earned a reputation as one of the most ruthless serial killers the state ever produced.  That wasn’t the end of the story, though.  There was more.

During the start of the trial, after a particularly scathing rebuke by the judge over some procedural misstep, Baxter attacked his own counsel.  A doctor had to stitch up the side of the court-appointed lawyer’s face where Baxter had taken a bite out of him. 

Now, in the sunny state of California, half of everything is either grossly overpriced or free depending on your economic status.  For Baxter Kirtman, in his pathetic economic position, a court-appointed lawyer was one of the services he got for free. 

“Easy come, easy go,” BBK said to one brave reporter who dared to ask how he felt about his lawyer’s dismissal. 

When the judge brought Baxter K. back into the courtroom a week later with a new court-appointed lawyer, Baxter saw that a Plexiglas shield had been erected between him and his counsel.  The modern-day cannibal interrupted his own attorney to tell the judge that having a protective shield up was jury tampering because it caused them to be “prejudicial” about him. 

The judge simply shook his head and said, “To be clear, Mr. Kirtman, the Plexiglas shield is not considered jury tampering, so it stays.  But I’m not a tyrant, so you can either keep the shield or the bailiffs can cuff you to the table.  Today, I’m all about choices.”

“The shield will be fine,” Baxter K. said, defeated. 

To ensure there were no more violent outbursts, by court order, Baxter was overfed at each and every meal.  During the trial, the slight but violent man put on fourteen pounds of fat, and no other lawyers were eaten.

Now, as Atlas was escorted to the chow hall for lunch, he got in line with the inmates awaiting whatever plate of slop the kitchen decided they wanted to serve and call food.  As always, Atlas kept to himself.  Flying solo was his MO when he first arrived and this was how it had been in the five months since he returned from Ukraine.  He was no one’s road dog.  He ate alone, showered alone, still had a cell to himself—thank you, COVID—and he spoke to no one but Trigger, his next-door-celly. 

Over the months he had endured whispers about himself as well as the occasional taunting, but when he garnered the attention of the shot callers and their enforcers, things started to change, to escalate.  At first, their BS wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.  But then something happened.  In trying to lay low, Atlas had inadvertently become something greater than the sum of his parts.  Without even knowing it, he was feeding the legend of “The killer ex-cop,” eventually turning himself into the one thing he never wanted, and that was to become a constant target. 

Three times in the last several months, Atlas was nearly killed.  Once by a brave but stupid fish who Atlas beat so badly that the man’s jaw still didn’t line up right, and twice by torpedoes—the enforcers for the gangs inside of NorCal State Prison.  Atlas had killed both enforcers, the second murder more violent than the first just to prove a point.  The shot callers, as the heads of the prison gangs were called, had unleashed their enforcers on him hoping to either pull him into their gang or put him down for good.  That didn’t work.  As far as Atlas could tell, his only infraction had been refusing to be anyone’s bitch, June bug, or permanent pocket. 

“Everyone belongs somewhere,” one of the guards finally told him, a transfer from San Quentin.  “Find a home and a family, or you’re going to spend half your life in solitary.” 

Doing nothing, Atlas had later learned, was him being a sucker ducker, a guy who was always trying to steer clear of trouble. Trigger, his next-door-celly, said, “The best way to get somewhere bad is to try to be everywhere while being nowhere.  I hope I’m being clear on this.”

“You’re not,” Atlas had said, giving the statement little credence then but thinking a lot about it after the last thirty-day stint in the hole. 

Having been attacked three times, Atlas was the proud recipient of seven stab wounds, four fractured bones, a cracked molar, and a trio of fading pink scars where some barbarian scratched his face with dirty fingernails.  And still, Atlas kept to himself.  If anyone thought they could own him, turn him out, or break him, now they were thinking twice.  That was the way it had to be.  To survive in NorCal, one had to adapt.  But he wouldn’t conform.  Before he managed to lose that soft, timid edge, the legend of the killer ex-cop was a tale too large for any real man to fill.  But now Atlas was living up to both monikers: killer ex-cop and sucker ducker.  Unfortunately, what he had done and who he was would ensure that he would always have to watch his back. 

When he did burpees, push-ups, sit-ups, punches, and kicks, he did so knowing his time was likely short and he had to be ready for a fight.  But whoever came after him—be it the guards or the inmates—he was going to make sure they ate their own asses before he was done with them. 

While fine-tuning the countless self-defense moves he had learned in the academy and on his own in the line of duty as a former SWAT commander at Vacaville PD, he dreamed of breaking someone’s back and neck enough to shove their head up their own ass.  Something like that was impossible, of course, but by the time someone smoked his ass or he was back door paroled (dead in prison), he vowed to at least try. 

Atlas’s daily workout regimen kept him fit and supercharged, but it also kept him relatively sane.  By relatively sane, that meant he harbored a constant agitation—a barely-checked rage that seemed to fester just below the surface.  His life was unsettled, to say the least.  Aside from the obvious problems prison life brought to him, his daughter was alive and being held captive somewhere, his ex-wife was shacking up with some supermodel pretty boy named Rocco, and Atlas had had a taste of freedom in Russia and Ukraine five months ago with no follow-up from either Leopold or Cira since then.  Now, all he had for stress management was maintaining his physically imposing size and being ready to go flat-out fucking aggro at a moment’s notice. 

After doing two fifteen-day stretches and a thirty-day stint in the hole, he was starting to rethink his plan.  As of now, he just needed a break to clear his head.  A little direct sunlight wouldn’t hurt either. 

“Hey,” Trigger whispered as he passed Atlas in line, his tray of “food” in hand.  “Keep your eyes open.” 

