‘It’s too dangerous,’ my father says.
‘You’ll never make it,’ Austin says.
I purse my lips and continue packing my stuff that Paris inherited. ‘I’m determined to leave Mexico, Diablo or no Diablo. You guys can stay.’
‘Payton, it’s too dangerous,’ Austin says. ‘Maybe wait a while for …’
I zip up a suitcase and pat it down.
‘Fine,’ Austin says in a resigned voice, ‘we’ll leave after midnight.’
To my disappointment, my father does not offer to go with me. But I understand - he’s old and scared I guess.
Austin appears thoughtful. ‘We’re gonna need the villagers help here. I’ll get Jack to organize that.’
I nod. ‘Thanks Austin.’
We’re all packed and ready and I can hardly wait for nightfall. I’m fighting to keep my eyes open, but I refuse to sleep. I’ll sleep when I get to America.
At 6 PM I step outside the house for some air and look straight into Diablo’s hideous face.
As in my nightmares my scream lodges in my throat and as in my nightmares he towers menacingly over me. Déjà vu all around.
He has a posse - about twenty hairy, tattooed men and two women, all on horseback all staring at me.
Diablo stares as if he’s seeing a ghost. ‘I thought I killed you,’ he says and grabs me by the neck.
Like someone lost in a trance, I can only gape at him. He jabs a gun under my chin and sticks his puce face in mine. Imagine, I cheated death only to be killed again by the same monster. What are the odds of that? Could my life suck any more?
‘Listen fucker,’ I hear myself say, ‘you got the wrong chick. I’m no spy, okay?’
Okay, I’ve travelled for two days, I’m dehydrated, exhausted from the harsh mountain climb, my feet are shredded from the jagged rocks and I’ve probably got sunstroke – my mind is AWOL.
His grip on my neck tightens and his gun jabs harder into my neck.
‘You wanna kill me? Do it. Just make sure you do it right this time, huh?’
Okay, I having one of those out-of-body-experiences people talk about. This can’t be me asking this barbarian to kill me.
There is a collective gasp around us as surprise registers in his bloodshot eyes. I doubt anyone has ever spoken to the miserable, cranky bastard like this before.
‘Why? Huh? Tell me why? Why the fuck are you so desperate to kill me, huh? What are you scared of?’ To my surprise, my voice is low, controlled, impatient, but not at all scared. ‘You that afraid of a chick, you actually have to kill her? Huh, you fucking shithead?’
The place is so quiet, I can hear a clock ticking. Or is it my heartbeat? I can’t tell right now.
‘Apologize!’ My father shouts.
‘Fuck him!’ I say. ‘I’m not apologizing to this asshole!’
Diablo’s bushy eyebrows shoot up and a wry smile appears on his repugnant face. He cocks his gun. What’s worse than being shot in the chest by Diablo? His 9mm – cocked and cold under my chin.
‘You think I’m scared to die, you bastard? I’m not. But you shot me three times and I’m still here. Back from the dead. How many times do you need to try before you give up, eh? Seriously Kong, you’re a lousy hitman. I mean, look at me - I’m still fucking alive.’ Did I just say those things? I’m possessed for sure.
I feel his hold on my neck slacken and I’m surprised I still have my remaining four lives.
Then to my absolute horror, I slap him across the face. This is me going nuts. Having a breakdown, meltdown – whatever the fuck you call it. If I survive this, I’m probably going to be institutionalized in the same mental hospital Enfermera escaped from.
The ticking of the clock – now sounds like a church gong now and I feel a prayer coming on.
As I walk to the …how do you say it? As I walk into the …As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …
For seven long seconds nothing happens and I stare, mesmerized by his finger hovering over the trigger. One tap of his finger and I’m a milagro no more. Sobering thought - the kind that forces you to race to the nearest public restroom.
Then I hear the sound of guns being cocked behind him. I look past him at his men. They want to kill me themselves.
‘You are going to get ripped to shreds, gringa,’ one of his men says.
Oh, I believe him. I really do.
I look past Diablo and see my family’s horrified faces. Elaine’s hands are across her mouth, while my dad gapes with hands on top of his head. As for Austin - he looks the colour of fresh cement, while Paris chews furiously on her talons, her shoulders locked into a hunch.
