The barman reached for the now empty shot glass and nodded before lifting it away from Brittany and placing it behind the bar. Another long night stretched out before him, the hours ticking slowly by. In the Los 4 Amigos Bar and Grill, time seemed to stand still, a relentless cycle of liquor and lament. There were still a few hours to go before he was due to close, plenty of time for something to kick off and chances were, it would.

​

For Ben, it was just another Friday night in purgatory. The bar was dark, cramped, and humid with floors sticky from years of neglect, sweat and sweet-tasting liquid spilled from tiny glasses. Over several hours this evening, Brittany had distributed her own layers of splattered alcohol around the sparsely populated venue, as her once-full bottle continued to diminish at an alarming rate.

​

The barman watched her with a mixture of pity and resignation, though his tolerance was wearing thin as the night dragged on. He knew Carla, the owner of the bar would arrive soon enough and her disdain for drunken gobacho was legendary. Brittany looked like she needed it though, so up until now, Ben permitted the excess but there was a change in the air, and he didn’t like it.

​

“I think it’s almost time for you to leave, Brittany.” He leaned in close from across the bar counter and brushed away a smudge of blue cue chalk from her cheek, “You are getting noticed by men you do not wish to be noticed by.” The barman indicated towards the booths which had been colonised that evening by an increasingly unruly collection of the male species. Men he knew, would not be strangers to a police line-up.

​

“Oh, those guys?” Brittany waved at the crowd of inebriated men dismissively. “They are harmless Benny, don’t worry about me.” Her first step backwards was a stumble caught just in time as the gnarled teak-stained edge of the pool table took her weight, preventing the young American from careening into the wall. She straightened, looked back and attempted another wink.

​

Ben shook his head. He knew they weren’t harmless. Not harmless at all. There was one group of men he was particularly concerned about. Three Arellano-Félix-Organization gang members with a penchant for trafficking anything they could make some pasos from.

​

He could sense the long stares from this collection of predators, perched in their dimly lit corner as they shared several bottles of El Jimador, stories of violence delivered in slurred Spanish, and a myriad of inappropriate comments between them, mostly directed at the young, attractive American.

​

For over three years, Ben had tended Los 4 Amigos, a sanctuary nestled in the heart of Tijuana's red-light district. Located just off Avenida Revolución, in the back lanes known as a hub for prostitution and low-level street hustling. When he first arrived and picked up some shifts, this place was vibrant and cool, if a little rough around the edges. An out-of-the-way bar that catered for an eclectic mix of locals, students and tourists. It wasn't the retirement he had envisioned, but it was a refuge of sorts, a place where a man like him could disappear into the shadows and forget the ghosts of his past.

​

But as the cartels tightened their grip on the city, the bar's clientele had dwindled, replaced by a darker breed of patron—men with blood on their hands and evil in their eyes and Los 4 Amigos soon became a place where the lines between right and wrong blurred like the flickering neon lights outside.

​

Since then, the barman had seen some bad shit that he wished he hadn’t and his self-imposed impotence to intervene haunted him almost as much as his past indiscretions did. Tonight, had a dangerous vibe to it and Brittany was the potential spark that could turn these men from cold dead tinder into destructive, deadly flames. Life was cheap here in Zona Norte and these men were like vermin, waiting for the lights to go out. Ready to pounce. Ready to take. Ready to kill.

​

The door creaked open, admitting a gust of street stench that mingled with the stale air of the bar. A small, dishevelled boy slipped inside, his eyes darting around the dimly lit room in search of easy prey. A stray wallet or an untended bottle of tequila he could sell on the street.

​

Ben's gaze hardened as he watched the boy, his instincts sharpening as he reached behind the discarded bottles by his feet. With deliberate slowness, Ben retrieved a baseball bat from its hiding place beneath the bar, “Sal de aquí, you little shit!” he growled, his voice low and menacing.

​

The boy looked at Ben through tired, red-rimmed eyes, assessed the bat, and quickly made his way back out of the bar.

​

“Why did you do that, Gringo?” Diego's laughter rang out from his corner near the jukebox, his smirk barely concealed beneath the brim of his hat. A self-proclaimed Papi Chulo, Diego had recently taken up pimping at the bar, his slick charm masking the predatory nature lurking beneath the surface. “The kid needs to learn.”