Atlas had been thinking about Jade right then.  Ever since he’d mailed his ex-wife a current photo of their stolen daughter, Alabama, he was expecting her to visit.  For the first few months, she didn’t come and it drove him crazy.  Had she truly put her daughter’s disappearance behind her like it no longer mattered, like Alabama was just gone and that was it?  Jade’s boyfriend, Rocco, wasn’t much more than a dick and a pretty face.  Would he even care about another man’s missing kid?  Atlas wanted to think so.  Unfortunately, he’d become rather pessimistic lately. 

Now, however, he shifted his thinking to what Trigger just said.  Was something about to go down?  Looking around the chow hall, feeling for the ripples in the pond, he wondered what spooked Trigger.  He was smart enough to know that one of these guys could have a shiv, a lock in a sock, or some other makeshift weapon with his name all over it.

            “You’re about to get fucked, yo,” the guy behind him said.  “Watch your six.  And don’t tell anyone I gave you the grapes.”

            He turned slightly expecting to feel the electric charge of a prisoner about to unleash the beasts.  He didn’t get that feeling, though.  The guy who gave him the info, or the grapes as it was called, was an inmate named Charles.  Word had it the former comedian gave up the big show in Hollywood to take care of his dying parents.  Now he was doing a dime for knocking off some Broadway sissy who wouldn’t stop running his mouth about the merits of communism or something like that.  Charles was the guy who brought the cart of books around.  He’d given Atlas a copy of 1632, an immensely entertaining novel by Eric Flint.  Aside from being well-read, apparently Charles kept his affiliations with others loose as well. 

            “Thanks for the heads up,” Atlas said under his breath.

            “If you need to chill your melon, the eagle has landed,” he said.  Charles was a lugger as well—a guy who could get you smack.  Atlas wondered if the man had a line on more than just heroin.  Like a cell phone, perhaps?

            “I’ll let you know if I need anything,” Atlas said.  “Thanks, though.”

            “I have magic cookies, too.”

            Atlas gave a low chuckle and said, “I bet you do.”

            When it was his time for chow, he held out his plastic bowl.  Fearing what was coming, he asked, “Shit on a single today?” 

The man serving him “lunch” frowned then filled his bowl with hot slop.  Shit on a single was some sort of mystery-meat patty covered in watered-down gravy.  Looking down with a frown, he realized that this was something else entirely.  Today was some sort of stew concoction. 

            “The semen count is high on this one,” the cook mumbled as Atlas moved on. 

Looking over his shoulder in disgust, Atlas found the man shaking in a fit of muted laughter.  Charles was laughing, too.  This caused Atlas to laugh for the first time in months.  What the hell…was he actually making friends?

Not likely.

            Sitting alone at his own table, he pushed his plastic spoon through the stew, unable to stop the look of revulsion on his face.  What he was being forced to eat looked like bite-sized dog meat dipped in cream of mushroom soup with a sprinkling of turmeric and pepper.  If meal-planning for the prison system was a state-mandated thing, these motherfuckers were failing miserably.  He ate it anyway because he needed the protein and the carbs.  If he wanted to survive, he needed to remain quick on his feet and ferocious.  If he couldn’t do this, how else would he keep the shot callers from messing with him? 

He was just about to the bottom of the bowl when some jackass bumped into his back.  The inmate sunk his elbow into Atlas’s spine like he was itching to start something.  Atlas turned ever so slightly, watching the offending inmate out of the corner of his eye.  A few of the stooges at a nearby table snickered, but the rest of the guys—those who saw this as potential entertainment—got extra quiet. 

Keeping his head low, largely ignoring them, Atlas snuck an upward glance at the guards on the second floor.  They were armed with tasers and shotguns, and judging from past experience, the shotguns were loaded with bean bag rounds.  If any of them had seen what had just happened, it wasn’t registering on their faces.

Hunched over but acutely aware of everything, Atlas forced himself to eat the rest of his meal.  For as calm as he tried to look, his senses had gone to high alert.

The nature of the talk around him changed, the white noise of the others amplifying.  That’s when he heard the fish that bumped him say, “You said I was poking a rattlesnake, but he didn’t even move.  What a coward.”

Filtering out all the other noise, Atlas twisted his head sideways and zeroed in on the new guy, some oversized scrub that easily had six inches and fifteen pounds on him. 

One of the lifers told the fish, “Your mistake was thinking you’d piss off a rattlesnake.  Hargrove is the bear that you just didn’t poke hard enough.” 

Atlas felt dozens of eyes fall on him.  So it was going to be like this…

Deep inside his chest, he felt the blood pumping a bit harder, fresh stores of adrenaline flooding into his bloodstream.  He flexed his pecs, squeezed his biceps, set his jaw.  This was not the day to test him, not after he had just done thirty days in the hole.  Then again, maybe that’s why this fish felt so brave.  Everyone assumed Atlas would take it because he wouldn’t want to go back to solitary.  They assumed right.  The other possibility was that they were trying to get his ass on the ghost train.  Normally he wouldn’t mind a good fight, but Atlas didn’t want to be shuffled around to other facilities, not when Leopold worked so hard to turn the screws on this warden in this prison.

The stupid mutt next to the offending brute glanced at Atlas and then said, “You smoke that dirty pig and you become a legend.  Mufukkas here be holding your pockets, not the other way around.”

The big mistake this FNG was about to make was thinking he was dealing with the Atlas Hargrove that first arrived in NorCal State Prison.  That particular Atlas was wet behind the ears, asshole freshly probed, dressed in a fresh pair of blues not knowing shit about shit.  That guy was soft, scared—a real mess.  That guy was dead and gone.  Now, five months after Ukraine, with three trips to the hole and multiple prison murders under his belt, he was walking rage, the epitome of a problem child.  He wanted that part of him well known.  That’s why—until Leopold got him the hell out of there again—he refused to shave his beard, cut his hair, or stop training the several hours a day he did train for whatever fight was coming next. 

