Filthy Secret

ROMAN

“Look it…look it here.” The sun’s low in the sky as Antonio stops the truck in the middle of the country road. He taps his hands on the steering wheel, looking out into the distance. He’s been talkative as hell since he took a pitstop at his place. Paired with the glassy eyes and constant sniffing, it’s not hard to figure out his recreation of choice.

I take in the land around us, a house in the distance, and cattle by a pond. Hell, I don’t know anything about ranching, but this looks pretty damn good. Even the road we’re on is well maintained, a big difference

from the stretch at the Torres’s place. “What am I looking at?”

“Out there,” he says, pointing to the left, “is the Border Patrol checkpoint.” He switches to the opposite direction. “Over there is the Rio Grande.” He turns to me, pointing his finger straight down. “This here, is the pride of La Escuadra.” He laughs, as if he’s sharing an inside joke. “Nice even land, a natural pond that doesn’t go dry, and a great bend in the river that keeps things all private-like.” He folds three fingers, leaving his thumb and index finger stretched out. “An escuadra… it’s a pistol.” He busts out laughing. “Isn’t it fucking perfect?”

I’ve seen the area on a map. I understand the place’s real value. Antonio’s people want the crossing, and Torres wants the land for his herd.

“It’s the piece in dispute?”

“Yeah.” His empty-headed guffaw irritates me. “We’ll have it tied up in court until the old man’s flat broke, or dead,” he adds, with a shrug. “Whichever comes first.”

Jorge really should have considered my offer. “That shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Yeah,” he says, preoccupied with something in the distance. “Let’s go.” He steps on the gas pedal, and we shoot down the road. “There’s a stable behind the old place.” He juts his chin out in the house’s general direction. “That’s where you’re going.”

Where I’m going. I’m probably better off on my own. Hugo’s part of a family business, same as I am, and business has been good, until recently.

But with this idiot flying high, there’s no telling what kind of trouble he’d cause. “Tell me about Hugo. Anything I should watch for?”

“Nah.” He shakes a finger in my direction. “Nah, Hugo’s a good guy.” He nods, full of energy. “It’s Blanco you need to worry about.” Wild-eyed he turns toward me, ducking as he glances around. “Guy’s loco.” He does a one-fingered loop by his temple. “You know that word, Roman?” “I’m familiar.” Okay, that explains the change.

“Yeaaah.” He goes shifty eyed again. “I guarantee you-gua-ran-tee- they got people watching us right now.”

“Damn.” That’s never a good thing. Someone could blend into the surroundings without a problem, and you’d never see them. I hope I don’t end up regretting turning down the people Victor wanted to send with me. If I find trouble, and survive, I’ll never hear the end of it.

“They can’t see who’s in the truck from across the river,” he shares in a low voice. “That’s why I got the darkest tint I could find.” He raps his knuckles against the driver’s side window. “I went to check myself.” He stares out into the brush, changing his focus from one point to another as we go. “Hell, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t come out here. Not since Blanco started coming along.”

The brush opens to a large home sitting in the middle of nowhere. The bottom of the walls is covered in flat rock, arranged together like large puzzle pieces. “Who lives here?” I glance around, looking for anyone in the area.

“Nobody.”

“It doesn’t look like nobody.” The trees have a well around the root, and rose bushes flank the front entrance. “Somebody has to maintain all this.”

“Oh.” He shrugs. “My grandfather lives-lived-here. Whatever. He’s up at the house, about to croak. We still have people come out and check on the place, but you know…” He sniffs. “With all the comings and goings, you gotta keep that shit to a minimum.”Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

Which leaves me with even more questions as we pull up to the front of the house. Beginning with why he parked over here when I’m supposed to go into the stable around back.

“I’ll just wait for you here, man.” Antonio pushes back against the seat, settling in.

