TWENTY-FIVE

Since arriving home, Officer Alex Sanchez had eaten dinner with his family, showered and changed into some more comfortable attire. He had then sat down to watch some television with his wife, Sheryl. Now, dressed in their pyjamas, he and his wife peered in through the doorway of their three-year-old son’s bedroom. The soft, soothing lullaby rock-a-bye baby could be heard playing from a wind-up toy on the nearby bedside table as the boy slept peacefully.

“Looks like the little one had a big day,” Sanchez smiled, draping an arm around his wife’s shoulder and reeling her in closer. “Believe it or not, so did I, miel.”

“Really? You wouldn’t know it by looking at you,” Sheryl poked her husband playfully in his bloated belly. “Is that takeaway food in there, or is your belly just happy to see me?”

Sanchez flinched at his wife’s pointy-fingered touch, a playful grin spreading quickly across his face. “Come on, miel, you know me better than that. I’m on a diet, remember?”

“Mmm, I know you alright…” she said softly as she found his lips. “But unfortunately for you I’ve also gotten to know your new partner, and let’s just say I’ve been having him keep an eye on you!”

“What?!” Sanchez nearly choked on his own saliva as he pulled away from her. “You’ve been talking about me with Benny?!”

Sheryl smiled, reaching up and patting him on the side of his flabby cheek. “Well, clearly it pays to keep tabs on you. Your partner is a good snitch, but his social skills still leave something to be desired.”

“Well, that’s just great!” Sanchez snorted. “I can’t even go out to lunch without being spied on. I feel like Big Brother is watching my every move!”

“Don’t you dare try to play the victim in all this.” Sheryl turned and began walking down the hallway towards the kitchen. “You made a promise to me, miel, and you broke it. That hurts.”

“Come on, Sheryl, you know I’m sorry, ” Sanchez followed after her with a grin. “Besides, I promise you I’ll start a new diet. Next month.”

“Yeah?” Sheryl walked over to the sink and began to wash the pile of dishes that had built up from dinner. “And how many times have I fallen for that one?”

Sanchez came up from behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and groping her neck. “This time I actually mean it. Honest, I do.”

Sheryl rolled her eyes, putting the first plate aside. “Trusting you is like trusting a dog to guard food.”

“Si, I know, I’m terrible,” Sanchez let his lips run brush softly against her ear. “But from now on, honest will be my new middle name. I’ll do it this time, I promise.” He picked her up and then sat her down on the counter. She squealed in surprise as her butt ended up in the foamy sink, the water soaking right through her underwear.

“Easy, azúcar,” Sheyl whispered as Sanchez began to fondle with the buttons of her top, looking to undo them. “If you’re going to get frisky then we should probably go to bed first.”

Sanchez glanced around the kitchen with a sheepish grin. “You’re right. We wouldn’t want the little one to come walking in, would we?” He picked her up and carried her over his shoulder down the hallway to their bedroom, dumping her down on the end of the bed. But then suddenly, just as she lay waiting for him to pounce, their front doorbell started to ring.

“Mierda!” Sanchez cursed to himself in disbelief. “You’ve got to be shitting me!”

The doorbell rang again.

“Forget it,” Sheryl whispered, blowing a stand of long dark hair from her eyes. “It’s past 1:00 am, Alex. Leave it. It’s probably just kids, like the last time.”

The doorbell rang for a third time.

Sanchez turned back to his wife. “No, I really should get it. This late, it could be an emergency.”

“Fine,” Sheryl sighed and rolled over, turning her back to her husband. “Just don’t be expecting anything from me when you get back!”

Sanchez’s shoulders dropped sadly as he made his way down the hallway towards the front door. The bell rang three more times in quick succession as he approached. “This better be fucking good,” he growled to himself as he clicked off the safety latch and edged the door open, peering outside to the dimly-lit porch.

Sanchez’s young partner, Benny Pupshaw, was standing there waiting for him. He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a worn brown leather jacket. His hands, which were gloved, dangled awkwardly at his side in closed fists. The kid looked completely different out of uniform; older somehow.

“Benny?” Sanchez asked, his tired brain slow to process what his eyes were seeing.

“Alex,” Pupshaw stepped forward into the light. His eyes were bloodshot and tired, with dark circles hanging beneath them like the nooses of a hangman. “I need your help.”

“Jesus, you look like a bag of shit, Benny. What’s wrong? You get dumped by your date?”

“Alex, this is serious! Can I come in?”

Sanchez looked at him with a suitably puzzled expression. Something just didn’t quite sit right. “Damn, kid, are you high? Do you realise how late it is? My kid’s already asleep, and my wife is waiting for me to come back to bed. This is hardly the time to be paying your partner a visit just to discuss your non-existent sex life.”

Pupshaw glanced around, looking up and down the dark street. “Do I look like I’m playing around here, Alex?! Look, we really need to talk. So please stop being a smart-arse and open the fucking door!”