But the problem with running so hot all the time was that if Leo didn’t summon him soon, if the ultra-rich vigilante financier didn’t give Atlas a proper outlet for all this pent-up agitation, he was going to blow.  Unbeknownst to everyone, Atlas’s dreams of dying young hadn’t been squelched in the courtroom.  The real death sentence was him dying of natural causes fifty years later after having spent an eternity putting up with these knuckleheads in this god-awful place.

Turning his head, he eyeballed the moron who had nudged him.  He was getting ready to take this joker to the floor when an audible ruckus caused him to glance around. 

“Fresh meat!” someone called out.

“Fish gets fried!” someone else shouted, prompting the remaining inmates to chime in.  The chanting grew louder and louder, the inmates’ voices more fanatical.  Pretty soon everyone was stomping their feet and banging their fists on the tables, the uproar so loud, Atlas couldn’t even hear himself think.  That’s when he saw the FNG. 

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

The instant Baxter “Butane” Kirtman was escorted into the proximity of others, the renowned serial killer let loose a shit-eating grin that Atlas hated with a passion.  There was a certain kind of ugliness about him you could feel from a mile away.  It oozed off him like a sickness, the look of it like toxic waste being rubbed into your eyes.

When Baxter disappeared on his way to his new cell, the noise died down and one of the guards eased up to him.  “Don’t get any ideas, child-killer.” 

“Like what?” Atlas asked, looking up. 

The guard snickered and walked off leaving him to wonder what the heck he was even talking about.  The minute the guard left, the fish that had bumped into him earlier was back for more.  He knocked Atlas a lot harder this time. 

“Get up, pig,” the brute said. 

Atlas sat up and stared straight ahead.  He rolled his neck, popped his knuckles then looked down at his bowl like he’d missed something.  He ran a finger over the surface of the bowl, picking up whatever gravy was left over then he licked his finger and relaxed.  Even though he moved like he didn’t have a care in the world, Atlas was more than ready to go.

“That’s what I thought,” the big guy said, walking off.

Atlas had had enough.  He stood up fast and charged the man.  He fired a shot into his kidney, then grabbed his head and bounced it off the table twice.  The inmate slumped to the floor, but Atlas gave him no room to breathe.  He drove six or seven massive shots to the scumbag’s temple, knocking him out cold. 

Two guys stood in their seats after Atlas had disturbed their lunch.  He didn’t wait for them to attack before putting both of them down, too.  The minute he cracked the second man’s jaw, one of the guards racked his shotgun and fired.  The beanbag-round struck Atlas in his shoulder kicking him forward into the table.  The pain was instantaneous.  This would have stopped anyone in their right mind, but Atlas ran hot on a calm day and he was not in his right mind.  At that moment, he was redlining. 

Spinning around, he looked up and saw the guard re-racking his shotgun.  One of the other douchebags from the table was suddenly in his ear with curse words, threats, insults.  He drove an elbow into the man’s face, catching him in the chin.  He dropped the same as the others, prompting the guard to take aim once more. 

In one fluid movement of anticipation, Atlas spun his body sideways and swatted the air in front of his chest the way you would if you were trying to check a punch.  His palm struck the projectile just enough to divert it from its original trajectory, causing the bean bag to skip off his hand rather than striking him dead on.  It was a one-in-a-million block, something he would never replicate again, but at that moment, it was everything. 

His hand hurt like hell, but he just looked up at the guard like it was nothing, like he could eat another round if that was the meal being served up.  If the guard was stunned, he didn’t show it.  But the chow hall…oh yeah, the chow hall got really quiet.  He’d just blocked a bean bag round with his bare hand and now he was mad-dogging the guard with cold, defiant eyes. 

The guard’s shotgun was trained on his chest for a long time.  The moment felt eternal, but Atlas was steadfast in his resolve.  He wasn’t backing down.  Finally, the guard eased up, bringing Atlas a moment of relief. 

He took his eyes off of the guard then took the fish’s bowl of slop and returned to his table.  As he ate another helping of liquid dog shit, he eyed the men he’d just put down.  The instigator was still laid out on the ground, his limbs stiff and his eyes only now starting to roll back down to normal. 

A guard was now on the floor coming for him. 

“Let’s go, slugger,” he said. 

After quickly mopping his bowl clean, Atlas was escorted back to his cell with a rough hand by a guy who didn’t like him.  That’s when he saw that Baxter Kirtman had moved into his cell. 

“What’s that cocksucker doing in my cell?” Atlas asked the guard.

“That’s not just your house, it’s his house too.”

Atlas frowned, slowing his step so much that the guard gave him a light shove to keep him moving.  Now he knew why the guard who told him “not to think about it,” said what he said.  He knew Baxter Kirtman was going to be Atlas’s new celly. 

“You Muppets just don’t know when you’re doing a bad thing, do you?” Atlas asked. 

The guard didn’t answer.  Had they all known BBK was going to be Atlas’s new celly or was it just a few of the guards? 

“Either way,” the guard said, “this should be entertaining.” 

Atlas could actually feel the guard grinning in anticipation.  What made the situation worse, however, was that when he arrived at his cell, Baxter had taken all of Atlas’s stuff off the top bunk and moved it to the bottom bunk. An infraction like that was unforgivable.

Atlas walked into his cell and looked up at the serial killer.  The cage door shut firmly behind him but he paid it no mind.  Just when the little freak started to speak, Atlas grabbed him by the trousers and yanked him violently off of the bed.  His body hit the floor with a loud thud, the impact so hard it left BBK gasping for breath. 

The physical outburst hurt his aching hand but he was beyond pain at that point.  He needed the time to clear the upper bunk of the serial killer’s things and put his stuff up there. 

“You two play nice,” the guard said.

“No,” Atlas retorted.

