WARNING! 

THIS STORY CONTAINS DESCRIPTIVE MOMENTS OF VIOLENCE, VILE LANGUAGE, AND COVERS DARK AND CONTROVERSIAL TOPICS.

READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

READING RECOMENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY. 

“When Mexico sends its people, they're not sending their best ... They're sending people that have lots of problems ... They're bringing drugs. They're bringing crime. They're rapists. And some, I assume, are good people." 

- U.S. President Donald Trump in 2015 in his candidacy announcement.  

“Fucking bitch.” 

- I.C.E. Agent, Jonathan Ross, after shooting Renée Good to death. 

“I know how it feels to expect to get a fair shake, but they won't let you forget that you're the underdog and you've got to be twice as good.” 

- Sly and the Family Stone 

“Mi casa es su casa.” 

- Spanish Mexican expression of hospitality to their neighbors. 

PROLOGUE

Somewhere in Val Verde County, Texas, not far from the Mexican border, the sun reached its peak when a stranger approached a lonely, neglected building surrounded by the sea of rocky plains and yucca shrubs that made up the Chihuahuan Desert. The dusty, beaten-down establishment was surrounded mostly by choppers, along with a few cars and one rusty truck about as beaten down as the building itself; an old, sketchy saloon.

The heat was hellacious; muggy as the bayou at this time of year. The stranger stepped into the dark, possibly dustier interior, to be greeted with a less-than-friendly gaze from everyone – several rough patrons, one older waitress, and a big man bartending; one drunk loner sitting in the corner, asleep in his beer. The twang of Hank Williams Sr. singing about “that lonesome whippoorwill” joined the clinking beer bottles and humming fans, in constant fight with the Texan heat. The air was filled with cigarette smoke, mixing the smell of tobacco and cheap domestic beer that permeated the entire room’s atmosphere. 

Strolling toward the bar, ignoring his audience of perplexed gawkers, the stranger hung his blazer on the back rest of a bar stool that he chose. He wasn’t a very big man. He stood about five feet and eight inches tall, wasn’t too lean, nor too muscular by the looks of him. He had darker skin – darker than most of the folks in the bar – and slicked back, black hair, mostly hidden under his black cowboy hat. He wore all black from his vest to his shoes, besides a golden skull pendant hanging on the gold chain around his neck. The bartender, a large man with a long scruffy beard that made up for what he lacked atop his head, looked to the stranger, perplexed and annoyed. 

The stranger placed his hat on the bar and spoke, “I know what you’re thinkin’... A shot of tequila!” The stranger was trying to joke with the man, offering a genuine laugh. But the bartender did not laugh back, nor say anything at all, appearing in no mood to share conversation with this stranger. His eyes stared blankly at the stranger, giving an inhuman vibe.

The stranger calmed his laughter, although he never let his smile falter. He wasn’t going to let the bartender's unpleasantness get to him. 

“Well, anyway... I’m a bourbon man, believe it or not. So, please, three fingers of your best bourbon neat.” 

He knew he couldn’t catch these flies with honey. But he could at least say that he offered it. 

The bartender snarled, "This is a private club. We only serve members here.” Then he raised his voice, “So, even though I really hate to disappoint you, little man;” now pointing to the door and leaning over the bar, the bartender glared closely in the stranger’s eyes, “You need to get on; anywhere else." 

Everyone in the bar watched quietly with anticipation, as time stood still for a moment.

The stranger, seemingly caught off guard momentarily by this intense reaction, regained his smiling composure, yet expressed surprise, "A private club? But I've been here before, sir. Just last year on business." 

The bartender shook his head, "No, you ain't been here before...” the scruffy man’s growl elevated once more, “...s’matter-a’-fact, I think you’re on the wrong side of the spik line, small fry. Or should I call you jumpin’ bean?" 

The bartender’s demeanor switched from annoyed to mischievously playful, with his less-than-charming sneer, as he began hee-hawing a rambunctious, obnoxious laugh at his own joke. Everyone in the bar began to cackle along, including the old lady waitress. The stranger looked around, acknowledging them with an awkward smile, before laughing as well. 

"That's funny!” The stranger snickered and nodded, “Okay! I get it; guess you may not get a lot of Mexican types in here. But I can guarantee you that I'm one hundred percent American, my friend, if that happens to be the problem. In fact, my mother was a white woman mixed with Scotch and English on her daddy’s side and Navajo Indian on her mama’s..." 

The bartender cut the stranger off, "Well, we don't let Goddamn Navajos or any Indians in here neither.” 