​

Ben grunted in response; his jaw clenched tight as he returned the bat to its hiding place beneath the counter. It was true that the boy needed to learn, but the price for that lesson would have been far too high—especially if he had attempted to steal from one of the cartel members.

​

He couldn't begrudge the boy for his actions; in a city like Tijuana, survival was a game played by the desperate and the determined alike. Even the lowest cockroach needed to eat, and Ben understood that all too well. The barman could sympathise with the kid, having spent some time living homeless on the streets of Cincinnati. He’d had another name back then, but he couldn’t remember what it was anymore. He didn’t want to. Not yet.

​

A meth addiction had seen him lose his job, his wife and visitation rights to see their three-year-old son, Riley, all within eighteen months of putting that poison into his veins for the very first time.

​

The phrase “downward spiral” barely touched the surface of what a cluster fuck his life had become, but by the time his life savings had dried up, the once successful maths teacher at the prestigious Cincinnati Hills Christian Academy, found himself living below an underpass near the Ohio River.

​

He tried his best to kick the habit, but the sweet release of the needle was forever beckoning back then, and Ben found himself sliding deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole. By the end of the first year, he had reached rock bottom as the first inches of snow had begun to coat the grimy streets, he found himself calling home.

​

Then, one cold November evening, opportunity came knocking. It was a simple job. Too good to be true. Burn down the warehouse. Four hundred now and another four when the job was done. Ben remembered staring at the wad of twenty-dollar bills as the Italian man in the grey overcoat shoved the dirty money into his equally dirty palm and handed him a jerry can, full of kerosene.

​

His luck had finally changed.

​

The derelict building was mostly wood, with an old, corrugated iron roof, and it didn’t take much accelerant to turn it into an inferno. The heat and the flames were mesmerising as Ben appreciated the warmth he had created, watching transfixed as the blaze took hold causing cascading snowflakes to turn yellow and melt as they fell.

​

There was something primal in its fiery destruction and Ben found himself staring entranced for way longer than he should have, reflecting on his past life. The one that he had destroyed just as thoroughly and quickly as the warehouse, without so much as a match.

​

That’s when he heard the first scream, emanating from within the inferno.

​

The door hinges of the bar squeaked as it swung open, causing Ben to jump as it broke him out of his terrible recollection of that time, long ago. He knew that one day, it would be the devil who walked through that door and it would be time to pay his debt. But tonight, it was only Carla, late as usual.

She made her way through the crowd and scowled at Brittany as she pushed past. Carla didn’t like Americans. Especially young, beautiful ones. She walked around the back and commenced putting on her apron.

​

“You are late again,” Ben commented, deadpan without making eye contact.

​

“And you… are ugly and stupid.” Carla snapped back and glared at Brittany who was now leaning, half sprawled across the pool table attempting unsuccessfully, to re-align her chin to the cue. Carla’s repertoire of English insults proved limited at best, but she delivered them with gusto.

​

“You gonna take your shot or not Cariño?” Rita, Diego’s one and only hooker, leaned against her pool cue and rolled her eyes, clearly frustrated at Brittany’s lack of focus. Rita was a pretty, street-savvy girl with wavy hair and a gap-toothed smile. The black and scarlet corset Rita adorned was riding down precariously, allowing a display of barely tamed, perky breasts that seemed intent on escaping their laced incarceration.

​

“Ok. Ok. Rita I’m just getting my line of sight ready…” This particular pool game had now taken about forty minutes to reach this point and Brittany had only sunk one ball… and it wasn’t one of her own. The American leered a drunken grin and returned her gaze to the white ball, moments before her head lolled to one side and continued downwards until it was laying sideways, cheek down on the warn green felt surface, pockmarked from ancient cigarette burns.

​

Ben sensed Carla glare at him again but chose not to make eye contact. Brittany had become a bit of a regular these past few weeks. It was clear that she, like Ben, was trying to escape something terrible. A past that seemed much more palatable when served with a copious amount of alcohol. He couldn’t begrudge her that, but he did have a responsibility to look after his patrons, regardless of their desires for self-destruction.