By the time Baxter K. got to his feet, the guard had moved on and Atlas was ready for round two.  He grabbed the smaller man and drove him into the cage door, his big hand wrapped around BBK’s throat.  Atlas squeezed hard as he lifted him three inches off the ground.  He felt his face shaking with rage.  All that adrenalized fuel was five months of agitation and harassment boiling over.  It was sadness, disappointment, and anger all wrapped in one.  Baxter K. just became his outlet, the place to put all of his hostility, and it was as good a place as any.

“You ever sit your skinny ass on my bed again, if you ever touch my things, I swear to God I’ll pull out your fucking spleen,” Atlas growled through clenched teeth. 

On the other side of the bars, a different guard appeared.  “I feel like I interrupted you two having a…private moment,” he said, his face filled with delight.   

“Piss off, screw,” Atlas growled, never once taking his eyes off of Baxter’s eyes. 

“If you kill this one, too, you’ll get two months of darkness,” the guard reminded him.  “Is that what you want?  That’s like a year in ‘hole hours’. ” 

“I’d like to see you try to get me out of here,” Atlas said. 

Baxter’s face was turning blue.  He clawed at Atlas’s arms, his jerking legs shaking and kicking with no tangible result.  As the fight to survive waned, Baxter’s eyes began to slowly roll up into his head.

“We always get you out of there,” the guard said, tilting his head to look at Baxter.  “Let the prison at least collect a check on this monkey dick before you eighty-six his ass.” 

“No,” Atlas muttered.

“Be smart, boy.”

Atlas finally let the man down, readjusted his grip, then spun and used his weight and momentum to launch him into the concrete wall where their toilet was located.  BBK hit the wall hard then collapsed into a heap.  Clearly, he was unconscious. 

Facing the guard, Atlas said, “There’s another open cell somewhere.  Put him there.” 

“Just think, if you’re stuck in the hole for two months, this chomo fuckwagon is going to wipe his ass and his filthy pecker all over your bed.  Sixty days of his dirtiest parts grinding up against your stuff.  When you finally get back here, it’ll be like curling up in his crotch.” 

Behind him, he heard Baxter groaning and trying to stand up.  “If I go to the hole again,” Atlas said, resolute, “it’ll be because I’ve broken his neck in half.” 

“You say that,” the guard grinned, “but it won’t come to that.” 

Atlas turned and looked at BBK, studied the man for a moment.  “Yeah, I’m going to make that happen.”  To BBK, he said, “Sit your ass down!”  BBK sat down.

“If it’s any consolation,” the guard said, “I’ve got ten bucks that says he’ll still be alive in thirty days.” 

“You shouldn’t have made that bet,” Atlas growled. 

“By the way, you have a visitor.”  

Atlas felt his heart switch gears then start to gallop. 

“What?  Who?” 

“Oh, and the warden wants to see you afterward.” 

“About what?” he asked.

The guard laughed.  “He already heard about the stunt you pulled in the chow hall.”

“I was just defending myself,” Atlas said.  “Who’s the visitor?”

“I’ll tell you this much, your visitor is a she.”

And with that, Atlas appraised his appearance long enough to regret not cutting his beard, his hair, or even trimming his nails. 

“Let’s go, Neanderthal, you look amazing,” the guard chided, “if you’re into wildlife.”

Atlas put his hands out, let the guard cuff him, and then he tried to regulate his breathing without letting his anticipation soar too much. 

Who was here to see him?  Jade?  Cira?  What if it’s neither of them?  The thought gave him pause.  Then it filled him with a cold determination. 

If his visitor was neither of the two women, he’d simply turn and walk away.  And then maybe he’d kill Baxter K. and head back to the hole where he’d take a two-month victory lap.   

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

OTIS FYKES

 

Waking up in hell with a pulse was something you learned to do because, for heaven’s sake, it was summer in El Paso and everything was hot, dry, and dusty. 

Otis Fykes rubbed his expanding belly, wondered if it was getting any bigger (of course it was), and thought that if he was able to shit out last night’s nachos and piss out the six beers he put away last night, he might be able to win the day. 

Rolling over, passing gas, he checked the side of the bed that had been empty for two years now.  He would never fill that side with another body.  After his wife left him, and after his subsequent weight gain, he was done chasing tail.  One day, if he needed it, he’d just pay for it.

He slid his hand over the hump in the middle of the mattress then let it settle into the dip Tanya left behind.  He drew his hand back, closed his eyes, tried to remember what she smelled like.  The last he remembered, she smelled like lavender.  He wanted to lean over, see if there was something of her left there, something other than the shape of her once upon a time, but he couldn’t do it.  Keeping to his side of the bed, he tried forcing thoughts of her out of his head. 

After today, you’ll be able to afford a new bed, he told himself. 

The queen-sized bed wasn’t his bed; it had always been their bed.  In two years, he hadn’t once crossed the high point in the mattress to sleep on her side, or even to form a new shape in the middle of the bed.  Today was no different.  Sitting up, he rubbed his face then dug a booger out of the inside of his left nostril. 

Looking over at her side of the bed, he frowned.  As distant as it was, Tanya’s betrayal cut him to the bone.  How was he supposed to let that go?  How could he forget or forgive?  Even now, gone two years, Tanya still had her side of the bed, and he still had his.  Frowning, angry again, he rolled the booger in between his fingers then let it drop on the carpet with the others. 

The alarm on his phone sounded, a Bruce Hornsby and The Range tune he had loved so long ago: “The way it is.”  The song reminded him of a time when there was still some good left in him.  He shut it off then checked the phone for messages.  He didn’t see any.

“Get up, loser,” he mumbled. 

Forcing himself out of bed, he grabbed the phone then padded across the linoleum floor to a small bathroom that hadn’t seen a clean day since he was in his thirties.  He guzzled down a glass of cold water to get the bowels moving but the cold water wasn’t nearly cold enough.  While he waited for a call, and for his colon to respond, he checked the weather app on his phone.  It was going to be another hot, dry day. 

