Pt. 2
Anthony Tinoco 

The lot disappeared behind them as Jamie pulled onto the stretch of asphalt cutting through the scrubland, nothing but dirt and low brush as far as the eye could see. The windows were cracked open an inch, letting the dry wind cut through. Jamie’s hands stayed on the wheel, but his jaw worked the whole time, grinding through his molars. 

“You good?” 

Jamie didn’t look at him. “I wanna knock his fucking teeth out.”

“I woulda, if you hadn’t stopped me.”

“No, you were about to shoot him.” 

“Woulda ended the conversation real fast.” 

“We can’t. Not while the deal’s still on.”

Tino understood the game, the waiting and politics, the parts you had to let slide for the sake of the job. He had never been very good at it, but he knew the rules. That didn’t mean it sat right, or that his fist hadn’t been itching the whole time Lars had been running his mouth. 

“He was fucking with you.” Tino watched Jamie’s reflection in the glass.

“Yeah, well, he fucking succeeded.”

The corner of Tino’s mouth twitched. In retrospect, it was kind of funny, how an idiot like Lars, flapping his mouth about some tired old story, still managed to rattle Jamie. His old man being a drunk fuck-up wasn’t exactly breaking news. Everybody knew Jamie’s dad was a piece of shit, the same way everybody knew Tino’s mom was a slut. If Tino swung every time someone brought it up, he’d have worn himself out years ago. 

“You growing soft, Riley? Shit, if they knew how easy it was to short-circuit your brain, they’d just bring up your old cat and watch you lose your mind.”

Jamie didn’t say anything, but Tino saw the faintest crack in the mask. 

“All they gotta do is meow at you, huh?” Tino pressed, watching the lines ease out of Jamie’s face slowly, like undoing a knot. “You woulda blacked out. And I’m back there dragging corpses into the trunk, googling how to dissolve a body on three percent battery.”

Jamie’s laugh finally broke through. 

“Meanwhile you come to, all calm like, ‘Where’s the product?’ Bro—the product? We wanted in three fucking countries now.” 

Jamie shook his head, still laughing. “Idiot.”

Tino kept going, turning slightly in his seat, one knee pulling up, elbow braced against it as he gestured with both hands, like he couldn’t tell the story properly without the movement. “I’m hiding out in the woods, living off canned beans, bleached my hair blonde, fake passport says my name’s Gustavo. All ‘cause Lars brought up  Mittens, huh.”

“Jesus, shut up, will you?”

“You? You on the news now. Some grainy CCTV footage of you ripping heads off in a parking lot.” He made a quick twisting motion with his hand. “They call you the Southbound Strangler. Urban legend status. Schools shut down. Old ladies won’t leave the house. Government’s blaming you for gas prices.”

“God, you’re exhausting.” 

“No, I’m Gustavo. I’m retired.” 

Tino let his head tip back against the seat. The car felt warmer now, the stiffness in Jamie drained from him. 

“You seen him?” Tino asked after a while, now that the moment had softened and the laughter faded. 

Jamie didn’t need clarification. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Would you visit Marco?” 

Tino snorted under his breath. He had never visited Marco, not when he was locked up, not when he wasn’t. Marco was the kind of person you avoided, because he was someone who made everyone’s life worse when he showed up. “Wouldn’t even visit his fucking grave.” 

He knew what Jamie was getting at. He didn’t know Chris personally, and the times he’d seen Jamie with him were so few he could count them on one hand. Chris didn’t strike him as the violent type, not like Marco. Which only made it more surprising when word got around about what Chris had done. 

“What about your little brother? What's his name?”

The question took Tino by surprise. He hadn’t thought about Sammy in a long time. Hadn’t said his name out loud in years. Out of sight, out of mind, he guessed. “Samuel.” 

“Don’t think I ever met him.” 

“Probably not. He didn’t go out much.” That was putting it lightly. Sammy had spent most of their childhood in the wardrobe in their bedroom, shoved behind old coats and boxes like that was the safest place for him. In a way, it had been. Their mom sure as hell didn’t want him anywhere else. She hated him, more than the rest of them. Tino had never figured out if it was because he looked so different from them with his pale skin and light eyes and blond hair. Or it might have been because Samuel never talked back. He wouldn’t fight like the rest of them did. Sammy wasn’t mute, but he might as well have been. Most of the time he wouldn't speak, like words got stuck somewhere between his throat and his head and never made it out. Kids would ask him questions, teachers, their mom, and he’d just sit there, eyes down, like speaking physically hurt. And when he did talk, it was quiet. No pushback, no attitude. 

