CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Father stumbled along the bridge, his feet dragging against the concrete. Blood oozed from cuts on his face, mixing with the tears that streamed down his cheeks. The weight of the dead rattlesnake coiled around his arm seemed to pull him down, but he trudged onward. His sobs echoed in the empty space, a haunting sound that spoke of deep anguish.

He strode over the bridge's railing, peering out at the glowing lights of Corpus Christi. The Harbor Bridge was a looming monolith of steel and concrete in the night sky. Lights twinkled on the horizon, the city unaware of the dark deeds unfolding on this desolate stretch.

A sob caught in his throat, hand clutching at the heavy pendant that hung around his neck. The icy chill of the metal did little to quell the burning guilt that gnawed at him. His gaze fell upon the lifeless snake in his grip, its once deadly power now just a cold, hollow shell.

His phone buzzed violently, shattering the quiet stillness. An incoming call. His stained fingers fumbled, bringing up an unknown number on screen. He hesitated for a millisecond before hitting decline and hurling the device out into the darkness of Corpus Christi Bay.

The muffled splash was swallowed by the wind, a familiar voice twisting in his ear like a cruel chorus. Not tonight. He needed peace tonight.

The snake's scales dug into his skin, a constant reminder of the darkness that clung to him. He couldn't take it anymore, the weight of his sins, the unrelenting demands.

Tears continued to fall as he stared out over the water, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The bridge stretched out before him, an endless path leading nowhere. Father knew he had to keep moving to find some way to atone for his sins, but the road ahead seemed impossibly long and treacherous.

With a heavy heart, he took a step forward, then another, the snake's coils tightening around his arm like a vice. Each movement was agony, but Father pushed on, driven by a desperate need for redemption that he feared might always remain just out of reach.

He reached the end of the bridge under the cover of midnight, preferring the desolate shadows to the glaring lights of the city. His rusted ATV was parked there. His freedom. His escape. He approached it, his heart heavy in his chest.

But then he saw them - two figures standing by his ATV, silhouetted against the distant glow of the streetlights. They were looking over his machine with interest, prodding at the tires, inspecting every inch like it was some newfound treasure.

They looked up as he approached, their eyes narrowing as they took him in; bloodied, bruised and clutching a dead rattlesnake. They shared a look before turning back to him, a sinister smile spreading across their faces.

A surge of fear rushed through him, but he stood his ground. "Can I help you gentlemen?" His voice came out more strained than he would've liked.

Two men, also enjoying the shadows.

Predators had to recognize their kind, or they couldn't survive long.

But he wasn’t a predator. He was a father. A caretaker. He made choices in order to help. To love.

It was mercy what he did.

He still pictured that poor soul as the rattlesnake venom completed its work. He hadn’t wanted it. But it was all that had mattered. He’d met her in the hospital. Had followed her home.

And then…

He’d helped.

He always tried to help.

Same with Rebecca Morris. The cartel had been coming for her—he knew that much. He knew what they would’ve done to her. What they’d done to others he’d cared for and loved.

And now, two more predators were staring right at him. He stumbled towards his parked ATV, his boots scuffing against the rough asphalt. Through bleary eyes, he watched the two figures hovering near the vehicle. Strangers. Poking, prodding at the vehicle. Father's gut clenched. Muggers were easy to identify in the night: hungry eyes, prowling posture, aggressive tone. They saw him as a wounded animal, easy prey to be picked off.

"Would you like me to pray for you?" His voice was a mere whisper, carried off by the gusty wind.

The first man scoffed loudly and spat on the floor. His partner snickered in turn. "Pray for yourself," he sneered.

They started circling him slowly, like vultures eyeing their next meal. As they closed in, Father forced himself to remain calm. He focused on the words of prayer caught in his throat, clinging to them like a lifeline.

Suddenly he felt an adrenaline surge through him with the distant wail of sirens seeping into their standoff. The men stiffened but quickly resumed their predatory stance.

He straightened, wiped his face with his sleeve. Took a breath. Approached slowly, deliberately. The men turned, eyeing him warily. Father raised his hands, palms out. A gesture of peace, of supplication.

"Brothers," he said, voice hoarse. "I mean no harm.”

“Yeah? We got that.” They continued to circle him, their motions like prowling animals.

“I only wish to pray for you."

The men exchanged glances. Smirks twisted their lips. They sauntered closer, circling Father like sharks scenting blood in the water.

Now, he murmured under his lips, offering a faint blessing to the two hoodlums. His eyes briefly closed, and his fingers stroked the back of his bloody knuckles. They hadn't noticed—due to the darkness—the snake wrapped around his arm.

"Pray?" the taller one scoffed. "You’re in no position to be offering prayers."

Father lowered his gaze, but kept his hands raised. "Everyone needs prayer," he murmured. "Even the lost. Especially the lost."

The shorter man barked a laugh. "Hear that? We're lost souls in need of saving."

They drew nearer, their movements fluid, predatory. Father's heart pounded against his ribs. The snake seemed to tighten its grip, constricting, suffocating.

"Please," Father whispered. "Allow me to pray for you. For your souls."

