All-Star: Breaking Point (Part VII)
It Rains
"Your records state that this isn't the first time you've found yourself in a 'back against the wall' situation, Agent Carter. What exactly compelled you to make the decision you did in this particular instance."
"Out in no man's land, probably an army of gangbangers waiting to cut me down the next time I took a step out into the open? A defenceless kid on one side and a Sasquatch on the other. You should be asking me why I didn't make it sooner."
"You withheld information from your superiors, Agent Carter. You willingly brokered a deal with a wanted criminal."
"Yes, sir, I did."
"You maintained contact with a wanted international criminal as an active operative of the US government, Agent Carter. This is a serious offense in any case."
"I did it to win, sir. I did it to save your pencil-pushing ass a few more stacks of paperwork when knowledge of a clandestine government operation on foreign territory got out there. Everything - everything - I did, I did it for my country, for your interests-"
"For the girl?"
"Are you trying to shame me for doing everything in my power to save a child?"
"Shame you? No. I'm trying to make you aware of the consequences of your action. Shame has nothing to do with it."
"And when, exactly, are you going to share these consequences with me?"
"...Let's continue your recount of the events."
"So that's how you do me, huh? Need-to-know basis, and I only need to know when the very second my head hits the chopping block."
"Agent Carter, continue your recount of the events."
"...I knew that if I was going to make it out of there alive and without losing Niebla or the girl, I had to take the fight to Santigo; but a guy like him? A guy with his connections? I needed ammunition."
"And in your mind, there was only one way to get enough of it."
"Right. I had to call in a favour."
It had been a full minute since the pigeon which had perched itself atop a nearby telephone wire had cleaned its feathers. Having taken up temporary residence approximately three minutes ago, it had cleaned itself at regular intervals, bristling its feathers and picking rotting morsels of food or dirt from them. Nate watched it with unfocused eyes as its headed darted left and right, anxiously checking for something or other and, as Nate's hand tensed on the Glock in his jacket pocket, he found himself transfixed on its every movements and action, his mind devoid of the numerous concerns which had plagued it since their arrival at the rendezvous spot.
"Nate." A faraway voice called. "Nate. Come on, man."
Snapping out of his self-induced stupor, Nate turned to face the source of the voice. Javier sat on the hood of his sedan, his eyes giving away his uncertainty at their current situation. Having pulled over the night before to make a phone call, Nate had only informed his confused friend that he was calling in a favour from an old acquaintance and that, in order to do so, he would have to set up a meeting at an unpopulated location where they could interact without drawing wandering eyes; and so, the two men found themselves waiting under the hot Venezuelan Sun in the empty parking lot between a condemned motel for a meeting which seemed to be growing less and less likely to happen as the time ticked by.
"You sure this guy's coming?" Javier asked, scratching his beard. "It's been at least an hour, bro."
Nate nodded, his mind still a little unfocused, before turning to face Iris. The young girl still slept peacefully in the back of the car, far more tired than Nate had given her credit for. He smiled and reminded himself that this was all for her, a comforting thought in uncomforting times.
With a flap of its wings, the pigeon dismounted the telephone wire and soared over a black van as it slowly pulled into the parking lot, pulling to a gradual stop a few metres away from Javier's sedan. Nate peered at the license plate.
"HNCHMN?" Javier read aloud, turning to flash Nate a look. "Why do I feel like I'm not gonna like this guy?"
"Let me do the talking." Nate responded, his face stern. "I trust this guy about as far as I can throw him, but he owes me one."
"And if this thing goes south?" Javier asked.
"Then we see how far I can throw him." Nate said, firmly.
The front doors of the van popped open as two burly men in suits stepped out. From what Nate could tell, they were natives, their steely gazes and measured paces giving them away in an instant. The two approached either side of the side-sliding door facing Nate and Javier and rapped on it.
"Who is this guy, Don Corleone on a budget?" Javier quipped, standing up and preparing for conflict.
A few minutes of shuffling around and the door of the van slid open. A single foot, clad in designer oxfords, touched down on the pavement below before being quickly followed by its mirror. With both feet firmly planted on the ground, the black suited man adjusted his orange and black striped tie and cleared his throat. On his face he wore an orange and black partial mask with a large orange 'H' printed on its forehead. A crooked smile spreading across his exposed mouth, he advanced towards Nate, his hand outstretched in a fist.
"Que pasa!?" Henchman cried, jovially. "Nate Carter, All-Star, as I live and breathe. Put it here, my brother."
Nate glowered at the outstretched fist, prompting Henchman to retract it.
"That's cool, my man, that's cool." He shrugged. "I mean, I'm just saying, I'm down with it. The hood, I mean. You know, I actually just watched 'The Wire', let me tell you-"
"Cut the shit, Henchman." Nate snapped. "I'm here to buy, not bond. Where's the gear?"
Henchman placed his hands on his lapels, resting on the balls of his feet with another crooked smile. "And the customer's always right." Snapping his fingers, Henchman stretched out as his men began unloading large duffel bags out of the van. "Hot as hell here, anyway. I feel like I'm melting out in this hellhole country, and I've been to Arizona in the summertime. Two words for you, Nate: Heat. Rash. Another two words: Ass. Cheeks."
He gave a short laugh at his own joke as Nate turned to watch the duffel bags. "What'd you bring me?"
"Well, you caught me on very short notice, Yankee Doodle." Henchman said, thumbing at the bags. "You're lucky I was already in Colombia on business. Got an adorable little drug cartel started with a few rifles and hired goons. It was touching. Like teaching your sweaty, tattooed kid to ride a bike, but with a lot more bloodshed. Or a lot less if you're anything like me. Anyway, I called in a few favours, scraped together what I could. It's not a lot but it packs a punch, you know what I mean?"
"So you're some sort of scumbag arms dealer?" Javier asked, a little taken aback by the suited man.
"I don't like being called an arms dealer." Henchman answered, defensively. "I prefer fun dispenser or equal opportunities advocate. 'Sides, I do other things: you're ever in the market for a good henching or merc opportunity, you give me a call, hombre. You look strong and dumb enough to make it at least three months before some testosterone fuelled anti-hero beats you to death with your own spinal cord."
"Besa mi culo, puto" Javier spat back.
"Easy." Nate warned.
"Yeah, well me cago en la madre que te parió, hermano." Henchman cursed back, straightening his tie at the sight of Javier's surprise. "Spent a few months working for Senor Masacre out in Mexico. Good client, terrible villain. Tried to poison a Taco Bell's meat supply so he could make a killing off a class action. You believe that?"