“You know where he is?’

“Pretty sure he ended up in foster care for a while. Might be dead for all I know. Used to try and off himself once a year.”

“Depressed?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“How old is he?”

“Turned nineteen March second.” That was three months ago. Tino would lie if he said he hadn't wondered what Samuel was up to. Nineteen wasn't a good age. Too old for anyone to give a shit about what happened to you, too young to survive without getting chewed up first. If Sammy was still out there, odds were he wasn’t doing great.

“Maybe he’s still with your mom.”

Probably not. He didn’t know much about Sam these days, but he guessed Sammy would rather crawl into a dumpster and freeze to death than go back there. Hell, he'd probably gnaw his own leg off before setting foot in that apartment again.

“You know his hands are all fucked up,” Tino said, lifting his own, palms up and fingers spread. “She poured boiling water on them. Not even a little, turned the whole damn pot over. Skin just slid right off.” He flexed his fingers absently, like he could still picture it. “Didn't even take him to the hospital. I had to wrap ‘em in a T-shirt.” 

“That’s messed up.” There wasn’t any pity in Jamie's voice, just a quiet, matter-of-fact tone Tino could actually stand. “We could look him up. Your mom did fucked up shit to you too. Maybe you two can bond or something.”

“Thanks, Dr. Phil.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I wasn't nice to him.” It wasn't guilt in his chest, Tino didn't do guilt. You couldn't toughen someone up if they refused to stand. Couldn't be expected to protect someone who didn’t even act like they wanted to exist. And it wasn’t like Tino had been in a position to protect anyone back then, least of all himself. Tino had shoved Samuel around, said shit, done shit. But that’s what happened when you lived in a place like that. You got mean or you got eaten. Sammy never learned that. “Besides, being on your own builds character. Look how great I turned out.”

“Yeah. Real poster boy for emotional stability,” Jamie muttered, like that was his way of putting a lid on the whole conversation for Tino, probably sensing that Tino didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

The passenger’s seat glass reflected dark against the road, but past the smudged glass and the stretch of empty asphalt, headlights glowed faint in the distance. Nothing close, a couple car lengths back, maybe more. It could’ve been anyone. Should’ve been anyone. It wasn’t like this was the city, no packed intersections, no headlights stacked one behind the other. Out here, this far off-grid, empty streets stretched forever. 

Tino didn’t think much of it at first. Just another car, maybe heading the same direction, maybe lost. But when he glanced at Jamie, he knew something was off. Jamie’s eyes stayed straight ahead, but his jaw was tight again, the tendons in his neck standing out just a little more than usual. The car pushed forward smoothly while Jamie’s foot eased down on the gas. The hum under them climbed, the numbers on the speedometer ticking higher. In the mirror, the headlights pulled with them, a little closer. 

“We got company?” 

Jamie’s hand shifted on the wheel, just enough to adjust his grip. “Looks like.” 

The car behind them didn’t back off. If anything, it lunged, headlights flaring white-hot in the mirrors, swallowing the space between them like a predator closing in. Tino barely had time to think before the first muzzle flash ripped through the dark. 

Gunfire ripped the night open. The window beside him blew apart, spraying razor-sharp slivers across the front seats. Something hot and sharp nicked his cheek. He dropped without thinking, body twisting down, instinct screaming louder than fear. Cold wind tore into the car through the new hole, carrying the sour sting of gunpowder and road dust.

Another shot. Then another. Rapid fire now. The rear window exploded in a concussive blast of sound and splintering glass. Jagged fragments rained over them like ice, bouncing off Tino’s back as he flattened himself against the seat. The engine howled, Jamie had floored it, foot slamming the gas pedal to the floor. Tino felt the force in his chest, a hard slam backward as speed tore them down the road. The car fishtailed for half a second, momentum swinging them wide before Jamie wrestled it back under control. Suddenly, there was nothing but tires screaming, glass flying and gunfire rolling over them like thunder splitting the sky.