It was nearly midnight when they arrived in a wide parking lot to find a minivan with tinted windows waiting for them.
“Leave your cars here,” said the Sheriff. “Get in the van and put on the hoods. Do not try to peek.”
“Been there,” said Oren.
“Done that,” laughed Walt.
“Usual shit,” said Elias.
“Might wanna pee, little boys,” the Sheriff said. “It’s another hour’s drive.”
The Brutal Men shrugged and stood in a line to piss against a dumpster. The Sheriff snuck a couple of shots of them as they did it, and had to admit they had been a well-matched crew. They’d worked together so much. Knew each other so damn well. It was too bad what had to happen.
They got into the minivan, slipped on the hoods, and Elias made certain Oren and Walt sat next to each other and not near Sinder; he’d noticed the looks they were casting him, and didn’t want any trouble, not now. Then off they went.
Fifty-five minutes later, they arrived at a massive ranch-style compound in the middle of the desert. Electrified fences ran its entire perimeter, and the extensive house was three-quarters of a mile from the main road. It was surrounded by a six-foot wall painted in the color of the sand, and inside was a cool, elegant, tree-shaded courtyard with green lawns, sheltered gardens, a huge swimming pool, orange trees bearing fruit, a flowing brook and a house of stone walls and solarized triple-pane glass. Solar panels on the roof provided the energy needed, and complete silence surrounded them. They drove into the courtyard, the gate opening automatically, and were met by two extremely well-built male caretakers in tight shirts, tight pants and boat shoes, wearing balaclavas with openings for the eyes.
Only when the driveway’s gate was closed did the Sheriff let the Brutal Men remove their hoods. As they got out of the mini-van, he told them, “Okay, have at it. Just sign these releases.”
The caretakers handed each of them a clipboard with sheets of paper that basically said, Anything recorded here belongs to us.
The Sheriff already knew they would all sign. They’d been here, before, more than once. Each of them. Sometimes together. Always for the same basic instructions for instances like this.
Do what you want. What happens here is in the strictest confidence. No marks on the merchandise.
They signed, then Kilo asked, “What’s the real limit?”
Jude said, “What you askin’ for? It’s on the paper.”
“Actually, there is one,” said the Sheriff as he opened the back of his SUV. He pointed to Theo. “You cannot have him, but the other two...well, I gotta return ‘em to Mexico...just without noticeable marks. Understood?”
They all nodded, grinning.
“Any food you want,” the Sheriff continued, “ask. Same for booze. No drugs. Don’t want no performance issues.”
Sinder grabbed Emilio’s feet and yanked him halfway out of the SUV, saying, “Never had a prob with that.”
Emilio tried to kick him but only made Sinder laugh as he fondled the guy’s dick and balls. “Neither will you, motherfucker.”
Oren draped an arm over Sinder’s shoulders. “Does that make you a fatherfucker?”
“What the fuck...you think I got kids?”
“In today’s world?” said Elias. “Shit, that’s child abuse.”
“Almost had,” said Kilo. “But when I got sent in, bitch got rid of it.”
“Knew all about your fucked-up genes,” said Walt.
“Not half as fucked up as yours,” he snarled back.
“Now guess who’s gonna get fucked-up, again,” said Oren as he flipped Reuben onto his belly and gave him a solid swat on the ass. The guy howled in fury, not fear, making Elias smile.
So Oren also remembered Reuben, from four years back, when the dumb fuck was just another eighteen year old punk caught sneaking some X across the border. Of course, he’d sworn up and down it wasn’t his, that it had been planted in his car, but he’d still got three years, then paroled and deported after nine months.
Elias had just finished pulling his pack together and was already known as the motherfucker in control of his block, with Kilo, Sinder and Jude to back him up. They’d been getting first dibs on the fresh meat, so when cocky-assed Reuben came rolling in, he was theirs...and they took him in the showers. That was the first time Elias had invited Oren and Walt to join their company...and oh, had they proven their worth. Especially Walt and his amazing fucking tongue. That had come in very handy on days when the guards were being bastards and they couldn’t go hunting...and really needed some relief. He’d known white guys who loved dick, but not like Walt.
