Page 54 of Bristol

“Hey!” Reaper whisper-shouts, pointing at the house.

I have to focus to even see it at first. There’s a figure on the side of the house. No. Two figures. They’re moving in sync from the back around the side, barely noticeable with their dark clothes against the dark wood of the house. Reaper probably only saw it through his binoculars because he’s been staring at it so hard.

The two figures move almost as one. Reaper grabs his pistol and opens the back hatch of the Escalade, giving us a nod of his head to follow. We do as instructed, and duck down; crouching down and doing some fucked up duck walk through the tall grass of the field. Mo moves the quietest out of the three of us, which shocks the fuck out of me because he’s not only the widest but the biggest in every fucking way.

If I weren’t so focused, I’d laugh. We’re all on high alert, listening for any sound or movement. Guns drawn, focus on. We move as a unit through the cover of the grass. Reaper stops and lifts his hand. My eyes are fully adjusted to the darkness. We’re not far inside the grass now. A few feet. Just enough to not be seen.

I zone in, but I can’t get my eyes on the two figures. They were on the side of the house and now I’m not sure where they are. Reaper doesn’t seem concerned, he’s hyper focused on something. Someone. I assume it’s the people that were on the side of the house.

A gunshot rings inside and chaos ensues. The front door flings open and Slider comes out, guns blazing.

“It’s go time, boys!” he yells, his loud voice echoing through the open air.

We all jump to our feet and storm the house. Reaper goes around the side, Mo goes straight through the front door with Slider, and I press my pistol to the temple of the man in the driver’s seat of the van.

He throws his hands up and doesn’t move a muscle, his body rigid beneath the imminent threat of death. Pussies. Every fucking last one of them. They only abuse the ones who aren’t strong enough to fight back. It takes everything I have not to pull the fucking trigger and end his life right here, right now.

“Name!” I demand.

I grab his arm and drag him out of the van, slamming him face first against the back glass.

“Art!” He shouts, a tear streaming down his face.

What the fuck?

“My name is Art!”

I rear back and hit him as hard as I can in the temple with my pistol, knocking him out. I’ll deal with him later. I need to clear the van. Who knows what the fuck they have going on in here and in that house. I’m disgusted and appalled at the whole situation.

I pull a bandana out of my pocket and bind blue jean boy’s hands together. He doesn’t move. I haul him up into the driver’s seat and use his seatbelt as a bind, running it between his hands, around an arm and then buckling him in where his hands are bound by the steering wheel so he can’t get free.

I open the back door of the van with my gun drawn, unsure of what may be waiting for me inside. Two sets of eyes stare back at me. Wide-eyed, scared, and dirty, sits two small boys, no older than ten years old. They’re crying and breathing quickly through their noses while their mouths are bound.

“It’s okay. I’m here to help,” I say, lowering my weapon and shoving it in the back of my jeans.

They hesitantly scoot to the end of the van and I begin untying their hands and removing the gags from their mouths. They don’t speak a word and they don’t move. They only sit there, trembling, staring at me. Waiting to see if I really am the good guy.

“Listen, there’s a vehicle in that grass. I want you to run to it and climb in the back and hide. Don’t come out or open it for a soul unless it’s me. Go!” I say, directing them to the Escalade.

They take off running, both barefoot and scared, through the tall grass. I don’t wait to see that they make it, instead I head inside. I’ve heard no more gunshots but that doesn’t mean a damn thing. There are two men I don’t recognize inside the living room, kneeling and bound with scuffs on their faces. Slider and Reaper are standing in front of them, pistols aimed at them.

“You’re going to tell me where I can find Patrick, understand?” Reaper tells the heftier of the two. He looks like he still lives at home with mom in her basement at fifty. He looks terrified, like he’s never had a gun pointed at his head before. Good. He’s the type to piss himself when the interrogation starts getting good. And it will.

The other pervert is scrawny. Middle-aged. He has metal-frame glasses on his nose, with the right one cracked. Likely from Reaper or Slider. Mo would’ve broken the damn things into his eye. He doesn’t seem the least bit phased by the altercation. He’s got a cocky arrogance about him. He doesn’t know what’s coming.

The momma’s boy starts to speak. “I—I—I don’t know how to find him. I swear!”

“I think you do,” Reaper growls, taking a step forward and pressing the barrel of his gun hard beneath the man’s chin. It’s pressed so hard that it begins to disappear inside the flabby second chin.

“You’re not going to find him. He doesn’t want to be found,” scrawny guy says, smugly.

I punch him in the nose, blood immediately pouring down his face. His face contorts as he hangs his head down, unable to get his hands free to cup his face.

He doesn’t say another word. Just sits there with blood running over his lips. If he so much as thinks of spitting that fucking shit in my direction, I’ll kill him. Right the fuck here.

“Ay!” Mo’s hoarse voice drags all of our attention to the doorway at the side of the living room that leads to what I assume is the kitchen.

“Found this pervert in training down in the basement with a girl being held there.”

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