Lyrics to Funkytown by Lipps Inc (1980) - Yes, I let Lisa play DJ again. Sue me.
The knob rattled and turned, and the door swung open with a cry of rusty hinges. Lacy's heart stopped and her entire body petrified. Liby's head whipped up and the case fell from her hands, striking the concrete with a thunk. She brought the MP5 around just as a man in glasses emeged, an unlit cigarette jutting from his lips. He saw them at the same time Liby jammed the barrel into his face; his eyes widened and the smoke fell from his mouth.
"No te muevas, hijo de puta, no digas ni una palabra," Liby snarled.
The man's eyes flicked from Liby to Lacy and then back again, his features darkened with fear. Liby poked him with the barrel and pushed him back through the door. Regaining her composure, Lacy followed, her finger going to the trigger.
Inside, banks of screen lined two facing walls. A control panel flanked either one, empty swivel chairs standing guard. At the very end, another man typed on a computer screen, a pair of headphones covering his ears. Lacy aimed at him while Liby spiun the first one around and prodded him in the small of the back. March.
The second man sensed them and turned his head. When he saw the gun, the color drained from his face and his hands froze. Liby motioned for him to take the headphones off, and he did, slowly. Lacy noticed the pistol on his hip and zeroed in on it. If he made the slightest move for it, she would open up.
Liby pushed the first man forward, and he stumbled. "Siéntate al lado de tu amigo," she said, and he dropped into the chair beside his comrade. Liby slung the MP5 over her shoulder and yanked the Five-Seven from its holster. When she worked in the Middle East, she told Lacy, she discovered that many people were terrified of handguns because the roving death squads of various dictatorial regimes (Saddam's chiefly among them) used pistols for execution. Everyone had a rifle and everyone carried, but as soon as someone brought a pistol out…
Her doing this had the desired effect: Both men's face went whiter than they already were. Lacy covered them with the rifle as Liby went first to the hall door to make sure it was secure, and then over to the men. She poked the barrel against the back of computer man's head. "¿Cuándo termina su turno?"
"M-Medianoche," he trembled.
Liby nodded slowly as if what he said confirmed her what she already knew. "Bueno. Si quieres vivir, harás exactamente lo que digo. Si no obedeces, te dispararé. O tal vez te corte la garganta como un cerdo."
Computer man trembled. Lacy caught the words 'good' 'shoot' and 'pig.' Those alone were enough to make her stomach feel slimy, and she was endlessly grateful that she couldn't understand the rest.
"Haremos lo que quieras," cigarette man said.
Liby leaned over, slipped computer man's pistol from its holster, then turned and did the same to cigarette man. She pressed a button and the magazines of both dropped onto the floor. "Anula el sistema y deshabilita las alarmas," she said, "luego apaga las cámaras."
Computer man nodded jerkily, then scooted forward and started to type, the blue glow of the screen bathing his wan countenance. His eyes darted back and forth as he navigated through the compound's security system. Liby watched over his shoulder, her cheek touching his and the gun pressed into the hollow spot on the back of his head. Lacy came over and covered cigarette man with the MP5; she didn't trust herself to be good enough with the pistol if something happened.
After what felt like a long time, computer man sat back. The screens went dark and a bank of red lights on a far panel winked out.
Immediately, a phone on the desk started to ring.
During the planning phase, Liby said that the moment the system was disabled, a light would go off at the main desk and the chief of security would telephone to find out what was happening.
Computer man looked at it the way a drowning man might look at a life preserver.
"Dígales que el sistema no funciona," Liby said. "Usted lo reinició. Estará en línea nuevamente en media hora."
Nodding, computer man picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and held the handset to his ear. "¿Hola?"
He waited for a moment as the chief spoke, then nodded. "Hubo un error en el sistema. Tuvimos que reiniciarlo. Debería estar funcionando de nuevo en media hora." As he spoke, his eyes drifted to Liby and he nervously licked his lips. Cigarette man laid his hand on the arms of the chair and shifted. Lacy's chest clutched and she jerked the rifle at him; it shook in her hands.
"Todavía," she hissed.. Still. At least she thought that was what it meant. He froze, their eyes locking, then he let go and rested his hands in his lap. Lacy watched them to make sure he didn't reach for concealed weapon, the barrel trained on his midsection and her fingertip caressing the length of the trigger.
"Sí, se estrelló. Estaba ingresando un comando y se congeló. No pude hacer que funcionara nuevamente, así que tuve que reiniciarlo." Computer man looked anxiously at Liby, then Lacy. "Creo que son las actualizaciones de software. Windows 50 se congela todo el tiempo."
Was the chief buying it? If not, he might come down to have a look for himself, and while Lacy was sure she and Liby could handle him, his absence would be quickly noticed. Liby figured that they could be at the house less than fifteen minutes after leaving the outpost; would that be enough time? Or would someone realize the boss was missing and raise an alarm?
Computer man nodded, said something, and put the phone back in the cradle. "Él dice que vendrá y verá si no estamos en línea en media hora."
"Perfect," Liby said. She took a step back and shoved the Five-Seven into its holster, then unshouldered the bag and dropped it onto a desk while Lacy covered the captives. "We tie them up, plant the charges, and get out. I'm setting the timer for twenty minutes."
Lacy nodded that she understood and tried not to think of what would happen to the people in the building when the plastic explosives went off. They're targets, not people, the enemy, us vs them, a threat to our loved ones. She could do it...but deep down, she still didn't like it.
Taking a length of rope from the bag, Liby went over and knelt behind computer man's chair. "Pon tus manos atrás."
He put his hands behind the chair, and she tied them. Next, she moved onto cigarette man and gave him the same command. He obeyed, and she bound his wrists. She got up, went over to the bag, and took out a roll of duct tape. She wrapped it around each man's head, covering his mouth, then tossed it aside. Lacy relaxed a little but kept the gun pointed in their direction.
At the desk Liby molded the plastic explosives, added a charge and a timer, then carried it over to the hall door and sat it down. Neither man saw her do this, but Lacy did, and she managed to keep from flaking, but just barely.
"Alright," she said, zipped up the bag, and threw it over her shoulder. "We gotta be quick, we got twenty minutes." She threw a glance at the men and said something in Spanish.
The plan was to create a chaos while at the same time taking out as many guards as possible.
Outside, Liby shut the door and together they darted back to the treeline, Lacy following her sister the way they had come.