Now, for the first time, the stranger’s smile faded. 

The bartender continued raising his voice, “Maybe it’s been a lil longer than you remember since yer last visit ‘cause I don’t remember letting any of you people in here. And I’ve been running this bar since ‘79." 

The stranger's smiled returned, and he suddenly couldn’t stop his tongue from slipping, “Well, you’ve done a great job giving it that inbred, dumbass, redneck aesthetic there Ole’ Scotty O’Toole.” 

Someone from behind grabbed the stranger by his shoulder. He heard a click and felt the steel of a pistol barrel poke him in his back. 

Then the shots went off. 

Blood, bone fragments, and meat from the man's head splattered all over the back of the stranger’s neck and slicked back hair; blood dripped down the back of his neck into his shirt. The bartender was fumbling his gun; his eyes wide; face filled with terror at the sight of what had just happened. Before the bartender could gain control, the stranger, now with his face covered in the gory blood and flesh of the bartender’s friend, was pulling a gun from his own holster, hidden under his vest. 

The stranger shouted, “Rudolpho Domingo sends you to hell!” and he fired two shots into the bartender. One hit the center of his chest and the other right through his left eye. The force sent the large man flying back into the shelves of liquor, taking them to the floor with him in a symphony of smashing bottles and rushing booze, as his chest and face poured a river of red. The stranger spun around and helped finish off the remaining individuals. No one was to be spared. Not on this job. To the stranger’s confusion, there wasn’t much more to take care of. Just before it had sounded like a grand finale of a Fourth of July fireworks show right there in the bar. But now it was dead silence. 

"Mother fucker!" The stranger hollered to someone unknown, "Nice shot, asshole. I'm taking some of your pay for the cost of this suit, you reckless bastard!" He picked up his hat and saw blood and guts all over it too, “Oh yeah, and this fuckin’ hat!” 

The stranger walked over and around the dead bodies on the floor while making his way behind the bar. The blood was puddled in so many places that it made getting through the room a difficult task. When behind the bar, standing over the bartender that he had just executed, he grabbed a bottle of good bourbon that wasn't smashed by the big man's fall, and poured himself exactly what he had originally and politely asked for; no more. 

"He could have at least let me have my drink, you know? What a world, huh? I say all men, including the mayates deserve a drink!" 

Ironically, our stranger does not like white American racists but seems to have a certain disdain for African Americans, just as much. This stranger is an “independent contractor” working for a powerful man from San Antonio, named Rudolpho Domingo, who owned lots of real estate on the south side of the city. The stranger took the entire three fingers down the hatch and clenched his fist as he slammed the cup down on the table. He made a loud "Woo!" And shifted his chin from side to side, making his neck crackle. 

"Well, let's see what we have here." 

The stranger and his unknown associate did some digging around. This wasn’t just some hit job. It was a retrieval of stolen goods. Sure enough, some, but not all, could be recovered, found in a large black duffle bag. The biker gang was a bunch of small-time, petty criminals, who didn’t know who they were dealing with. 

"Well, what a fucking day.” The stranger sighed and directed his attention to the dead bodies everywhere, “Well, my friends, I appreciate the southern hospitality. We’ll send flowers to your cousins and sisters." Then he looked to his associate, “We’re all set up here. I’ll pull the car around. Do your thing, amigo.” 

The stranger slung the bag over his shoulder and made his way around all the dead bodies. The blood was about an inch deep in some places now. He opened the door and walked back into the hot Texas sun toward the car, a black two-door 1986 Pontiac Grand Prix. He dropped the bag in the trunk and hopped in the driver’s seat to pull around closer to the door, while waiting for his partner to finish the job – disposing of the garbage, so to speak. He brought in a jug of gasoline from the back and proceeded to dump it all over the bar room, filled with dead gang members. The stranger came back into the bar to check up on things. 

"I've got the car pulled up close. Let's get out of here while we still can." 

Suddenly, they heard someone cough and cry out, "Please! Please, don't leave me like this!" 

They hadn’t been thorough. One man, the loner, was lying half-dead on the floor in the corner, covered in blood and gasoline. One of the poor local innocents happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yet the stranger didn’t feel bad for him. The loner should have known better than to be around these people. He just stopped in for a beer. Not a model citizen of society, but not a terrible person, relatively speaking. He had come to when the gasoline was dumped on him, and he had been trying to get the words out. 

"Please, I have a daughter! Please don't kill me this way. I won't say nothin’, I swear!" 

