It's dark but his vision adjusts quickly to the dimness sufficiently to pick out the darting forms of rats, scurrying into the shadows. His skin crawls at the sight of them but his stomach is strong. He presses forwards, pushing the man in front with his left hand clamped around the shotgun and the right, pressing the gun into his back. They shuffle awkwardly, using various packing crates that are scattered around the room for cover. And then he sees them, standing in the middle of the cavernous space, lined up and ready for inspection with their feet bound together and their hands tied behind them. He moves closer, leaning forwards and hissing threats in the man's ear with a menacing whisper.
"Not a sound, not a fucking sound or I'll blow your fucking brains out." It was surprising how much he'd learned. They trip forwards, Pepito forcing the man in front with impatient prods from his gun. Trips forwards, avoiding the rats, until they come to a darkened clearing amongst the crates and stop.
Two shots in the air and he has their attention. He'd flash his badge but he doesn't have time. A movement in the corner as one reaches into his jacket but Pepito shakes his head. A slow, practiced gesture. He grabs his man around the neck and presses the gun to the side of his head.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS." He shouts with the authority of a pro and his gun cocked and ready but he's hoping that he won't have to prove it.
"I SAID DROP THEM ... NOW." He repeats his command, gagging almost as the words jostle forwards, fighting for space in his mouth. The two men glance at each other with a confused expression creasing their brow and then slowly bend forwards, placing their shotguns on the floor at their feet.
"KICK 'EM OVER TO ME." Pepito tightens his grip on the other man's neck as they push the shotguns towards him with an impatient flick of their toe.
"Shoulda dropped you when we had the chance." One of them says as he straightens his back and raises his hands in the air. Pepito pushes his man from him and bends forwards with his eyes flicking between the three of them. Larry, Curly and Moe. He retrieves the shotguns one by one and places them on top of a crate. Then he steps forwards with his gun trained on the one who spoke and his eyes darting between the other two.
"WHERE'S FRANCISCO?" He barks out the question as he moves towards them, his gun still held out in front and his hands slick with sweat. "I SAID WHERE IS HE?"
"He'll be here." He eventually says as he dips his head and spits on the floor.
Pepito checks his watch. 1.48 am and counting. He flips his head over to the girls who are huddled together, shaking with fear.
"WHAT'S HAPPENING TO THEM?"
"They're being picked up."
"BY WHO?"
"You'll find out soon enough ..." He drops his hands and reaches into his pocket.
"HEY, HEY, HEY." Pepito shouts his gun wavering in the air. "KEEP THOSE HANDS UP WHERE I CAN SEE 'EM."
The man laughs and pulls out a cigarette which he flips into his mouth. "Take it easy Detective Pons." He says through the side of his mouth. "You wouldn't happen to have a light now would you?"
Pepito shakes his head. He moves towards the girls with his gun still trained on the men.
"UNTIE THEM." He motions to the man he'd surprised out front, flicking his head impatiently although, he's not sure what he'll do with them. He's stalling really and stalling fast.
"I SAID UNTIE THEM."
He steals a glance at the other two before moving reluctantly towards them. As he unties them he jerks them around roughly, sneering in their faces as though they were the ones pointing the gun at the back of his head and not Pepito. But they can only rub their wrists and stare; bleary eyed through lack of sleep or drugs, or both; at the unfamiliar surroundings. Then they start to talk amongst themselves, cautiously at first, their voices rising as they begin to test their limbs until Pepito shakes his head and raises his finger to his lips in that international gesture of silence. They stop talking at once and shuffle up behind him.
How long? How long did Pepito have to wait like this? With his gun held high and his options running low the best he could do was to cover his back and sit tight. A trickle of sweat slips down his brow and stings his eye. He blinks. Closes his eye for a second as he wipes his brow with the back of his hand and when he opens them again the men are watching him. Two of them are slumped against a crate while the other drawing angrily on the end of the cigarette, narrows his eyes to a slit as he peers through the smoke.