For a while, they moved in silence, the only sound the crashing of blood in Lacy's temples and the snapping of twigs underfoot. Ahead, Liby went at a crouch, sweeping the HK back and forth. At one point, they came to a dirt road, and both of them dropped to their knees. When they were sure nothing was coming, they rushed across, Lacy's gaze oscillating left and right; she was half convinced that headlights would appear, and that she would freeze like a doe on a country road, moving only when .50 calibre machine gun rounds slammed into her chest.
She made it to the other side in one piece, though, and after a while, lights appeared through the foliage. Both fell to a quick crouch and hurried to the treeline.
When Lacy saw it, her stomach roiled.
Montoya's mansion, lit up like a ship at sea, or a fabled city at night, stood atop a gentle hill. Another road, this one paved, hugged the bottom of the slope before twisting away and disappearing into the jungle. A split rail fence that struck Lacy as wildly out of place followed its course.
The roar of a motor filled the world, and as one, Liby and Lacy hit the ground on their sound swelled, then the glare of lights fell across the lane. Lacy glanced up moments before a Jeep passed: A man sat behind the wheel and another manned a roof mounted machine gun, which he pivoted in a semi-circle. Lacy's heart skipped a beat and she was certain that they had been discovered, but the Jeep passed and disappeared from sight, its taillights, and the hum of its engine, both dwindling until the natural sounds rushed in like the Red Sea on Pharaoh's head.
Liby took her goggles off and stared through the scope attached to the rifle. "Looks like a clear shot," she said and sat it aside. "There'll be guards all around, so be quiet, keep low, and follow my lead."
Lacy nodded.
"We'll get through this," Liby said and stared up at the house, "we'll get through this easy."
Maybe it was actually being here, with adrenaline coursing through her veins, but she believed that.
100 percent.
Lemy's plan was to catch Dad at breakfast with a Hey, buddy, we need to talk, but Gwen and Lola screwed that all up; for almost an hour afterwards he was laid up in bed with too-much-fuk-fuk-itis and the conversation with Dad had to wait.
On the plus side, Gwen and Lola brought him breakfast in bed like he was some kind of king or something; nothing helps build yourself back up like an ego rush. And it weren't no rinky dink little breakfast either, son; I'm talking an omelette and sausage and shit. As he ate, Gwen sat on one side and Lola on the other, Lola running her fingers through his hair and smiling at him. It was actually kind of awkward.
"This is good," he said to break the silence.
Lola hummed. "This is what you get when you fuck a woman right."
Lemy blinked. Oh? "So...I fucked you right?" he asked uncertainly.
Lola patted his cheek in a patronizing way. 'Kid, if you didn't, you'd be eating instant oatmeal right now."
He searched her eyes for traces of deceit, but, dude, she was being honest. Now that was an ego boost. I mean, Dad's gotta be a tough act to follow. He was too consumed with lust to really think on it at the time, but deep down, yeah, he was a little self-conscious. Actually, he was always self-conscious. Except with Gwen. Did she say she was a virgin before him? If so, she didn't have anyone to compare him to, so that kind of made him win by default. Even if she wasn't, the sex was objectively good, so...I dunno. Leia, Lyra, and Lola had all been with Dad, and Dad was King Shit, ya know? If Lola said he was good, man, he believed her; she didn't strike him as the type to spare your feelings by lying.
His head swelled so large it popped and he died. The end.
But no, really, he felt really fucking good after that. "Did you see Dad down there?" he asked Lola following a brief period of silent self-congratulation.
"Yeah, he's eating, why?" Lola asked.
"Nothing," Lemy said, "I just need to talk to him." He cut off a piece of omelette, stabbed it with his fork, and held it out to Gwen, who leaned forward, took it between her teeth, and pulled back. He did it again and held it out to Lola. She grinned salaciously, craned her neck, and wrapped her lips slowly, seductively around the fork, her eyes staring dead ass into his. She drew back and chewed while Lemy fought to keep from getting hard. No more, brah, I can't take round three right now.
"While you do that," Lola said, "I'm borrowing Gwen for a while. I want to...show her a few things."
See...I was so afraid of losing her to Dad that I let Lola sneak up on me. Silly Lemy. He turned to Gwen and she shrugged. "Don't worry, Lem-Lem," Lola said, "I'm just going to give her some pointers." She got up and stretched her back. "Come on, honey; lets see if there are any cucumbers downstairs. Do you have a gag reflex?"
Gwen scrunched her lips to the side and thought. "I think so."
Lola waved her hand. "So do I, ignoring it is easy with practice." She cast her Cleopatra eyes upon Lemy, and he felt kind of warm. "By the time today's lesson is over, you'll know how to suck his soul out, put it back, and suck it out again."
Gwen turned to him and smirked. "Will it make him call me Mommy?"
"It'll make him call you God."
Gwen got to her feet. "Okay! Let's go." At the door, she tossed a sexy look over her shoulder. "Bye, Freak."
Lemy lifted his hand. "B-Bye."
When they were gone, he sighed. Suck my soul out, huh? I don't know whether to be excited or mortified. I do know I need to talk to Leia about letting Gwen borrow some clothes...then to Dad about letting her stay.
After breakfast, though; I gotta get my protein levels up cuz something tells me I'm gonna nut at least one more time before the day's over.
Fifteen minutes later, he pushed aside his tray and got to his feet; he was still a little wobbly, but that's to be expected after having rough sex with your aunt, isn't it? In the hall, he went to Leia's door and poked his head in: She was sitting in the middle of her bed with stacks of money arranged carefully around her; she held another in her hand and flipped through it slowly, her lips moving as she counted. Say what you want about Leia, but she knew how to rake it in. How he didn't know; she lost out so big on that lemonade stand that Dad punished her with no log for a month, lol. Hey, more for him, ya know?
He wondered if she was a hooker. No, really, back when he was still a virgin loser, he called this escort off the internet, and it sounded so much like Leia it was weird. 200 for full service; 500 for Greek; and a thousand for BBFS. Basically: 200 to smash, 500 to put it in my butt, and a thousand to smash with no condom. He punked out and hung up, but...yeah, it sounded like Leia. Expensive little bitch, huh? 200 to fuck. Pfft. Most of the girls online start at 120. But no, not Leia, Miss Precious Pussy. She was good, but not that good. Her mom, on the other hand...yeah, he'd drop a thousand on that.
But hey, guess what? Got it for free.
Plus breakfast.
His head swelled up and he nearly tipped over.
The end.
But nah.
"Hey, Leia?"