"The guns." Nate said, fast losing his patience.
"Right, right. Hector, be a dear." Henchman called.
Scooping up the four duffel bags with a groan, one of Henchman's men waddled over to the group and dropped them at Nate's feet.
"Hey, hey! Easy, Ox! Let's show a little concern for the product, huh?" Henchman scolded as Nate stooped down and unzipped one of the bags, pulling two light machine guns from within and sifting through the included ammunition.
"Ah, I see you went right for the big guns, didn't you?" He continued. "I saw that, you little troublemaker! I'm sure you recognise the Heckler & Koch MG4. Did you a little favour, got you some optical sights. Hey, and don't ever say I don't go the extra mile for my customers: that's enough ammo to take down General Freedom on a good day, take my word for it."
"It'll do." Nate muttered, placing the guns back in the bag and handing it to Javier.
"It'll do?" Henchman repeated, incredulously. "Buddy, I'm giving you two 800 rounds a minute death machines, not a lazy handjob behind the school bleachers. Throw me a bone."
"I said it's fine." Nate replied, zipping the next bag open.
"Now I like to call this old gem the 'Grab Bag'." Henchman stated, proudly folding his arms. "You've got an assortment of SMGs, handguns, some machine pistols; small arms to fit your goon mowing needs. I sympathise with these guys though, alright? Try to kill 'em quickly. No one likes a rat-a-tat to the ding-a-ling, if you catch my meaning."
Pushing the bag to Javier, Nate unzipped the second to last one, drawing out three assault rifles and two shotguns, nodding in admiration.
"The rifles are AK-47s and the shotties are Mossberg 500s. I figure you can't really go wrong with old favourites, right? Easier to get too: every Call of Duty playing hick with a gun fetish has an AK. Pardon the crude stereotype, I'm southern fried myself."
"And the last one?" Nate asked, zipping the fourth bag open to sift through it.
"Your everything else." Henchman explained. "Got your grenades, your C4, your combat gear - everything. Pretty sure I even packed you a toothbrush somewhere. I appreciate the importance of grooming and hygiene in our line of work."
"I don't know about guns, but I could really go for a toothbrush right now." Javier said with a lax shrug.
Nate nodded once more, zipping the fourth bag up and standing. "I'll take it. All of it."
"Good man!" Henchman said, happily. "Now, given your circumstances, I figure I'll waive the fee until you're back in the land of capitalism and great debt; but, should you get blown to hell and back doing whatever the insane thing you're planning to do is, I'm gonna need your social security number, your bank details, etc, etc."
"You'll get your payment when I get back to America, Henchman." Nate grunted, loading the bags into the trunk of Javier's sedan. "At a discounted price. You owe me."
"Nate, buddy, you're taking the food out of my mouth on this one." Henchman whined. "Alright, fine: you've always made it out alive before, so I'll bet on you this once. Thank me later, preferably with money. You deposit the payment into my account at half price the moment you get back."
"Quarter price." Nate said, gruffly.
"Half price!" Henchman rebutted. "I don't do charity."
"Quarter price." Nate repeated.
Henchman gave a frustrated grunt, meeting Nate's gaze. "Okay, a third of the price, that's the lowest I stoop."
Maintaining eye contact, Nate intensified his glare. "Quarter. Price."
Henchman peered over to his two men then back at Nate, seemingly pondering his options before giving an exasperated cry. "Alright, fine! Quarter price, you son of a bitch, but you are not getting a promotional keyring! Those are for valued customers!"
A coy smirk spreading across Nate's face, he slammed the boot closed. "Pleasure doing business with you, Henchman."
"Ah ha ha ha. Fuck you." Henchman snapped back, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a scrap of paper. "And here's that extra bit of information you wanted, not that you deserve such generosity."
Nate took the scrap, having to strain to pull it from Henchman's reluctant grip. Once the paper was out of his hands, Henchman turned on his heel and walked angrily back to his van. A few steps away from it, however, a tiny voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Who are you?" Iris asked from the back seat of the sedan, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
Henchman looked from Iris to Nate in confusion before replying. "Who are you?"
"Iris, sweetheart, go back to sleep." Nate said, quickly.
"Woah, hey, woah!" Henchman exclaimed, raising his hands. "Is that a kid, Nate? What the hell kind of chickenshit operation are you running here?! What, did you go all Madeleine McCann on this kid? Because I don't deal in-"
"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to." Nate cautioned as Javier moved to console Iris.
Henchman hesitated a moment before eliciting a deep sigh. "Look, I believe that whatever a client does with my wares is none of my business. Most times, I don't even want it to be. But whatever you're planning, whatever requires that much firepower, the kid shouldn't be anywhere near it."
Nate turned to glance at Iris as Javier talked to her. "...I'm doing it for her. To protect her. It's the only chance we have."
Henchman nodded, understandingly. "Right. The whole noble, self-sacrificing hero shtick. ...Look, I'm no Sigmund Freud, but I'm willing to bet from your general brooding that you haven't told her what's really going down here. As a professional bullshitter myself, let me give you a little piece of advice: some secrets are better off shared."
Nate remained silent, staring at the pavement contemplatively as Henchman turned to leave.
"Trust me, I'm a dad." He called back as he climbed into the back of his van and sank into a beanbag chair. "Almost forgot, Hench Co.: Expendable just got employable! Buy Hench!"
With that, the two suited natives closed the side door and climbed back into the front of the van. With a splutter of the exhaust, the van turned out of the parking lot and drove into the distance.
Javier approached Nate as he watched the van go. "You know some interesting people, bro. So what exactly is the plan?"
Nate looked up from the pavement and began walking towards the sedan. "We've got guns; let's go shoot somebody."
Javier watched Nate go, his expression doubtful. Putting his concerns aside for a moment, he followed his weary friend back to the sedan, pausing for a moment to look at the grey clouds forming overhead.
"Jay?" Nate asked, noticing his sudden stop. "What's the problem?"
"Nothin'." Javier replied, wiping a droplet of rain water from his cheek. "It's nothing."
"<Is everything to your satisfaction, boss?>"
His hands balled together in anxiety, Cannibal Santigo's personal chef watched as his employer tore into the large steak sitting on the ostentatious dining table before him. From outside, the audible pitter patter of raindrops cascading against the dining room's panoramic window filled the silence left by the villa's owner, only adding to the chef's uncertainty as Santigo lifted the dripping piece of bloody meat to his mouth. Pausing for a moment, as if to add to the tension filling the room, Santigo flashed his chef a look before placing the food in his mouth and chewing. Once more, the sound of rain pierced the silence in the room, accompanied only by the din created by Santigo's furious chewing.