The loner did have an estranged daughter. She was older now and moved away to San Antonio. He was never the best father after everything went downhill when his wife, his daughter's mother, died from cancer back in ‘87. He was hoping to get his life together by the winter and visit her for Christmas. He’d just started working at a local processing plant nearby and limited his drinking to one beer a day after his shift, or at least that was the goal. The bar was seedy and filled with biker gang members, but there weren’t many options in this run-down area. If he’d just straightened up like the family always wanted, maybe he wouldn’t be lumped in with this crowd, and maybe he wouldn’t suffer the fate upon him.

But in one swift moment, tomorrow's goals were impossible, and his destiny was final. 

The stranger looked to his associate and then back to the loner on the floor. Then he chuckled, shaking his head and made his way to the dying man, where he crouched over him and looked him in the eyes.

The loner repeated his promise, "Didn't ya hear me? I swear I won't say nothin', mister..."

"Maybe you would... maybe you wouldn't...” the stranger finally responded to the man’s promise, “...but either way, I don't care. The sun will still rise tomorrow without you or me. And once again... maybe you would. And maybe whatever you say will make my final day. You understand?" 

The man sobbed and pleaded some more, this time screaming at the men, "Please, for the love of God, don't do this! I swear to God I wasn't apart of whatever was going on here. I swear I wasn't! This just isn't fair! Why can't you just leave me alone? Why do I have to die?" 

The stranger stared at the loner and sighed. It was a genuine stare of sympathy. "I'm sorry. You’re bad for business. You're a serious liability now and..." the stranger's eyes glossed over cold, "My boss don’t really like those.” 

The loner continued to sob, but was interrupted, as he coughed up blood. The jukebox was still playing. Hank Williams was complaining that his bucket had a hole in it in the background.

The stranger continued, “It’s basic accounting, my friend. To my boss, you’re either me...” he pulled a knife from a black sheath, and pointed the end at himself, “I’m an asset, but... Some assets cost money;” he proclaimed with a sly grin, now pointing the knife at the dying loner on the ground, “but liabilities like you are nothing but money burning. And that’s what my boss pays assets like me to do...

Burn motherfuckers like you.” 

The stranger’s stare was intense and honest when he said that last part. He was like a demon on Earth, and the loner began to hyperventilate and sob some more as the stranger inched close to him.

“Only sick people kill for joy, so this ain’t it, friend." the stranger explained, "I can’t spare you, or I’d be killing myself.” He moved in closer, “But I can make the death quick and painless.” 

And then the stranger stabbed the loner to puncture his liver, to which the loner began to cry out, “No...” 

The knife dug deep. 

The stranger pulled it back out as the blood poured on the ground under the loner, who let out one final gasp as he stared up at the ceiling. The stranger could see life drifting from the loner’s eyes. This wasn’t the first time, and it was always painful for the stranger to watch. He did not like this part of the job. The bartender didn’t make him feel bad. Even the old waitress didn’t, but that was just because he didn’t have to do it this way. He always questioned how it got this way; how did he become the executioner? And the man’s words echoed through his mind:

“Why can’t you just leave me alone? Why do I have to die?”

That haunted the stranger; the very idea of how right the loner was in his remarks about death.

Why must a person take everything away from another, when the act of killing has no real benefit to the killer? The only possible benefit to killing could be sick pleasure or the practicality of cold-blooded accounting - the removal of a serious liability to one's family or society, perhaps even humanity, itself.

The stranger wished he could just part ways, but he knew that wasn’t how this job worked. This loner would talk to the cops or run his mouth the next time he got drunk. He would be more trouble than he was worth dealing with if he were left alive. After a moment, he realized these were the thoughts racing through his mind as he looked over the dying loner. The stranger got his mind back in gear, wiped the blood from the blade off on the loner's shirt, and turned around to walk outside as he sheathed his knife and looked at his associate. 

"Now, you can go ahead and do your thing, mi amigo." 

The stranger walked toward the door as his associate followed. The dying loner bled out and was drifting away into the unknown as the two men walked off. The stranger continued to the car, as his associate took a pack of matches from his pocket. He lit one up, threw it on the gasoline and blood-soaked floor, and made his way out the door for the final time before the door would be no more but a pile of burned up sticks and debris. The man felt the heat of the flames begin to come his way before he finally fell into a deep sleep. He saw his daughter grow up all over again in his memories. He saw his wife comforting him, as if she were there with him. She forgave him for everything. He knew she did. The pain wouldn’t be much longer, and he hoped to join her when he crossed over. Together they would wait for their daughter and maybe there, he could try again.