The little girl continued counting as though she hadn't heard him. He glanced over at Lizy's bed, but she wasn't there, thank God. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that he forgot until right now that he was supposed to be kinda leery of her, you know? Cuz of the Couch Incident? He just didn't want to be up in her face, knowing how she felt and…
Holy shit, I'm the new Lyra and she's the new Lemy.
Wait, I already made that comparison, didn't I? It's true, though.
Sigh.
"Leia?"
"I'm counting!" she spat.
Lemy fell back a step. "Alright, goddamn." He crossed his arms and waited for her to be done, but because this is Leia we're talking about, she too twice as long as anyone else. In fact, he was pretty sure she flipped the stack over and counted it again just to spite him.
Nodding to herself, she slapped it onto the bed and looked up, her blue shadowed eyes batting prettily. "Yes?"
"Can Gwen borrow some clothes? She doesn't have any and...she needs some." He didn't really want to go into detail about Gwen's situation. It was...he was sure Gwen was embarrassed about it and he didn't want to do or say anything before she was ready to herself, you know?
Leia cocked a quizzical brow. "What happened to her clothes?"
"They're dirty."
"Oh?" She crossed her arms. "And why are they dirty?"
Sexual...she was being sexual. No surprise there, Lisa did say we're all perverts. "She just needs to borrow some clothes, okay?"
Leia stared at him for a moment. "Fine." She motioned toward the dresser. "Take whatever" She picked up the money and started to put it back into her lockbox. He went over to the dresser and rummaged around, looking for something that half way matched, finally settling on a long tan skirt and a white long-sleeve blouse. He folded them over his arm so they wouldn't get wrinkled (you can't bring wrinkled clothes to Gwen any more than you can call on a classy lady like Mrs. Puff without flowers) then started to leave, but Leia stopped him. "Uh...you're forgetting something."
Huh? He looked down at what he had. Skirt. Blouse. Oh, duh, socks. He backed up, opened the sock drawer, and grabbed a pair; they were pink with a little lime green strip across the toes. "Thanks."
He started to leave again, but yet again, Leia stopped him. "No," she said with contrived patience, "you're forgetting something else."
Alright, now she's messing with me. I got a skirt, a blouse, and socks. What the hell could I be forgetting? He looked to Leia for guidance; one corner of her mouth was raised and there was evil in her eyes. Oh, boy, something told him she wanted to do it.
Pulling her legs out from under herself, she spread them, reached under her skirt, and pulled down her underwear, her gaze never wavering. He swallowed as he watched them slide across her flesh...down to her knees...then to her ankles and over her feet. He found himself trying to catch a flash of her center, but she closed her knees and tossed the underwear at him; they landed perfectly on the pile of clothes in his arms.
Down, Shockmaster, you gotta rest. You don't wanna wind up like Chuck Negron, do you?
"There," Leia said, "though you might want to smell them to make sure they're not dirty." Her smile widened just enough that he got her drift. Okay. He picked them up and held them to his nose; they were warm with her heart and saturated with her scent. He sniffed deeply and her fragrance went right to The Shockmaster, making him stand tall.
Hmmmm. "No, they smell good to me," he said.
"Good," Leia said. Her eyes went to his dick and then back to his face. "Hmm...you still owe me a favor."
Shocky did the old Scrappy Doo routine. Let me at 'im! Let me at 'im! "I know," he said smoothly.
"I have something in mind," she said, "but that'll have to wait until later. I need to make a trip to the bank." She got up and grabbed her lockbox. "Shoo," she said and waved her hand, "later."
Alright, alright, sheesh. Tucking the bundle of clothes under his arm, he went up the stairs to the third floor and down the unfinished hall. Lana kept telling him We're gonna finish 'er up but it never happened, and thank God for that; her crazy ass wanted him to hang sheetrock. Sheetrock! That shit's a motherfucker on your back. At Lola's door, he knocked and waited; he could hear music from inside, Christina Aguilera or some shit. He knocked again, and still got no reply, so he turned the knob and popped his head in.
What he saw made him tense.
Gwen and Lola knelt facing either other on the bed, Gwen's hands in her lap and Lola's head tilted back, her fist to her mouth; Lemy watched in astonishment as she slowly pulled a cucumber out of her mouth, her saliva coating it and glistening in the light. Gwen's eyes grew to twice their size and her jaw slackened.
"Wow," she breathed, "how do you do that?"
A silvey ribbon of drool connected her lips and the cucumber. "Lots of practice, sweetie." She turned her head, saw Lemy, and grinned. "Hi, Lem-Lem."
Dude, what the fuck did I just see?
"Hey," he said, "I, uh, have some clothes for Gwen here."
"Just put them on the bed," Lola said. Lemy came forward and sat them down, then took a step back. Both girls looked at him with hungry eyes, and if he didn't get out of there they were going to pounce. That wasn't a bad thing, now, but he really needed to talk to Dad. After that, they could have him, but not a moment sooner.
"I gotta go," he said and flashed a nervous smile, "I still need to talk to Dad."
"Okay," Lola said.
"I'll be back, though."
"Good," Gwen added.
"Yeah," he said, backing toward the door. He hit the frame and jumped. "See ya." He turned and hurried out before they could stop him, the sound of their conspiratorial giggling following him down the stairs and through the hall. Sheesh. Is this what Dad's been going through his whole life?
Poor guy.
Downstairs, he crossed through the living room and went into the kitchen, but it was empty save for aunt Leni, who was standing at the counter and working the blender. She was looking extra thicc today in a pair of tight jeans, a tight aquamarina sweater that was just short enough to expose a band of skin along her ample hip, and a pair of sunglasses on top of her blonde head. Had she ever worn those damn things? Lemy couldn't remember ever seeing them on her face, but hey, who knew?
Anyway, she was always drinking these gagtastic fucking smoothies made of seaweed and shit. He tried one once to be polite and ugh. He'd rather eat the rotten asshole of a roadkill skunk and down it with beer. Really, those things sucked. How she was able to drink them was beyond him.
"Have you seen Dad?" he asked.
She looked up and rolled her eyes to the ceiling in thought. "Uhhh...I, like, think he's outside."
Lemy stared at her breasts the entire time. They were full and round and made large humps under her shirt. My humps, my lovely lady lumps. Damn right.
He was shocked back to reality when she gasped. "Lemy! Are you, like, looking at my breasts?"
Lemy blinked and darted his eyes away. "Uh...n-no."
That was a lie.
He totally was.
Leni crossed her arms over her chest as if to hide herself. "You're, like, a little boy. You shouldn't be looking at girls yet."