From the corner of my eye I see Carvil, a village elder get on his knees and place his forehead to the ground, probably to pray for my soul that is heading for hell anytime now.
To my absolute astonishment, Diablo slowly lowers his gun, his eyes fixed on mine.
The older woman, Christa, who must be his mother, steps forward and shoves her gun in my cheek.
That hurts. Did she not see me slap him?
‘I am going to turn you into a tea strainer,’ she says, a sinister smile on her face.
They have tea strainers in Mexico?
Diablo snaps at her in Spanish. Reluctantly she lowers her gun, her eyes hard and blazing.
‘Let me shoot her, Diablo,’ she says. ‘Please.’
‘Si, shoot the gringa, Diablo,’ the younger woman says. This must be the slutty sister, Santana. Slowly, she circles me and taps her riding crop on her palm. Her eyes are narrow, her nostrils flaring. ‘She got no respect.’
Diablo shoves me away and steps back. A murmur ripples through the crowd. Diablo’s behaviour seems to be confusing them. It confuses me more. He stares at me as if this is the first time he’s seeing me.
Carvil is still on the floor, ear to the ground, probably waiting for the sound of gunshots. When nothing happens, he hops to his feet and looks questioningly at Diablo, as if to say: ‘What you waiting for?’
Don’t really blame Carvil. Who wants a family of vengeful cannibals lurking around Siempre because of some insolent gringa?
To everyone’s surprise, Diablo slowly backs away, his eyes still fixed on my face.
What does this mean? Am I out of danger? Does he plan to return with renewed vigor and rip me apart like his mother promised to?
Christa steps forward and smiles at me. A wave of relief washes over me. At least she’s no longer mad at me. Maybe I’m out of danger after all.
Anyway, she looks far too young to be the Demon’s mother. If I have to guess, I’d say she’s 40ish, stylish, attractive. Her jet-black hair is slicked into a low chignon. Her skin is olive and smooth, her face caked with foundation. Her scarlet lips are full and pouting, her eyes, hard and black. Tight-fitting sweater with low-slung jeans tucked into brown, mid-calf boots. Large silver hoops dangle from her ears each time she moves.
Still smiling, she removes a large atomizer from her saddlebag and sprays me. Great – she’s sharing her favorite fragrance with me – maybe it’s her way of apologizing. I exhale and suddenly I’m feeling really hopeful.
She turns around and sprays everyone around her. The villagers smile and exchange see-we-were-worrying-for-nothing looks.
Laughing, Christa runs through the crowd and sprays everyone in sight. Really, she is so damn generous with her … Chanel No 5? Well, it has to be something expensive. After all, she is a drug dealer - she must have dough.
I sniff the fragrance on my clothes and frown. Strange, it smells really familiar and not at all like Chanel No 5 or any of the expensive perfumes I’ve stolen from Elaine from time-to-time.
To me, it smells more like … gasoline. Holy cow, it is gasoline! What the hell …?
Christa is talking to Diablo now. Her eyes are glistening and her face is flushed. She claps her hands to her chest as if she can barely contain her excitement.
Diablo’s hooded eyes shift around and settle on me again. His gaze is penetrating and I quickly avert my eyes. After a moment he nods at Christa and she lets out a whoop of delight. She spins around and points to one of her men carrying the strangest contraption I’ve ever seen. Some sort of mini gas pump. He steps forward and tips his cap at her.
Then I notice the cylinder strapped to his back – it’s a fucking flamethrower.
Christa closes her eyes, raises her hands to the skies and says, ‘Diablo has spoken, everyone.’
The villagers let out an anguished roar as the flamethrower takes three steps back.
Now, I have a fair understanding of Spanish, although I have trouble speaking it. But when people speak really fast, I tend to lose them. ‘What did she say?’ I ask to no one in particular.
All her men are moving backwards, except the flamethrower. He aims at the barn and fires. Flame shoots from his contraption and the barn ignites.
‘Ohmigod!’ I cry.
Some of the screaming villagers race to the barn and try to douse the flames but it’s no use - the barn is already an inferno.
‘Payton, what the fuck have you done?’ Paris shrieks.
Shocked, I stare at her and realise that with one slap, I sentenced the villagers to death. Fuck! What the hell was I thinking? How could I be so stupid, so dumb, so self-absorbed to do something like that?