Maybe then, there wouldn’t be pain anymore for their family... no hell... no more than here on Earth, surrounded by the flames...

...and the smell of gasoline. 

 CHAPTER ONE – HOT PURSUIT ON 385 

It was a hot Texan day

in the middle of May

1995.

The engine roared, tires screeched, and Sofia’s breath was heavy. An inferno of the summer Texan air poured through the cab, as Sofia found herself trapped between the Chihuahuan Desert and two deranged men, chasing after her, rushing over 80 miles an hour down Highway 385. They were just northeast of Marathon, Texas; Sofia was driving a large, black Dodge Ram 1985 pickup truck, and praying that somewhere along this long stretch of road, there would be a deputy patrolling the area to see her.

Sofia shouted out loud her frantic thoughts, "Any other time you would be speeding this fast, the police would stop you for a fine. But the police are never there when you need them."

The two men were driving a 1990 Ford F-150 navy-blue pickup, and they were on her tail, coming up on her quick. She was rammed in the back bumper, about making her lose control to the right into a patch of shrubs and boulders, but she managed to swerve back to the left to keep the truck on the road. She straightened the truck back up and kept the gas pedal to the floor. She only had nineteen years. Thank God her husband Armando knew how to drive and taught her only last year. She’d gotten quite accustomed to the Dodge, and, right now, the machine was her horse in the desert, getting her back home. They fell a short distance behind her, trying to keep control of their own vehicle.

Sofia was crying and screaming as they would smash into the back of her truck several more times. They had been following her from a gas station about twenty miles to the southwest down the highway. There was nothing for miles past that gas station. No one was around to help her out of this situation. What did these men want with her? Why were they chasing her like this? This was the most frightening moment of Sofia’s entire life. These unknown men were seriously trying to harm Sofia for no good reason. And they were going to kill her if they caught her.

Sofia lived in a large, old grand homestead off the highway about 25 miles northeast of Marathon. There weren’t any neighbors for several miles. She could see it coming up on her left. She didn't want to lead them to her home, but what else could she do and where else could she go? They had almost knocked her off the road several times, and she didn’t know how much longer she could keep this wild chase up. She was in real trouble and had no other choice. The only hope that she had was to get to her Mossburg 500 12-gauge pump shot gun – “The Persuader – in her upstairs bedroom. She knew she wouldn't have time to reach for the telephone. They were right on her tail. The worst part of all, coming from this unsettling situation, was that Sofia was nine months pregnant and about to pop. She knew she shouldn't have been leaving the house by herself in the excruciating weather, with no one around to help her if anything had happened. She had everything she needed at home to take care of herself, and she had the phone, if she needed emergency services. But she was just so bored of being alone at her old, rickety house. And her pregnancy cravings were driving her crazy.

One craving, that seemed odd to Sofia but made her want to leave her home on this very day, was the smell of gasoline.

"I could have just stayed home. I should have just stayed home. It wasn't safe going out anyway. I could have popped while on the road. Yet, I never imagined that something like this would happen. I never would have imagined that I would be chased by two wild and crazy men.” Sofia sobbed as she thought about everything in hindsight.

If only her husband would be home from work sooner. She didn’t have much more time to think; she had to act – fight for her baby’s life, as well as her own. She took a sharp left turn into her driveway. The sound of the screeching tires roared before she hit the dirt, and she kept the vehicle under control as it switched terrain, even though she almost lost the back end. The truck jerked her around; she feared for the safety of her child inside of her with every aggressive movement. She had to do her best not to put the child through serious trauma, which seemed impossible at this moment. She sped down the road as fast as she ever had. It was a long dirt driveway, and the view of the house was right in front of her. But she wasn’t exactly home free. Not with these strange men following her. Luckily for her, she took them by surprise, as they passed the turn a few feet before hitting reverse and making their way down the driveway themselves. By the time she got out of the truck to start hobbling for her front door, the two men were parking their truck and rushing out for her. The larger of the two wore a dirty, white cowboy hat atop his red face that was partially hidden by his short, scruffy, dirty blonde beard. He darted straight for Sofia, while the other, skinnier man, who was wearing a similar hat, seemed to be checking around to make sure that there wasn’t anyone else there. That man held a .38 special revolver and seemed more than ready to use it but was surveying the field first.