Uh...excuse me? He started to argue that he was certainly old enough to look (brah, I've been touching for two months now), but stopped because, man, he was getting off track, and the last thing he needed right now was for Leni to jump on his bandwagon too. Muttering an apology, he brushed past her and went out the back door. A gust of cold wind stirred his hair and a leaf slapped him in the face. Peeling it off, he tossed it away...but it came back and slapped the other side. Son of a bitch. He grabbed it, crushed it in his fist, and went down the stairs.
Dad was over by the fence in an orange turtle neck and tan slacks, a rake in his hands and a pile of leaves heaped in front of him. His cowlick shivered in the breeze like a fucking airport windsock and as he dragged the tines over the grass, his shirt rode up to reveal pasty white flesh.
Since he and Dad were trying to work on their relationship, Lemy was making a conscious effort to not go so hard on the guy, but come on! He's lucky Lisa made everyone predisposed to incest otherwise he'd be getting no action.
Man, I hope he's cool about this. "Dad?"
Dad glanced up and smiled. "Hey. Come to help your old man out?"
Lemy's step faltered. "Uh...sure...if you can help me out."
"With what?"
Lemy started to speak, but stopped. "It's kind of a long story." He glanced over his shoulder at the porch. "Can we sit down?"
Dad's brow furrowed slightly, but then he shrugged and dropped the rake; it landed in the leaves with a crisp rustle. They went over to the porch step and sat side-by-side, Lemy with one knee drawn up and Dad with both feet resting on the ground. "What's up?" he asked, a fatherly edge of concern in his voice.
For a moment Lemy considered how to approach this. It was a pretty big thing, you know? Hey, can my girlfriend live with us from now on? Man, he was gonna say no, watch. His stomach rolled. What was he gonna do then? He couldn't let Gwen go back to her mother, not with the way she treated her. He'd sooner gouge out his own fucking eye. No hype; literally gouge it out.
Dad put his hand on his shoulder, and he tensed slightly. "What is it, Lemy?" he asked seriously.
Lemy sighed. "Its Gwen," he said.
"What about her?"
For a long moment Lemy didn't speak; the roar of the wind in the trees was the only sound. "She's being abused," he said, his voice breaking and sudden tears flooding his eyes.
"What?"
Lemy held up his hand and choked back his emotion. "I-It's not that bad, I guess, but…" he took a deep breath and told his father everything just as Gwen had told it to him, omitting only the part about the scrapbook. That seemed too intensely personal. She trusted him with that information and him alone; you'd have to hold a blow torch to his nuts before he'd even consider sharing it with someone else.
Dad listened silently until the end, his expression grave. When Lemy was finished, he stared down at his feet, the back of his neck flushed. "C-Can she stay here? I know it's a lot to ask, but...I can't send her back there. I can't see her be sad and cry like that again."
For a moment, Dad was silent, then he took a deep, thoughtful breath. "Well...m-my first instinct is to say yes, absolutely. And if…" he trailed off and sighed. "Just because her mother said those things doesn't mean that she actually...wants Gwen to never come back."
Lemy looked up at him, his brow furrowing. "She said she wished she had her aborted."
"And...and that is awful," Dad said seriously, "I'm not denying that. I'm saying that given her mother's state, she very well may…" he trailed off again. "Basically what I'm trying to say is that for one reason or another she might not want Gwen to be here and there's nothing you or I can do about that."
"She doesn't care about Gwen," Lemy said tightly.
"Maybe she doesn't," Dad allowed, "but it sounds like she has a lot of problems, and you can't take a person literal when they're sick...or, in her case, an alcoholic. Drugs and alcohol do things to people, it makes them...not think rationally."
Lemy considered his father's words carefully. "Well...she still doesn't need to be around that. You know, sick or not, her mother's a bitch."
"I agree," Dad said, "and if her mother is serious, then yes, of course she can stay here. I find it hard to believe that someone will let their child go and not wonder about them or come looking for them. She's still her mother, and if she wants her to come home, she'll have to go."
"What about adopting her or something?"
Dad shook his head. "That's a very complicated process and social services will have to be involved, which means Gwen will probably have to be placed in foster care or a group home for a while."
Lemy felt like he was going to puke.
"Then there would be the matter of us being approved to take her, which I doubt would happen given the fact that we already have so many children."
"Plus the incest," Lemy said.
Dad ticked his head back and forth. "Eh, that's easy enough to hide. What I'm saying is...there's a lot that goes into something like this. She's welcome to stay, but that might not be a feasible long term solution. Her mother, like I said, can always pull her back, and no, being with her mom does not sound like it's best for her. I don't think being shoved into a group home is either, but the law is a funny thing. Justice doesn't always feel like justice because sometimes it isn't. And sometimes we're given two bad situations and have to choose the lesser of them."
A gust of wind swept through the backyard and scattered Dad's leaf pile across the grass. "So...it might be better for her to...go to a group home or something?" Lemy asked. It was really hard to breathe with the tight band of anxiety around his chest.
Dad started to speak but stopped, his brow settling and his gaze troubled. "I don't know," he said, "if it comes down to that or going back to her mother...I just don't know."
Liby checked her watch: They had five minutes before the timer ran out and the outpost went up.
She and Lacy were currently crouching behind a stone fountain on the edge of Montoya's garden, the trickle of water grating on Liby's nerves. Ahead, neatly trimmed shrubs dotted a well-manicured lawn. Stonework flanked a path that lead to a set of wide marble steps. At the top, stone balusters lined a broad patio. Lights shone through French windows and the sound of classical music, clinking glasses, and low chatter drifted forth, rolling across the gardens like a faint breeze.
Bringing the HK up, she stared through the scope. The doors and windows were all heavily curtained, which made seeing in impossible, but she was expecting that. On the other hand, it made seeing out difficult as well, which worked to their advantage; who goes to a ritzy party only to stare through the gap of a curtain like a crackhead looking for the police?
She scanned the patio and spotted a guard walking toward the railing, an AK-47 resting against the crook of his shoulder.
Another guard stood on the opposite side of the French doors, gazing directly at them but not seeing due to distance and night. This one held his rifle crossways and looked bored, like a minimum wage employee simply waiting for his shift to end so that he could go home to his family.
Liby's chest twinged with something approaching remorse, but she ignored it. Every soldier on the field of battle from time immemorial to now had loved ones at home, parents, wives, children - but that didn't make them any less dangerous. In fact, it made them more dangerous because when you have a family, you'll do anything to come home to them. Liby knew that all too well.