This is just trading one concern for another. He could be working with these guys for all I know. “I’ll be back.” Scrutinizing my surroundings, I reach for the door handle and let myself out. Everything looks normal in the distance, but, of course, as Antonio mentioned, someone could be sitting in the brush. Those damn camouflage clothes I’ve seen around town suddenly make more sense.

I calmly walk toward the back of the house. Somehow I know my Italian leather shoes are going to end up ruined. I probably shouldn’t have worn these or the suit. Then again, I wasn’t expecting to come out here today.

As I reach the stable, two voices, men’s, become louder. “Que chingados tienes, Blanco?”

So, Blanco’s here, and presumably Hugo isn’t happy with him. “Afternoon,” I call out to make sure I don’t surprise anyone.

The talking stops, and one man backs up, ducking his head past the edge of the house. Hugo. I recognize him right away from the file we have on him. Pushing forty, five foot six with a stocky build, two older kids, and a wife who is nearing the end of what seems like an unexpected pregnancy. Water bottle in hand, he pauses to study me, his gaze running down to my damn shoes then back up.

A second later, another guy sticks his head out, blocking Hugo. About five eight, mid-twenties, sunburned, his camo sweaty and covered in dirt. This has to be Blanco. Lowering what can only be described as a hand

cannon, he does the same review and sneers. “No es la migra.”

No, I’m not Border Patrol, but I’m not going to give up this small advantage. Better they don’t know I understand enough to piece together what they’re saying. I don’t like that I’m walking in blind about this guy. He’s not in the file, and I had no time to look into him. The way Antonio was going on about him, he isn’t a nobody.

Checking the truck behind me, Hugo tosses the water and sets his hands over his belt buckle. So he’s carrying. “Who are you?” he asks in rough English.

“Roman.”

“A chingao.” The frown disappears, and he leans away. Eyes wary, he swallows hard. Now, that’s more like what I’m used to. Blanco turns to Hugo, cocking his head, but Hugo heads behind the house again.

Secure that my own weapons sit close to my chest, I follow, scanning my surroundings. To my left, there’s a wooden table made of two-by-fours, holding an orange water cooler and some small blue cans. To the right, the stable Antonio mentioned.

“Ahora pa limiar tu cagadero.” Hugo keeps a neutral expression despite expecting he’ll be cleaning up the guy’s shit.

“Everything okay?” I look from one to the other, as if I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.

“Si.” Hugo nods. “My nephew’s still learning.”

That explains a lot. There’s one wild card in every family business.

“You lo arreglo.” Blanco mutters the offer to take care of things, confirming he’s the cause of the problems we’re having.

“Largate, pendejo.” With a backward turn of his head, he sends the idiot away. Blanco shoves his gun in his belt and heads for the stable, a swagger in his step that proclaims he gives zero fucks.

“You’re Hugo?” I ask, continuing to pretend ignorance while keeping an eye on his nephew’s retreating back.

“Yes, Mr. de Marco.” Hugo clears his throat. “What-what brings you down to Texas?”

With these two, I’m outnumbered and if there’s anyone watching, I’ll be outgunned. Instead of drawing my own weapon, I move to the table and pick up one of the small tins. Vienna sausages. “I think you know why I’m here.” I hold his gaze while Blanco stops, dragging the gun to the back of his waist. It’s an odd thing for him to do.

I check the surroundings. There’s nothing between us except for a discarded tin and a number of flattened soft drink cans littering the ground. The aluminum is torn and jagged, faded by the sun over time.

Hugo takes a deep breath, dragging his hand down his chin as the stable’s wooden door squeaks. “You have-”

Blanco gives a crazy laugh, stretching an arm behind the door then securing his footing. There’s a thud followed by Blanco’s, “Oof.” Hugo and I turn to see what happened. Blanco’s shoulders curl inward. A woman rushes past him, her wrists bound with a dark kerchief. He reaches back, grabbing her thick braid and bringing her to a stop.

“No!” she screams, struggling against him. It takes me only the fraction of a second before I confirm it’s Lupita.

