You don’t ever plan for Dulce. You just end up there, usually as the punchline to a story that started two counties away and got meaner with every stop. Tonight was no exception. Me and Carl Dalton sat in my Chevy truck outside the Dulce Budget Inn, sweating and freezing at the same time, counting the minutes until something went wrong enough to be interesting. The heater was out, but the engine was running, and even though my cut still stank of blood and old sweat, the only thing I could really smell was nerves.
Carl passed the binoculars, eyes twitching toward the second-floor walkway. The Leatherback guards were still there, just like the last two hours. One was perched on aplastic chair, the other pacing in lazy circles, both in turtle cuts and both packing like nobody told them about open carry. I clocked their rotation down to the second. Carl did the same, but he had a tic where he’d tap the butt of his pistol every time he saw something he didn’t like. By now, the inside of his thigh was probably black and blue.
I took the glasses, focused on room 207. The curtains were drawn, but not tight. For a while, I could see Melissa’s outline against the TV light, her arms up, probably still cuffed to the headboard. She hadn’t moved in half an hour. That was either good or very, very bad.
“Two outside,” Carl muttered, voice sandpaper. “Saw a third when you went for coffee. Must be inside. Figure he’s got the keys.”
“Yeah,” I said, hand going to my ribs out of habit. They still hadn’t knit right after the Nipple Tip, and every time I breathed, it felt like a wet tooth gnawing my lung.
“You good?” he asked, not bothering to look at me. There’s a kind of man who can’t face another man’s pain, only his own. Carl was that kind of man.
“Good as I’ll ever be.” I thumbed the slide on my Glock, then set it on the dash. “You remember the plan?”
Carl grunted. “I go loud by the dumpster. You hit the bathroom window while they’re checking my mess.”
“If I’m not out in three,” I said, “come in shooting. Don’t matter who’s in the way.”
Carl nodded, and we sat like that for another couple minutes, engine idling, the heater fan whimpering like a wounded dog. I watched the room, every so often catching a flicker of Melissa’s hair in the flickering TV blue. I wondered if she knew we were coming. I wondered if she’d forgive me if I failed.
“Ready?” I asked.
He checked his magazine—one of those ancient habits that never dies—and tucked a second Glock into his waistband. “This goes sideways, tell my kid I made it quick.”
I snorted. “You don’t even know his name.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t care,” he said. He grinned, a sliver of white in the dark, and I almost liked him for a second.
He climbed out, toolbox in hand, and disappeared behind the row of parked cars. I watched him in the side mirror, boots crunching on gravel. He hugged the shadows, a big man moving with the patience of a wolf, and settled behind the overflow dumpster. The guards didn’t even flinch. They were bored, cold, and probably fighting the kind of stomach bug that turns your insides to pudding.
The seconds ticked off. I checked my phone, then set the timer on my watch. Three minutes, maybe less, if things got ugly. I counted breaths, every one a spike in my side.I was sweating under my cut, but my hands were cold enough to numb.
Carl made his move with a little flair. He hurled the toolbox against the motel’s cinderblock wall, the metal-on-concrete pop echoing through the lot like a gunshot. Both guards jumped, the one in the chair toppling backwards, legs flailing. The other went for his gun but didn’t draw—just jogged toward the sound, his buddy close behind.
I didn’t wait for the echo to die. I sprinted low, knees bent, lungs on fire, and cleared the lot in five long strides. The back of the motel stank of piss and cigarettes. I skidded to the window and found it locked, just like I’d expected. I slipped the crowbar from my belt and jammed it under the frame, popped it once, then twice. The glass gave with a whimper. I ducked my head, sucked in a mouthful of blood and cold air, and hauled myself through.
Every rib in my body screamed. I dropped to the tile, boots barely making a sound. In the next room, the TV was still on. Cops, maybe, or one of those shows where they blur out the faces but leave in the screams. I heard the faintest clatter—metal on metal, the sound of handcuffs against a headboard.
I pressed up against the wall, one hand on my gun, the other clutching my ribs. I didn’t breathe for a full tenseconds. Then, slow as sin, I crept forward and listened at the bathroom door.
There were three voices. I recognized one as Saint—low, oily, the kind of voice that sounded calm even when it was slicing your throat. The second belonged to the inside man, probably the “key” Carl had mentioned. The third was Melissa, raw and cracked, but defiant.
I heard Saint say, “You’ll want to look pretty for your daddy. Wouldn’t want him to see you like this.” Then a slap, loud and hard. Melissa’s grunt was pain but not surrender. I smiled, despite everything.
I eased the door open. The light was off, but the TV made everything flicker blue and ghostly. Saint was leaning over Melissa, one hand gripping her jaw, the other holding a knife so close to her face it caught the TV glare. The inside man was by the door, probably expecting trouble from the hall, not the shithole bathroom behind him.
I raised my Glock. I didn’t say a word. Just put the round through the inside man’s neck, then swung back to Saint.
Saint didn’t even flinch. He just grinned, a horrible, wet grin, and put the knife against Melissa’s throat. “Augustine,” he said. “I was hoping for more scars.”
I stepped into the room, gun still up, and nodded at Melissa. “You good?”
She licked her lips, tasted the blood, and said, “Better than you look.”
I was about to smile when the guards from outside crashed through the front door, guns blazing.
Three minutes, I thought. Fucking clockwork.
Saint came around the bed, and all hell broke loose.
