So what should he do? The man on the floor looked like he was about to go into shock. His face had gone white, but still he fought the pain. Merc glanced around at his group.
“Do you see the pain he’s in?” he asked them. Of course they did. “His balls are being twisted. It won’t be long before they pop right off. This is because he tried to rape that girl. This is what will happen to him—and to you—should you ever again attempt to rape someone. Do you understand?” Merc laughed. “I forgot. You can’t move. Just blink if you understand.”
The entire group blinked fast and furiously.
“Good.” Merc walked out of the hovel. He didn’t release the men until he stepped into his rented room. Too late, he realized he’d unhidden himself as soon as he helped the girl.
Maybe that was for the best. Flynn had to already know Merc was fucking with his sweet operations there.
Merc walked through the market that was set up in the center of the town plaza the next morning, armed, but with his weapons hidden. Women wouldn’t meet his eyes. Nor would the old men. It was the gangbangers who watched him with hostile, challenging glares.
Merc thought of the mass graves just outside of town that had been cleaned out. He wondered if the hundreds of souls who had met their death there still roamed the jungle. Had they cursed the ground where they died? Or had they forgiven what was done to them? Had they been innocent villagers? Or thugs like the ones everywhere in this little village?
Where did hatred end and healing begin?
He bought a salpicón juice, then went to the bodega. Beyond groceries, it also sold household goods. The aisles were narrow, probably a fire hazard, but that let the owner pack the space with goods. Leaving his natural appearance in place, Merc went in to the tight space. His freakish height and size made him stand out among the residents here. They usually pegged him as American, but he was an Aussie through and through.
He hadn’t shielded himself for a single purpose: he wanted the Omnis to come looking for him. No one else should take the heat for what he’d done…and what he was yet to do.
He wandered up and down the aisles, trying to decide if he should do a good thing for the village or a bad thing for the gangs. Either one would draw his enemies to him.
He stopped in the paint section. It was there—the paint the gangs used to claim their territories, like animals pissing on trees. He knew what he would do.
Most of the black and brown paint was gone. Someone had over-ordered pink. Several cans had been there long enough for their labels to become discolored and start to peel. Seven in total. He took them all, several brushes, stirrers, a couple of paint trays and rollers, and a bucket to wash them in, then checked out, dropping American dollars on the counter.
The clerk looked at him, then at his U.S. dollars, which he quickly slid off the counter. Merc asked the shopkeeper to deliver his purchase to the room he was renting. He wrote down the address on a paint can.
The shopkeeper eyed him warily. “I know where you are staying,” he said in Spanish. “Everyone here does.”
Righto. Merc nodded and walked out without waiting for change. Who knew what the conversion rate was, anyhow? Ordinarily, such carelessness would be dangerous, broadcasting to anyone watching that he was an easy target, rich and careless.
But he wasn’t an easy target.
Maybe he was throwing money around to tempt them into trying. Maybe one of them would catch him unaware, but that was highly unlikely. Not with the training Liege had put them all through.
Still, it could happen, since he was about to start stirring the pot.
Hell, his arrival in town had already done that.
Three boys delivered the things he’d purchased. He gave them a tip and sent them off.
He took two paint cans, several brushes, and the bucket, then crossed the small square and entered an alley, heading to the first of several murals he wanted to paint over. At the end of the alley, the side of a building met with a high concrete garden wall. Weeds and tree shoots grew thick along the whole thing, proving that if humans were ever to vacate the town, the jungle would reclaim it in just weeks.
A bunch of guys from the local gang were sitting around the outside of one of the houses he passed. They stopped and stared, cigarettes halted halfway to their mouths. A couple of them called out to him, but he ignored them.
They scrambled from their chairs and followed him, taunting him, but he didn’t stop until he got to the wall he wanted to paint first.
A mural memorializing lost gang members with black grave markers covered the wall. The graves had men standing guard over them with automatic rifles.
Merc set the two gallons of paint down on the dirt road. Pablo came over to watch him, his gaze bouncing from Merc to the town’s thugs. Merc smiled at him. “Have you come to help?”
“You can’t do this, señor. Please, don’t do this,” the boy whispered urgently.
Merc stared into Pablo’s brown eyes. I will prevent harm from coming to you and your family, he communicated mentally.
“It is not me I’m worried about,” Pablo responded without questioning Merc’s silent promise.
The boy had the makings of a great warrior, being more concerned for Merc than himself. Merc gave him a nod. “I understand. And thank you for that.”
Merc studied the wall, trying to decide where to begin. The mural had weathered poorly. Old scenes were bleeding through newer ones, documenting various waves of gang ownership of the block or the town.
Merc knelt and used a tool on his utility knife to pop the lid off the first can of paint. It was a pale pink, like a creamy strawberry smoothie. Not a color he cared for, but it was the only color the village store had in abundance. And it was one that would send a powerful message.
He poured half the can into two pans. Pablo still lingered. “Take this pan and start here in the middle, next to me. We’ll work our way out to the end of the wall.”
Pablo didn’t like what he was asked to do. “They’ll be here long after you’ve left town. Doing this will only fire them up.”
Fear filled the boy. Merc understood. What they were about to do was a direct insult to the gang and meant trouble for the boy, his family, his friends, the whole town. The gang would exact revenge and reinforce its ownership of the area. Any slight against them had far-reaching ripples, as this boy’s extended family, living anywhere outside of this village, were potentially at risk too.
Paint, Merc ordered Pablo, putting a compulsion on the boy.
The girl Merc had saved last night came down the street, followed by several more children. Some lingered in the shadows, afraid of him and what he was doing.
The girl showed no fear. Her eyes sparkled with suppressed rage. Merc said nothing to her as he handed her the long-poled paint roller he’d been using. She stepped up to the wall next to Pablo and slapped chaotic pink strokes over the worn images, spreading color over the leering caricatures that had threatened so many lives for so long.
Some of the other kids came forward to help. He handed them paintbrushes. When he ran out of brushes, he set the other kids to clearing the vegetation blocking the wall.
A man came out of the house, accompanied by two gangbangers, looking terrified. He shouted, “Madre de Dios, what are you doing? You cannot touch that mural! They will kill you. They’ll kill me. I have a wife. Please, I beg you, stop! Keep these children safe.”