Sofia made her way up the stairs and reached the porch when the bigger man grabbed her right ankle, but she had a pocketknife on her. She had kept it on her anytime she went out and now she was happy that she did. She had always hoped that it would never come to this; without a second thought she took the knife and drove it into the man's left arm, just below his wrist, to which the man hollered out loud in agonizing pain. The other man came from around the car and shot at Sofia, but luckily missed her, shooting a wood support next to her, splintering the wood in her face. She didn't hesitate to get inside as the other man cried and screamed in pain with the knife stuck in his now bloody arm.

The door was left unlocked because she didn’t think anyone would be around to bother the home while she was gone. No one was ever around in the area they lived in, which worried her in this time of desperation for assistance. She felt it was lucky to have the door unlocked to get in quickly, but when she slammed the door shut behind her, another shot went through it right by her head. She locked it and made her way to the back of the house as best as she could, although it was difficult to run at this stage of her pregnancy. As she went across the house for the back door, she could see with her peripheral vision through the windows that the other man with the gun was racing her to the back. She was trying not to hurt the baby, but she had to beat him to the door. She was wheezing wildly with every step; cradling her baby bump as she made her way to the back door. She locked it shut too just in time, but the man began to kick in the door with all his might. She knew that he would kick it in, and she had to be fast again. Lucky for her, it was a thick, strong door, so she had some time. For Sofia, this was becoming a marathon, and she could barely handle it anymore. She felt like she was going to vomit and pass out, but she kept telling herself that she had to push on to save her life and the baby’s. She made her way across the house again as the man kicked the door open. She bolted the best she could up the stairs and was at the top when he came around the corner to see her. He fired a shot, this time a better one than the last, because it caught her in the back of her left thigh, just below her bottom. The bullet dug right in the thick part of her leg and stayed lodged inside when it hit. She fell to her left knee, but kept up on her right foot, so she managed to make her way into her bedroom, half crawling, across the way from the top of the stairs. She stood up with all the might she had in her legs and slammed the door shut. The door did not have a lock though, so she had to think fast. With all the fight for life that she had in her, she took the chest of drawers that, luckily, sat next to the door and tipped it over on its side in front of the door. After that she was done. She had exerted all her energy and had to sit on the floor. The man tried to enter the room, but it was no use with the blockade in front.

"Fucking bitch!” he shouted in his thick southern accent, “This door won't stop me! I'll be in there in no time to get you!"

Sofia reached for her pump shot gun. It was hidden under the bed in a compartment in the frame. There was plenty of ammunition, and Sofia was fast at reloading each shot. Another thing Armando had made sure to teach her, while she would be staying home alone. Armando was the type of man who believed it’s better to have a gun and not need it, rather than not have a gun when you need it. Sophia sure could use whatever help available at this moment.

She pumped the barrel and shouted, "Stop! Hijo de puta! I've got a pump shot gun in here! And the first one of you redneck assholes comes in this room, I'm taking your fucking heads off and sending you straight to hell!"

Adrenaline coursed through her, and she pulled herself up to her feet, even though she was getting weaker by the minute. She aimed the gun at the door and braced herself to take a shot.

One of the men, she couldn’t tell which at this moment, shouted his response, "Bullshit! You ain't got nothin..."

Before he could finish, Sofia aimed the gun at her ceiling above the door and blew a hole in it. Pieces of wood and debris came falling in front of the door and clunked at the foot of the door. The man jumped when the gun had gone off and he knew that she was serious.

"Well! I'll be! You sure got some fire in you, don't you?" 

He laughed and shook his head, taking off his cowboy hat, scratching at his head as he stood and thought for a moment. But then he smiled, placed his hat back on his head and posted up on the left side of the door and, shifting his entire tone; he started talking soothingly through to her, "Well... I like that... I like that a whole lot, baby... Me-’n-you... We're gonna get along real swell sooner or later, darlin'. I like it when they fight and you're the best fighter I've had yet."

He didn't know it, but the recoil of the gun had knocked Sofia back into the floor and made her even more faint. She was coming in and out but fighting to keep her wits about her. She made sure not to let him on to the fact that she was getting so weak. She sat on the floor across from the door, aiming the gun toward it.

"Why are you doing this?” she cried, “What do you want with me?"

At this point, the other man, who was stabbed in the arm, was coming up the stairs. He had wrapped a towel from Sofia's kitchen around his arm and taped it tight with some duct tape that he found in Sofia’s utility closet. He spoke up to the other man, with the same southern drawl.

"It's true what they say, y’know? Those beaners sure are spicy." He began to say vulgar things to Sofia through the door.

