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

asked. “Because if that’s not getting your hands dirty, I don’t know what the hell is.”

“This is a wet crew, Leo. On this crew, drawing blood is you getting your hands dirty.”

“You don’t even know Yergha or Esty,” Leopold said.

“I bet they’ve gotten their hands dirty.”

“They have,” Cira confirmed.

Atlas looked at her and said, “You didn’t have the stomach to pull that girl’s body out of that hazardous waste bog back in Ukraine.”

“I thought she was Kaylee Barnes at the time,” Cira explained. “The thought of that was not just physically traumatizing, it hit me—”

“It wouldn’t matter if we were pulling Margaret Thatcher out of a Port-O-Potty. You either have a stomach for this line of work or you don’t. Leopold needs to find that out the hard way.”

“He’s right,” Leopold said.

There was a sudden knock on the window that made them all jump. He looked up and saw a good-looking Pakistani man who looked wired and tired. He was maybe five foot ten, a hundred and eighty pounds, longish brown hair that was thick and straight and fell to his shoulders. The scruff on his upper lip and the lower part of his chin made him look like he was getting close to his thirties, but the crow’s feet lines around his eyes told them he was getting closer to his forties.

“This guy looks like he’s been sucked through a hundred miles of hell’s asshole and spat out in this dumpy ass hotel.”

“That would be Yergha,” Leopold said as he rolled down the window.

“Hey,” Leopold said.

“Estella is in the room,” Yergha replied. “You need to check on her. She’s got to hear from you, boss.” The Pakistani looked at Kiera, then at Atlas. “Hi, I’m Yergha. I’m sure glad you two are here. Same with you guys, Cira, and Leopold.”

In their hotel room, Atlas met Estella Baccarin where she lay on the bed recovering from something horrific. She had a bag of ice on her face which she promptly rolled off of her face so that she could get a good look at everyone. Atlas couldn’t tell if she was pretty beneath the abuse or if that was just what he wanted to see in her.

“You’re Atlas Hargrove?” she asked, sitting up.

“In the flesh,” he replied.

Estella turned to Cira like she couldn’t believe it. “You hooked up with this guy?” she asked.

Atlas turned to Cira and said, “Does everyone know?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“She didn’t have to,” Leopold said.

“In his defense,” Cira said, “he’s trying to make sure the homies on the block don’t look at him and think about having a good time with his evacuation hole.”

“True story,” Atlas chimed in. “I clean up all right, though.”

“Speaking of cleaning up,” Cira asked, “what’s the room situation?”

Leopold said, “Yergha can stay with me, I want Kiera to stay with Estella, and that means Cira you’re with Atlas if that’s all right.”

“That’s fine by me,” she said.

Atlas had the feeling that she was disappointed that Leopold hadn’t chosen to share a room with her. “Yeah,” he added, “I’m good, too.”

Yergha handed them each a room key, then Atlas glanced over at Cira and said, “Shall we?”

“As long as your first stop is the shower.”

“Oh, trust me. It is.”

Atlas and Cira went to their room, opened the door, and frowned. To him, it didn’t look so bad, but his last bed was a concrete floor with a hole for a toilet.

Cira looked around and said, “Well, this is interesting.”

Atlas walked inside, sniffed the sheets then said, “I think someone just had sex in here.”

“Really?” Cira asked, flabbergasted.

“No,” he laughed. “But you should have seen your face.”

She shook her head and feigned a frown. “If there’s any pubic hair or blood in the bathtub, I’m getting another room.”

It turned out the bathroom was clean but the door’s lock didn’t lock, not that it needed to. Cira turned on the bathtub faucet, made sure there was hot water, then dropped in the drain plug and watched it fill up.

“As tempted as I am to burn your clothes,” she said, “you might be in them for the duration of this op. Or at least until we can find a thrift store or something.”

He walked into the bathroom, looked at her, looked in the tub, and then he looked back at her.

“What?” she asked.

“Are you hanging out?” he asked.

“Do you want me to?” she asked. “Because I can leave if you want.”

“I’m not sure yet,” he said. “Maybe we’ll play it by ear.”

He took off his shirt gingerly because he’d been kicked an awful lot in the last few days. He was proud of his lean muscle but he was also bothered that he’d lost some of his size being in solitary confinement.

“Jesus,” Cira said softly.

She was looking at the bruises all over him. Some were nastier than others, and one was really bad.

“The guards like to kick you when you’re down,” he said. “Makes them feel better to re-establish the pecking order.”

“They’re not supposed to beat the prisoners. The Bureau of Prisons has specific regulations. You guys have rights, too.”

“Sorry, but that’s crap,” he said. “You do what any of us did, or claim not to have done—because everyone in prison is innocent—you need guards who are willing and able to rule with an iron fist. That’s my opinion for what it’s worth.”

“How does it feel to be on the receiving end of it, though?”

He pulled off his pants and his legs were just as bruised. Cira looked shocked, and then she turned away, unable to see him like that anymore.

“From the guards, it’s fine. I mean mostly, we know it’s coming. It’s when it comes from the other inmates that it becomes a problem. You don’t always know what’s coming until it’s too late. For