"How's this gonna play out Detective Pons." He says as he pitches the butt onto the dusty floor with a lazy flick of his wrist. "I mean just so's I know ... you gonna shoot us?"
Pepito stands his ground but his arms are tiring, they feel limp and numb from holding the gun so tightly up in the air. How should he respond? If the truth be told, he'd never shot anyone. Never needed to. Never had to. And if one thing is clear as he points the gun, with a tremor in his trigger finger, he knows that he never will. But he has to bluff them somehow and act like he could, act like he should so he flicks his gun with his fingers squeezed tight to stop them shaking and motions for them to step forwards. One at a time. Real slow. Pushing them sideways with the barrel of his gun he herds them into the middle of the room and pushes them down to the floor. Face down, legs splayed out and hands behind their backs, he makes use of the ropes, with the help of the women, to secure their wrists. When they're done, he stretches upright and breathes an audible sigh of relief. Three down and one to go, at least that's what he's counting on - not to mention the police, if they ever show up. His original plan was to stay out of sight and watch the proceedings from a secluded vantage point but as things progressed he felt he had to act. He had to do something. He had to step in and step up to the challenge. The only problem now concerns Francisco and again he asks with the point of his toes nudging the nearest man's foot.
"Where the hell is Francisco?" As soon as the question trips from his lips he gets his answer. It comes from behind, on stealthy feet and cracks him on the skull with something heavy and something blunt. Pepito crumples forwards landing on his knees as his gun slips from his grasp and hits the floor with a clatter of metal. His hands reach up to grasp his head, stop his skull from splitting open but it's too late. The room starts spinning and he slumps forwards, his vision fading fast. The last thing he sees before his face kisses concrete is the stricken image of the girl in the passport as she reaches out to catch him.
A boot in the ribs and he winces with pain. They're urging him to sit upright, urgently, digging their toes into his back and stomach until he pulls himself sluggishly into a sitting position. They're shouting at him and waving their arms and then one slaps him across the face and he's down again. He tries to focus but a quick, sharp fist blocks his vision. He tries to sit up but his back is made of rubber, it bends when he least expects it, like a sapling in a gale.
And then the shouts. And then the shots. And then.
The place is swarming with uniforms. Pepito is being grasped beneath his armpits by a pair of thin, wiry arms. They pull him across the floor, the heels of his father's old shoes leave a snaking trail of leather in the dust as he's dragged out of the way. Out of the way of the bullets which are flying around the place and bouncing off the metal platform with a hollow, steely twang. They pull him to the edge of the room and prop him up behind a packing crate. Prop him up and dust him down. He can feel the fleeting pressure of hands as they skip across his torso, running up over his face to his head and pressing on the wound that has opened up on his forehead.
"Detective Pons ...." The voice is clear and close to his ear. "Detective Pons." It says again in a shrill, anxious whisper. "Detective Pons please ... you've gotta wake up." Pepito opens his eyes and blinks at the face before him. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession until the familiar lines of Raphael's face settle into place. He sits forwards, clutching his head and fights to regain his composure.
"We've gotta get out of here." Raphael says, his voice shaking as he twists his head in several different directions. "They're gonna carve up the place between them. You think you can you walk?"
Pepito dips his head slowly, although he's not sure his legs will agree. He reaches out and grasps the boy around the shoulders and pulls himself to his knees. Then he tests his legs, first the right, then the left carefully pushing up through his aching back until he's eventually standing. He looks around as best he can with his head swaying unsteadily between his shoulders.
"Come on." Raphael urges, pulling a weary Pepito by the edge of his sleeve. "There's a side entrance but we'll have to hurry."
Stumbling blindly forwards, one middle-aged man too old for this lark and his dubious accomplice, they make their way to the side of the building on tangled feet.
"Wait." Shouts Pepito as they reach the farthest wall. He pulls himself from Raphael's grasp with his head turning back to the scene behind him as he searches amongst the chaos of bodies and bullets and girls, who are being rounded up and herded out of the place like cattle at a market. But they're not his immediate concern, not now - now that the police had turned up and taken control of the proceedings. His immediate concern is Francisco and as he searches frantically through the debris, Raphael tugs impatiently at his arm.
