Page 98 of Hellbent

Evan moved his gaze away from Freeway and the woman, finding Xavier. Benito’s son stood in the half shadows to the side of the altar. The other gang members looked on with reverence, but Xavier’s arms were crossed uncomfortably. His face was pale, blood draining away, and his blink ratio had picked up—signs of an anxiety reaction.

Freeway flung the woman aside. She landed on her belly with her torso twisted, bringing her face into view, and Evan saw the damage inflicted on it.

Matching slashes across both cheekbones, red streaming like war paint.

Freeway hadn’t just punished her. He’d marked her for life.

She sat on the floor, hands cupping her face, blood spilling through her fingers.

All the gang members were watching Freeway.

Except Xavier.

He watched the woman.

Noteworthy.

Freeway dismissed his men with a flick of his fingers and headed back to the sanctuary to attend to other business. They streamed out. Xavier got halfway to the door, then paused and looked back at the woman, on her knees before the altar.

His jaw shifted with discomfort. He looked torn.

One of the other initiates said something to him, and he snapped to, exiting the church.

Evan watched the woman unsteadily find her feet. The other women finally broke out of their paralyzed trance by the bags of stolen goods and rushed to her. The injured woman collapsed into their embrace.

They helped her out a side door.

Evan backed away from the edge of the roof.

* * *

He caught up to Xavier four blocks north as he said good-bye to two fellow initiates at a street corner. Xavier peeled off, heading up a dark block alone, ignoring the invitations of the street girls: “Hey, Big Time, wanna get warm?”

Evan shadowed him, keeping a half block back. After a quarter mile, Xavier cut up the stairs of a dilapidated house that had been diced into a fourplex. From across the street, Evan waited and watched. Most of the windows of the apartment building behind him were open, banda radio music and the smell of charred meat streaming out.

After a moment a light clicked on in a window on the fourplex’s second floor.

Evan waited as a low-rider scraped past and then he crossed the street. The front door’s lock was a joke, the metal guard bent back from previous B&Es. Evan pulled out his fake driver’s license, used the edge to slide the turtle head of the latch bolt level with the plate, and eased the door open.

He took the stairs up to a tiny entry between two facing doors. The floorboards, though battered, looked to be oak, probably the surviving section of a study from before the house had been carved up.

He rapped on the door to the left.

Footsteps. The peephole darkened.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Your father sent me.”

“Go away. You’re gonna get yourself hurt.”

“Open the door.”

“You threatening me, fool? Do you have any idea who the fuck I am?”

“Why don’t you open the door and show me?”

The door ripped open. Xavier stood there holding a crappy .22 sideways, like a music-video gangsta. His head was drawn back, chin tilted up.