Outside the heat and five Mexicans standing around an old Pickup Truck were waiting for us. I recognised three from this morning. The others were different but looked the same at the same time. Maybe they’re all turned out like clones in factories? Deep underground. In Mexico. Of course, run by child labour. The ‘spokesperson’ from this morning stood in the middle, twirling his commando knife, and grinning like a coconut injected with rum.

Jane sighed. ‘You wait here, this is between me and him.’

‘Umm, there are five of them. We should really call the Sheriff.’

‘This will be over before they get here. They should’ve sent more.’ Was the last thing Jane said before strutting off toward certain doom. Leaving me standing on the top of the three concrete steps with my phone in my hand feeling embarrassingly inadequate.

I had seen three types of people in the army. The ones that did it for the adrenaline rush. They would bop their heads during patrols. Always running toward gun fire and always in the middle of the action. Most of the others, like me, would let training take over. Say a silent prayer and do what needs to be done and hope like hell you make it home. The minority where the chockers. The few that would sit wide-eyed in the dirt, rocking while holding onto their rifle. Often shaking and all the colour of sour cream.

Now, with Jane I had to concede that there is indeed a fourth. Jane. With her, “I don’t want to hurt you but if you make me, I will not just break some of your bones, I’ll break them all. Just to make things worth my while”, aura. An enhanced confidence and wisdom to avoid conflict at all costs, but if absolutely necessary, an example will be made.

I was expecting at least some type of stare-down. The grim, dirty, Mexican face smirking type. One eye squinting and Jane standing there, nonchalant, and pokerfaced. Instead, Jane strode up to the ‘spokesperson’ and smashed a brutal, shoulder lean-in punch into the Mexicans’ throat. I heard everything in his throat crunch and collapse. It was the most grotesque sound I had ever heard. His eyes bulged, his mouth gaped mute, and he dropped the knife. Without hesitation, Jane followed up with a full, backswing, kick to the Mexican’s groin. The light in his eyes extinguished and he dropped like a sack of Potatoes.

Two of the others charged forward. The one on the left was met with a round house kick to the jaw that left spit, blood and chunky bits spattering the air. The other, who was coming in swinging, found nothing but air as Jane dropped to her haunches and delivered a vicious stab punch into the man’s groin. His “AAArrrrrgggghhhh” expression turned into a “OOOOFFFFF” one. As he bent over, Jane slipped back and launched herself into the air. Somersaulting backward, the top of her boot connected with the Mexican’s face. Cartilage crunched, bone shattered, and the Mexica’s body was thrown backward, his feet lifting briefly off the ground before slumping to the ground with a meaty thud. The last two were in obvious conflict. Both were visibly shaking, adrenaline pumping but their internal voices were screaming, “Shit, what the hell just happened? And I could be next”.

Jane gave them both a curious look, gesturing with her arm and hand extended, only her fingertips curling in and out. The survivors now had to a decision to make. How far does loyalty go? How many broken bones is he worth to me? Let alone the chance of possible impotence. After a brief, confirming, glance at each other, the Mexicans turned and ran. One North, one South. Jane shrugged.

‘Hey, I’m going need a first aid kit and a pen.’ Jane shouted. She was walking with determined strides to the ‘Spokesperson’ who lay unmoving. I dashed back inside where I found Shelly standing, mouth gaping and wide eyed. I grabbed her gently by the shoulders and tried to get her attention.

‘Shelly. Shelly, look at me.’

‘Huh?’

‘Shelly, I need you to call the Sheriff and the medics. Shelly? Shelly? Do you hear me.’ Shelly was looking blurry eyed, straight through me. I shook her. Gently but firmly. Her eyes focused on me.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

‘Yes, Brad. Sheriff. Medics.’

‘Oh, Shelly?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Do you have a pen? Please.’ Shelly pulled a pen from her apron and handed it to me. Her eyes still glassy, but she turned on the spot and waddled off to call for backup and probably the coroner.

