Free Plata by Ivy Mason

he gestured with his head.
    “Arizona, move out of the way.”
    With great effort, she forced her legs to move, clambering to her feet and edging out of range. She was overwhelmed with feelings of terror, relief, confusion, gratitude; a cascade of emotions that brought forth a flood of tears. The man lay unconscious on the ground, his head bleeding from where he was cold cocked with the rifle.
    Ramon moved with eerie calm toward the driver, who stood paralyzed by the open door of the cab. He made a whimpering sound and held up his hands. He pleaded for his life, his jaw trembling so violently Madison could hardly make out his Spanish. But Ramon’s expression was unchanged.Inscrutable. He held up the gun and took aim, his finger steady on the trigger. It was actually happening. Madison was going to witness a classic Mexico City murder.
    She covered her eyes and braced herself for the rain of bone shard, tissue, and blood. She imagined Pierre sitting in the restaurant, waiting; his beautiful blue eyes on the door. The thought of his eyes calmed her, and she tried to focus on them alone. When no blast came, she peeked through her fingers. Ramon stood watching, gun at the ready, as the whimpering man dragged his unconscious friend through the doors of the box van. The keys were on the ground, and Ramon stooped to grab them without taking his eyes off the men.
    Once they were inside the van, Ramon approached the door and said something in a low voice that Madison couldn’t hear. Then he lowered the assault rifle and held it in his left hand. His right hand dipped inside his coat and retrieved a small handgun, which he pointed at the men inside. There was a series of cracks in the silence, followed by cries of agony. Ramon walked slowly around the van, shooting out the tires. He shot up the taxi’s tires as well, and then blew out all the windows.
    “Come on,” he said to Madison. “My car’s around the corner.”
    He held out his hand to help her up. Her fingers shook and felt clammy against the rough warmth of his skin. He led her out of the alley to a large black SUV with tinted windows, double-parked in the middle of the quiet residential street. She looked around, trying to get her bearings, but she had no idea where she was. The houses were small, low slung hovels made of concrete and cinder block; the windows covered in chicken wire. There was no sign of life anywhere.
    “Did you kill them?” Madison asked quietly as they pulled down the narrow street. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
    “Nah,” he said, as relaxed if they were discussing a soccer game. “Just shot the bastards in the legs. Fucking street vermin.”
    Madison was silent. How could Ramon turn up out of nowhere? She couldn’t understand it. But he didn’t offer an explanation. He just hummed along with the American pop music on the stereo and navigated his way through the impoverished streets until they were back on a main thoroughfare. Madison touched the tender place under her chin where the man had held the tip of the knife, and then saw the blood on her fingers.
    After a while, she began to recognize a few things, and she realized that they were close to the Zona Rosa. As they drew nearer, she realized that Ramon was taking her to the club. Maybe he had assumed she was on her way to work. He pulled up at the edge of the pedestrian mall where The Gentlemen’s Club was located.
    “I’d come with you,” he grumbled, “but I’ve got some shit to take care of. If I have time, I’ll stop by later.”
    Madison stared out the windshield, where a group of well-dressed young people crossed the street in a clump. They were all laughing. Madison’s stomach was sour and she couldn’t tell if she was blazing hot or freezing cold. Finally, she looked at Ramon.
    “You’ve been following me.”
    He chewed his lip and looked straight ahead, saying nothing. A car honked impatiently behind him, and Ramon glared at the rearview mirror.