#flewedout

“Stop staring at her, pendejos.” Miguel lit a blunt - staring into the barren horizon, knowing they were watching your perfect form disappear into the house. “I’ll pull every eye from every face that wants to fucking stare at her.” He inhaled sharply - the loud quieting his spirit as the sicarios adjusted, turning away from temptation to save themselves. 

“Where are they?” Miguel leaned against the dusted hood of the SUV as the masks were removed, revealing youthful faces creased with lines - marking hard decisions and dangerous choices. “Ten, fifteen minutes out. I didn’t know you were bringing el princesa. I would have kept them in the desert with the coyotes.” The man slid his AR behind him, adjusting the gun strap against his bulletproof vest, as he shifted his weight on his feet. 

“It’s fine. I couldn’t leave her.” Miguel coughed, smoking billowing, as he choked on his admission - the words burnt his throat. His truth left him vulnerable - any of the men surrounding him could be an enemy in a blink of an eye and he just revealed his most prized possession. A rush filled his body - the admission of his feelings, the impending judgement he was about to execute and the potent weed left his blood pumping - adrenaline rushing through him. 

“Vamos.” With a turn, he climbed into the SUV as Nestor followed the pack into Miguel’s waiting kingdom. 

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The air bubbled as Nestor followed the half-dozen of utility vehicles into the arid horizon. 

“It’s too much,” Miguel mumbled - rubbing his hands over his face, leaning forward in the seat as cool beads of sweat pooled at his hairline. Nestor’s gaze didn’t waver - the intimate moment filling the SUV - his brother was suffocating - the pressure of hell crushing him. 

Nestor remained quiet - letting Miguel’s deep breaths fill the silence - each breath cracking the stillness of the tension. “Why did I bring her? That’s an amateur mistake. They’ve seen her.” Miguel’s head rested in his hands as the air conditioning rolled over his clammy body. “I feel like I’m going to puke and I have to kill these guys. Fuck!” He rose, shouting the expletive as he fell forward, his head hanging low. 

“Mikey,” Nestor’s hand clapped his friend’s shoulder - pulling him out of his own personal hell. “Focus.” Nestor’s steady voice calmed the flames of anxiety as Miguel leaned back into his seat - his body cooling under a gleam of sweat. “They aren’t interested in fucking this up. You take good care of them.” Nestor shook Miguel gently - dusting the doubt off his friend. “You take good care of her too. She will be fine.” Nestor’s quick stare was enough to steel Miguel - his shoulders rolling back as he sat up straighter - a mask of impassivity covering his face. 

The road narrowed as the convoy slowed - a crude fence circling a decrepit barn - a shell of its former self. The anxiety of the moment burnt - smoldering indifference left in its wake as Miguel and Nestor exited the stopped vehicle. 

Sicarios surrounded four kneeled and bound men as Miguel broke into the circle as he lit a blunt - smoke clouded his presence. “Muéstrame. A ver!” Miguel rocked on the balls of his feet as the masked men pulled the bags off the captives - revealing fearful eyes and stone faces. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” Miguel inhaled, squeaking out his interrogation as he paced in front of the roped men. 

Miguel moved forward, grabbing a fistful of hair, jerking the gaze of the prisoner to his. His gold plated 1911 felt heavy in his hands - symbolic of the weight of the hell he reigned over. He pressed the barrel into the lips of the shaking man, “Open.” Miguel forced the metal into the man’s mouth as the sound of urine filled the silent desert. El Diablo laughed menacingly, “Pobre se.” His tone was vicious as he pulled the trigger - a gleam in his eyes as blood pooled in the sand, gray matter clumping in the dust. 

The traitor to Miguel’s left wretched - falling forward into his own sick as he lost his balance, shaking under stress. “And to think, you could work for me.” The sound of a pierced skull rang through the vast emptiness. Villainous laughter smothered the fear - a conditioned response to the unsaturated violence of Miguel’s judgement. “You’re not los diablitos.” His verdict clear as he delivered another expert shot - the third man dropping as his head leaked - dripping life onto the packed dirt. 

“Pero, for you, a gift.” Miguel slid the gun into his waistband - gesturing for the prize from a waiting Nestor, whose cellphone illuminated the scene - recording the sentencing. Holding the plastic bottle, Miguel pulled the hair of the final man, pouring the alcohol onto his face - the whimpers of the man drowned by the potent burn. “For you, traje fuego.” Miguel’s smirk was sickening as he held the lighter, watching the flames roll over the screaming man’s face.  

The collective breath inhaled - watching the fire strangle the life from the defector. The collective breath exhaled as the bloodlust spread through the crowd - mumbles of commentary rolling from the lips of spectators. 

The air smelled of charred flesh and Miguel chuckled as El Puerca compared the smell to his wife’s carne asada. Their eyes were glazed as the man fell forward - his eye rolling from his head as he collapsed heavy, a wave of dust rising against the smoke. The screams were deafened with each swallow of fire - flames scorching his insides - his charred skin flaking off in the twilight. 

Miguel took the blunt from Nestor, leaning against the dusted hood of the SUV - his vibrating phone jiggling his thigh. Your picture filled the screen - a candid he took on his yacht - your face scrunched with laughter as you lazed against a sun chair. 

He exhaled as the flames collapsed under their own weight - the flesh consumed under the heat of Miguel’s wrath. He accepted your call as he toed the dead body - rolling his burnt head from side to side, admiring his work. “Bebesita,” His voice was even, lighthearted against the murderous tone surrounding him, “No, Daddy didn’t forget about you. I’ll be back soon.” Miguel turned on his heel - gesturing for clean-up to the waiting men.