Taking another moment to savour the taste, Santigo gave a slow swallow and reached for the glass of wine at his side. After a long, languishing gulp of its contents, Santigo placed the now empty glass back on the table and poured himself another, all the while maintaining chilling eye contact with the squirming chef. When the glass was replenished, and only then, Santigo reclined in his seat and nodded at his servant.
"<Your hands have created another masterpiece, Julio.>" He said, reverently. "<You may take your leave.>"
Visibly overjoyed at the response, the chef bowed twice in quick succession and hurriedly darted out of the room, brushing past one of Santigo's men as he walked into the room.
"Boss?" The man said, evenly.
"I hope you're not here to ask for some of my steak." Santigo joked, mirthlessly punctuating his sentence with another bite out of his steak.
The man shook his head, forcing a smile. "Manfred Espinosa is here to see you. He says it is about the American."
"Yes, good." Santigo said, finishing off his steak and pushing the plate aside. "Dessert."
Wiping his mouth and hands with a bib, Santigo greeted his visitor with a bow of his head as he stepped into the room, a briefcase at his side. Nodding his own greeting, Manfred Espinosa took a seat beside Santigo and placed the briefcase between them. The well-dressed Espinosa adjusted his simple glasses on the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to check his watch before continuing.
"You look well, Manfred." Santigo stated.
"And you look well-fed, old friend." Espinosa quipped back, eliciting a wry laugh from his cohort. "Shall we proceed with business?"
Santigo nodded, leaning back in his chair. "By all means."
"I admit, this Nate Carter fellow was a mystery even to me." Espinosa explained, opening the briefcase. "Was. In this age of information we live in, it is not a matter of if, but a matter of when - provided you have the skills and relevant knowledge to find the answers you seek."
"And what have you found?" Santigo asked, arcing an eyebrow and resting his hand against his temple.
Espinosa chortled. His hand delving into his briefcase, he withdrew a file of average thickness. Laying it on the table, he pushed it over to Santigo, who quickly opened it up and spread its contents out.
"This American," Espinosa said. "This Nate Carter: he is more than anyone could have anticipated."
Santigo's eyes widened as he flicked through the papers spread out on his table. Images of Nate donning the All-Star costume, taking on mundane and abnormal threats, filled almost every page.
"He has served with the US Marine Corps, the US Army, UNTIL, PRIMUS..." Espinosa continued. "He has even secured for himself a position on a government sanctioned metahuman response team of some renown: the 'Protectors of the World'. In a leading capacity, no less. Here we have criminal records, medical records: everything we could secure without drawing attention from his superiors."
Santigo remained silent, lifting a picture of Nate fighting alongside Sparrowhawk and Riptide and staring intently at it.
"I can only imagine how deep his connections must run." Espinosa said, shaking his head. "He has knocked boots with metahumans, government agents, mercenaries, extraterrestrials, extradimensionals, soldiers. He is-"
"He's a champion." Santigo interrupted, his eyes still glued to the photo.
Espinosa paused for a moment, approaching the conversation from a different angle. "Pardon?"
A barely concealed grin of pure excitement threatened to split Santigo's face in two as he incredulously sifted through the files before him. "A man among men. A perfect example of human potential. This man - this 'hero' - he embodies all that lesser men hope to embody and all they loathe to embody. He fights - he kills - in the service of liars and ingrates and why, Manfred?"
Espinosa sat up straighter in his seat, a little bewildered by Santigo's excitement. "I am afraid I don't know."
Eagerness still in his wild eyes, Santigo stood up, lifting a few more photos with him. "Because it is him. He does, he serves, because he is. He fights and he saves and he does it all simply because it is his nature. Do you know what I would call such a man, Manfred?"
Espinosa began placing the files back in his briefcase. "An idealistic fool?"
Suddenly spinning to face the startled Manfred, Santigo bulged his crazed eyes at him, anger seething from his every pore. "Don't you say that! Don't you insult him! Don't you dare fucking insult him, you piece of shit nobody!"
"A-Alvarro, wait-" Espinosa stuttered as Santigo approached him.
"He is ten times the man you will ever be!" Santigo screamed, flipping the dining table aside and scattering paper everywhere. His cutlery fell to the floor alongside his plate, the latter of which shattered where it fell. "You think you can insult him in my house?! Huh?! Huh?!"
Falling out of his chair, Espinosa crawled frantically away as Santigo lifted a chair and smashed it against the floor. "Alvarro! Alvarro, stop!"
Santigo ignored his pleas. "Do you have any idea - any idea at all - what he has been through?! Do you know what he's sacrificed?!"
Reaching into his pocket, Santigo pulled a Taurus Raging Bull from the holster concealed within his suit jacket and pointed it at Manfred. "He's perfect, hijo de puta! HE. IS. PERFECT."
"I'm sorry, Alvarro!" Espinosa cried, raising his hands defensively. "I apologise! I'm sorry..."
His breath coming out in ragged gasps and his face red from anger, Santigo slowly lowered his gun, regaining control over his emotions and ceasing his rampage. After a few seconds of standing there in silence, he turned his back on his dishevelled would-be victim and went to face the window.
"...Do you know what I would call him, Manfred?" He repeated, aggression still laced in his tone.
Readjusting his spectacles, Espinosa quickly began scrambling for his papers, eager to leave as quickly as possible. "W-What would you call him, Alvarro?"
Santigo stooped down and retrieves the wine bottle from the floor, taking a long swig out of it. Once he had drained it of the remainder of its fluids, he threw it to the floor, shattering it.
"The perfect prey." He said, rapturously.
Finally picking his papers off the floor, Espinosa rose and righted his glasses. "W-Will that be all?"
Santigo shrugged, dismissively, his mind off in more gruesome places.
"For now."
"Can we please run this over one more time?" Javier asked Nate, rubbing his eyes in exasperation. "And could you make it sound a little less stupid the second time around?"
The two men sat in the reception area of a small motel as they watched Iris busy herself with a vending machine, insistent upon securing a bag of Skittles. A fond smile curled the sides of Nate's mouth ever so slightly as he watched her. Outside, rain splashed down with increased intensity, creating a bleak ambience.
"We draw them to us. Santigo, his hitman, anyone that psychopath might bring." Nate repeated, matter-of-factly. "We draw them to us and we kill them."