​

On top of his neglected duty of care, the comments directed toward Brittany had become increasingly lecherous as the clock pushed towards midnight. The crowd had become rowdy and once carefully concealed firearms now littered the tables, while the tacky nineties music that had been the evening’s score, was drowned out by the snores of a man who had collapsed to the floor some time ago.

​

Carla's voice cut through the din, sharp and insistent. "Get her out of here," she hissed, her eyes flashing with contempt. Ben nodded in silent agreement, steeling himself for the task at hand. With careful hands, he lifted Brittany from the table, turning her around to meet her bleary gaze.

​

“You need to leave Brittany. I want you to go straight home now.” He glanced around the bar and back to the young woman, who smiled sheepishly. “Don’t stop for anything or anyone, you hear me?”

“Shush now, Benny Boo…” Brittany attempted to push her fingertip against his lips but missed. “I’m gonna go straight home… I promish… Don’t choo worry about me, OK?” Her breath carried a flammable element to it. “And don’t you try following me either…”

​

It was no doubt obvious to everyone in attendance, that Brittany was beyond drunk by now, as she stumbled away from the barman, bidding her farewells to no one in particular, and making her way unsteadily towards the exit. Pausing momentarily, she swayed, as if for effect, as though to ensure that the men took full notice of her vulnerability, before drunkenly stumbling out the door.

​

“Oh Geez…” He knew it was unlikely she would make it ten feet, let alone back to her apartment. As Brittany leaned against the railing and carefully navigated the four uneven steps to the curb, Ben heard a chair from within the bar screech across the floor followed by bravado-laced voices stating their ill intent.

 

“Fuck” he whispered under his breath.

 

He watched and shook his head as the young American smiled back at him and waved, completely oblivious to the danger she was now facing before disappearing into the darkened street as the warm wind of the Mexican spring breeze glided the city’s stench across the old remnants of cracked cement and into the bar.

​

The three men were on their feet now and following close behind. Evil had picked up this girl’s scent and commenced its terrible journey, intent on ensnaring her like the many innocent victims that had preceded her.

​

Ben took a deep breath, walked back around the bar, reached under the counter and gripped the bat. He was once a good man. Something he had tried to bury for so long… He took another deep breath, sighed, then brushed past Carla and made his way towards the doorway.

​

The barman peered out onto the street as the three men followed the girl at a distance. Without glancing back, Brittany stepped unsteadily into a graffiti-lined alleyway and walked several feet into the gloom. Clearly not, as she had promised Ben, going straight home.

​

Her petite footsteps echoed unseen, as they splashed in small pools of waste and discarded cigarette butts, unaware it seemed that she was walking into danger. The gang’s clumsy presence echoed against the old brick walls as they crowded into the enclosed alleyway behind her and disappeared from Ben’s sight.

​

“L-leave me alone!” Brittany’s voice emanated moments later, from within the alley as the barman made his way to the corner and peered around it.  His worst fears confirmed.

​

“You like to play hard to get, Punta?” One of the men stood menacingly between Brittany and himself, while the other two flanked her on either side like predators circling their prey. They were like rabid hyenas, their eyes gleaming as they closed in on their victim, cutting off any chance to escape back out of the alley.

​

The barman gripped the bat tighter, trying to plan the best way of rescuing the girl without getting himself killed in the process. He couldn’t let this happen. Not this time. He had turned a blind eye for too long.

​

“Please leave me alone…” Ben watched with dread as Brittany brought up her hands into little fists, elbows tight pointing inwards, her voice unsteady and full of terror as her eyes darted around, before a betrayingly fearful sob, escaped her lips, “I… I don’t want to hurt you…”

​

The leader's cruel laughter echoed through the alley as he lunged towards Brittany, his fist poised for a devastating blow. Ben braced himself for the sickening sound of impact, but what he witnessed next left him utterly astonished. In a feat of agility and speed, Brittany dodged the attacker's strike effortlessly, slipping under his guard with lightning reflexes. With a swift and powerful motion, her own fist connected with the man's jaw just as he reached the peak of his swing.

​

In the split second before the assailant crumpled to the ground, unconscious, Ben felt a spray of shattered teeth, smack against his apron, like bloodied, calcified corn kernels.

​

“Pequeña puta!” To her left, Ben spotted the glimmer of sharpened steel as Brittany instinctively switched stances to bring herself front on to the latest threat. The man briefly looked at his fallen comrade as he held the knife out before him, waving it menacingly.

