Trouble Weighs a Ton by Mark Atley

Author:Mark Atley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: 4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
Published: 2022-09-16T19:58:38+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE:

FLAVIA SANCHEZ

The gunmen come for her on Monday afternoon—two of them, meth heads—skinny white wraiths barely dressed. Flavia’s would-be assassin wears a white stretched-out t-shirt and ripped blue jeans with flip-flops. He walks with a staggering swagger, somewhere between heavily intoxicated and whiteboy smooth. Gabino’s would-be assassin is dressed in a green basketball jersey with holey blue jeans—he’s the healthier looking of the two. Flavia’s window is open, which is why she hears one of them sneeze as they approach. It causes her to check the mirror where she spots them. As they near Omar’s old Buick, they split in two directions, and Flavia watches them in the mirror. She watches to see where they go, see what they’re doing. She watches the one in the white t-shirt hang back rubbing at his nose and scratching at his forearms and face, picking bright red sores.

She doesn’t like Gabino’s driving, and after he showed up the other day at the automotive shop, she told Gabino that from now on she’s driving. So she drove today, and today is the first time they’ve left the automotive shop. They left to get Gabino a snow cone to show their appreciation for him hanging out at the shop overnight and keeping an eye on Pablo. Gabino loves snow cones.

The other, Mr. Green Jersey, crosses the parking lot and rounds the car. When he passes the passenger window, he keeps his head locked straight and pointed forward as if it’s in some invisible neck brace. A gun handle sticks out of the back of his waistband as he makes his way toward the snow cone shack. Gabino is inside. The man yanks open the door, steps inside, and disappears. The windows are too dark for Flavia to see inside. The door swings shut.

Flavia gathers her purse and slips her hand inside, her fingers searching for the reassuring cold metal of Omar’s gun. The pads of her fingertips brush the rough plastic of the Glock’s handle. Flavia slowly removes the nine-millimeter from the folds of the purse while keeping her eyes on the pale man in the white t-shirt. She crosses her arm over her body and lodges the muzzle of the gun against the driver’s door. She positions the purse over her hand and arm to hide the gun.

The gunman glances at her in the mirror, his eyes locking with hers, staring now. He starts his lumbering amble towards her, scratching at himself. He tugs at his waistband to keep his pants from falling off his hollow body. The confrontation is unavoidable.

Flavia glances down at her phone in the center console cup holder. She could make a call. Does she have time? Could she warn Omar? Warn Gabino? Should she even try? She doesn’t think of calling the police. That’s never been an option. Alejandro was clear about that. Anyone who lived under his rule called him, not the authorities. He was the authority.

Flavia curses under her breath. She knew this would happen. Her

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