Putting the rifle down, she opened her bag and rummaged around. "We gotta be real quick getting up there," she told Lacy. "By now we have four minutes until that charge goes. I want to be in position when it does." She pulled out a long black cylinder and hurriedly screwed it onto the barrel of the rifle.
A silencer.
Hollywood works under the perpetual assumption that a silencer entirely cancels the sound of a report. It doesn't, it only muffles it...slightly. In fact, the main advantage of a silenced weapon is that the noise is reduced just enough to make it difficult to discern where the gunfire is coming from and how far away it is. Liby was counting on the noise of the party covering the shots.
Wedging the stock against her shoulder, she got to her knee, leaned heavily against the fountain, and aimed at the guard facing them. Lacy jammed her index finger into her ear just as Liby jerked the trigger. BOOM! The round caught him in the forehead, and he toppled like the faceless henchman he was. The other guard turned, and Liby swung the rifle around and fired: His head jerked back and he fell to the concrete.
"Alright," Liby said and jumped to her feet. She put the HK over her shoulder, grabbed the MP5, and then snatched her bag from the ground. Lacy stood, and in the feeble glow from the house, Liby's face was hard, set. "Stick to the plan," she said, "and do not choke."
"I won't," Lacy vowed.
Liby leaned forward, and they kissed quickly. "I love you."
"I love you too."
With that, they went in two separate directions, Lacy down the path leading to the patio stairs and Liby around the side of the house. Lacy's heart slammed wildly as she pounded up the steps, her combat boots making a dull thunk thunk thunk on the marble. At the top, she veered right and bent at the waist, dropping to one knee when she reached the door. The music was louder here, the reveley of the partygoers gayer. She checked the timer on her watch. 2:04 until the charges at the outpost exploded. As soon as that happened, she and Liby would strike.
She imagined the carnage that was to follow, and couldn't suppress a tiny shiver. Liby originally planned to try and spare as many of the guests as possible, but changed her mind after she captured Hector. She wanted to be 'sure' and 'thorough'; her plan now...open fire through the windows simultaneously (her from the front and Lacy from the back). It's safer this way for both of us, Liby said. That might be true, but it didn't change the fact that they were going to be executing unarmed civilians.
Don't choke.
I won't.
And she wouldn't.
She tightened her grip on the HK, her eyes flicking to the grenade launcher attachment under the barrel. There were three rounds in it.
As she waited, her mind went over the things Liby told her about RPGs.
There are two main means by which explosives create casualties: blast pressure and fragmentation. There is also a thermal effect that could cause burns to people nearby, but while it may produce casualties it most likely will not produce fatalities. Blast pressure isn't overly dangerous, it's the shrapnel you have to worry about: Anyone unlucky enough to be in the way will be torn to ribbons, their soft parts - flesh, eyes, vital organs - pierced and shredded.
She shivered at the image that came to mind, then took a deep, calming breath. She told Liby she wouldn't choke and she wouldn't; you choke, you die. Even so, she simply didn't have the stomach for this. Maybe Liby did, and maybe that was a good thing - you need a stone cold SOB every now and then - but she didn't. Call her weak, call her a failure, call her whatever you want, but killing people wasn't her thing, neither was torturing them. She would do it because she realized that somewhere, something, God, the universe, Groucho Marx, demanded blood, and if it didn't come from Montoya and his friends, it would come from her and her family. She wouldn't like it, though, and if she could help it, she would never do it again.
The watch face. Soft green glow. 1:01.
She took a deep, shuddery breath and swallowed around a lump in her throat. From inside, she could hear laughter as a joke was told, or perhaps someone put a lampshade onto their head. Soon, that laughter would turn to screams of pain and terror that, she already knew, would haunt her for the rest of her life.
But it was them or Liby...Lulu...her parents...Lizy...and weak or not, she was not going to let her loved ones die, she was not going to falter.
00:49.
Shadows flickered across the curtain, fluid and ghost-like against the light. She was reminded of a movie she saw as a child - a bad guy was hit by a car and his ghost stood over his body with a look of horrified shock on its face...then black, moaning shadows came out of the street and dragged him kicking and screaming to hell
In a way...these shadows were dragging her to hell - morally...and physically, cuz when all was said and done, the inside of the house was going to be hell on earth: Smoke, fire, blood, body parts, the agonized moans of the damned…
And she didn't come here on her own.
She came because of Montoya.
00:30.
A ball of anger formed in the middle of her chest, and she seized upon it. This was his fault. Liby wasn't even bothering him, and he decided to try and kill her. If it weren't for him, they wouldn't have to be here...they wouldn't have to do this...she wouldn't have to live with the knowledge that if she survived she would have nightmares for the rest of her life.
She bared her teeth and curled her fingers tightly around the rifle's grip. She stoked the flames of her anger, cultivating it from a feeble spark to a raging inferno. Someone once said: Sometimes, being a bitch is all a woman has to hang on to. Well...sometimes anger is all you have to hang on to...sometimes you need it to fuel you...sometimes it really is all you have.
She let it flow through her, using it because if she didn't, she would have nothing. She was hot, trembling, breathing heavily.
00:05.
More shadows crossed the curtain, more laughter. Live it up, assholes, because -
BOOM!
Lincoln sighed as he climbed the stairs to the third floor hall, his hand trailing on the unvarnished bannister and catching a crop of splinters. Ow, shit! He paused, looked at his palm, and winced. For years Lana had been saying she was going to finish 'er up and Lincoln was starting to suspect she was waiting for a cold day in hell to do it. He'd have to get on her ass again...then again, she thought it was 'cute' when he tried to 'lay down the law' and they usually wound up having sex. She liked it when he grabbed her ankles and held them above her head in a V. So did he, honestly; it made her much tighter.
Okay, focus, Loud. You're here on business, remember?
Right. He needed to talk to Lisa.
At the top of the stairs, he hung and left and went down the hall, the faint strands of his second youngest sister's music already finding his ears. He fondly rolled his eyes. Lisa and her disco. What she saw in it he would never know; that stuff was junk. He'd tried again and again over the years to get her into Smooch, but she wouldn't have it. I would rather listen to the sound of silence than to generic 'hard rock' played by talentless hacks imitating talentless hacks. That was her way of saying they were Kiss knockoffs. Maybe they were, but he liked them, and their music was way better to have sex to than The Bee Gees.
