Gripped with fear, Fat Man muttered, “El Escorpion Demonio.” His voice quavered. “The Demon Scorpion.” He bowed slightly, a look of fear on his face. “I-I—”
Men nearby heard the declaration and moved away, abandoning drink and food. Word spread through the bar in low murmurs like coastal flooding moving red tide into the lowlands of the Yucatan peninsula.
“Shut up,” Armando barked, then leaned in to speak in hushed tones to the man. Inaudible to the rest, he gave the man instructions.
With his gaze lowered, Fat Man nodded nervously. “O-okay.”
Armando released his grip and the man staggered back. Then turned and hurried over to the woman on the floor and tried to help her up. She waved him off, cursing him. “We must go. Now.” The man turned back to Armando, bowed slightly, and then hurried out with the others.
Armando returned to his drink as they left. He knew where to find them later. Fat Man and his companions would pay for their many disrespects. He finished the drink and dropped coin on the bar. He walked out, not giving his mother another look. He stepped through the exit and watched the men pull away in an old sedan.
When they were out of sight, Armando’s eyes fell to the ground. Then he turned and looked back into the cantina.
𓂓
“Jackie, open that bag,” Michael said.
Jackie unzipped the duffel, saw a container of disposable sterile towels, and pulled it out. She popped the top, got two out, and handed them to Martha. She took two for herself and they went to work cleaning up the guys’ faces. Along with the concealed weapons course she had to take for her permit, she also took a course dealing with the treatment of emergency wounds. She looked down in the bag and saw the familiar clotting gauze, wound gel, and tourniquets. “Martha, is Clay still bleeding from any of his wounds?”
Martha examined Clay’s head and face. “He has one good gash on his cheek, but that isn’t really bleeding anymore. The bullet wound on his arm looks to be a scrape.” Jackie reached down for two packages of clotting gauze. “After you clean them, put these on and apply pressure.” Martha reached over the seat and took the packages.
Jackie turned her attention to Michael. The wound in his shoulder still leaked a little blood under his shirt. She reached down to find first aid scissors in the bag and cut his shirt from the neck down to the arm and pulled it away from the wound. Some of the blood had already clotted on the shirt, causing Michael to flinch and curse as she peeled it back. Sean looked up in the rearview with a worried glance.
“Michael, can you lean forward? I want to see if the bullet came out the back.” Michael leaned forward, allowing Jackie to inspect the wound.
“It looks like the bullet did go out the back clean,” Jackie said. “That’s a good sign. Hopefully, no bones were struck. There is still a little blood leaking out. I need to pack the wounds.”
Michael nodded ascension, gritting his teeth through the pain. “You can handle guns and dress wounds. I would have liked to meet this Evan guy.”
“You guys probably would’ve gotten along,” Jackie commented as she opened a pack of clotting gauze and cut off several long narrow strips. “This is going to hurt.” Michael kept his gaze down and nodded in acknowledgement. He stiffened as she used her nimble fingers to push the gauze into the bullet hole. She did the same on the back. She finished the dressings, then turned her attention to his head.
“Looks like the bullet grazed you,” she observed out loud. “The wound looks as though it stopped bleeding on its own. Scalp wounds usually do.”
“I guess that’s good,” Michael said.
“What do you want on the head wound?” she asked Michael. “It’s a graze about three inches long.”
“Use the wound gel. I’ll regret it later but it’s the easiest option now.”
Jackie reached down in the duffel and pulled the tube out. Screwing off the cap, she regarded Michael. As she applied the gel, she asked, “Why are you doing this?”
Michael’s face crinkled slightly. “Gotta save that little girl. You don’t know what that man can do. We are lucky we survived that.”
“What do you mean?” Jackie asked as she dabbed the gel over his wound.
“That was Armando Cardentias, The Alphabet King. We call him ABCs. He is a narcotrafficker, a ruthless drug lord who also dabbles in human trafficking.”
Sean looked up into the rearview, then back at the road shaking his head. “Holy hell.”
Jackie finished treating the wound, not saying a word.
“And you kicked his ass,” Michael continued, thinking back to his only face-to-face encounter with ABCs. “He’s never gonna let that go.”
𓂓
It had been a long day, but Streets decided to grab a beer at the 6in1 pub anyway. He had come across some information about one of the long-timers everyone called Sarge. If the rumors were true, he might be hanging out here with the other cops Streets had been keeping an eye on.
After entering through the front door, Streets paused to survey the low-lit room. A few heads turned from the bar on his left, but no one greeted him. He strode past the tables on his right and didn’t see Sarge among them. He kept going to a short narrow hall in the back, intending to hit the head before sitting down for a beer. Before he reached the bathroom, the backdoor at the end of the hall opened and three men walked in with The Alphabet King in the lead.
They all stopped, Streets facing the three men. His wide shoulders blocked the narrow hall. A lengthy silence endured as neither wanted to yield. They stared each other down. Streets looking down his nose at him. The Alphabet King barely inclined his head, eyes slitted.
“Are you going to let me by, Officer?” ABCs asked with an unusually reasonable tone.
“I don’t usually yield to assholes, but in your case,” Streets tilted his head to the side as if considering options, “I could be persuaded to make an exception.”
“Finally,” ABCs said, mocking eagerness. “What would it take to persuade a fine officer such as yourself?”
The people in the bar were watching. All they could see were legs and Streets’ muscled back.
“I’m not sure you have anything I want, besides your freedom,” Streets replied.
“Well, we’ll just have to change that, won’t we. I am, after all, in a service-based business, and if I’m not meeting the desires of my clientele then that is my fault,” ABCs said.
“One of many, I’m sure,” Michael snapped back.
“Yes.” ABCs stared at him thoughtfully, then turned to one of his guards. “You know, I’m not so sure I like the crowd here tonight. Maybe we should take our business somewhere else.” They all turned to leave out the back door in order to avoid yielding to the senior officer.
Men around the bar groaned. ABCs usually picked up the tab. Michael simply raised his chin and hardened his jaw, never breaking eye contact as ABCs turned and walked out.
