Page 26 of Stone: The Precursor

The routes the Mestizos use are always a guessing game, the result of the last three years of blocking their passage. They’ve gotten better at using local roads and have increased their security, now traveling with armed guards.

Minutes later, the headlights of an 18-wheeler come into view. From Riggs’s intel, the unused ramp is where they will change drivers and rest before the next leg of their journey.

A nasty smile covers my lips.

Right on time.

My blood sizzles with anticipation.

The large rig, with its deceptive food logo on the side, pulls over. To the rest of the world, it might be a tired long-haul driver pulling over for rest, unbeknownst to them, it’s anything but that. It is a human transport system, on its way to sell human cargo, stolen human cargo into different forms of modern slavery. Some were sold on the belief that they were going to start fresh. Have a new life filled with opportunities. But they had no idea the dream sold to them hid a darker side. Domestic workers, sex trade, and forced manual labor are part of their futures. And their numbers are not just from one part of the world, as the news would like to portray. They are Russian, Ukrainian, African, and Central American. Some from the good ol’ US of A. Old, young, wealthy, poor, educated, uneducated. It didn’t matter. Los Mestizos aren’t picky.

Once it parks, three men hop out of the front cab. I register everything about them. There’s a clear leader. The man whostarts parking orders, telling them to check on the cargo in the back. He pulls out a cigarette and stretches. His AR-15 rests across his large stomach. He pulls out a cellphone and starts talking.

I spot Easton close in on the front of the truck, easing inside. He will disable the truck from inside. The other two men return, and they start talking among themselves. One is young. No more than a teenager. The third is older, darker-skinned, with a full head of close-cropped gray hair.

Since working to stop the Mestizos, I’ve come to realize that their group has no affiliation with any one ethnicity or culture. The men who make up the gang are the outliers, the unwanted or neglected incel male culture that feeds off the idea that the world has wronged them, and everyone else is the enemy. It’s what makes them so dangerous. They feel humiliated and rejected. They rape and kill because they feel they are meting out punishment.

The back of the trailer opens, and one man hops out, landing on the ground. He’s buckling his pants, grinning like a fool. Another man hops out, and a young girl follows. No more than 9 or 10, she hops out behind him. The two assholes exchange conversation with the shorter one pointing at the man dragging the young girl along. “You wanted a young one this time, huh?”

The sick bastard pulls her along. Her mouth is bound, and her hands are tied behind her back. He leads her into the forest a few feet ahead of me. He has no idea what’s to come, and that’s the way I like it. I follow, stealthily. I slow down as I approach him from the rear. I smoothly take off the safety on my gun just in case, while also removing my knife, taking in the disgusting sight of him. The young girl on her knees, head bowed, clearly, she’s been through this violation before. He sneers down at her as he unbuckles his pants, pulling out his dick. I quickly position myself behind him and wrap my arm around his neck.

I put the tip of my knife to his neck. “Move and I’ll slice your throat.” He brings up his hands in defense. His pants drop, and the young girl looks up at me. Her gag is gone, and I quickly put my finger to my lips, telling her to be quiet. She nods and crawls to a tree and crouches down near the roots.

I drag him back, father, to the woods and force him to his knees. “My gun is trained on the back of your head. Don’t move. And if you shout, I’ll shoot you anyway.” I tie his hands and feet. Then I circle to face him, crouching. “Where’s El Jefe?”

His eyes widen when I remove my bandana. So he can see my face. “No sé.” He whispers. He is sweating, and I can see he doesn’t know. It was worth a try.

“¿Quién eres?”Who are you?

I smile. “El Búho.” His eyes widen right before I slice through his throat and watch in satisfaction as he slumps to the side, falling over, his dick shriveled up and exposed. I quickly slice through it, remembering what he was about to do to that poor girl, and I open his mouth with the tip of my knife and stuff the bloody mess that is cock and balls in his mouth. Standing, I wipe my knife on my pants and re-sheath my knife. I return to the little girl. She hasn’t moved from her spot. She studies me with wary eyes. I give her space and squat four feet away from her, speaking in Spanish. She doesn’t respond and tries French. She perks up, looking at me with wide eyes.

“Tu es en sécurité maintenant,” I reply, and her eyes tear up at me, telling her that she’s safe now. I continue and ask her to wait until I give her the signal to come out. She nods and then asks me what signal I will use. I tell her I will hoot like an owl twice. She smiles.

“La chouette.∗” She nods and says thank you before I leave her there. It’s the safest place she can be right now.

When I finally return, Scout, Easton, and Cade are standing behind the other five as they kneel on the ground, hands andfeet bound, weapons removed. I walk toward them, my bandana back up, but my pants are covered in blood. All of them widen their eyes. The one in charge virulently curses. The youngest whispers my nickname in awe, in horror.El Búho. Rumors aboutEl Búhoare everywhere. Legends of a ghost who wears a bandana of a skull over his face. The un-killable one who comes like a reaper eating souls like prey. I don’t mind it if it makes finding assholes like these easier. He calls me half-crazed. A flesh-eating monster who cuts up his enemies.

Getting closer, I crouch down in front of him and lean close to his ear, whispering softly, almost like a lover. “It’s all true.” He starts to sob, praying in Spanish, chanting theAlma de Cristo.∗ I repeat it with him, mocking his call for divine protection. Prayers don’t exist for me. I stopped believing 13 years ago.

“Soul of Christ, sanctify me,

Body of Christ, save me,

Blood of Christ, inebriate me,

Water from the side of Christ, wash me,

Passion of Christ, strengthen me,

O good Jesus, hear me.

Hide me within your wounds,

keep me close to you,

defend me from the evil enemy,

call me at the hour of my death,