Page 20 of The Games We Play
Saint walks out of the shadows while I cover his back. The window lowers, Saint ducks his head to see, then hands over the envelope of cash. Worth every penny to keep the docks wide open to us.
The car peels out of the parking lot. “Well, that was easy,” Saint says, smoothing his hand over his beard. Fucker even looks like Jesus—not that I really know what Jesus looks like. But the whole wavy long hair and beard thing. I laugh at the thought.
“What’s funny?” he asks.
“Just thinking you look a lot like Jesus, the one on those cheap candles with the weird-looking heart.”
Saint shakes his head as he gets on his bike. “That’s the Sacred Heart of Jesus you’re shitting on.”
“I’m not shitting on it ... but you’ve got to admit, they could have gone with a better design.”
“O Sacred Heart of Jesus, for whom it is impossible not to have compassion on the afflicted, have pity on us miserable sinners.”
“Miserable sinners? It’s either us or a seventies rock band.”
Saint flips his middle finger in my direction, and I laugh. But before we can start our bikes, a black truck veers into the lot, the rear passenger door flapping open, and screams coming from inside. Dirt and dust swirl in the air as the driver slams on the breaks. A woman falls out of the back. She’s barefooted, wearing a slip of a dress, and starts running across the expanse of the lot, headed straight for us.
“Help me. Please. Help.” She’s American, but her accent is hard to place.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, because whatever this is, I can’t leave it, but I don’t want to be involved. Saint and I climb off our bikes.
A man gets out of the truck. Greasy-looking fucker with slicked-back hair and camo pants. They’re cheap. Not official military. Doesn’t stop him trying to look the part.
“Get back in the truck, girl.”
“No,” she shouts, then looks up at me. “Please help me.” Her words come out on a whisper.
“How many in the truck?” I ask Saint.
“One in the passenger seat.”
“Were you alone in the back of the truck?” I ask her.
She nods, then rubs her wrists. There are raw wounds around them. “They tied me up.”
I step towards the guy. “Get the fuck out of here.”
I’m not surprised when he pulls his gun. Just as quickly, Saint and I pull ours. “I don’t rate your chances,” I shout.
The fucker doesn’t listen and fires his weapon, which by all the things that are Sacred-Heart-of-Jesus-worthy is the dumbest fucking thing you can do.
Saint and I open fire, aiming at the tires and truck rather than the person.
Grease-boy dives for cover back into the truck as the girl cries and covers her ears.
“You got her?” I shout to Saint, who promptly drags her onto the back of his bike.
“Yeah. Know a place I can take her. I’ll meet you at the clubhouse.”
He pulls out of the lot ahead of me, just in time for a bullet to hit a stop sign about ten feet to my right. I bike out of range, but then I wait, just to make sure enough damage was done to the truck. When I’m confident Saint has enough of a head start, I peel down the road after him.
I’m not sure what we just stopped. Rape. Trafficking.
It was the right thing to do.
But our cuts tell our enemies exactly who we are, and I don’t have a fucking clue whotheywere.
And one thing I know for sure, payback is always a bitch.