“Surprise, surprise,” he said, mimicking Gomer Pyle from The Andy Griffith Show. 

Leaning sideways, he both burped and farted, and then he pulled down his boxers, sat on the toilet, and tried to undo the damage he’d done less than twelve hours ago. 

When he thought about how much food he’d eaten last night, he tried not to be too hard on himself.  After all, there was nothing like a pre-celebration celebration, and what better way to party the night away than with drinks and a victory meal.  Today, victory would be his.  Granted, it would come at the expense of four innocent people, but that was life.  Sometimes you’re the hammer, sometimes you’re the nail.  Today, he got to be the hammer. 

Thinking about his situation, he heard his old man in his head.  He used to say, “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” 

“That’s your world, Pop,” Otis muttered in response to the memory.  “Not mine.”

The old man had died in his own vomit at sixty-three.  Now, Otis’s motto was, “If you shit, shower, shave, and show up, you should be just fine.” 

He felt a low rumble in his belly.  The noise held promise, but his bowels had yet to move sufficiently.  Pressing an elbow against his stomach, fighting to spur his colon to life, he groaned and wondered if he’d eaten too fast the night before. 

“We ain’t making bricks in there,” he said to his stomach.  “Just let’r go.  I know you don’t want them turds in there no more.” 

An air bubble pressed against the inside of his stomach expanding so fast and so large it caused him to fold over in pain.  Heat rose to the surface of his skin.  He started to sweat.  Using a wad of toilet paper, he wiped his balding forehead thinking this was not a good sign at ten in the morning.  If he started now, he would be sweating all day.  And if he couldn’t get it under control before it was time to go, the second he stepped out into that dry Texas heat, he’d just keep that internal faucet going.  

The air bubble inside of him either popped or found a way to move on.  Whatever the case, the pain subsided long enough for him to recover. 

Leaning forward to put the good kind of pressure on his colon, he relaxed his sphincter and said, “Stop being so damn stubborn!”

His phone buzzed—a text alert.  Sitting up, his face red from the straining, he took a breath, then turned to the vanity and reached for the phone.  The toilet seat pushed sideways under his shifting weight, the lid’s two screws straining.  He grabbed ahold of the sink to keep from falling off the bowl, and then he snatched up the Samsung.  He swiped across the screen, then pressed the message folder and read the text message. 

THEY’RE HERE.

He typed in a reply: GOOD.  KEEP ME POSTED.

With his three-day-old boxers circled around his ankles and his tight wife-beater creeping up over a round, white belly, he waited for a text reply.  When none came, he scrolled his phone for something interesting to look at while struggling to crunch his morning grumpie.  Naturally, he ended up scrolling through his feed on Facebook.

The social media site was all politics, family pets, memes, and pictures of everyone’s keto diet progress.  There were friends of his chatting about their cancer, their dying parents, how they just put their dog down because it was time.  While sitting on the toilet hoping his life was about to change for the better, he sent his prayer-hand emojis, made his sad faces with a colon and an open parenthesis, and he called some guy he didn’t know a few choice names because the douchebag’s politics were garbage and Otis wasn’t afraid to say so.

Then movement inside his gut finally happened, a sort of unclenching that had him thinking the elevator was finally moving south…and then the phone rang. 

“Dammit,” he cursed. 

The distraction stalled that creeping-down elevator inside his gut, the one that NEEDED to offload the goods.  He checked the caller ID, drew a deep breath, let it out slowly.  The elevator stopped on the first floor, the brown passenger angry, stuck. 

“Yeah,” he grunted. 

“All four of them are together, plus the bodyguard,” the voice said, his words heavy with a Hispanic accent.  This was the same guy who texted him a few minutes earlier. 

“Has the opportunity presented itself?” Otis asked, still sweating.

“Yes, sir,” the voice said.  “Just now it has.”

“It’s broad daylight.”

“We’ve already gone over this,” the man said, his tone reeking of disappointment. 

Otis knew this moron from a few jobs before.  He said he only spoke English when he was dealing with gringos, which was as little as humanly possible.  Otis had said, “Well I ain’t no fans of you people either, but money transcends both borders and racial intolerance.”  Back then, the guy laughed and wholeheartedly agreed with him.

“And you still feel confident about grabbing them all?” Otis asked him.

“One hundred percent.”

“Alright then,” Otis replied, the tension in his chest easing.  “I’ll make the call.” 

The line went dead, and just like that, his colon let go.  Gripping the side of the bathtub and the side of the vanity, Otis started breathing heavy, little beads of sweat popping out of his shins, his lower back, and the skin behind his ears. 

“Mother of God!” he bellowed.

His eyes flashing from the cramping, a groan escaped him.  The groan quickly became a steady growl until the full grumpie was crunched and life inside his otherwise unhealthy body had the chance to return to normal.  Dripping with sweat, breathing hard, he sat up straight and swore he’d stop drinking and binge-eating if he could just get through this moment. 

Unfortunately, the pain just didn’t want to let go.  Seeking distraction, he went back to his phone, saw the time, and then accessed his “Live TV” app.  He found the station he wanted, knowing what he would see: Fox at the Border.  This was a one-hour Saturday morning special featuring Congressman Camden Fox of Louisiana.  He was a huge advocate of border security and immigration reform.

This blowhard son of a bitch was too pretty to be interested in women and too clean to know dick-all about the border, dealing with migrants, cartels, coyotes, and stolen or borrowed children.  But there he was in his fancy suit with his Ivy League haircut and all his disdain for border politics, even though his entire career was built on border politics. 

Otis knew he should call the client, but he decided to wait three minutes to watch Camden Fox do a five-minute leg of his crybaby tour.  He didn’t feel bad about what was going to happen to the man as much as he felt sorry for Fox’s wife and kids.  They didn’t deserve what was coming.