"Come on come on come on ... let's go." The words spill from his mouth in an agitated stutter but Pepito stands firm and he won't budge until Raphael informs him that Francisco had already left in a hurry, as soon as the shit hit the fan.
"Not a sound, not a fucking sound or I'll blow your fucking brains out." It was surprising how much he'd learned. They trip forwards, Pepito forcing the man in front with impatient prods from his gun. Trips forwards, avoiding the rats, until they come to a darkened clearing amongst the crates and stop.
Two shots in the air and he has their attention. He'd flash his badge but he doesn't have time. A movement in the corner as one reaches into his jacket but Pepito shakes his head. A slow, practiced gesture. He grabs his man around the neck and presses the gun to the side of his head.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS." He shouts with the authority of a pro and his gun cocked and ready but he's hoping that he won't have to prove it.
"I SAID DROP THEM ... NOW." He repeats his command, gagging almost as the words jostle forwards, fighting for space in his mouth. The two men glance at each other with a confused expression creasing their brow and then slowly bend forwards, placing their shotguns on the floor at their feet.
"KICK 'EM OVER TO ME." Pepito tightens his grip on the other man's neck as they push the shotguns towards him with an impatient flick of their toe.
"Shoulda dropped you when we had the chance." One of them says as he straightens his back and raises his hands in the air. Pepito pushes his man from him and bends forwards with his eyes flicking between the three of them. Larry, Curly and Moe. He retrieves the shotguns one by one and places them on top of a crate. Then he steps forwards with his gun trained on the one who spoke and his eyes darting between the other two.
"WHERE'S FRANCISCO?" He barks out the question as he moves towards them, his gun still held out in front and his hands slick with sweat. "I SAID WHERE IS HE?"
"He'll be here." He eventually says as he dips his head and spits on the floor.
Pepito checks his watch. 1.48 am and counting. He flips his head over to the girls who are huddled together, shaking with fear.
"WHAT'S HAPPENING TO THEM?"
"They're being picked up."
"BY WHO?"
"You'll find out soon enough ..." He drops his hands and reaches into his pocket.
"HEY, HEY, HEY." Pepito shouts his gun wavering in the air. "KEEP THOSE HANDS UP WHERE I CAN SEE 'EM."
The man laughs and pulls out a cigarette which he flips into his mouth. "Take it easy Detective Pons." He says through the side of his mouth. "You wouldn't happen to have a light now would you?"
Pepito shakes his head. He moves towards the girls with his gun still trained on the men.
"UNTIE THEM." He motions to the man he'd surprised out front, flicking his head impatiently although, he's not sure what he'll do with them. He's stalling really and stalling fast.
"I SAID UNTIE THEM."
He steals a glance at the other two before moving reluctantly towards them. As he unties them he jerks them around roughly, sneering in their faces as though they were the ones pointing the gun at the back of his head and not Pepito. But they can only rub their wrists and stare; bleary eyed through lack of sleep or drugs, or both; at the unfamiliar surroundings. Then they start to talk amongst themselves, cautiously at first, their voices rising as they begin to test their limbs until Pepito shakes his head and raises his finger to his lips in that international gesture of silence. They stop talking at once and shuffle up behind him.
How long? How long did Pepito have to wait like this? With his gun held high and his options running low the best he could do was to cover his back and sit tight. A trickle of sweat slips down his brow and stings his eye. He blinks. Closes his eye for a second as he wipes his brow with the back of his hand and when he opens them again the men are watching him. Two of them are slumped against a crate while the other drawing angrily on the end of the cigarette, narrows his eyes to a slit as he peers through the smoke.
"How's this gonna play out Detective Pons." He says as he pitches the butt onto the dusty floor with a lazy flick of his wrist. "I mean just so's I know ... you gonna shoot us?"