Rage cuts through me. Going on instinct, I focus on Blanco, leaving Hugo aside. Can in hand, I spread my fingers around it and let loose, going from wind-up to follow-through. The missile hits over his eye, stunning him long enough for Lupita to get away. I glance at Hugo to find him waving her through. “Correle.” Good. Hopefully one less person I’ll have to kill.

With her coming at a wild run, I’d risk hitting her if I shoot. “Run to the truck,” I yell as I pass her. Shaking his head, Blanco swings around on unsteady feet, going for the back of his belt. I reach him right as he brings the gun around and pulls the trigger. I block. The shot goes wide, and the gun goes flying. He grabs my forearm and wrist just as I sweep his leg out from under him.

We land hard, neither able to reach our weapon. One of the discarded cans is nearby. I grab it then shift my weight and aim down. Blanco’s strong. His eyes are focused on the makeshift weapon inching closer.

“Ah!” He releases my left arm, grasping my right. In one fluid motion, I toss the can from one hand to the other and drag the jagged metal across his neck until it hits the ground. The dirt-covered skin opens up, blood spraying out with the racing beat of his heart.

His eyes go wide and he loses the cocky facade. He fumbles, pressing his hand to the wound. “Tio!” he yells for Hugo, kicking his legs.

I spin around, finally going for my gun, but Hugo’s got his arms crossed, watching. He shakes his head then hocks a loogie. “Problem solved, senor,” he announces, tipping his chin to indicate Blanco.

My shoulders slump. “Well, son of a bitch.” I reach out for the gun as Blanco starts to fade.

Hugo laughs. “More like bastard son of a whore.”

I pull back my hand to check for damage. The adrenaline in my system doesn’t let me feel any pain, but it looks like the blood isn’t mine. “You called him your nephew.”

He shrugs. “With the shit he pulled, decisions had already been made.”

“I see. So, what now?” At home, one call would take care of this. Out here, we’re on our own. And arterial spray makes a hell of a mess.

Hugo runs his hand down his chin. “Well, the story was going to be Border Patrol got him.”

“That could get complicated if someone goes looking for him. They’re bound to figure out something’s wrong when he doesn’t turn up in custody.” “I’d be the one checking on him.” So, a lie he could manage on his own.

“Since there’s no bullet hole, you could leave him out for the animals,” I suggest. “They’d tear at the wound and hide the evidence. You’d find him a few days later and arrange a funeral.”

He presses his lips together and nods. “Add a rattlesnake bite and it would work.”

“Take him to the Mexican side. It’s easier to deal with things over there, in case someone finds him.”

“Okay.” His shoulders droop. “What about you? The runt left you.”

That’s ended up a bag of mixed feelings. It doesn’t surprise me he left, but at least Lupita’s safe. “I’ll follow the road back to my car.”

He looks down at my shoes, now scratched beyond repair, and cocks his head. “Okay, Mr. de Marco.”

“Roman.”

“Roman.” Hugo grabs a satchel from beside the table and pulls out a water bottle, tossing it to me.

The plastic slaps against my palm where the torn aluminum shaved off the top layer of skin. “Thanks.” I hand him Blanco’s gun.

“Stay in the middle of the road and watch for snakes.”

I grimace. “Fantastic.”

Hugo loops the strap over his neck and shoulder, shoves it behind him then drags Blanco around. “You’re going to be a pain in my ass even in death,” he mutters, dragging the body along.

I can’t help but grin as I set the bottle on the table and press the button on the cooler to wash up. With the sun nearing the horizon, I’ll end up walking back to the Mendoza’s house in the dark. I pull the knot of my tie loose, letting it hang around my neck, then undo the first couple of buttons on my shirt. Looking around one last time, I pick up the water and head around the house to start up the road. At least there won’t be anyone there to ask questions.

I haven’t gone more than a few yards when a muffled yell catches my attention. What the fuck?