A second and third wave of rumbling started in the middle of his belly, the sad promise that this nightmare was still far from over.  Still squatting on the toilet, marinating in turd vapors, bad breath, and body odor, Otis Fykes focused hard on Camden Fox, praying that the pain inside of him would just stop. 

On the live broadcast, the congressman was touring the border patrol’s newest detention facility in Northeast El Paso.  It was clean and well run but crowded.  Shocker.  To the BP’s credit, none of the detainees were sitting in cages or lying on their sides in their own filth.  Otis knew the other facilities were far from presentable, which was why the president had ordered a media blackout. 

Thinking about kids in cages reminded him that he had his own child to attend to.  He really should check in on her.  Pulling the toilet roll, collecting another wad of TP, he wiped the moisture from his face, under his eyes, and around his neck. 

“I know that you have given me the chance to tour this facility,” Fox was saying to the border patrol representative, “but truthfully, this is your newest, shiniest facility.”

“We want to put our best foot forward,” the rep said, too experienced to ever look uncomfortable, “which is why we wanted to show you what taxpayer dollars have done for those making the dangerous trek north.”

“America loves to put their best foot forward,” the congressman countered.  “But nowadays, the public isn’t interested in the latest and greatest.  We want to see the status quo, and we want to know why those other facilities are off-limits to the press.”

“Tell ‘em where to shove it,” Otis said, squeezing out a pathetic turd that was more bark than bite. 

“With all due respect, Congressman Fox,” the BP rep said, “you asked to tour the first available facility and this is it.  The other centers are overrun, we don’t have the funding to handle the latest influx of refugees, and I’m spending my valuable time with you when I should be spending it protecting the border for you and people like you.”

Otis laughed at the jab then paused when a text came through.  The text notification box blocked part of the live broadcast.

DID YOU CALL YET?  IT’S TIME.

Frowning, he texted back immediately:  CALLING NOW.

With his good looks and eloquent way of speaking, Camden Fox was the epitome of a southern gentleman.  It was all a ruse, though.  It had to be.  In politics, as in much of life, you almost always manufacture a public persona, some rendition of yourself that speaks to a better version of your character, your morals, and your work ethic.  Camden’s public persona was disgusting.  Otis didn’t hate the man because he was a faker, though.  He hated Camden Fox because of everything the politician tried taking from others. 

“You’re about to have the worst day ever, fart-knocker,” Otis mumbled as he shut off the internet and switched over to his contacts screen. 

He found the client’s number, dialed it, then clenched tight as the bottom of his bowels crashed and growled again.  He stifled a groan as the physical agony of last night’s indiscretions persisted.

“Yes,” the client said, drawing out the word with his gravelly voice. 

“We’re ready to light this fuse, sir.”  Otis was trying hard not to sound like he was on the can.  Then, with as much authority as he could muster, he said, “You just say the word and we’re a go.”

“Do it,” the client said.

Otis was about to respond when the line went dead.  Shaking his head, he opened the text box to his contact, typed in the words, then thought: When you send this text, everything is going to change. 

The funny thing was, he wasn’t thinking of the money or even the congressman and what he and his family were about to go through.  He was thinking of his own daughter, Janie.  At that moment, he wondered what his life would be like if she were taken from him.  He felt a hitch in his throat at the thought of her not being taken.  Sadly, no one would ever take her away.  She would likely be with him until he died, which was about the most tragic thing he could imagine.  Freaking Tanya!  She really left him holding a steaming bag of crap.  He looked at the text he’d written and knew time was of the essence. 

TAKE THEM NOW. 

Drawing a deep breath, realizing it was now or never, he pressed SEND.  It took a moment for him to catch his breath. 

Relieved, he turned his attention back to the live broadcast of Fox at the Border, then leaned back against the opened toilet lid and watched the congressman layout a whole host of talking points. 

The forty-nine-year-old Louisiana congressman was now conversing with a young Guatemalan girl at a kids’ table where everyone had a sandwich and a juice box.  “How scared are you right now?” Camden Fox asked. 

Beside Fox, an interpreter asked the child the question in Spanish.  She didn’t look frightened as much as she looked bored. 

“I’m really scared,” she said, contrary to her expression.  It was almost as if this was a script she’d dutifully memorized before illegally crossing over into America. 

Camden turned to the rep, his eyes shining with unshed tears.  He cleared his throat and apologized, and then he asked, “How do you handle those eyes?”

“Excuse me, sir?” the rep asked.

“Look at those eyes, the fear, the desperation, the absolute aloneness they must feel,” Camden said, pointing to the ambivalent little girl.  “All the kids have that same look, the same expression.  How do you handle it, emotionally?”

“We’re not in the business of emotions, Congressman.  We’re here to protect the border with as much dignity as we can.”

“It just breaks my heart to see this,” Fox said, again clearing his throat of so much manufactured emotion.

“You big, stupid fraud,” Otis mumbled in his slow Texas drawl.  “You’re about to get exactly what you deserve.” 

He couldn’t take any more.  He shut off his phone, tidied himself, then started the shower and waited for the water to run hot. 

Grimacing, he stood on the scale and frowned.  “Forty pounds in two years,” he said out loud with the biggest frown.  “You can’t even see your pecker, you fat asshole.”

He got off the scale, kicked it back by the toilet, then tried cheering himself up.  Today was the day he went from the minors to the majors. 

“You’re in the big league now, playa,” he said as he stepped into the shower. 

           

 

CHAPTER 3

 

SYDNEY FOX

 

Forty-six-year-old Sydney Fox wished her husband was with her at the El Paso street fair, but she was content being there with their three girls.  In his stead, however, Camden had hired an armed escort from a local security outfit.  As comforting as Camden thought this would be to Sydney and the girls, she had assured him it wasn’t necessary. 

