The Beasts of Juarez, R.B. Schow [books to read for self improvement .txt] 📗

where he’d just come, he opened the back door like he was the dude coming in after a piss. He walked directly into an enclosed kitchen not four feet from a man making a sandwich. Yergha hit him with a three-round burst, grabbed a grenade, then pulled the pin and bounced it off a wall, sending it bouncing into the living room. The explosion was deafening, but he was already on the move.

Yergha went away from the blast, turning into a short hallway toward the back bedrooms. One guy ran out of the back room but a three-round burst had him thinking twice. One more round to his dome and that freaking turd was never going to think again.

He opened one bedroom door, saw one of the guys he’d apparently shot earlier lying on the bed, eyes open and seeing nothing. There was a death pall in the room. He shut the door then turned to another door in another room.

Inside it was empty but he didn’t have time to clear it before gunfire opened up in the hallway. Drywall bits blasted his face as he ducked down. He kicked himself back into the bedroom he’d just cleared, saw there were no windows, and immediately realized his mistake. He had already taken too long to figure this out.

Rather than hide in the closet, he slipped behind the door, removed the Sig, and waited. A dozen rounds punched through the paper-thin door. He made a loud sound, like oof, then stomped on the floor and waited. The door opened and through the widening crack, he saw the man advancing into the room. He put two rounds in one guy’s head then dropped to a crouch as more lead chewed through the middle of the door.

He backed up hard, raised his M4, fired six rounds into the door then slipped into the closet. This didn’t deter the men. He holstered the Sig, removed the last grenade from his tactical belt, and waited. A moment later, he heard two of them coming into the room. He popped out of the closet long enough to toss the grenade at them. The second he released the grenade, he exposed himself. He took a bullet to the upper pec, spinning him around.

“Grenade!” one of them screamed. Both men scrambled for cover as he was sucking wind from being shot yet again.

The vest caught the lead but it hurt like hell, right down to his shins. There was indeed a grenade, but he hadn’t pulled the pin when he threw it. They didn’t know that, though.

Working through a torrent of pain, he hurried to the open door, put eyes on the hallway then waited until he heard the men talking about the grenade maybe being a dud. The second both of them appeared in the hallway, he emptied the M4’s magazine into them both. Those two sacks of shit never knew what hit them, not until they were dying.

He hurried down the hallway, his grit back, his will to clear the rest of the house overpowering. Everyone was dead, and that’s when a nearly unbearable dread ran through him. If he found Esty violated and murdered, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

Don’t think like that, Yergha. Just keep moving.

He cleared the rooms and closets then stood before the bathroom door. His breathing was shallow, his face already contorted like he knew Esty was dead and he was barely holding back the emotion. When he opened the door, four shots rang out. He ducked hard, but one of those rounds skipped off his skull bringing his blood to a boil.

He kicked the door open from where he lay on his back then sent a round into the pelvis of the shooter. He’d been aiming higher, but a hit was a hit. The guy dropped the gun and fell on his ass against the side of a porcelain tub.

Behind the man, he saw Esty strung up to the showerhead by her wrists. She had been stripped down to her bra and panties and beaten. Was she dead, though? Her head hung slack between her biceps and her hair was wet and hanging down to cover her face.

Yergha kept his carbine on the man he’d shot. He touched his own head, felt the skinned flesh where he’d been shot, then got to his feet and walked inside the bathroom. The guy he shot started to go for his gun but Yergha put a bullet into the porcelain tub right between his legs. Truthfully, he’d been aiming for the knee but his aim was off because his chest was mule-kicked and thumping with pain.

“Down on your knees,” he growled.

The man complied.

Yergha picked up the man’s gun, tossed it in the garbage can next to the toilet then said, “On your belly, arms out, hands flat on the ground.”

The guy understood English enough to follow Yergha’s instructions, but it was not without complaint.

Yergha stepped into the tub, reached forward, and lifted Esty’s head. Her eyes were open, but there was no life to them. He jumped with a sob, and then she blinked.

“Oh, thank God,” he said, breathless, his eyes soaked.

She looked over at the man on the ground, then down at herself. Her body started to shake, her face contorting with so much pain.

“It’s okay, baby,” he said, “you’re okay.”

He reached up, unhooked her hands, cut away the zip-ties. She sat down in the tub, trembling all over, her face beaten but not broken. He held her in his arms awkwardly, firmly. Sitting there, he had one eye on her and one eye on the asshole on the floor.

“Is it really you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“I’m sorry, Yergha,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to