No Shelter by Robert Swartwood Read Free Book Online Page B

gun on his belt. He stands there a moment, looking out over the dark. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lights one, then starts toward the sagebrush, unzipping his pants as he walks.  
    I watch the man smoke and piss, then watch as he zips back up, turns away, takes one last drag before dropping the spent butt to the ground, smashing it with the heel of his boot. The man walks back to the building, turns to glance once more at the dark, his eyes roaming like he’s searching for something, and then he turns and walks back inside.  
    Putting away the scope, taking the AK-47 from where it hangs off my shoulder, I grip the rifle in both hands and then slowly start down the hill. I take my time. The light here isn’t great, but it isn’t bad either, and I put one foot in front of the other, make sure it’s solid ground before I place all my weight onto it and continue on. It takes awhile, but then I’m less than one hundred yards away from the ranch house. Close now, I can hear voices and music inside the guards’ building. Someone laughs, someone else coughs. I listen another minute, determine there is at least four guards inside.  
    I start toward the ranch house. I keep the AK-47 aimed at the guards’ building as I move forward. Rosalina said that most times the men lock the ranch house. Sometimes they don’t lock it on purpose, to give the girls a false sense of freedom, and any girl stupid enough to try to escape gets raped and beaten.  
    Tonight the guards haven’t played one of their mind games. The door is locked. Maybe it has to do with the trouble earlier tonight. Surely the men know what has happened, since at least one of their girls was involved.  
    The rusty hinges of the door scream out into the night. Another man exits the guards’ house, a different man than before but a man who still wears a holstered gun. I expect him to pull a pack of smokes out of his pocket, but instead he starts walking off toward the same patch of sagebrush, what seems to be the favored pissing ground.  
    I think about my options. I don’t have many. Hell, I don’t have any.  
    The guy stops at the edge of the sagebrush, unzips his pants. He stands there a moment, murmuring something in Spanish, and then I hear the steady stream of his piss splash the dry ground.  
    I don’t have time to think. He’s fifty yards away, maybe forty. His back is exposed. He has a gun but I have three, and before another moment of hesitation I start toward him, quickly, doing my best to keep my sneakers from making any sound on the hard sand. Past the guards’ house where I hear voices and laughter and music—someone inside now saying, “Anyone else want a beer?”—closer and closer to the man who keeps pissing, now whistling something, a tune I don’t recognize.  
    Twenty yards away ... fifteen yards ... ten yards ...  
    He hears me when I’m five yards away. He starts to turn, starts to reach for his holstered gun. I come up right behind him, the AK-47 now strapped back over my shoulder. I jab him in the kidneys once, then take his head in my hands, twist it to break his neck. This isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies. The guy’s at a bad angle and my twist does nothing more than help him turn around. He’s still reaching for his gun, his hand on the handle, trying to pull it out. He wasn’t done pissing and his dick is exposed, dripping.  
    I punch him in the gut, step around him, elbow him in the back of the neck. He goes down. I come up behind him, ready to give this one last try.  
    I put one arm around the front of his face, another arm around the back of his head. He tries to bite me, cry out, but then I twist and this time hear the satisfying snap of his neck. He’s not dead though. Just paralyzed. On the ground, his eyes dart around, his mouth is open and he tries to scream but can only just wheeze. I search his pockets. I don’t find the keys I’m looking for but I find a switchblade. I flick the knife