"Do you understand how crazy you sound, man?" Javier asked, searching Nate's eyes for some sort of tell. "Santigo has his stink all over Caracas. We up and tell them where we are, we'll cause a bloodbath."
Nate's face remained inscrutable as he responded. "Maybe we want a bloodbath."
"That guy didn't happen to hit you really hard in the head, did he?" Javier joked, leaning forward. "We're talking two guys against an army."
"One guy." Nate corrected. "You're taking Iris and-"
"Uh-uh, to hell with you." Javier exclaimed. "I'm not leaving you to have a suicidal shootout with a bunch of crackheads and thugs, Nate. You saved my life once in Afghanistan. Please let me do the same for you."
Nate thought on the offer for a moment before turning to face Javier. "In my life, I have seen precisely everyone I've ever loved be killed or injured either because I wasn't able to help them, because I made the wrong decision or because I killed them, Jay. Likewise, I have fought people and creatures that most men have only ever dreamed about meeting. I've done all this with nothing in my arsenal but a few firearms and I have lived to tell the tale where people stronger, bolder and better than me have died."
Javier bit his lip, avoiding Nate's steely gaze.
"I don't need you to save me." Nate said. "I don't need anyone to save me."
"Then let me help you, Nate. I just-" Javier started, stopping as Nate stood up, angrily.
"I do the saving!" He shouted, drawing the attention of the staff and guests in the lobby. "I rescue, I sacrifice! I take the beatings and I put my life at risk, not you! Not anyone! For once in my miserable life, I'm the one who dies! I'm the one who suffers! I'm the hero!"
Realisation dawning on his face, Javier stood to oppose Nate, giving a cold laugh. "So that's what this is? Some sort of weak ass survivors' guilt? You're mad I'm the one who got worked over by that guy, so you're making up for it by leaping headfirst into the lion's den."
"That's not what this is about, Jay." Nate said, lowering his voice to keep the conversation private.
"No, that's what it's entirely about." Javier snapped. "That's all it's ever about, isn't it? The heroism, the self-sacrifice, the determination: it's about compensation, right? It's about that little voice in your head that just won't stop talking."
"Jay-" Nate interrupted, his fist clenching.
"It's about that ugly little voice; the voice that says the one thing you can't stand to hear." Javier continued, unflinchingly.
"Jay, stop." Nate growled.
Javier shook his head, drawing closer to Nate and reducing his voice to a whisper. "'It should've been you.'"
Roaring at the top of his lungs, Nate lifted his trembling fist and, drawing it back, slammed it into Javier's face. The man fell backwards and crashed into an end table as he fell, breaking its legs and sending the lamp mounted on its surface to the floor. The flickering lamp rolling to his feet as Javier sat up and clenched his bruised cheek, Nate turned to look at Iris, ashamedly. Her expression one of surprise and fear, Iris' eyes glued themselves to Nate's fist. For a single, horrible moment the sounds of the motel bystanders reacting to the display of violence faded out of the range of audibility. As Nate's eyes met Iris' her face took on a veil of disgust.
"Iris..." Nate began, hoping that the rest of his words would come.
Still scowling at Nate, Iris turned and walked towards their room, turning down the corridor and out of Nate's field of vision. Nate swallowed hard, his throat clammy and dry. Still disoriented by the turn of events, he turned to look at Javier, who still stared up at him from the floor.
"Jay..." Nate muttered, a knot tying in his stomach.
"Don't." Jay said. "Get the kid. I'll crowd control."
Giving an awkward nod in the affirmative, Nate whirled around and briskly walked after Iris, leaving Javier to deal with the room full of worried civilians. Standing up and dusting himself off, Javier searched his mind for an excuse.
"<Relationship problems.>" He eventually said, laughing it off. "<He loves me really, I know he does.>"
The crowd stared at him, unimpressed with his story.
"<...I was considering moving back in with my mother.>" Javier offered, hopefully.
"Iris?" Nate called out, pushing the door to their motel room open and looking within. "Iris, are you there?"
Pushing the door all the way, Nate stopped dead in his tracks at what he saw. Iris sat on the king-sized bed towards the back of the room, her face unreadable. Before her, one of the bags of firearms they had purchased earlier had been opened, its contents sifted through. Sighing, Nate walked up to her and took a seat on the bed beside her, preferring to look at his hands than at her.
"You're going to do something dangerous again, aren't you?" Iris asked, the tone telling Nate that she already knew the answer.
Nate didn't move his head. "Yes."
Iris' head sank a little further into her chest. "That's why you hit Mr. Niebla, isn't it? Because he told you not to?"
"Yes." Nate answered, still not facing her.
"Are you going to hit me if I tell you not to?" Iris asked, looking towards Nate.
Nate finally spun to face her, visibly hurt by the implication. Resting a hand on Iris' hand, he gave her a reassuring look. "I'm not going to hurt either of you ever again. I swear it."
Iris looked away, removing Nate's hand from hers. "But I'm dangerous."
Nate nodded at her, understandingly. "So you do remember what you did."
"I didn't mean to." Iris mumbled, apologetically. "I saw you and Mr. Niebla in trouble and I..."
"Saved us, Iris." Nate interjected. "You did the right thing."
"But-" Iris protested.
"Never be afraid to use your powers to protect the people you care about." Nate said, almost to himself. "Never hesitate to hurt someone bad to save someone good."
"If I hurt someone, doesn't that make me bad?" Iris argued, her eyes watering.
Nate hesitated to answer. A brief moment of dead silence lingered before he remembered something. Reaching into his pocket, Nate drew the pink hairclip from his pocket and turned it over in his hands, running a thumb along the outline of the pink flower adorning it. Turning back to Iris, he leaned in close and affixed the clip to her hair, catching her off-guard.
"A hero does bad things to bad people. They do these things so good people don't have to. They do them so that good people can rest easy, knowing they're safe. A hero compromises their own morality for the good of the many, and they do it because they care more about the people around them than they do about themselves."
"What's 'morality'?" Iris asked, confused by the shift in vocabulary.
Nate simply laughed, removing his hands from Iris' head and admiring her new accessory. "Good question."
Iris smiled back at him for a moment before looking back to the guns. "Nate... What am I?"
At a genuine loss for words, Nate looked around the room as he struggled to answer.
"Well..." He eventually said, scratching his beard. "You have the powers, you have the morality; what else could you possibly be but a hero?"
Pleased by the response, Iris smiled once more and moved to hug Nate. "No, you are."