What was funny? Elias actually believed Reuben had been set up. He’d been on his way to a party in Yuma, with his girlfriend, and let slip the name of the guy who told him about it. That same white-ass motherfucker was the reason Elias was inside. He and Kilo had been camping down in Playa Blanca, where they didn’t have to worry about being black and could just enjoy each other’s company. They had struck up a chatty acquaintance with the guy, on the beach. Nothing asked. Nothing suggested. Except...why cross back into the States at Mexicali when San Luis was so much easier and closer to home? That kind of shit.
Kilo hadn’t cared one way or the other; he just liked being with Elias...and vice-versa. But like a dumbass, Elias had decided a San Luis crossing would save them a couple hours, on the drive. Instead, they’d been caught with five bags of coke in the trunk of his car. The bastard must’ve snuck it in when they were running around in the surf. Both he and Kilo had been handed ten year terms. After all, who’s going to believe a couple of black guys over a nice white man’s claim of innocence?
Elias sighed at the memory. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been in prison before. When you’re black and white men run the system of justice, it’s like your home away from home. So they hadn’t argued or blamed anyone but the asshole who set them up. And they had watched each other’s back. Built up their crew. And when Kilo made parole six months before Elias, he’d restarted a working acquaintance with the Sheriff...something both of them had done with him, many times, before...and their new boss had been kind enough to make sure that white-assed bastard suddenly wound up overdosing on his own shit. And now? Now they were doing fine.
Just fine.
He smiled as he watched Sinder and Walt carry a struggling Emilio into the house, led by one of the caretakers. That guy was way prettier than Reuben, if a bit older. But he was also a virgin, if he caught the Sheriff’s drift right. That sent a tingle straight to his balls. He loved initiating virgins into the real world.
He chuckled and took Reuben’s arms as Kilo grabbed his legs, then they carried the guy after the others. Oren and Jude trailed behind, yammering and jostling each other the whole way like a couple of frat boys.
Yeah, Elias thought, tonight was gonna be a good night.
The Sheriff sighed as he watched the men enter the house. Everything was ready for them, and he knew they’d come through. No pun intended. Well, maybe a little. He motioned the other caretaker over and nodded to Theo.
“I’ll be back for him, in the mornin’. ‘Bout ten. Needs to be ready. Better keep him in the guest house, out of reach for them.” He looked at Theo, almost tenderly. “Gonna be a long trip, son. But worth it, in the end. Better’n what your buddies’re gonna go through. But them’s the breaks.”
Theo shook his head and tried to say something, but the blindfold and gag shut him down. The caretaker picked him up as if he weighed nothing, despite his struggles. His towel slipped off. The Sheriff grabbed it and lay it over his groin then headed over to the minivan.
The driver was standing next to it, watching the caretaker carry Theo into a side building, shaking his head. He fired up a cigarette.
“Much chatter on the way?” the Sheriff asked him.
“Glad that kid’s not goin’ in the house,” the driver said. “The things they wanted to do to him...shit...”
“Bunch o’ pissant pups still thinkin’ they’re alpha dogs.”
“Am I still back, tomorrow?”
The Sheriff nodded. “Two. Two-thirty. In the 350, high-top. You know that air field at Salome?”
The driver nodded.
“I’ll be there, waitin’.”
“Not here for the pickup?”
“Don’t need to be,” he said, almost sad. “They’ll have ‘em ready.”
“Then I better get some sleep,” the driver said as he crushed his cigarette. He got in the minivan and drove away.
The Sheriff returned to his SUV, pulled out his phone and sent a text.
To the new Coordinator.
At set at compound. 1 for 10 am, virgin; 2 for Mexico, punished; 6 for the arena, no virgins.
The response: Well done.
The Sheriff sent a thumbs-up and followed the minivan out of the compound.