As he passed Lola's room, a gagging noise drew his attention, and he turned...his jaw dropping when he saw Lola and Gwen kneeling on Lola's bed, Gwen pulling a cucumber out of her mouth and coughing. Lola, arms crossed, shook her head. "No, honey, like this." She took the cucumber from Gwen's hand, threw her head back, and slid it into her mouth, taking it all the way to the base.
So...she was teaching Gwen her oral skills. Lincoln shook his head. Poor kid, Lemy wouldn't know what hit him. Lola was a fucking blowjob goddess; five minutes in her mouth and Lincoln would do anything she wanted...like putty in her hands.
Gwen watched with amazement, then sensed him and turned, her eyes widening slightly and her cheeks blushing in embarrassment. All of the things Lemy told him in the backyard came back in a rush, and he found himself feeling so bad for the little girl he could cry.
"She knows what she's doing," he said and nodded to Lola.
Lola favored him with a haughty sidelong glance and slowly took the cucumber out of her mouth. "Hi, Lincy," she said. "I was just showing Gwen how to please her man since he obviously pleases her."
Blushing harder, Gwen looked down at her lap.
"You say that like you know firsthand," Lincoln teased.
"Umhm. I do."
Lincoln looked at Gwen, attempting to gauge her reaction. Lemy said he wanted to stay faithful to her and Lincoln respected the hell out of that...but around here, you'd have to be a strong, strong, strong man to do that. Stronger than he was. As long as Gwen was okay with it, fine, but if she wasn't...see, with Lincoln and his sisters, it was different, because they were all family. Gwen wasn't family with anyone here, so she might very well not be as comfortable with it as she would be if she was family. He'd have to talk to Lemy about that.
For now, though, he needed to see Lisa.
"Just do what she does," Lincoln said and pushed away from the doorframe, "you can control a man's life with skills like that."
Lola preened.
At Lisa's door, he paused and cocked his head. What was she listening to now? Sounded like...ah, Funkytown. By Lipps Inc. Released in 1980, it hit the top spot in 28 countries, including the US, the last disco song to do so.
Yes. He knew a lot about disco.
Not that he wanted to.
Foregoing the formality of a knock, he opened the door and slipped in; Lisa was sitting at her desk and filling out paperwork by the warm glow of a lamp. Renfield the parrot-with-the-intelligence of a man covered his head with his wings and made pained squawking sounds. Bass, cowbell, violin, and electronic voice effects filled the room, and Lincoln felt the poor bird's agony so intensely that he almost considered going over, snatching it up, and breaking its neck out of mercy.
Well, I talk about it, talk about it
Talk about it, talk about it
Talk about, talk about
Talk about movin'
Disco, Lincoln had discovered, was superficial and simplistic, and he suspected that Lisa was subconsciously drawn to it as an escape from her vast and complex intellect. It was her way of switching off her brain for a little while.
"Lisa?"
Won't you take me to
Funkytown
Won't you take me to
Funkytown
Won't you take me to
Funkytown
Won't you take me to
Funkytown
Renfield shuddered. "Squawk, make it stop, make it stop, squawk."
Lincoln went over and laid his hand on Lisa's shoulder. She looked up, and her expression of annoyance instantly evaporated, replaced by a shimmery-eyed affection that never ceased to make his heart swell. She reached over and shut the radio off. "Hello, Lincoln," she said, a happy inflection in her voice.
"Hey, Lise," he said and dragged a second chair over, sitting.
She turned her body toward his and rested her arm on the back of her own chair. "To what to I owe this distinct pleasure?"
Lisa, like Loan and Lupa (and Lucy, too) was stoic and seemingly emotionless with everyone but him, and while he wished the rest of the world could see the beauty he saw, he kind of liked that he alone was privy to their softer sides.
He felt himself starting to grin, but shut that shit down like Negan from The Walking Dead. This was serious, and, to be honest, he wasn't happy. "I need to talk to you about something."
"Anything," Lisa said.
Lincoln took a deep breath. "Lori mentioned something this morning about you...erasing our minds."
Lisa nodded. "Yes. I had hoped to keep that a secret but I slipped. It's easy to forget that no one else remembers what happened."
Crossing his arms, Lincoln sat back. "What did happen?"
"Lola, Lucy, and Lana were in love with you and I...I wanted to experience sex. I was four and had no libido to speak of, but it seemed such a monumental event that I felt as though I were somehow incomplete as an individual without having had it. I was not sure you would return our...feelings, so I created a chemical agent to stimulate you. It was supposed to work only on you and only enough to make you receptive to our advances. I..made a mistake somewhere, and it infected everyone, leading them, and myself as well, and you, to engage in a host of depraved sex acts with one another. In other words, we became perverse. I managed to reverse the effects and wiped everyone's memory as a gesture of mercy, but I quickly discovered that the agent had altered everyone's brain chemistry and slightly increased their libidos. In a way, the stimulant made us all predisposed to falling in love with you and you with us. It's rather complicated but that's basically it. The effects are hereditary, and therefore our children are the same as we are."
She sat back, signifying that she was done. Lincoln took a long moment to digest what she had just told him, his mind reeling. "So...all of this...is because of that?"
Lisa nodded. "Yes."
He massaged his temples.
"Our feelings are genuine," Lisa hastened to add, "it's where they're directed, so to speak. As for the libidos...haven't you ever noticed how oversexed everyone is?"
Well..yes...but he never really thought about it.
"We're not as bad as we were while we were infected. At that point, we were virtually mindless sex zombies. Now we're just overly and easily aroused."
Huh.
"You didn't honestly think you were keeping up with so many sexual partners on your own, did you?" she asked.
Actually, he did.
Something occurred to him. "How come no one went for Lemy earlier? Lynn, Luan, Lana, and Lola have expressed interest in him, and he's been with Lyra and Leia a lot. Why did it take so long? Shouldn't they have pounced him sooner?"
Lsa waved a hand. "Oh, that's simple. None of us realized he was of age. Think about it, did you initiate a sexual relationship with any of your daughters?"
Lincoln thought for a moment. "No. They came to me."
"Precisely. They came to you when they were ready. Lemy, when he was ready, could have come to any of us, or to any of his sisters, I imagine, and that would have been that. So to speak, all he had to do was ask. We only recognized his sexual potency when his current relationship with Gwen began, therefore we stopped looking at him as just our nephew and as a potential sex partner."
That...made a great deal of sense.
"What about Gwen? If he's predisposed to falling in love with a family member, why is he with her?"