​

A snap kick whipped up, perfectly placed and connected with a sickening crack as the knife disappeared upwards into the abyss of darkness, enveloped by the alley’s inklike skyline. A faint golden trail of light seemed to follow her foot like a comet’s tail as she whipped it back to the ground and grinned.

​

The look of astonishment and agony combined and contorted her attacker’s face, as he gaped, bewildered at the shattered bones of a hand that just moments ago, he was quite certain, had brandished a large hunting knife.

​

Ben looked on in disbelief as Brittany appeared to then vanish before his very eyes, leaving behind a trail of shimmering particles that danced in the air like fireflies. For a moment, he was frozen in shock, his mind struggling to comprehend the impossible sight before him. Then, in the blink of an eye, she reappeared behind the man.

​

Before he could react, Brittany's hands shot out, gripping him by the nape of his neck with a strength that belied her petite frame. As her now fully formed feet, grounded with a splash in a foul puddle of liquid filth, she lifted the man skywards several feet off the ground.

​

His desperate protests were soon cut short, as a glint of steel flickered from above. A gasp followed by a gurgle marked the man’s final moments as the knife, once intended for her, plunged through his neck on its return descent to the earth.

​

She held him aloft for a few more seconds as blood gushed over her from a severed artery, then, with a flick of her wrist, Brittany sent him crashing into her final assailant just as he was drawing a large handgun from behind his belt. The Glock was knocked from the third man’s grip by the impact and skimmed noisily across the cobblestones. As he crumpled backwards, the alley came alive with a monstrous, terrible shriek, and then Brittany was on him too.

​

Ben stood transfixed at the entrance of the alley as the horror of what he saw next played out before him. The alley’s darkness and gloom now retreated as it was replaced by an eerie glow from what appeared to be liquid light that emanated from Brittany’s body.

​

The man screamed in agony as the tendrils of light plunged into him, his struggles growing more frantic with each passing moment. He clawed at Brittany's hands, his fingers grasping desperately for his gun, but she held him fast, her grip unyielding.

​

With one hand still locked around his neck, the barman watched bewildered as Brittany reached down and snatched up the Glock. He waited to hear the gunfire as she unloaded bullets into her victim but instead, she turned the weapon on herself, pushing the cold metal tight against her temple, she flicked off the safety and began to squeeze the trigger.

​

And then time stood still.

​

Ben watched with horrified anticipation as the girl seemed to freeze in place as though fighting something within, something preventing her from finishing the job. Brittany screamed into the darkness, causing the screeching rats to scurry away, “Please let me die, you fucking bitch!”.

​

As the light diminished back into the gloom, a tear rolled down her left cheek. The heavens opened above them, and a downpour of heavy rain cascaded between the buildings and danced against the ground. Brittany remained as though a tortured gargoyle frozen in time until finally, the Glock slipped through her fingers and joined her tears of despair with a loud metallic clank.

​

Ben moved into the alley. There was something about this girl’s anguish that tore at his heart. A sadness beyond even that which he had endured. She began to sob as the baseball bat loosed from his grasp, thudded against the ground and slowly rolled away.

​

Two eerie, glowing eyes met his gaze, their intensity piercing through the darkness like twin beacons of malevolence. And then, with a chilling smile that sent shivers down his spine, the creature that had once been Brittany revealed itself in all its terrible glory.

​

Before he could react, she had lunged herself off of the whimpering man and was upon him, the force of the collision knocking the wind from his lungs as they crashed against the warm, wet, dimly lit pavement.

Ben immediately felt the pain of a thousand charged needles course through his body with unchecked voltage and violence.

 

As agony replaced any sense of self, the barman felt her grip his neck and pull his face close to her own. “Oh, Benny Boo…” The creature hissed “She told you not to follow us!”

​

The cackle that followed was both unearthly and laced with malice and as Ben looked into those piercing demonic eyes for the last time, he knew the devil had finally come for him.

​

It was time for him to pay his debt.

​

It was then that he heard the screams again. The screams from the warehouse that had haunted him for so long. But this time… they were mixed with his own.

 

The "Debt Collector" is the prologue to Part III of the Maya Trilogy - Written by Will Tischetto.