Nate hugged her tightly, ruffling her hair and savouring the moment for a while, a few tears welling up at the corners of his eyes. Right on cue, the door creaked open and Javier walked inside, drawing both Nate and Iris' attentions. The sounds of rain hitting the room's windowpane filled the silence as the two sides stared at one another. Javier shifted his hands to his sides and exhaled and Nate watched his eyes, apologetically.
"I'm sorry." Nate eventually said. "I'm just- I'm sorry, Jay."
Javier said nothing, walking towards the dinette and placing a hand on the duffel bag resting on it. As Nate and Iris watched, he unzipped the bag and looked through the weapons within. Once he was satisfied, he zipped it shut again and walked over to the two bags resting on the floor, repeating his actions. Once finished with his inspection, he stood up and faced Nate, his arms hanging at his side.
"So," He spoke, nonchalantly. "You gonna run this plan by me again or what?"
Nate quickly attempted to hide his genuine smile as he stood up from the bed, walking over to Javier and shaking his hand.
"Let me break it down." Nate said, pulling the scrap of paper he received earlier from his pocket.
"And you're sure about this?" Javier asked from the driver's seat of his sedan, his gaze shifting over to Nate, who sat beside him. "It's just that I've found myself asking a lot of questions lately and I'm feeling a little uncertain."
Nate nodded to him. "I asked Henchman to do a little snooping for me when I called him up, find me someone who works with Santigo. Someone who would potentially have some way of contacting him."
Javier looked back to the windscreen, uncertainly. "And he found you this guy?"
"You don't think he's good?" Nate asked.
"Nate, I don't think he's cognisant." Javier answered.
Nate followed Javier's gaze and looked out of the window. Outside, a homeless person clad in disgustingly filthy rags and holding a soaked picket sign that read 'hubris is the downfall of man' danced around wildly in the rain. Every so often, a pedestrian would pass him, trying to get out of the rain or walk home. In response, he would cease his erratic movements and leap in front of them, screaming at the top of his lungs about his esoteric social commentary in a manner which sent each one running. His hair long and unkempt and his moustachioed face resembling that of a pitbull's, the bum was quite the sight as he pranced about like a madman.
"I think he looks friendly." Iris added from the back seat.
"I think he looks infectious." Javier snarked.
"I think a lead is a lead." Nate said, firmly. "This is the only shot we have; I'm taking it."
"Your move, bro." Javier replied. "But if he starts peeing on you or on himself, I'm calling it a lost cause."
"Noted." Nate said, stepping out of the sedan.
The rain felt cool on Nate's exposed skin as he stepped from the warmth of the car and into the chill of the cold night and began his walk across the street and towards the screaming homeless man.
"Hey!" Nate called out over the rain.
The homeless man acknowledged his presence. "<The end is coming! Death shall only net more death, violence more violence!>"
"<Is that right?>" Nate chuckled, stopping beside him.
"<We live in a world of secrets and lies!" The man continued, raving loudly. "They all come out in the wash, all of them! Hubris is the downfall of->"
"<Yeah, I read the sign.>" Nate said, cutting his rant short. "<Are you Marco del Toro?>"
"<No! I have shed my previous identity!>" Marco yelled. "<We are all but tiny specks of dust on the windscreen of->"
Suddenly jolting forward, Nate grabbed Marco by the throat and dragged him bodily back to the car, the startled Marco screaming all the while.
"<Reaper!>" He cried. "<Bringer of death! Fallen angel, living demon! Let go of me, you blind fool!>"
"<Look, I do not have time to deal with you today.>" Nate said, firmly, opening the trunk of Javier's sedan and forcing a squirming Marco into it. "<Please don't think my actions reflect my usual temperament.>"
Javier watched what was unfolding from the driver's seat, shaking his head. "Iris, have you ever been an accomplice before?"
Iris blinked at him. "What's an accomplice?"
Javier turned his gaze back to the front of the car, sighing. "Just checking."
Outside, Nate finally pushed Marco into the trunk of the car, holding his flailing body down with his hands.
"<Cease and desist!>" Marco wailed. "<You are a harbinger of doom! You are- You're- P-Please don't kill me! I-I know my rights!>"
"<See?>" Nate said. "<Fear. I can work with fear.>"
With that, Marco's world became darkness as Nate slammed the trunk shut.
Marco del Toro had never been a very fortunate man. From the day he was born to his present situation, he had often found himself the victim of what most would describe as particularly terrible luck. On the day he was born, his alcoholic father left his mother for a cocktail waitress named Gloria and, in retaliation, his mother dumped him on his conservative grandmother and went on a journey of discovery which ultimately ended in a crackhouse in Peru.
Marco's grandmother was a rigorously fastidious woman. She would often criticise a resentful Marco for not doing even the most insignificant task to an arbitrary standard of her choosing and, as a former nun, her criticism usually took the form of a stick to the wrist. When the old battleaxe eventually died of natural causes, a 15 year old Marco immediately struck out on his own, joining a local gang and becoming a low-level drug dealer.
This development was not, however, fated to last very long. Marco was very quickly busted by the local authorities for selling product to an undercover police officer, landing him in juvenile hall for a few months. Inside, he found himself the frequent victim of the older boys' bullying and, upon being released, he eagerly sought about seeking a more legally compliant career path.
And so, with great enthusiasm, Marco became the cashier for a local fishing supplies store where he happily served customer for all of three months before he was shot in the leg during a stick up and subsequently fired for losing all of that week's earnings.
It was then that Marco fell in with a bad crowd of urban youths led by a, then young, Cannibal Santigo. Quickly befriending the older boy, Marco fast became Santigo's right hand man and, as the ambitious young criminal's influence widened, his most trusted follower. Marco admired everything about Santigo and Santigo saw the younger boy as a useful pawn in his grander schemes. One of those schemes included moving a large shipment of cocaine from Venezuela to Brazil without alerting the local authorities. In a moment of genius, Santigo set Marco up with a false shipment and alerted the police to his whereabouts, allowing him to take the fall whilst the real shipment made its transit peacefully.
When Marco was released six years later, hardened, miserable and hungry for revenge, Santigo extended a position as an enforcer in his recently developed criminal operation to him as an olive branch of sorts. Though he was reluctant to jump into bed with Santigo after his previous betrayal, Marco accepted the offer and began breaking legs and taking names in the name of the man he had just a short time ago wanted to kill.
This situation went on for a decade or so before Santigo decided to dock Marco's pay and demote him to slinging cocaine on street corners after a particularly unfortunate incident in which a half-drunk Marco accidentally lost twenty pounds of cocaine to a river. Disgruntled and adamant that he wasn't to blame for his utter failure, Marco gathered a few other likeminded criminals and staged a power grab against Santigo, hoping to storm his villa and forcefully take over his criminal empire.
