The Divorcee Murder Club

Cincuenta Y Dos ~ 52

              Glass from above shatters as team Delta comes crashing through the skylights. It’s almost like a movie as they land on the catwalk, and disconnect from their tethers, then aim their automatic rifles below without a blink. 

But this isn’t Hollywood, and I must find my friend.

Dropping into a squat, I feel around on the ground searching for Jackson as team Charlie mows down the Hellions with their rifles. The fire exchange flickers in the dimness like a strobe light at Penthouse, allowing me to see just enough as my fingers graze an odd texture like sand. When I bring them into view, there’s white powder dusting the tips. Cocaine? I dab a finger on my tongue and taste the bitterness, along with a numbing sensation. No wonder I can hardly see. Every time the crates are struck, they explode, and send the cocaine into the air like a cloud of dust. 

“Jackson!” I shout and continue to feel around while making my way to the stairs. “Jacks!”

I trip over a pair of legs and feel the ground for the body, but Jackson doesn’t have a long beard. My feet finally hit the stairs, so I begin to hike while shouting for him. Then, a pair of hands grab my shoulders and haul me onto the catwalk. 

“I’ve got you, man!” Jackson’s dark bald head comes into view.

A stray bullet whizzes by, so I throw my arms around him, and we collapse with a clang onto the metal landing. For a moment, we lay there catching our breaths with hands covering our ears as the mayhem goes off with strobes of light and crackles like fireworks. Moonlight trickles in from the broken skylights, and clouds drift by.

“What the hell happened?” I shout.

“I dunno. I turned around and you were gone,” he says. “I thought you got shot.”

“I thought you did too.” But we don’t have time to dilly-dally, so I roll onto my knees and begin crab-walking forward. “Come on! Let’s get to Alma.”

From up here, it looks like a battlefield as dead Hellions and cartel lay on the ground or across broken crates. Those that remain exchange gunfire from behind cover like cowboys at dawn. Most of the tall stacks of wooden crates are in shambles and look more like heaps for a bonfire, and the cocaine is like white sand surrounding them. But this isn’t a beach, and every few feet, danger pings off the metal railings as we escape from getting shot. 

Through the chaos, I spot the white vans that Lucas said the women would be transported in, and a trail of cartel from team Alpha making their way. We continue scooting along, and ducking as more crates explode, catapulting debris toward us. Carlos and the others leap off the catwalk and onto the vans, their boots landing heavily and leaving dents in the roof. Team Charlie should already be at the vans, and have hopefully killed off the Hellions guarding the women, but we won’t know until we get there. So we follow Carlos’s steps and jump from the railing onto one of the vans, landing with a giant thunk. Jackson’s ankle almost rolls, but I grab him by the shirt so he doesn’t slide off. 

“You good?”

“Peachy,” Jackson grunts. “I’ll worry if I sprained it later.” 

“Alright. Come on.” I slide down the hood, and land on the cement. 

Broken glass crunches beneath our boots as we weave around the vans, then come upon team Alpha and Charlie holding what remains of the Hellions at gunpoint under bright fluorescent lights that dangle from beams. There is no value in fighting now, so they’re on their knees with hands behind their heads, and snarling like dogs. 

Defeat sucks.

“Looks like we ruined your party!” Gustavo kicks the legs out of one of the Hellions who refuses to kneel.