“A woman like you stands out in a crowd, be it at parties, charity dinners, on vacation, or even street fairs in the middle of El Paso, Texas.  I want an extra set of eyes on you, just to keep you and the girls safe.”

“Thank you, Camden,” she had said, “but we’ll be just fine on our own.” 

No matter what the blonde-haired, green-eyed beauty said, she knew Camden’s real concern was for his daughters, especially their sixteen-year-old daughter, Callie.  Having just reached womanhood, she was fast becoming the bright and shining star in the eyes of males of all ages.  And it didn’t help that being in the family of one of today’s most controversial politicians put her in the public spotlight more times than either he or Sydney liked. 

Looking around the crowded streets of El Paso, she didn’t know how people would feel about her if they recognized Sydney and the girls.  Making the connection wouldn’t be difficult with Camden at her side, but being alone with the girls at such a pedestrian event didn’t strike her as something that required a risk assessment, or even an armed escort.  But to Camden it had, which was why he went ahead and hired Tyler Vandecourt for protection. 

“We have to think of your safety first,” Camden had said that morning before they went their separate ways.

“You say that like we’re not going to one of the safest cities in the nation.”

“Be that as it may, El Paso is only a stone’s throw from one of the most dangerous cities in the world.  And now that the border is wide open, even something as simple as a street fair warrants a bit more precaution on our part.” 

She tried to put those conversations and her continued agitation out of her mind as she and the girls walked through the heart of El Paso.  Fanning herself with her free hand, she said, “How is it this hot and dry and it’s not even noon?” 

“Yeah, it’s pretty freaking hot,” Callie said as they meandered down the sidewalks through the crush of bodies. 

Callie was not only a flowering beauty, she was a potential problem as far as Camden was concerned.  She was getting too much attention from the press, social media, and from boys and men alike.  It didn’t help that she wore too much makeup and frequently posted a few too many provocative selfies on Instagram.  In fact, it was for that very reason that Camden had been overly protective lately.

“If I see one more bellybutton, or the white underside of her boobs, or even her butt cheeks sticking out the way she did in that picture with her green bikini,” Camden had said just two nights ago about Callie’s latest Instagram selfies, “I’m going to break her phone, toss her laptop, and break her texting fingers.” 

“Do that and you’re going to turn her into a holy terror,” Sydney said.  “I just don’t have the patience for that and neither do you, obviously.”

“No more posting selfies,” he had said.

When Sydney told Callie no more provocative photos, she had said, “C’mon, Mom.  There’s nothing sexual about a freaking bellybutton!” 

“Not to you, there isn’t.  But if you want to keep your Instagram account, something your father is fighting hard with me to remove, then all selfies must be approved by me first.” 

“Mom!”

“You have no idea how hard I’m fighting for your internet freedom,” she had said, sounding political even to her own ears.  “If you did, the only words leaving your mouth would be ‘Thank you’.” 

“Things may feel like they’re too sexual, Mom, but a lot of boys really aren’t interested in girls these days.  They like video games and porn, two things that don’t involve actual girls.  So we feed the fantasy with a few pictures, so what?  Reality is boring, Mom.  BORING!”

She was tired of the arguments, but the fights with her daughter would go on until Callie was eighteen and able to leave for college. 

“Before you storm off and tell all your friends what a miserable wretch I am, I have something for you.”

“What?” Callie had asked, pouting.

Sydney had pulled her daughter into a hug, wrapping her arms around the girl just as she had done Callie’s entire life. 

“Everything I do for you and your sisters, it’s because I love you so much.  My heart breaks some nights thinking of what the world is going to do to you girls someday.”

“Is it really that bad?” Callie had asked, resting her head on Sydney’s shoulder.

“Yeah, and it’s getting worse.  That’s why we’re so protective of you.”

“It’s not that bad,” Callie had said with laughter in her voice. 

“These days, people are ugly, presumptive, entitled, and just plain mean.  And that’s when they’re trying to be polite.”

“In the world of politics, maybe.”

“I’m afraid that before we’re dead, these people will cut our entire family down.”

Callie had pulled out of her arms, then looked at her, and asked, “Why would you say something like that?”

“The world hates politicians and we’re front-and-center in one of the worst controversies this nation has ever created.”

“Immigration policies,” Callie had said. 

“I’m sorry for your father’s choice in careers.  We never knew politics would be this combative.”

“Yeah, well, people suck,” Callie had joked. 

“Never have truer words been spoken,” Sydney had said with a warm, motherly smile. 

Now, shielding her face from the bright morning sun, Sydney walked down El Paso’s downtown sidewalks with her three beautiful daughters, trying to enjoy the day.  There were shops to look in, fried foods to eat, tons of outdoor displays, and a host of interesting people to watch.  She was just starting to relax when their bodyguard spoke. 

“Keep them closer,” Tyler Vandecourt said behind her. 

Up ahead, the crowd was tightening all around them, people moving through the streets like it was New Orleans on a Saturday night. 

“What’s anyone going to do to us in broad daylight?” she turned and asked him, the inquiry in no way demeaning of him or his specialty.  

“Let’s hope we don’t find out,” he said from behind a pair of mirrored aviator glasses.  “Keep Callie and Zoey close.  And maybe hold Maisie’s hand.”

Right then, Callie decided to cross the street, heading straight to a booth with tattoo artists, printed body art, and a few younger guys talking to the artists like it was time to get inked. 

“Mom, come look at this artwork!” Callie called out as she pushed through throngs of people.

“Get her back here,” Tyler growled.  “I said we can’t be separated.”

She turned and fired him a look.  “You’re not helping any.  You’re just stressing out all of us!” 

Zoey broke away, pushed through the crowds as well.  The girl stopped when she saw two boys approaching her sister.  Sydney saw this as well.  They were older, nineteen or twenty at least—entirely too old for Callie. 