Needless to say, it didn't work. When Marco and his group of twenty odd men arrived at Santigo's villa and attempted to climb the fence, they found, to their dismay, that it was a fence of the electric variety and, as they debated simply turning back and getting something to eat, Santigo's men exited the villa and shot most of them to death. Narrowly making it out with his life, Marco was the only survivor whose face was caught by a security camera when he tripped over a discarded rifle and landed right in front of it. His misfortune intensified when his captured cohorts readily gave up his name and address to Santigo's interrogators with little to no persuasion involved.
With Santigo's men hunting for him, his location compromised and the entire world about to crash down around him, Marco decided to go with the tried and tested tactic of taking on a new identity and fleeing the country, a feat which, to his surprise, was not easy to accomplish without the passport or legal documentation he rashly burned. With no money and no real identity, Marco had no real choice but to hide within the very country he was being hunted in. With more than a few tears shed, he resigned himself to hiding in plain sight, growing out his hair and taking on the role of an insane homeless man.
Unfortunately for Marco, however, he was a surprisingly adept method actor and, before long, he found it difficult to maintain the line between his role as an insane person and his actual personality. Before he realised it most of the nonsense he shouted at frightened passerbys was beginning to make sense to him. He began to see religious conspiracies where he hadn't seen them before and experienced a perverse sense of pleasure whenever he urinated all over himself.
And so, the journey of the unlucky Marco del Toro concluded much where it had begun: with a babbling idiot wetting himself because he felt like it. However, to Marco, it was an end which he saw as a fittingly happy one devoid of responsibility, consequences and, most importantly, Cannibal Santigo.
So, as he sat across from Nate at the dining table in his motel room and stared at the warm bowl of chicken soup placed before him, Marco felt as if his situation could only go downhill from here. Looking around at the duffel bags of assorted firearms only served to cement his sinking feeling.
"<How's your soup?>" Javier asked from the room's sofa, his arms folded across his chest.
"<Cold.>" Marco responded, flatly.
"Well, maybe if you weren't staring at it like an asshole." Nate suggested, scathingly. "You've got to be the only homeless guy I've met who isn't happy for a room and a bowl of brand name chicken soup."
Marco glared at Nate. "Not homeless, American. Living impaired. That's politically correct. I checked."
"So you do speak English." Nate said, waving off his words.
"We all did." Marco answered.
"So, why don't you just tell me what I want to know?" Nate insisted. "After that we can set you up here for a month or so with all the soup you could ever want."
"I already know what you want from me." Marco snarled, pure venom seething from his cut eyes. "You want el jefe: Cannibal Santigo."
Javier stood from the sofa and made his way over to the dining table, resting against it. "So you'll tell us how to get in touch with him?"
Marco stared at Nate for a moment. "I can see it in your eyes, American, so I only have one thing to say to you: you do not bring a war to a man like Cannibal Santigo and expect to live. One man or twenty, he will tear you up and spit you out."
Mulling over Marco's words, Nate leaned in closer and lowered his tone to a menacing growl. "I'll do it first."
Marco continued to stare into Nate's eyes for a few moments, sizing him up. Once finished, he turned his attention to his chicken soup and began to stir it with his spoon. "Of course you will. You are a killer yourself, no? But being a killer? No. It is not enough. If you want to go after a cannibal, you must be ready to bite back. I was not, and here I am: broken, penniless, scared. Are you? Can you do what other men could not, American?"
Nate didn't answer. "How do I contact Cannibal Santigo?"
Marco sighed, removing his hand from the spoon in his soup and resting both hands on his stomach. "I tell you only because I do not care what happens to you or your prey. There are two men, both young, who spend their days outside of a small bait and tackle shop a few blocks west from here. Monday to Friday, 12 to 10. They only leave to get food or use the bathroom. These men are drug dealers. They work for Santigo. Small time shit, but they're his cousins. They will have drop phones. You will use these to contact Santigo."
"I've seen that bait and tackle place." Javier added. "He ain't lying."
Nate processed the information, nodding slowly, his eyes panning over to the bed, where Iris snored softly. "We go there, we take out his men and we send him an invitation. That's the easy part, at least."
"I feel I will regret asking," Marco remarked, impassively. "But what is your beef with Santigo? Why go to all this trouble to draw him out?"
Nate stood, zipping open one of the duffel bags and retrieving a Smith & Wesson SW1911 from within it. Finishing the procedure by snapping a magazine into it and loading a bullet into its chamber, he holstered it in his pants and covered it with his shirt, taking a brief moment to sniff at the long-worn article of clothing. Once he was satisfied with the arrangement, he snatched Javier's car keys off the table and went to the door.
"Jay," He started. "Where's the nearest clothes store around here?"
"A block west, give or take." Javier surmised. "Why?"
"Feeling a little dank." Nate explained, opening the door. "I should look my best."
"Hey!" Marco called after him. "What is your problem with Santigo?"
Nate thought on his response for a second before turning to face the other two men, hands clenched at his side and the light from the hallway shining against his back.
"He's the villain."
With that, he walked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Papi Pops' Bait and Tackle was never a very popular shopping location and had become even less so in more recent years. Given the lack of safe or lucrative fishing areas nearby and the relatively small size of the establishment, it only seemed natural that business would be floundering, especially since its owner had opened up a new, more profitable location in another city.
Still, Papi Pops' poorly thought out location was of use to certain individuals of a less reputable trade. With its somewhat out of the way location, conveniently unused side alley and lack of curious pedestrians, Papi Pops' had become the go to place to buy and sell narcotics of every kind and, so long as he got paid a small cut to look the other way, the owner was all too willing to support local business in the area.
Purveyors of the local business themselves, Carlito and Ricardo Santigo waited out the rain in their alley parked lowrider, loud hip hop blazing from within.
"<Hey, I'm just sayin',>" said Carlito, rolling a joint in his lap. "<Michael Jackson had one of the highest selling albums of all time. He was a pop culture legend.>
"<Yeah, but Britney Spears started media storms all the time.>" Ricardo debated. "<She was a trendsetter. She's way more influential than Michael Jackson.>"
"<Years from now, people are going to remember Michael Jackson, brother.>" Carlito retorted, lighting his spliff. "<The King of Pop, one of the most popular solo artists of all time. Britney won't have shit on that.>"
"<Hit Me Baby One More Time!>" Ricardo shouted back.
"<Thriller.>" Carlito stated, simply.
