Sin, p.12
Sin, page 12
The bar interior reeked of cigarette stench, although the lateness of the night had already sent much of the normal clientele home. Only a few patrons still sat at the bar. Lise took a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey when the bartender came over.
“You look familiar,” the man said as he set down a shot glass and poured a finger of the amber liquid into it.
“Used to live here,” he answered, setting a ten on the counter. “Made the unwise decision to come back.”
The bartender scooped up the money and shrugged. Obviously he wasn’t into much conversation as he pocketed the bill and moved back down to the opposite side of the bar. Lise didn’t care. He only wanted one drink to try to quiet the restlessness inside.
He drank the shot down in one gulp and then sat there as the fire made its way down his throat to warm his chest and belly. The stuff was horrible, but it did help calm him. Just as he was about to get up and leave, the door opened and much to his dismay, in walked Latorre holding the hand of a woman half his height. She was a tiny thing, and young. Probably a little too young to be in the bar, but like usual, the reservation was a little lax on carding the underage. Jim and Del followed, and the four of them stopped next to him.
“And here’s the man of the hour!” Latorre said, sounding a little snarky. “Juana, look. It’s my dear old friend, Lise Mason.”
Juana checked him out, looking him over up and down, and leaving him a little uncomfortable. Latorre was already half drunk. The last thing Lise wanted was to have the already unstable man decide to go after him for some perceived slight.
“He doesn’t look like a baby rat,” she said, her voice high-pitched and slightly nasally. “He’s got some nice muscles here and there.”
Latorre frowned at her. “Shut up.”
He raised a hand, and Juana flinched. Lise narrowed his eyes. He didn’t want conflict, but he wouldn’t sit by while a woman was abused.
“This is little soldier boy … decided he was too good for the tribe.” Latorre pointed at him as he addressed his so-called posse. “He came back to shove our noses into how much better he is.”
Del and Jim glared at him. Lise took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. This was often Latorre’s tactic, using his words to inflame before striking like a cobra. Knowing how this could escalate quickly, Lise turned his back on the group and tried to walk away, but a hand fell upon his shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Latorre demanded.
Lise shrugged him off. “Don’t touch me.”
Immediately the tension in the bar shifted as the few patrons remaining moved into the corners of the bar. Some even left. Lise may not have wanted conflict, but suddenly he found himself in the center of Latorre’s circle.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“Or what?”
“I’ve had training to defend myself.”
Latorre snickered. “So? That only makes you a good-ole boy, doesn’t it? Traitor.”
Being a soldier, Lise bristled at the word. “I am serving my country-”
“Country!” Latorre yelled. “You defend the white man’s control. The very people who keeps us prisoner on this land.”
Lise shook his head. “You can get out of here, just like I did.”
Latorre snorted and turned to address the people still lingering in the room. “He thinks the White Man is ready to help us out of this shithole. That if we join the military, we, too, can be all we can be.”
He laughed, but the only ones joining him in his apparent glee were his entourage. Everyone else cowered by, looking away and pretending nothing was happening. He walked up and stood nose to nose with Lise.
“You are the white man’s bitch,” Latorre whispered, a sardonic twist of his lips giving a mocking impression of a smile.
Lise had had enough. He turned to leave, but Latorre must have had other thoughts. He grabbed his arm, and when Lise went to shrug him off, Latorre hauled back and punched him in the jaw. Pain exploded through his head as Lise stumbled back, falling heavily onto the bar counter. He had to admit, the man had strength behind his fist, and shook his head trying to clear the double vision. But the motion must have acted as the go-whistle because Jim and Del rushed forward grabbing his arms, holding him down so Latorre could pummel him more.
Blow after blow caught him, landing in the stomach and across the chin. Lise didn’t even have a moment to catch his breath until a glass beer bottle hit Latorre in the side of his head. He reared back, fist raised and ready, turning to face the bartender.
“Stay out of this, old man!” he snarled, chest heaving from the exertion of pummeling Lise.
Only Lise had had enough. Catching his breath, rage descended through him. He stomped on Del’s foot and the man howled as he let go of his arm, which Lise used to land an upper-cut across Jim’s jaw. Both his captors fell back. He struck out with his foot and connected so hard to Del’s kneecap, there was a loud crunching sound. He imagined shards of bone were thrusting through the back of Del’s knee joint. Del went down hard, screaming in pain. The click of a gun cocking had Lise spinning around to see Latorre holding the weapon steady on him. Their gazes locked, and Lise saw the intent. He brought his hand up to knock the barrel aim off its trajectory. The blast in the small room was deafening and then silence fell like a thick, wet blanket.
“Oh, my God,” Jim whispered.
The horror in his tone seeped through the fog of anger. He looked in the direction Jim pointed and saw a body on the ground. A female.
“Juana!” Latorre cried and he rushed over to the fallen woman. Blood lay around her in a pool. Her eyes half open and staring into the fathomless pit of death. “You killed her.”
Lise shook his head. “No. It … I … no.”
“I’m going to tear your fucking head off!”
Latorre rushed at him, but the bartender had come out and grabbed him, getting him in a choke hold while the faint sounds of sirens came ever closer.
****
Lise sat at the table in the interrogation room, unable to comprehend how he’d ended up handcuffed on the charge of homicide. The door opened, and a man walked in, grey hair slicked back and his beard trimmed neatly. He clearly wasn’t tribal police. Pulling out the chair on the other side of the table where Lise was being held, he laid a folder down and opened it.
“Mr. Mason,” the man said. “You’re in some trouble.”
Lise didn’t acknowledge the statement, figuring the metal bracelets said it all. How the hell did his life go downhill in a matter of minutes?
“You will not be facing Article One Eighteen. Instead, you’re going to be charged with reckless homicide,” the man continued, studying him. “You will be court-marshalled and found guilty. Then you’ll be removed to Leavenworth to serve out the remainder of your life.”
Ice gripped Lise’s insides. He’d rather kill himself than serve life in prison. “Are you my lawyer?”
“No, my name is Joseph David Harlan, and I may be able to help you bypass that charge.”
A small blossom of hope flashed inside his heart. “How?”
“I knew your father, long ago.”
It was too much stimulus to deal with. “What? My father ran out on me and my mom.”
“He served our country,” Harlan said succinctly. “Your CO called me when he got word you had been arrested, because he knew of the link I had with your father. I looked into your case and determined you acted in self-defense.”
“It was an accident,” he whispered. “Latorre pointed the gun at me. I knocked it away, and it hit her.”
Harlan nodded. “Believe me, I understand. Your CO said you are a good soldier. A good man.”
Lise swallowed down the emotion clogging his throat. “How can you help me?”
“I run a special division for the government. Completely off the books and only a few military personal knows about what we do.”
Lise frowned, waiting.
“I think you’d be a perfect addition to the team. But before you say yes, I have to warn you that you’d be walking away from your life as Lise Mason. By signing my contract, everything you are will have to die. Including your Apache ties.”
He took a piece of paper out of the folder to slide it toward Lise, who read it carefully.
“Mason Lake?”
“Lise means salmon in the water, right? I studied the Apache language and culture on my way here and thought Mason Lake sounded better than Mason Salmon.” Harlan held out a pen. “Say goodbye to Lise and say hello to Lake.”
End of sample chapter
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Beth D. Carter, Sin
