If You Go Down to the River Tonight: Part 2

If you go down to the river tonight…

                Cold metal smacked him in the face again, for probably the thousandth time in his 3 days in captivity. He knew his jaw was broken.

                “What do you want?” he said, spitting out blood at the cartel member walking circles around him, as if a predator.

                “What were you doing!” the man shouted back, again, he realized, for probably the one thousandth time.

                “John Vasquez, United States Border Patrol, 09231-17, Sergeant,” he said, spitting blood on the other Hispanic. He was reciting his Name, Rank, Serial Number, and Organization, as required by the Geneva Convention.

                “We don’t play on the Geneva Convention!” the cartel member shouted, slapping the gun in Vasquez’s face.

                “Fine,” shouted Vasquez, who was holding his jaw, “Come close, I’ll tell you.”

                Vasquez noticed the hand restraints were placed in front of him, a rookie mistake. This man would pay for it, too. As the Cartel member leaned in, he grabbed the man’s neck using his cuffs and broke it. He removed the key from the man’s pocket- another rookie mistake- and pulled off the cuffs, then grabbed the man’s pistol and a shotgun from the corner, slipping the pistol into his pocket. He shouldered the shotgun and lifted it to the door. He blew open the lock with ease, surprising the guards on the other side, who were shot quickly. He picked up their AK47s. He dropped the pistol on the metal floor. More guards would be coming soon. He blew open the lock on Charlotte Kelly’s door, and she jumped from her metal seat in surprise as 7.62 rounds slammed into her interrogator’s chest. He tossed her an AK.

                “How’d you manage this?” she wondered aloud, cocking her AK. 

            “Guards were dumb,” he said, tightening his lips. He moved to the door in silence, shooting the guards rushing down the hall to their stricken comrades. Charlotte followed.

                “Nice, Vasco,” she said with a smile, then noticed his swollen cheeks, “What happened?”

                Vasquez noticed the lack of bruises on her cheeks. They had some dignity. He shook his head solemnly.

                They kicked open the makeshift Prison Camp’s doors, running across the road to a white pickup with a machine gun on the top.

                “You drive, I’m on the gun,” he said to her, and she nodded and smiled. She was evidently curious about his cheeks. She flipped open the door to the truck bed.

                “Vasco, there is a map in here!” she shouted. He smiled in excitement, then took it from her as the sped away.

                “20 mikes from the river, just stay on this road,” he said, throwing the map back to her, as he stepped up to the M2 Browning on the pickup as Cartel trucks pulled up behind them.

                The mass of hot metal shuddered with each bullet, and he saw as each truck sped off the road, it’s driver hit. He grimaced at the dirty work, but it had to be done.