Outside another crowd had gathered. Gawkers. All staring at Jane who was kneeled next to the ‘spokesperson’ with blue gloved hands and was busy slicing into his trachea with what looked like a black bladed combat knife. Next to her lay the patrol cars first aid kit. As I approached Jane looked up. Her expression neutral. ‘Did you get the pen?’ I nodded and swallowed hard. There was surprising little blood considering that Jane had just opened the guy’s trachea with a combat knife. A procedure I’ve only ever seen on TV, and never in a diners parking lot. Jane took the pen and removed the inner, pen part. With her fingers prying gently, she inserted the pens outer housing into the opening. About an inch deep. The Mexican’s body remained motionless, non-breathing. His face had turned a strange shade of silver and was puffing up like a balloon.

At this point I had no idea what to expect but Jane punching the Mexican in the sternum was the last thing on my mind. The Mexican’s eyes shot open and a loud whoosh of air being sucked through the plastic tube and into his lungs could be heard. For a second it looked like he was going to try and sit up, but he lay back down, closed his eyes, and whimpered as tears ran down his cheeks. I almost felt sorry for him, only for a split second then I glanced at the one Jane had kicked in the face. He was lying on his left side. In the first aid recovery position and was making some weird gurgling noises. His face unrecognisable. Covered in blood and partially caved in. Number three, the luckiest of the three wounded, lay to one side. Lights-out. His jaw at an odd angle. It suited him. Made him look like an idiot, I thought.

Jane was busy placing pressure bandages around the wound and pen, securing the pen with long strips of some white, medical sticky tape. She glanced up at me and after seeing my expression said. ‘He’ll live. They all will.’

I felt relieved. Dead people have a horrible way of generating mountains of paperwork, enquiries, and since I had no idea what capacity I was standing here with a mix of awe and utter terror, I was all too happy to make sure people continued to breathe for now.

***

It took the Sherriff and Medics twenty minutes to arrive. Full sirens and lights. In the meantime, I had cordoned off the area and was playing self-appointed crowd controller while Jane continued to play nurse.

I had met the Sheriff a few times and once he had taken control of the scene and the medics were doing their thing, I pulled him aside where he asked me the most obvious question.

‘What the hell happened here.’ I gave the Sheriff my abridged, three-and-a-half-minute summary and ended with:

‘You may want to have a chat with my station chief before you start asking Jane questions.’ He had just listened, rubbed his moustache a few times and nodded at the end before slinking away and taking out his cell phone. I heard some hubbub from where two paramedics were working on Jane’s nemesis. Something about an unlicensed procedure and her not being a doctor. Not my problem.

The Sheriff returned several minutes later with a perplexed expression. He briefly nodded at me. His demeanour had changed. There was a spring in his step as if he knew that everything would be all right and he couldn’t mess this one up if he tried.

And true to form, from crime scene to business as usual, all in twenty minutes. A record by all accounts. No witness statements. No questions. Just a bunch of medics moaning about only having two ambulances and it being against policy to transport more than one patient at a time. I saw the sheriff pull the most senior medic aside. Five minutes later it was decided that there were mitigating circumstances and policy would be overlooked this time and need not be mentioned in any reports. One phone call and everybody turns into some type of Jane Zombie. At least I got to eat one last Shelly burger before I got infected too.

I glanced at Jane who was sitting there. Her head back and eyes closed as I drove back to base and was once again reminded of my army’s instructors’ instructions: “Son, sleep when you can. The enemy never does.”

It still didn’t make sense. Somebody who has so much power at her fingertips just bumming around America. Had her big tourist Route 66 adventure turned into a full-blown black-ops hostage rescue after a sat nav malfunction or was she running from something? Maybe survivors’ guilt? Was trying to help Vanessa and her sister a way for her to atone? If so, from what? I felt I had a right to know. Partnerships are built on trust and communication. The fact that Jane has ninja like skills and has connections that probably would blow my mind is great, but there are two people in a team. Me included. And I needed to know that she’ll have my back when the poop hits the fan. I know she can take of herself, but it makes her unpredictable to work with in my opinion. Partners need to know how the other thinks. Especially if you need to split up. I wasn’t feeling that connection, and without it I feel doubt, and doubt is bad. It can get you killed.