“Callie, come back here,” she called out as she grabbed Maisie’s hand. 

“Mom, you’re hurting me,” Maisie said, pulling her hand back.

“Callie!” she called out, her daughter pretending for a second that Sydney was not her mother now that she had clearly started to panic. 

The practiced smile on Callie’s face was too old for her.  It was an Instagram headshot meant to get likes from cute boys and social media influencers, not something you use in real life with strangers in a strange city. 

“For the love of Christ,” Tyler muttered under his breath. 

“She’s got shiny penny syndrome these days,” Sydney said, stepping off the sidewalk into a street full of bodies in motion.  “I’ll go and get her.”

Zoey walked back to her and said, “Those gross guys are hitting on Callie and I think she actually likes it.”

“I know,” she said, moving through a group of college kids that smelled like pot and body odor. 

A few of the boys glanced at her with lustful eyes.  One of them even made a MILF comment she ignored.  But then Tyler got the sordid group moving when he shoved one of the boys and told him to keep his eyes to himself. 

As she approached the tattoo display, Sydney saw one of the customers touching Callie’s arm, telling her she could get something there, a cool tattoo of a bird or a butterfly. 

“What would you do if you got a tattoo right now?” the kid asked Callie.  He had a lot of short stubble on his face and bad skin. 

Sydney grabbed Callie’s arm and said, “She’s underage, guys.” 

Callie started to say something, but Sydney pulled her back into the street heading back to the other side. 

“Mom!”

“Bye, Callie,” one of the guys called out.

Callie broke free of her grip, walking ahead of her family where she could sulk in private.  Sydney caught up to her and said, “I know you need your space, sweetheart, but you have to be more responsible when you’re in public.  Some of these guys…they aren’t what you want them to be.”

“It’s not safe here,” Tyler interrupted.

“Who the hell asked you?” Callie turned and snapped.  “Your job isn’t to give us your opinion.”

“Actually it is,” Tyler countered.  “Stay with the others, please.”

When Sydney first met Tyler Vandecourt, he had taken off his mirrored sunglasses and introduced himself with a sort of icy detachment.  She had greeted him with her own brand of indifference.  Aside from his soulless eyes, he sported a wiry frame that looked lean from years of training, he had scars on his knuckles and forearms, and there were a few odd markings on his face, all good signs that he knew what it was like to mix things up in a life-or-death situation. 

“Let’s go, girls,” Sydney said.  “You need to do as the man says.”

“He has a name, Mom,” Maisie said. 

“Do as Tyler says,” Sydney said. 

When they started walking again, Maisie looked up and said something loud enough for only Sydney to hear.  “Mom, Del Paso is kind of a scary place.” 

“It’s called El Paso, and it’s only scary to you because it’s not home,” Sydney said.  “The crime rate here is one of the lowest in the nation, I think.”

Behind her, Tyler said, “Something isn’t right.”  He said this as he tightened his proximity to her and the girls.  “Tell Callie to slow down, and keep Zoey close.” 

“I know it’s your job to be paranoid,” Sydney said, “but you’re scaring Maisie.” 

Tyler glanced down into the eight-year-old’s liquid brown eyes—eyes that were impossibly big and super cute—and then he returned his attention to Sydney.  She saw herself and the girls reflected in his mirrored sunglasses.  And then she saw a mud-colored van rudely cutting through traffic. 

Turning around, she saw the van moving too fast.  She barely heard herself cry out for Zoey and Callie when the screech of rubber skidding over asphalt threw the crowd into high alert. 

Tyler went for his pistol, but the distinctive sounds of gunfire popped through the air.  To her horror, the bullets caught Tyler right in the chest, putting him down hard.  

Three men poured out of the van, all of them armed, all of them wearing dark sunglasses, ball caps, and COVID masks.  Panicked, Sydney pulled Maisie too hard while grabbing Zoey’s hand.  Fanning out, one guy grabbed Callie while the other ripped Zoey from Sydney’s grasp. 

She started screaming for help, but no one tried to help them.  The girls were screaming as they were dragged away, and still, no one moved to help them. 

When the third man came for Maisie, Sydney tried to protect her, but the fist that punched Sydney in the ribs had her folding over in pain.  The kidnapper jerked Maisie out of her hand, the little girl screaming bloody murder. 

When two men finally came for her, she tried to fight them off, but it was no use.  They were too strong.  As they hustled her to the van with her girls, she kicked and swore and tried squirming free.  Then a shot rang out.  One of the men trying to snatch her grunted hard and collapsed to a knee.  Another shot barked out, hitting the man again.  By this time, the other man had gotten her to the van.  A deafening roar of returning gunfire erupted, fraying her already battered nerves.  She was roughly shoved inside with her girls and several other men.  As the exchange of gunfire peaked, and then tapered off, the man who had been shot crawled into the van beside her.  He rolled on his back, pulled his legs in, and then let out a god-awful groan.  She glanced down and saw blood smeared all over the bare metal floor. 

“¡Vamonos!” one of the men yelled as he jumped inside and slammed the van’s sliding side door shut. 

The driver smashed the accelerator and the van screeched off, weaving in and out of foot traffic as they made their getaway. 

As one of the kidnappers tried to stop his partner’s bleeding, Sydney’s eldest two daughters fought the men who took them.  Their captors solved that problem within seconds.  Not only did they zip-tie everyone’s wrists, they duct-taped their mouths shut, too. 

She leveled her scared, hateful eyes on the men.  The man with the duct tape caught sight of her hostility and responded by duct-taping everyone’s eyes shut.  The second the sticky tape was pulled across her face and smoothed down, she told herself not to panic.  It was scary now but everything would be okay.  That’s when the man covered her head with some sort of a sack.  Claustrophobia set in and she started to panic.