Hunters - Matt Rogers (good novels to read TXT) 📗

Slater was silent. Violetta was unreadable. It was obvious Alexis’ head was spinning.

King loomed over Torres. ‘Who are you?’

Torres looked offended that King had opened his mouth. He glanced up for no more than a second.

‘Don’t talk to me, boy,’ he growled in English. ‘All of you follow. Now.’

Torres turned on his heel and strode for the entrance doors.

King gave the others a wordless look, one by one, that said, Whatever this is, roll with it. It’s our only shot.

Torres moved fast, but he was a small man, so King and Slater were on his heels before he made it to the doors. They slid open automatically when they detected his presence, and a wave of humid air hit like a thick damp towel draped over them. King had thought the warmth would be a relief from the too-cold artificial climate of the military building, but this was somehow worse. He hadn’t noticed it was raining outside until he walked out into it.

It was the wet season.

From experience, King knew there was no climate more uncomfortable. It was hot, humid, and stormy: a brutal combination. The temperature must be high-eighties, which wasn’t the end of the world, but combined with ninety-five percent humidity it constricted them like an invisible blanket, drawing sweat from their pores and inching their heart rates upward even as the thick sheets of rain beat down on them.

The four of them made a sorry sight, milling around out front of the sprawling brick building, waiting for Torres to explain what on earth was going on. The squat man had stopped a dozen feet from the entrance, facing away from them, staring at a cracked asphalt road and the unkempt tree line beyond. It was jungle terrain, which meant the building they’d come out of was some military installation past the outskirts of San Salvador.

Above the roar of the downpour, King shouted, ‘Where are we?’

Torres spun, venom in his eyes. The hair on the sides and back of his head was matted to his skull, and streams of water ran down his face, pouring off the bridge of his nose.

‘Did you hear me before?!’ he screamed back. ‘Don’t talk to me. You’ve already ruined everything. Pinche gringo.’

He spat the last insult. Fuckin’ white boy.

He spun back, refusing to look at the four people he’d saved from certain death.

King glanced at Slater, who was just as confused.

Slater muttered in King’s ear, ‘He clearly hates us. He’s being forced to do this. You got old friends in El Salvador or something?’

‘That’s what the guy in there asked me. No, I don’t. Do you?’

But he already knew the answer from the look on Slater’s face.

Also no.

A janky old car rumbled into sight, its headlights shining in the gloom of the storm. It was a Nissan Frontier, probably from the early 2000s, dark green in colour. The windows weren’t tinted, but it was hard to see through them in the lowlight. There seemed to be a driver and no other passengers. The old pickup choked and spluttered off the connecting road and into the small inlet in front of the military building. It pulled up alongside Torres, spraying him with rainwater kicked up from the tyres. He didn’t react. Just threw the passenger door open and ducked his head inside.

King and Slater strode up behind him, and Violetta and Alexis followed.

They couldn’t see the driver past Torres’ squat frame, but the voice was female. They overhead the conversation. They spoke almost too fast for King to translate but he got the gist.

Torres said to the driver, ‘That’s it. No more.’

The driver said, ‘You don’t get a say.’

‘I swear—’

‘That’s it,’ she agreed, conceding. ‘For now.’

‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘There’s four of them. And only four seats.’

‘I’ll jump in the tray.’

‘No, you won’t.’

‘Fuck you, puta.’

‘I’m sorry, papi. Sort out your own ride home.’

Torres slammed the door and stormed away from the car, cursing to no one in particular. He didn’t give the quartet a second look. His arms swung by his body as he powered back to the military building, clearly uncomfortable about having to confront the interrogator a second time.

King threw the passenger door open again, finally laying eyes on the driver. She was maybe thirty, with caramel skin and silky black hair tied back in a tight bun. She wore jeans and a black windbreaker despite the choking humidity. The clothing hugged her body, tight around her hips and bosom. She stared out at him without blinking. She didn’t wear makeup but her features were sharp, with the jawline of a model.

He said, ‘Antônia?’

She smiled. ‘Get in.’

52

Every footwell besides the driver’s was soaked with rainwater in seconds.

Rivulets ran down off their sodden clothes.

King took the passenger seat and Slater, Violetta, and Alexis squashed themselves into the back. As soon as the doors were closed Antônia accelerated away from the building. The old Nissan croaked its way back onto the road and trundled away until it was surrounded by thickets of jungle trees on both sides.

The din of rain on the roof was colossal.

Before he spoke, King took stock. His arm was a pulsating mess of damaged muscle, and he kept it folded in his lap, intent on leaving it stationary for the next few days. His nose was still grossly swollen, but it didn’t hurt in comparison to his head. It felt like someone was gripping the back of his brain and squeezing. It was a relentless headache, created by moving his head around over the last twenty-four hours with no regard for his mangled septum. Then there was the bullet wound in his shoulder, but that wasn’t so bad, mostly superficial. He could barely feel it under the bandaging. Apart from that, he ached everywhere. He was bone tired, depleted of calories and hydration, overworked and undernourished. With a few days rest, he’d be back in high spirits, but he had no idea when rest would come.

No noise came from the back. Slater was clearly hurt, Alexis