Sanchez studied his partner. A layer of sweat had started to form on the kid’s face. He was certainly spooked about something.

“What drugs are you on?” Sanchez asked. “Go sleep it off, then come see me in the morning!”

“Please, Alex,” Pupshaw persisted, a sense of urgency creeping into his voice. “This is really fucking important. It’s Fido; he’s in some serious trouble. Some of the boys in uniform found him out on the street an hour or so ago. He was standing over a dead man with a machete. If they question him and he cracks… they might come for us next! We helped him, remember?! We’re the ones who too him to meet your buddy General Gomez for fuck’s sake!”

As soon as Fido’s name was mentioned, Sanchez unlatched the door. He would instantly come to regret his decision.

“Dumb move, kochon!” A distinctly Caribbean voice suddenly screamed out from somewhere out of view. “Dumb-fucking-move!”

No sooner was the lock undone when a swarm of tar-black faces came charging into view from all sides, blotting out Benny Pupshaw completely. Dreadlocks were flying everywhere as one of their number booted open the door, smashing Sanchez right in the jaw and sending him crashing back down the hallway.

With blood trickling from his lips and his head still spinning from the violent knock, Sanchez looked up in absolute horror as the Haitians from Loa Lacroix’s crew entered his family’s home, howling and hungry for blood like the famished wolves they were. There were around eight of them, all armed with shotguns and assault rifles. He knew all their names. He knew all their faces. And he knew that he and his entire family were suddenly in a whole world of peril. He cursed himself for being so stupid, not only for answering the door unarmed but to unlock it. It was just as the Haitians had said: dumb move.

The red-mohawked savage known as Jacky Sanders was the first in through the door, shotgun in hand, laughing like a lunatic in a straight-jacket. “Knock, knock, kochon fucker! Guess who’s here?!” He shouted, swishing his head around crazily from side to side. “Don’t answer, I be telling you who! Them who about to fuck your wife, rip your little boy’s head off and bath in your kochon blood while you be watching!”

The others behind Sanders all howled with laughter, as though they’d just heard the best joke that had ever been told to mankind.

“No…” Sanchez breathed. “Please, just go! Get out of here!”

His pleas only drew more laughter and taunting from the rowdy crowd, who were now standing over him, prodding, poking and teasing him.

“Take me!” Sanchez persisted. “I won’t fight you. Just leave my family be!”

“Not a fucking chance, kochon!” Sanders howled hysterically. “I be seeing photos of your wife. Tonight she be all mine! I gonna give her the best night of her life!”

The gas-masked Tommy Claymore was the last of the group to enter. The crowd of Haitians parted obediently for him like the Red Sea for Moses to let their posse’s second-in-command through to the front.

“So, here we be,” Claymore spoke in his usual monotonous, robotic accent. “Baron Samedi be telling us that you be friends with the white-boy kochon!”

Sanchez frowned up at him in confusion. “White-boy kochon? Who…?”

“The one who be hunting us like fucking sheep from city to city!” Claymore cut him off with a sudden aggressive burst of anger that could only just be detected through his artificial voice box. “You be helping him to find us! You be selling away our lives like fucking whores on a street corner!”

A look of understanding appeared in Sanchez’s eyes. Somehow, someway they knew about his history with Fido. But the how of it all was the real question. The mystery did not take long to solve; a second later the young Benny Pupshaw walked in through the crowd, taking up a position behind the group’s leader.

Sanchez’s wide, terror-filled eyes flashed from Jacky Sanders, to Tommy Claymore, before finally coming to a rest on his traitorous partner. Benny Pupshaw looked both physically and mentally ill now; he was pale and sweaty and he kept glancing down at the floor, as though he felt uncomfortable looking into his partner’s eyes.

“Benny…?” Sanchez nearly choked on his own fear. “What is this? What are you doing? How did they get to you?”

But at that moment Pupshaw looked down into his partner’s eyes and all at once his awkward body language faded. A twisted, sadistic smile appeared on face. He knew exactly what he was doing; he was selling out his partner straight down the river Styx, and he was enjoying it.

“Fuck you, Alex,” Pupshaw said with a growl. “I never liked you anyway, you fat lump of shit! This day has been coming for some time.”

“Monsters! Get away from him!” Suddenly a loud scream echoed out through the entire house, jolting everyone to attention.

The Haitians and Pupshaw all looked up to find Sheryl Sanchez standing there at the end of the hallway. She was dressed in her silk pyjamas, the barrel of her husband’s 9mm Glock 17 levelled at them in her shaking hands.

Even though the Haitians were all heavily armed and their weapons were loaded, none of them fired. They just watched on, more so out of amusement than anything else. They saw no real threat in her.

“Evening, Sheryl.” Pupshaw smiled over to her.