Ricardo folded his arms, stubbornly. "<Rehab.>"
"<Paedophilia scandal.>" Carlito countered.
"<Okay, okay!>" Ricardo relented, taking Carlito's spliff and drawing on it. "<What about Shakira?>"
"<Fuck Shakira!>" Carlito sneered. "<Always with Shakira.>"
"<Shut up! I find her sensual yet charming.>" Ricardo snapped, defensively.
Just then, a knock on the window drew their attention. Fumbling with the spliff, Ricardo stuffed it in the ash tray before winding down the window. A skinny teenager, no older than 16, stood at their car.
"<Y-You guys holding?>" He stuttered, his head spinning left and right nervously.
"<Well, I don't know, friend.>" Ricardo smirked. "<We holding, brother?>"
"<Depends how much little man's got.>" Carlito crowed, tilting his head.
The boy quickly reached a trembling hand into his pocket, drawing a crumpled hand of money and handing it to them. "<Uh, I'd like some weed, please.>"
Ricardo snatched the money and began counting it. Finishing with a disapproving look, he showed it to Carlito with a mocking smile. Snorting, Carlito reached into the glove compartment and pulled a tiny bag of weed from within, tossing it to the startled kid.
"<Smoke up, boy.>" He taunted.
"<This is all?>" The boy cried, indignantly. "<Hey, I gave you a whole week's pay!>"
"<Get a better job.>" Ricardo laughed. "<Get the fuck out of here, kid.>
Huffing his disgruntlement, the kid stood and walked out of the alley, looking up at the raining sky. Flashing one last glare back at the laughing drug dealers, he ran across the road, passing a blue sedan waiting at the corner. As he passed, the car's driver called out to him.
"<Hey, kid.>" The voice called. "<Come here.>"
The boy stopped and turned to the sedan. Looking around to see if anyone else had called him, he hesitantly approached and stooped down to see who was within.
"<Yeah?>" He asked.
"<You just buy drugs from those guys?>" The driver inquired.
The boy bit his lip, worried. "<...A-Are you a cop?>"
"<No.>" The driver reassured him. "<Just a tourist looking to have a good time.>"
The boy turned to look at the lowrider before answering. "<Yeah. They sold me stuff. Not a lot of it, though.>"
"<Thank you.>" The driver replied, starting up the sedan's engine. "<Don't do drugs.>"
"<Whatever, man.>" The boy said, standing upright and taking his leave.
"<Okay,>" Ricardo blurted, back at the car. "<What about Christina Aguilera?>"
"<Eh, I don't like her.>" Carlito shrugged, taking another puff on his spliff.
"<But is she influential?>" Ricardo went on. "<Doesn't matter if you don't like her, the question is: is she's influent->"
"<Hey,>" Carlito interrupted, distractedly. "<Is that guy signalling at us?>"
Ricardo put a pin in the conversation and followed Carlito's gaze. Outside, a blue sedan sat across the street from the low rider, waiting on the corner of the road. Its headlights flashed on and off, as if signalling to them.
"<Hell if I know.>" Ricardo admitted. "<You think he wants to buy?>"
"<Nah.>" Carlito said, leaning back in his seat. "<If he wanted something from us, he'd come and let us know.>"
As if sparked into action by Carlito's words, the sedan surged forward at full speed and tore into the narrow alley, ramming the lowrider head on. Carlito and Ricardo screamed and jolted around as the sedan pushed them down the alley.
"<What the fuck?!>" Carlito squealed, dropping his spliff on the floor.
Both cars flew out of the alley as the sedan continued pushing the lowrider, ramming it into the wall of a convenience store and crumpling its rear and front. Disoriented by the crash, Carlito and Ricardo both stumbled out of the car, dizzily.
"<Brother?>" Ricardo called out, his hand moving to the fresh bruise on his forehead. "<Brother, are you okay?>"
"<Yeah...>" Carlito reported, grasping his injured leg. "<What was that?!>"
Its headlights still blinding both men, the sedan's doors swung open and its driver stepped out, his intimidating form blackened by the glow of the headlights and obscured by the now pouring rain.
"<Man, who the hell are you?!>" Carlito shouted at the mystery man, shading his eyes with his hand to get a better look.
The passenger reached through the car window and turned the headlights off, revealing himself. Clad in an open navy blue bodywarmer, a red t-shirt with a loose-fitting jeans and red and white sneakers, Nate Carter walked forward, his hands remaining at his sides and gave both men threatening looks. Both Carlito and Ricardo edged backwards at his stare, intimidated. Silently, Nate reached into the pocket of his bodywarmer, causing Carlito and Ricardo to jump and reach towards their guns. To their relief, however, he simply drew out a pair of orange-tinted aviators and silently slipped them on, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. Once the shades were on his face, he looked up at the two brothers again.
"I'm the hero." He said, curtly.
Carlito looked to Ricardo and Ricardo looked back at Nate as their hands shifted to the handguns sheathed in the back of their pants. His expression unreadable to both men, Nate simply maintained his passive position and watched them both as they waited to react.
"Do it." He dared them, his head tilting. "Try."
A flash of lightning and a roll of thunder gave way to action as Carlito and Ricardo both grasped their guns. Carlito was fast on the draw, bringing his gun to level with Nate and placing his finger on the trigger. Unfortunately for him, Nate was faster. His eyes widening at the SW1911 which had suddenly appeared in Nate's hand, Carlito prepared to pull the trigger just a fraction of a second too late. A single gunshot and a bullet burrowed its way into the dealer's right shoulder, causing him to drop his gun and scream. Ricardo had now drawn his gun, firing a few rounds at Nate as he dove over the hood of Javier's sedan and got to cover.
"You made a mistake, American!" Ricardo called, ducking behind his own car. "Do you know who we work for!?"
Nate smiled to himself. "Yeah, I do."
"<Damn it! I'm hit! Ricardo, I'm hit! Brother!>" Carlito called out, his hand placed over his bleeding shoulder.
"<Sit tight, brother!>" Ricardo yelled back, looking to his brother. "<Wait! I'm coming!>"
Gathering up his nerve, Ricardo popped out from behind his cover and aimed at Nate, roaring out. His show of courage, however, went unappreciated for, much to his surprise, Nate had vanished from his position. His breath made ragged by anxiety and exertion, Ricardo looked left and right, keeping his gun levelled.
"Ricardo!" Carlito called, urgently.
Ricardo grit his teeth in frustration. "<Carlito, I said I'm comi->"
The sound of a gun being cocked from directly behind him and the feel of a gun being pressed into the back of his head instantly prompted Ricardo to clam up and drop his weapon, raising his hands above his head.