Pepito stands his ground but his arms are tiring, they feel limp and numb from holding the gun so tightly up in the air. How should he respond? If the truth be told, he'd never shot anyone. Never needed to. Never had to. And if one thing is clear as he points the gun, with a tremor in his trigger finger, he knows that he never will. But he has to bluff them somehow and act like he could, act like he should so he flicks his gun with his fingers squeezed tight to stop them shaking and motions for them to step forwards. One at a time. Real slow. Pushing them sideways with the barrel of his gun he herds them into the middle of the room and pushes them down to the floor. Face down, legs splayed out and hands behind their backs, he makes use of the ropes, with the help of the women, to secure their wrists. When they're done, he stretches upright and breathes an audible sigh of relief. Three down and one to go, at least that's what he's counting on - not to mention the police, if they ever show up. His original plan was to stay out of sight and watch the proceedings from a secluded vantage point but as things progressed he felt he had to act. He had to do something. He had to step in and step up to the challenge. The only problem now concerns Francisco and again he asks with the point of his toes nudging the nearest man's foot.
"Where the hell is Francisco?" As soon as the question trips from his lips he gets his answer. It comes from behind, on stealthy feet and cracks him on the skull with something heavy and something blunt. Pepito crumples forwards landing on his knees as his gun slips from his grasp and hits the floor with a clatter of metal. His hands reach up to grasp his head, stop his skull from splitting open but it's too late. The room starts spinning and he slumps forwards, his vision fading fast. The last thing he sees before his face kisses concrete is the stricken image of the girl in the passport as she reaches out to catch him.
A boot in the ribs and he winces with pain. They're urging him to sit upright, urgently, digging their toes into his back and stomach until he pulls himself sluggishly into a sitting position. They're shouting at him and waving their arms and then one slaps him across the face and he's down again. He tries to focus but a quick, sharp fist blocks his vision. He tries to sit up but his back is made of rubber, it bends when he least expects it, like a sapling in a gale.
And then the shouts. And then the shots. And then.
The place is swarming with uniforms. Pepito is being grasped beneath his armpits by a pair of thin, wiry arms. They pull him across the floor, the heels of his father's old shoes leave a snaking trail of leather in the dust as he's dragged out of the way. Out of the way of the bullets which are flying around the place and bouncing off the metal platform with a hollow, steely twang. They pull him to the edge of the room and prop him up behind a packing crate. Prop him up and dust him down. He can feel the fleeting pressure of hands as they skip across his torso, running up over his face to his head and pressing on the wound that has opened up on his forehead.
"Detective Pons ...." The voice is clear and close to his ear. "Detective Pons." It says again in a shrill, anxious whisper. "Detective Pons please ... you've gotta wake up." Pepito opens his eyes and blinks at the face before him. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession until the familiar lines of Raphael's face settle into place. He sits forwards, clutching his head and fights to regain his composure.
"We've gotta get out of here." Raphael says, his voice shaking as he twists his head in several different directions. "They're gonna carve up the place between them. You think you can you walk?"
Pepito dips his head slowly, although he's not sure his legs will agree. He reaches out and grasps the boy around the shoulders and pulls himself to his knees. Then he tests his legs, first the right, then the left carefully pushing up through his aching back until he's eventually standing. He looks around as best he can with his head swaying unsteadily between his shoulders.
"Come on." Raphael urges, pulling a weary Pepito by the edge of his sleeve. "There's a side entrance but we'll have to hurry."
Stumbling blindly forwards, one middle-aged man too old for this lark and his dubious accomplice, they make their way to the side of the building on tangled feet.
"Wait." Shouts Pepito as they reach the farthest wall. He pulls himself from Raphael's grasp with his head turning back to the scene behind him as he searches amongst the chaos of bodies and bullets and girls, who are being rounded up and herded out of the place like cattle at a market. But they're not his immediate concern, not now - now that the police had turned up and taken control of the proceedings. His immediate concern is Francisco and as he searches frantically through the debris, Raphael tugs impatiently at his arm.
"Come on come on come on ... let's go." The words spill from his mouth in an agitated stutter but Pepito stands firm and he won't budge until Raphael informs him that Francisco had already left in a hurry, as soon as the shit hit the fan.
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