Sheryl gasped, instantly recognising his voice. “Benny?!” But then her surprise dissolved and her primal instincts kicked in, screaming out for her to protect her husband, her house and her family. “Don’t you move, you fucking snake! I mean it! None of you!” Despite the strength in her voice, her entire body was shivering, her weapon’s crosshairs swaying about in her untrained hands.

The Haitians all poked their tongues out, taunting and jeering her.

“I want you all to leave my husband alone and get the fuck out of my house, right now!” Sheryl screamed, her voice starting to falter just slightly. “Anyone who stays is fucking dead!”

Pupshaw was about to say something but then Jacky Sanders rested a hand on his shoulder to stop him, stepping forward to the front of the Haitian pack. He handed off his shotgun to one of the others. “Nah, this slut be mine.”

The others all nodded in understanding. They knew better than to try getting in the way of Sanders and a woman.

“Well? Come on then, kochon bitch!” Sanders’ eyes lit up as he took a step towards Sheryl. “Shoot me! But wait, can you really be doing it?! It takes more guts than you think to pull the trigger. I be wondering, have you got it in you?!”

“Oh my god, Sanders, don’t!” Sanchez cried out from the floor. “Don’t you dare touch her! Sheryl, honey, just shoot him! Do it! Shoot him now!”

Sheryl said nothing. The breath was trapped in her throat. The shaking in her hands was intensifying.

The murderous Haitian wolf whistled, taking another step closer to her. “Go ahead, do as he says! Shoot me, kochon bitch, I don’t be giving a shit! Whether I’m bleeding or not, I still be fucking you tonight!”

“Shoot him!” Sanchez continued to scream. “Kill him now! Kill them all!”

Sheryl slowly began backtracking down the hallway, Sanders stalking her every step of the way. Then she came to wall at the end and suddenly she had nowhere else to go.

“Please, don’t!” Sheryl whimpered. “I’ll shoot you! I really will!”

“No, kochon bitch, you fucking won’t!” Sanders pushed her back roughly against the wall, slapping her weapon aside. He grabbed her by the throat with one hand, ripping open the front of her clothes with his other, his breathing increasing rapidly as he saw her exposed flesh.

Sheryl clawed at her attacker in a futile effort to free herself, but Sanders was far too strong for her. Her throttled her and shook her around, then he dragged her kicking and screaming down the hallway into the main bedroom. Once he was there, he tore off the rest of her clothes, using the rags to tie her hands and feet, and then he threw her down onto the bed.

“No!” Sanchez wept uncontrollably, but he never got to see what happened to his wife as several of the other Haitians swarmed past him, blocking his view and heading straight for his son’s bedroom. A second later two of them emerged carrying the boy between them, tugging and pulling at the now screaming child, like a par of young siblings fighting over a toy.

“Hold him up! Now!” Tommy Claymore commanded them. “Be keeping him still!”

The two Haitians did as they were told, holding the kid up by his arms and legs right in front of Sanchez.

Behind the other Haitians, the traitorous young Benny Pupshaw walked outside. He had no wish to watch the bloody spectacle that was about to commence.

“Tell me about him,” Tommy Claymore said to Sanchez, drawing a long glistening knife from a sheath in his belt. “Tell me about the white-boy kochon; the one who be hunting us.” He moved in close to Sanchez’s son, holding the blade up to his throat. “Tell me everything.”

“You bastardos…” Sanchez slobbered. “You cowardly fucking bastardos…”

“No promises for you, but if you tell me everything you know, I be making it quick for your wife and son,” Claymore said. “I want to be knowing who he is, where he lives and whoever he fucks! Tell me now, kochon. Let’s not be making this an unnecessarily long night.”

...

Benny Pupshaw watched on from the front-yard across the street as the Haitians finally emerged the Sanzhez house, almost a full hour later. Most of them were covered in blood, laughing along like a drunken crowd leaving the pub at the end of a big night out. He took out his phone and dialled a number, watching as all but two of their number hopped into their cars and sped off together.

“Yeah?” Detective Randy picked up on the other end. “Sorry kid, you’d better make this quick. I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

“Lacroix’s crew has just finished up,” Pupshaw said, watching on as the remaining two Haitians finished their job, taking a pair of gasoline cans and pouring them all through the house. “I did everything you asked of me.”

“Nice work, kid,” Randy said. “Truly, good job.”

“Fuck the compliments,” Pupshaw said. “I didn’t agree to do any of this for free. Just get me my money. Double the usual, as was promised.”

“It will be taken care of. Tucker and Grimes will deliver it to you personally tomorrow at the usual time and place. I will be in touch again if any more jobs come up.”

“Thanks.” Pupshaw hung up and returned his phone to his pocket.

Once the last two Haitians had finally finished up their work and sped off after their colleagues, Pupshaw walked over and got out a cheap plastic zippo lighter from his coat. He lit it up and tossed it inside through the open doorway. The flames instantly ignited the gasoline trail the Haitians had made. Then Pupshaw turned and walked off into the night as the entire Sanchez residence turned into a blazing inferno behind him.