"You took your eyes off the enemy." Nate informed him. "You don't wanna do that."
"O-Okay, don't- please don't shoot me." Ricardo begged, on the verge of tears. "Y-You want our supply? It's in the trunk, take it! I'll give you whatever you want, j-just please-"
"Your phone." Nate said. "Some frightened whimpers would be nice too."
Cannibal Santigo stood at the glass door to his backyard as he watched the rain fall from the sky above and run down the glass of the door, absentmindedly. All around him, his goons and gangbangers enjoyed the fruits of his labour, snorting coke off of his tables and watching his flatscreen, playing on his pool table and admiring his home decor. In a way, it sickened him that others would enjoy what his hard work and money had earned, but he had never been invested in the material rewards of his lifestyle and would most likely never be. So he stood and watched the rain fall, his hand flipping a butterfly knife as he waited for something. What that something was, he himself didn't know. Perhaps a call from the Cuban informing him of progress in finding the American spy? Perhaps for the spy to simply show up at his doorstep ready to fight like men? He wasn't entirely sure. What he was sure of, however, was that he wouldn't have much longer to wait at all.
The ringing of his phone in his pocket confirmed his premonition. Looking down at his pants, he reached into the pocket and drew a top-of-the-line smart phone from it, sliding his finger along the touch screen to answer it.
"Speak." He said, authoritatively.
"Cannibal Santigo?" The voice on the other end of the line spoke. "Alvarro 'Cannibal' Santigo? Are you him?"
Santigo stopped flicking his knife and narrowed his eyes, suspiciously. "Who wants to know?"
On the other end of the line, Nate Carter stood in the rain and kept his gun pointed at the kneeling Ricardo, pressing it against his temple. "The only man you want to talk to right now."
Santigo almost dropped the phone in sudden realisation. Placing his hand over the receiver, he turned to his men.
"Everybody get out!" He roared, loudly. "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
Their celebration coming to a sudden halt, the men all looked at one another, unsure of whether or not to take the order seriously.
"Was I unclear?" Santigo asked, rhetorically. "GET. OUT."
Accepting that the directive was indeed genuine, the house guests all dropped what they were doing and began filing out of the room, muttering to one another about their confusion or speculations. Once everyone was gone, Santigo walked to the centre of the room and raised the phone to his ear.
"You must be the American. Nate Carter." He said, affably. "I've been looking forward to this. I thought you would sound more southern."
"You did your research. Good." Nate stated. "Where's your assassin?"
"The Cuban?" Santigo laughed. "Evidently, he's out doing a very poor job of things. Who did you kill for this number?"
"None of your men died." Nate responded, looking to the cowering Ricardo and the bleeding Carlito. "Not yet."
Santigo clucked his tongue. "Hmm. And you call to what? To ask me to turn myself in? To broker a deal?"
"No deals. No surrenders." Nate denied. "I've called you to convey two very important pieces of information which are pertinent to your interests."
Santigo chuckled to himself. "What are they?"
"Firstly: I will not drag this out any longer." Nate continued. "If you want even a vague chance at getting your hands on the girl, you will have to destroy me for her and if you want to kill me, you're going to do it on my terms."
Santigo rested his hand on the edge of the pool table and leaned against it. "And what are those terms?"
"Your men will meet me and me alone at the location of my choosing and they will do everything in their power to kill me." Nate explained, pressing his gun even harder against Ricardo's skull. "If they succeed, the girl will have no defences, no one to protect her. You'll find her."
"And what if this is some sort of trap?" Santigo inquired, feigning concern. "What if you wish to lure my men into some sort of ambush, kill them all and use any survivor to locate me?"
"You don't care." Nate replied.
"...You really are everything I hoped you would be." Santigo said, genuine admiration in his tone. "But you're arrogant, aren't you? Just a little pig-headed - bloodthirsty. You think you alone can take me on? Do you have any idea how many people and resources I can throw at you without exhausting my supply?"
"Do you have any idea how many people I've killed with a handgun and a pocket full of toothpicks?" Nate countered with. "Send your men. Send a dozen or send an army, the result will be the same: I'll kill them and then I'll kill you."
Santigo's face contorted in outrage. "You think you can walk into my city, show up on my doorstep and kill me in my house?"
Nate gave a slight smirk. "I think I could do it blindfolded."
"Where?" Santigo asked with thinly-veiled rage.
Nate turned to look at a towering construction site in the distance, the same one he had seen from the plane as he flew into Caracas. "The construction site. Tallest one in the city. You'll know it."
Santigo nodded to himself, placing his hand on his hip. "And what's your second message?"
"A simple one." Nate said. "There's no stopping me. There's no worming your way out of this or bargaining. There's no hiding under rocks or bunkering down in your castle, waiting for me to give up. I want you to understand me fully when I say that I will kill you. You will fight back, you will beg me and you will die cursing my name. As I burn everything you've ever touched to the ground, you will lie in a pool of your own blood and you will only have yourself to blame. This was a mission to me. You made it about survival and self-preservation, but you failed to account for one thing."
Santigo walked back to the glass door on the other end of the line, his expression stern. "And what's that?"
Nate's expression turned sad, his tone sombre. "I'm never the one who dies."
Without hanging up, Nate dropped the phone to the ground and walked back to the sedan, holstering his gun. Ricardo crawled over to Carlito and helped him to sit up as they watched the stranger open the door of his car. Sirens could just about be heard through the rain as Nate looked back at them.
"<Y-You're a dead man.>" Ricardo warned, his teeth chattering.
Nate didn't respond as he climbed into the sedan. The rain still heavily pouring down, he drove away from the area, police cars passing him as he drove back to the motel. Pulling off his soaked glasses, Nate tossed them on the passenger's seat beside him and tensed his grip on the steering wheel. Giving a hard swallow, he pushed down on the gas and kept his tired eyes glued to the rain slicked road, flicking on the radio.
"<And it seems heavy rain is going to carry into tomorrow with no signs of stopping.>" The weather forecaster said. "Could this be the first sign of a flash flood? More details as we receive them, but-"
Nate turned the radio off.
Santigo hung up the phone and restlessly folded his arms across his body for a moment, pacing around the room. Pulling his phone up to eye level once more, he dialled in a number and held it to his ear, waiting for someone to pick up.
"Talk." The Cuban said on the other end.
"Listen." Santigo snarled, menacingly. "This is how we are going to kill Nate Carter."