Lisa shrugged. "Being predisposed to something doesn't mean one will certainly do it. The heart wants what the heart wants. I fully expect his sisters to eventually meet and fall in love with men who aren't you or him. They may not, but they very well may."
He'd often wondered about that. A part of him wanted them to find someone that wasn't him, but another part, a selfish part, didn't want them to go. He supposed every parent felt that way, and that with him and his 'altered' brain chemistry, it was manifesting itself sexually.
Again, he rubbed his temples. He was starting to get a headache.
"I need to sit down and think about all of this for a while," he said and got to his feet.
Lisa nodded. "It's my fault," she said matter-of-factly. "And I apologize."
He bent over and kissed her forehead. "Accidents happen," he said.
As he went back downstairs, he asked himself one question: If this could all be reversed and they could become a 'normal' family, would he want it to?
And that was one question he did not have an answer to.
BOOM!
Thunder rolling across an empty prairie, orange glow filling the world as a ball of fire rose from the jungle.
Like a coil snapping open, Lacy jumped to her feet and fell back a step, the HK swinging up. Shadows flicked across the curtain as the partygoers flocked to the window to see what was happening. Bearing down hard on her teeth, she pulled the trigger, and flames leapt from the rifle's barrel: Glass shattered and horrified screams tore from a dozen throats. Bullets ripped into the curtain, tattering it to shreds. Inside, something exploded, and more screaming followed. Her mind was consumed now with righteous fury - gone was the guilt and indecision, gone was the timidity. This was go time, motherfuckers, and her family, the girl she loved, hung in the balance.
Moving her finger, she jerked the trigger of the grenade launcher: A round left the attachment with a hollow pfft and sailed through the window, ripping the rest of the curtain down. Beyond was a tastefully appointed ballroom with shiny wood floors and cream colored walls.
Boom!
The shell exploded, and moments later another from Liby. Lacy pulled the trigger again, and another round shot into the room, this one slamming into the ground in front of a terrified man in a tux: It bust, and so, too, did he, his body blowing into a thousand pieces and splattering the wall.
She and Liby agreed to each fire two and then go in; at the window, Lacy peered through and scanned the room: Fire, rubble, arms, legs, and less nameable parts clogged the floor. The walls were charred and blasted; people in fancy dress hid under tables and fled toward the foot of an ornate staircase. She spotted Liby climbing through a far window and covered her, then crawled in herslef, ducking when the rattle of gunfire sounded from the staircase. A flood of humanity flowed up as a team of guards fought their way down. Liby knelt, brought the HK to her shoulder, and opened fire. Lacy did likewise; bullets whizzed through the air, struck the wall, and hit people, knocking them down: One of the guards spun and fell over the railing, landing hard on his neck and snapping it. Another toppled over and screamed as he was trampled by the fleeing guests.
When Lacy saw Montoya in the middle of the crowd, clad in a black tux, his face white and twisted in terror, she aimed, but a round passed close to her ear and she dropped and rolled, her heart slamming. A guard flew back from the window as Liby pegged him, and without thinking, Lacy snatched a grenade from her vest, ripped out the pin, and threw it out. It struck the patio and detonated; men howled and grunted as shrapnel ripped into them.
Liby jumped to her feet and started for the stairs. Lacy got up and hurried toward a door on her right, slamming through and coming into the kitchen, a wide industrial space filled with gleaming fixtures, ovens big enough to seat four, flattops you could break dance on, and fridges so wide they could house entire cities. Pots and pans hung from overhead racks, swinging back and forth alone.
Her objective was to reach the backstairs and get to the roof. The door was ahead, beyond the second kitchen entrance. She moved quickly, at a crouch, switching to the MP5 as she did so. Halfway through, a guard appeared ahead, his eyes widening when he saw her. She stopped, jerked the gun up, and depressed the trigger: A burst of fire caught him in the chest, and he flew back, crashing through a window and falling through it backwards like a diver going over the edge of a boat. Lacy waited a moment, then pressed on, sweeping the path with her rifle. At the archway to the foyer, she threw herself against the wall and poked her head around the corner. A door with a window lead outside. A team of guards in tight battle formation approached. Lacy yanked a grenade from her vest, pulled the pin, and tossed it. A moment later, it exploded, and she jumped out, her finger squeezing the trigger. Her shoulder rammed into the wall and she sprayed back and forth, raking bullets through the swirling smoke. When the clip ran dry, she hurriedly pulled it out and fetched a fresh one from her vest, jamming it in with shaking hands and pulling back the bolt. The mist had cleared, and all that remained were the dead and the dying. She glanced into the kitchen; on the other side, flames were beginning to engulf the ballroom, thick, choking smoke rolling through the archway like demonic spirits from hell. The acrid tang found her nose, and the moaning of two dozen casualties assaulted her ears.
She ignored them and held onto her anger.
It was all she had.
Turning, she pounded up the steps.
On the other side of the house, Liby reached the head of the stairs and threw herself into an alcove just as one of Montoya's bodyguards opened fire; bullets dug into the wall, shattered a vase on an end table, and tore into a painting of a Spanish galleon at sail, some of them coming so close she could feel the wind displaced by their passage. She silently counted the number of reports, and when the gun fell silent, she popped out, brought the MP5 up, and pulled the trigger without aiming. The guard knelt in the middle of the hall, reloading while a team of his comrades rushed Montoya away. Liby's burst hit him in the chest and he fell to one side. She took aim at the fleeing men, but they disappeared around a corner.
Shit.
Ripping a grenade from her vest, she gave chase, her arms and legs pumping and her ponytail fluttering behind like a streamer. An alarm sounded, and suddenly water began to spray from sprinklers in the ceiling. She was vaguely aware that a faint haze of smoke hung in the air, but she was focused: For all her self-doubt over the past two weeks, she fell back into being Mystery Girl like pulling on a comfortable pair of jeans.
Before she reached the intersection, she yanked the pin out of the grenade and threw it. It hit the wall, bounced, and exploded; wall panel and bits of plaster littered the floor, and a groan told her that she was right in suspecting an ambush. She flattened herself against the wall and poked her head around the corner: Montoya's security detail was hustling him toward another flight of stairs, this one leading to the roof. Here the carpet was red, the walls gleaming oak with gold leaf trim. Montoya had good taste, she'd give him that.
Bringing the gun up, she fired from the hip; three of the guards running behind the kingpin slammed to the floor. There were two left now, one of them turning and raking the hall with fire; Liby dove behind a conveniently placed credenza and took cover. On one knee, she reached for another grenade, and her elbow lifted past the edge of the credenza; something hard and hot slammed into it. Red pain exploded in her skull and she cried out. Her arm immediately went numb and the grenade fell from her hand.
