I don’t have a choice. I take the balisong and I drive the honed edge of the blade into his body, over and over again. He yelps, and then whimpers as he finally releases my arm. I have blood all over me, my shirt and jeans are covered in it, red and warm and sticky, reeking of copper. A twinge of guilt snaps inside me as he staggers and falls onto his side, chest rising and falling too quickly. His eyes roll, whites showing, as he watches me get to my feet.
Poor bastard. He was just doing what he’s been trained to do his entire life: Attack. Kill. Such a shitty situation. If I hadn’t acted when I had, he would have done some serious damage, though. He would have barked more, and I couldn’t risk it. It’s a miracle no one came out the first time he sounded the alarm. I stoop down and place my hand on his laboring chest.
“Sorry, buddy.” I whisper the words, and his ears swivel in the direction of my voice. He whines, and I know I should do the merciful thing and finish the job. I just can’t, though. I don’t have the stomach for it. I step over the dog, heading for the back door. It opens first try. The Perez peach farmers are not very security conscious, apparently. Seems strange, given what a cowardly bastard Julio is.
The kitchen is neat as a pin. No dirty plates or cups on the sideboards. The tiled floor is gleaming. A pot bubbles on the stove, and I have the urge to lift the lid and see what’s cooking inside, it smells so damned good. The smell of home cooked food after a week of eating gas station food will make your stomach rumble no matter the circumstance you find yourself in.
There’s only one door leaving the kitchen; I walk through it to find a skinny, ill-looking guy sitting on a wooden chair in a narrow hallway with an assault rifle laid out across his lap. When he casts his bulging brown eyes up at me, I see the shock register, and then I see disappointment follow and I jam the balisong into his neck and swipe sideways, cutting his throat open from ear to ear. He didn’t even get to raise his rifle. The light fades in his eyes, and I move on down the hallway without casting a look over my shoulder. The room with the four guys inside is to my right, television still blaring loudly, now with raucous high-pitched music. I can’t hear a thing over the TV. The men sitting on the couches could have heard me come into the house, and they could be waiting for me to burst in on them. It’s unlikely, though. Julio’s guys charge at the first sign of a fight. They aren’t the patient types. The door is ajar, but not enough that I can see in properly. If I can’t see in, then they can’t see out, either.
Quickly I dart past the doorway, trying to time my footfall with the thump of the pounding music that’s practically rattling the windows in their rotten frames. I make it past the door, but I don’t release the breath I’m holding until I’ve turned the corner in the hallway. I’m faced with a stairway running up to the second floor, and a single door to the left. Somewhere up there on the second story, someone hammers on the floor, yelling for the music to be turned down, and I lean back against the wall, waiting to see if anyone comes racing down the stairs.
No one appears, though. The music turns down a fraction, just enough that I can hear the steady thrum of my heart still keeping a slow and steady beat, like a metronome. A metronome of death.
I have two options: I could go into the room on the left and find out if it’s occupied, or I could go upstairs and locate the guy up there. I allow myself the luxury of thinking about it for a while. Julio’s what would kindly be termed as morbidly obese. No way is the lazy, lumbering bastard jogging up and down any stairs. I doubt he’s up there very much, which makes the decision actually very easy. I need to clear the upper floor. No sense in heading straight toward my target, only to be lynched by god knows how many angry Mexicans the moment he opens his stupidly loud mouth and starts hollering for help.
I take the stairs two at a time, reaching for my gun. I may want Julio to suffer as much as physically possible, but I don’t have time to be toying with anyone else. The feel of the gun’s handle in my hand is all too familiar. I’ve held a thousand different handguns in my lifetime. Glocks. Brownings. Colts. Remingtons. Sigs. The make and model doesn’t matter. I know the kinks and quirks of any weapon the second I curl my fingers around it, and this gun is no different.
I land in the upstairs hallway, scanning the area quickly. No one to be seen in the hallway. There are two doors to my left, and two to my right. I hurry forward, trying the handle on the first door I reach. It opens, and I startle the lone guy inside, who happens to be pulling up a pair of jeans.
“Motherfuc—” He fumbles, trying to jerk up his pants and reach for his gun laying on the bed in front of him at the same time. I don’t give him the opportunity to do either. Rushing into the room, I squeeze the trigger, planting a bullet neatly between his eyes before he can finish the word that’s made it halfway past his lips. He slumps to the ground, his head bouncing hard off the end of the bed as he makes his way to the floor. Blood starts pouring everywhere; I can’t tell if it’s from the bullet wound or the huge gash that’s just cut his forehead wide open.