Sofia began to sob as the man continued. He continued to say the most awful vile things to her, in a tone as if he were trying to seduce her. Mocking her for her ethnicity and being a woman of color, while threatening to assault her.

"Stop it!" Sofia shouted.

"Get out of my house! Leave me alone! My husband will be back, and you won't get away with this!" 

But the man just kept going on and on. He was sick and twisted. And each word drove daggers of fear into Sofia, that made it more and more difficult to keep her composure. She began to sob more and didn't know what to do. She wanted to shoot at them, but she was afraid to blow a hole through the door. She was afraid to even see their faces.

"I'm gonna kill you both when this is all over!” She cried, “You just wait and see!"

She was in so much pain and was just trying to stay conscious. The only thing keeping her awake was her adrenaline, but she knew that she couldn't put her baby through too much more stress. What could she do though? She was trapped. Every word that came out of these men's sick mouths was driving her blood pressure up, while descending her into madness. She was filled with immense anger but chilled to the bone at the same time. She lifted herself up to lean against her bed and cried out to them, beginning to plead.

"Please! Don't kill me! I don't know why you want to do this. I'm pregnant. I'm going to have a little girl. Please don't kill us! It isn't fair for my child... She hasn't even got to live her life yet!"

She began to giggle though her tears a little before explaining herself. Her accent was thick, and English clearly wasn’t her first language.

But she spoke it well.

"My name is Sofia. I haven't lived here long. I'm from the Tehuacán valley in Mexico. I came here with my husband, and I learned English so we could raise our daughter here in peace. I was just driving to the store..." she giggled some more as she cried at the same time, "I didn't even need the gas, but I was just craving the smell of gasoline... I wasn't even supposed to leave today. Please... This isn't fair! Please don't kill me and my unborn baby... Why can’t you just go away and live your own life? Why does it matter to you if I breathe somewhere on my own?"

There was a brief silence as Sofia waited in anticipation. Sweat was pouring down her face and body. Her dress was covered in sweat and blood. She had the blood of the man that she stabbed on her right hand and her wound was just starting to dry a bit, but every time she moved, it gushed a little. It was extremely painful, but she was so frightened, that the pain was secondary. She almost couldn’t even think about the pain with the fear clouding her mind. She was losing her breath while trying to stay calm. The last thing that she wanted in this moment was for the men to believe they could get the better of her. She had to be strong. She had to act strong. After what felt like an eternity of silence, the man standing to the left of the door chuckled at everything that she had said to them. The other man joined his laughter, and the sound of their laughing grew, sending a chill down Sofia's spine. The embodiment of evil lay just beyond the door. She had met true demons on Earth.

"When's death ever fair, lady?" the man beside the door asked. "Everyone dies. Everyone has to die. ‘N everyone’s gotta die in every way. This is the way that you and your lil spik baby are gonna die. Now... Open the door ‘n we can make it quick ‘n easy. Keep it closed ‘n we'll make it slow ‘n painful."

The other man muttered to him, "’Ey, Cody."

"Yeah, Zeke?" Cody asked in response.

"Y’know... I was thinkin'." Zeke said.

"Oh really? Guess old dogs can learn new tricks." Cody pestered.

"Hardy-har-har, fuck-face."

Zeke began to speak louder so Sofia could hear him,

"So she likes the smell o’ gasoline, huh?"

Cody looked confused at first, almost irritated by his brother’s loudmouth (Zeke was the younger, although bigger brother, yet usually lacking in the brains department compared to his older sibling); but then the lightbulb went off in Cody’s head, and a devilish grin grew upon his face. Sofia just stared at the door, petrified in her place.

"I say we give’er what she wants.”, Zeke chuckled menacingly, “Let's drown the place in gasoline!"

Zeke began to howl in laughter at his brilliant idea. Cody joined along in the rowdy celebration before turning to the door again to address their poor victim.

"Alright, you heard him, lady! So, what's it gonna to be? You gonna come out like a good lil beaner for us. Or we need to go ahead ‘n cook up some frijoles in here?"

Sofia's eyes were wide with terror. She didn't know what to do now. What could she do? She was out of options, and she was out of time. But she refused to cave in for them. She wasn’t going to give up until the end. They were going to kill her either way it seemed. Yet, the thought of burning alive... Sofia just didn’t know what she was going to do to get out of this. All she could do was pray that her husband would make it home in time to save her somehow. But she had a strong premonition... almost as if she could feel his distance. He was far away, working, and she knew it.

And another problem was dawning on her.

This baby was coming. And she was coming today.