The Beasts of Juarez by R.B. Schow (story books to read .txt) 📗

on her, and then he envisioned her having her clothes torn from her battered body. He started to shake with rage as he envisioned guy after guy having his way with her.

When he opened his eyes, he didn’t feel so much pain. With a growl, he felt like he wanted to rip the skin off of these motherfuckers.

Putting the Spark in gear, he pulled around the other side of the neighborhood, found a long spot along the sidewalk in front of what looked like an abandoned house, then parked the car and got out carrying the M4 and the Sig. The shot-to-shit Chevy was an eyesore—a single storm cloud in an otherwise clear sky. He didn’t care. He was the one with the guns.

In the back of the hatchback, Yergha grabbed two more magazines for the M4, a holster and a second mag for the Sig, the double hand grenade pouch for his two hand grenades, and a tactical blade he attached to his belt. He loaded up the tactical belt with everything he could, put it on then stuffed the extra magazines in his pants pockets.

He closed the hatch, walked through the neighborhood, nodded to a pair of older women sitting on their porch eyeing him suspiciously.

“Just another Pakistani nutcase wandering through your neighborhood, ladies,” he mumbled to himself.

Around the corner, he saw the house, snuck up to one of the front windows. A dog started barking inside the house, a frothing at the mouth Rottweiler from what he could see. He jerked his head away from the window. If people in other houses were seeing him, they were either keeping to themselves or they were calling these scumbags to alert them to Yergha’s presence.

“Shut that damn dog up!” one of the guys inside the house shouted.

“¡Demon, silencio!”

Feeling like whatever small window of opportunity he had was closing fast, he slunk around the back of the house and took cover behind the Suburban he and Esty shot up earlier. He peeked inside the vehicle, saw blood everywhere. In the back seat, he saw one of the dead guys curled up like he’d been stuffed there and left behind.

Heading for the backyard, he eased open an old wooden gate, then checked what windows he passed. Most of them were covered with blinds or blackout drapes. He counted what he thought were four rooms and a bathroom but he couldn’t get a clear idea of how many guys were inside the house.

Beads of sweat gathered along his brow, in his armpits, across the nape of his neck, and at his lower back. Right now she could be getting raped or killed. He clenched his sphincter because he felt a sudden shifting of his colon. Was this fear or anger supercharging him? Or was it a bit of both? His rage would only carry him so far. After that, he would have to rely on his skills, his ammunition stores, and a lot of good luck.

“Sack up, knuckled up,” he whispered, psyching himself up for this.

He was turning the corner of the house when someone kicked open the back door and bounded down the steps. This guy walked to the back of the yard—which wasn’t more than twenty feet from the back door to the fence—unzipped his fly, and started to piss. He was humming a tune, lost in his own world.

Yergha peeked around the house and saw two windows with coverings over them. He couldn’t imagine any of those guys peeping on their homie, so Yergha tightened his focus and moved in on the man.

He unsheathed his tactical blade as he closed the distance between them. In one swift move, he stabbed the guy in the ribs and covered his mouth. The blade went in a little rough, but it got through a pair of ribs and likely punctured the liver.

The slight shift of his body exposed more of his ribs. Yergha jerked out the blade then drove it into the man’s side four inches higher, puncturing his lungs.

The guy’s knees softened as he arched his back in pain.

Yergha then ripped the blade out, stepped belly-to-back to the man, and swung the knife around the front of him. The tip of the blade pierced the base of the man’s dick or balls. He couldn’t be sure which part of the genitalia he struck, but it didn’t really matter.

“How many men inside?” he asked, the tip of the blade still in him.

The man was moaning, cursing to himself, not cooperating fast enough. He covered the man’s mouth again and slid the blade into his business a bit deeper. The cries of pain against his cupped hand were making Yergha nervous but he needed intel.

“How many?” Yergha asked.

When the man stopped crying, Yergha uncovered his mouth so he could speak.

“Seven.”

“Where is the girl?”

“Baño,” he said, sobbing.

“How many bathrooms in that dump?”

“One,” he said, trying to get control of himself. In an attempt to salvage some of his dignity, he stopped crying long enough to say, “You’re dead, asshole. I’m dead, but you’re dead too. I’ll see you in hell, cabrón.”

Yergha shoved the blade into the man’s junk, then turned it hard and tore it out in a downward line. The guy folded over, a pained squeal escaping him. The minute he folded forward, Yergha yanked the blade out then plunged it deep into the man’s throat.

He knew from his training back home that to merely stab someone was not enough. That was why he twisted the blade inward and pulled it through most of the man’s neck. All kinds of gore dumped out of the open hole. He helped the man fall down slowly then he pushed him over, sheathed the blade, and gripped the M4.

Knowing the bathroom was around the side of the house from