“Reckless.”
“You go too far.”
“Silence!” the leader shouted, then nodded to the Shaman to continue.
“I did not plan this. It came to me through a series of synchronous events,” the Shaman lied. They must never know who I am. “As you know, I found the boy, angry in the desert. It was an opportunity I... we were meant to take advantage of. We can use his anger against the Knife Cartel, let it benefit us, let the angry boy work for us to eliminate them.”
“It must not be known that he is our agent,” a voice from the shadows said and a few agreed. “He is a boy seeking revenge on his own. So, if he fails, it will not come back on us. This must not spark a cartel war. Our interests have grown too fragile to afford this.”
Murmurs of assent now.
“We will just... not interfere,” the voice said.
“And if he succeeds?” the Shaman asked. “If this works, think of the potential. There is unlimited malevolence to be harvested from the Ocean of Tar, In Between.”
Silence now.
“I have been initiating your members for many, many years. I have earned this chance to put my methods to the test.” With that, the Shaman turned and walked out.
𓂓
The group reached the bottom of the stairwell. There were two doors—one leading back into the hospital and one leading out to the parking lot. “Head outside,” Michael said.
Jackie pushed the door open and stepped out into the parking lot. To her right was a wing wall that housed dumpsters. To her left and front was the open parking lot with overhead lights scattered throughout. Clay stepped out beside her holding a silent Elena. An SUV with no lights on moved into view from the left, coming around the corner of the building. Michael’s Suburban.
Martha and Michael emerged from the door. “That’s Sean. Head to the SUV double time,” he said.
Jackie ran toward the vehicle with Clay beside her. Martha kept pace. Michael stayed behind her, walking backwards, gun up, watching the door and the wing wall.
A sharp noise from his right and a man in camo burst from the door they just came out of, his weapon coming around to take aim. Michael put two shots in him, and he fell. Then a man came from behind the wing wall and opened fire. Michael turned and returned fire.
As Jackie approached the SUV, she reached for the rear passenger door but fell back as bullets struck the truck fender to her left. She glimpsed Sean as he bent over to get cover from the gunfire. Clay crouched down, covering Elena. Martha did the same. Jackie turned into the line of fire and took aim with the Sig, but Michael was in her line of sight.
The man who had emerged from the wing wall stepped back out of view. But before Michael could turn back to the door, a man in black emerged and got off two rounds with a handgun. One struck Michael in the left shoulder, sending his upper body into a backwards spin. Then his head jerked back, knocking him to the ground in agony where he went limp after a painful second.
Not accustomed to being in an all-out gunfight, Jackie hesitated at the sight of Michael’s fallen form. Oh my God. Is he dead?
The man in black aimed his gun at her. “Drop your weapon.”
Jackie’s eyes widened, almost feral. She looked over to Clay, still kneeling to shield Elena. Martha huddled beside him, clutching their purses. It had all happened so fast. Two more men in camo emerged from behind the wing wall, weapons drawn.
“I said drop the weapon, lady. You see what I did to the cop. You don’t think I’ll do the same to you?”
Jackie complied and set the weapon on the ground, raising her hands to shoulder level, indicating surrender.
“Kick it to me,” the man in black said as he advanced quickly toward her.
Jackie complied. ABCs kicked the gun away from the group huddled by the SUV.
The Alphabet King motioned to his men. One went into a sprint around the building to get their Excursion and the other went over to collect the fallen man in camo. Then ABCs strode over to stand in front of Jackie. “I don’t have much time, so I’ll make this brief. You and the girl are coming with me.”
Clay released Elena and tried to stand. “No.”
ABCs swung his right arm and the handgun smashed brutally into Clay’s face. He stumbled back and squatted down, holding his head as blood poured out between his fingers from a new gash. His head throbbed painfully, the blow reigniting the disorienting effects of the concussion.
Martha gasped and covered her head in a protective posture, remaining in a kneeling position.
“You people have caused me a lot of trouble,” ABCs spat out at them. Tiny flints of red popped from the edges of his irises, barely noticeable.
Martha, sensing the energy that had struck fear in the deepest parts of her instincts, risked a glance between her fingers up toward ABCs. He didn’t notice her. His demon, however, reached out to communicate on the psychic wavelength of her mind. Despair consumed her. “I see you, witch. Watch as I see my plan through.” Motivated by instinct, she latched on to the psychic connection and did her best to pull on it, visualizing a thread unweaving the fabric of its connection with the man. She looked up between her fingers and saw the thread pulling the demon out of ABCs’ form. It shrieked and clawed at the metaphysical energy of ABCs’ back, trying to re-embed itself. The man showed no physical signs of the struggle, but the red in his eyes dimmed.
At the same time, Jackie looked up in defiance, then over to Michael, who was not moving. She wondered what Sean was doing. Is he okay? How could he help? Before she had time to consider, another SUV backed up between them and the building. On the opposite side, the driver got out and went to help the other man in camo with the wounded man. They pushed him into the driver’s side backseat of the vehicle then came around to stand behind ABCs.
“Who are you?” Jackie asked.
“I am Armando Beltrain Cardentias. I am known as The Alphabet King.” He raised his chin and a snarl quivered across his lips. “Those were my drugs in the truck this morning. Your meddling caused me to lose my shipment. Now, you owe me.”
𓂓
Little Armando turned the corner and approached the building where the man-sits-behind-the-very-large-desk. It had been less than an hour since they unleashed him. He tightened the hood of his poncho over his head and hunched himself over, stumbling to the ground. On his hands and knees, he rubbed his face with dirt.
He stood back up, hunched, barefoot and dirty. He stumbled toward three drunken men on the front porch, falling twice more as he did. They spat in his direction. One threw an empty bottle at him, striking the boy in the head. “Go away, rat,” one of them said along with laughter from the other men.
Armando stumbled toward them, fell to his hands and knees, and dragged himself to the steps. “Please, please, señor, I need your help.” He spoke like a small boy would—high-pitched and tentative.
“Fuck off, rat, we don’t know you.”
“B-but you do,” the boy stammered. Armando clambered up the stairs to the porch, prostrate before the men. They encircled him. One kicked a boot at the hood of his poncho, trying to pull it back. Armando recoiled, putting a hand up in surrender. “I need to see the man behind the desk.”