Goddamn it!
Are you stupid or something?
She didn't allow herself time to answer; she tossed the rifle aside and pulled the Five-Seven from its holster. Dropping to her stomach, she wiggled under the credenza, each movement sending bolts of agony into the middle of her brain. Ahead, the guard's boots were visible as he crept forward.
Breathing raggedly against the pain, Liby held the pistol out in her left hand; squinting down the sight, she jerked the trigger, and guard went down with a cry. She fired twice more, the first round hitting him in the bottom of the foot and the second splattering his testicles across the floor. He wailed, and Liby grinned savagely. Good. You shot me. Motherfucker.
Crawling out, she staggered to her feet, throbbing pain gripping her like jagged claws. The guard rolled back and forth like a bug, his hands cupping his ruined nads and his face twisted in agony. Liny went over, aimed the gun at his head, and pulled the trigger.
BLAM!
Gritting her teeth, she examined her elbow; the fabric of her shirt was torn and blood oozed out. The bullet just nicked her; hurt like a bitch, though.
Ignoring the pain, she darted to the stars and started up. Montoya was several flights ahead, but she caught up quick, bringing the gun around and firing; the last guard sank to his knees with moan. Montoya half turned, and when Liby saw the nickel-plated .45 in his hand, she ducked; the round slammed into the bannister a foot in front of her. She popped up and returned fire, hitting the wall as Montoya bolted up the final flight.
She knew where he was going.
The final refuge of cowards like him.
The helipad.
Grinding her teeth against the pain in her arm, she followed; ahead, Montoya burst through the roof door. Moments later, she did the same.
A chopper sat several feet away, its blades beating against the night. Montoya was feet away when a burst of gunfire shattered the windshield: The pilot jerked behind the control panel and fell to one side. Montoya ducked and turned just as Lacy stepped from behind an air vent. His gaze darted from one girl to the other, his brown eyes filled with satisfying terror. Liby lifted the Five-Seven...then dropped it to the ground.
"Fight me," she said, her words barely audible above the rotors. Montoya's brow furrowed and Lacy looked at her strangely.
Liby unslung the HK and slipped out of the vest, letting both fall. She pulled her cap off and tossed it aside.
"What are you doing?" Lacy asked.
"I want him hand-to-hand," Liby said. "Shooting him isn't enough. I want to hurt him."
Montoya swallowed as he looked from Liby to Lacy and back again.
"Throw away the gun and fight me like a man, Montoya," Liby said, and put up her fists. Her right arm hurt like hell, but she didn't care. The pain invigorated her.
For a moment, Montoya did nothing...then his face darkened and he tossed the gun away. He started forward, slipping out of his jacket as he went. "Is this how you want it, Liby Loud?" he asked.
"It is," she said.
"Very well."
They were standing bare feet apart now, facing each other like two pugulists in a ring. Montoya rolled the cuffs of his white shirt up his hairy forearms and cracked his knuckles with a cocky flourish. He balled his fists and held them in front of his face, his posture identical to Liby's. Slowly, they began to circle one another. "Make your move, Liby Loud," he taunted.
She threw a punch, but he blocked with his forearm and jabbed her in the cheek, driving her back. He came forward, and she ducked to the side, lashing out and hitting him in the shoulder. He turned, and she followed up with a blow to his chin.
Growling, he reached out and grabbed her arm; she windmilled it violently and his grasp released. Lacy's eyes went between them as they circled each other again. He threw a punch and rushed her; she ducked, got behind him, and hit his sides with a flurry of punches that sent him staggering forward. She kicked, but he caught her ankle; jumping, she spun over him and caught his face with her other foot. He stumbled back, then came careening forward like a wild animal; she bent and plowed through him like a cattle guard on the front of a train.
Now they were grappling on the ground, Montoya beneath and Liby atop; she punched him in the face and he headbutted her, knocking her aside long enough to gain the high ground, his knees caging her legs and his thumbs seeking her eyes. Lacy's heart clutched and she brought up the MP5, but before she could fire, Liby had somehow wiggled out from under him; she was behind now, her forearm wrapped around his throat and his hands clawing at her. He rocked left, right, but couldn't break the hold. Flailing his arms, he reached back, grabbed a handful of her hair, and yanked, dragging her head to one side. She hissed through clenched teeth and tightened her grip, but Montoya dug his heels into the ground, got leverage, and broke away.
Shooting to her feet, Liby kicked, hitting him in the face and knocking him over. She dropped to one knee with a grunt and punched him in the head. Lightning quick, he grabbed her wrist and threw her aside like a rag doll. He got to his feet and Liby rushed him; he ducked, rammed his shoulder into her stomach, and tossed her over. She landed flat on her back with a cry, and Montoya staggered to his feet. "You are good, Liby Loud," he said, "but not as good as I am."
Liby pushed up to her feet and held her fists in front of her face. He moved in and threw a punch, but she tilted back and delivered an uppercut to his abdomen, knocking a breathless umph from his chest. He doubled over, and she hit him with a left. He shot out his arm and shoved her back. She came forward again, and he threw out an elbow, spinning her around and knocking her to her knees.
"Liby Loud, you die now." He reached into his pocket and brought something out. His wrist flicked; a knife.
Lacy brought the gun up. "Drop it!"
He jerked his head around as though he'd forgotten she was there, and Liby struck with a sick spinning kick, her foot hitting Montoya in the side of the face and driving him to the ground, blood and broken teeth spraying from his mouth.
Lacy winced as Liby stood over him, her face covered in bruises and a trickle of blood oozing from her left nostril. "A cheating dog to the end," she said. On the ground, Montoya groaned and stirred. She stooped, picked up the knife, and held it up. "Mine's bigger," she said. She dropped it and pulled out her own, the one with the serrated blade. She knelt next to him, grabbed his hair in her free hand, and pressed it to his soft throat. "Any last words, you son of a bitch?"
"Fuck you, Liby Loud," he muttered.
"Dile al diablo que te envié," Liby said, and with that, she dragged the knife across his throat, leaving a ragged red slash in its wake. Lacy looked away, but could not escape the wet gurgling sound he made as blood filled his lungs.
In a hollow display of mercy, Liby drove the point into his heart, and he died pissing himself.
Lacy was suddenly cold, and when Liby took her in her arms, she broke down crying.
"Shhh," Liby said and stroked her hair, "it's all over...it's all over now."