The muggers closed in, their breath hot on Father's face. The tall one leaned in, his eyes glinting with malice.

Father closed his eyes, his lips moving in a silent prayer. The words tasted like ashes on his tongue. He knew he had no right to ask for mercy, not after all he had done. But still, he prayed. For forgiveness. For salvation.

For a miracle.

The muggers laughed, harsh barks that echoed off the concrete. The tall one prodded Father's chest with a bony finger. "Nothing gonna help you now, old timer."

Father kept his eyes shut tight. Kept praying under his breath. The snake's scales dug into his skin, sharp pinpricks of pain.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Drawing closer.

The short mugger glanced over his shoulder. "Cops," he grunted.

His partner snorted. "Lot of good it'll do this sorry bastard. By the time they get here, we'll be long gone."

"And he'll be dead in a ditch." The short one grinned, all yellow teeth and malice.

Father's prayers grew more fervent. Pleading. Begging. The sirens grew louder, shrieking through the night.

"Hurry up," the tall mugger snapped. "I ain't trying to get pinched over this pathetic piece of shit."

The short one nodded. Pulled a knife from his pocket. The blade glinted dully in the moonlight.

Father's heart seized. His prayers dissolved into desperate gasps.

The mugger pressed the knife to Father's throat. The edge bit into his skin, cold and sharp. A thin line of blood welled, trickled down his neck.

The sirens reached a crescendo. Red and blue lights strobed across the bridge, painting everything in jerky stop-motion.

Father's eyes snapped open. He stared at the muggers, gaze steady and clear. The fear was gone, replaced by something else. Something dark and deep and dangerous.

Father spoke softly. His voice was calm. Eerily so. "I'm not the one who needs saving."

The muggers blinked. Hesitated. They glanced at each other, confusion flickering across their faces.

Father smiled. A slow, creeping thing that didn't reach his eyes. His hand dipped into his pocket, moved by some unseen force.

He remembered.

Remembered all of it.

Men like this was why he did what he did. The evil they brought to the world was felt. His own parents… missionaries who'd given up everything. And then the cartel had shown up on their doorstep. He could picture the images like it was yesterday; the trauma was seared into his brain.

His mother's soft face, always filled with kindness, frozen in fear. His father's once vibrant eyes, dimmed by dread. The shrill laughter of the cartel members as they ransacked their humble home. The smell of gunpowder and burning wood filled the air. The harsh feel of the ropes that tied his hands as they forced him to watch. How their bodies fell heavily to the floor, lifeless, after the deafening roar of gunfire faded.

It was a carnage he could never forget, an image seared into his memory, forever haunting him. It was the day innocence was stolen away from him.

His mind snapped back to the present reality - the two muggers, their faces masked in confusion and uncertainty. He clutched tighter onto the knife hidden in his pocket, its presence a cold comfort. His prayers now took on a different fervor.

Father's eyes locked onto the muggers, unwavering. Hollow. Devoid of light. His downturned mouth twitched. His brow furrowed, casting shadows across his bruised face.

The muggers shifted uneasily. Gripped their weapons tighter. Knuckles whitened. Jaws clenched.

"The hell you on about, preacher man?" The tall one's voice wavered. Doubt crept in.

Father breathed deep. Exhaled slow. "I am the one being hunted."

Silence stretched. Taut. Suffocating. The muggers' eyes widened. Darted side to side.

"Hunted? By who?" The short one licked his lips. Adjusted his stance.

Father's shoulders slumped. His head bowed, chin to chest. "By God."

The words hung heavy. Oppressive. The muggers took an unconscious step back.

A bitter laugh escaped Father's throat. Grating. Mirthless. "He seeks to punish me. To make me atone."

Father raised his head. Tear-stained cheeks glistened in the moonlight. His gaze burned into the muggers. Through them.

"And now... He has led me to you."

The tall mugger scoffed. Forced bravado. "You're crazy, man. Ain't no God here."

Father shook his head. Sadly. Pityingly. "Oh, but there is. And He is angry."

Silence again. Heavy with dread. The muggers gripped their weapons. White-knuckled. Trembling.

Father's hand remained in his pocket. Fingers curled around something unseen. "I am sorry, my sons. Truly."

He took a step forward. Then another. Slow. Deliberate. The snake wrapped around his forearm was dead, but he could almost hear it hiss.

The muggers retreated. Stumbling. Fear etched on their faces. Father advanced. Implacable. Inevitable.

A glint of steel. A whispered prayer. And then, chaos.

Father's lips moved in silent supplication, his words a deep, guttural groan that seemed to resonate from the depths of his soul. The knife appeared in his hand as if conjured by the force of his prayer, its blade catching the moonlight in a cold, merciless glint.

The muggers barely had time to register the weapon before Father was upon them, his movements swift and precise, belying his apparent frailty. The knife slashed through the air, finding its mark with sickening efficiency.

The tall mugger cried out, his voice cut short as the blade opened his throat. Blood sprayed, a crimson mist that hung suspended for a heartbeat before spattering the ground. He crumpled, hands clutching at his neck, his life pouring out between his fingers.

The short one lunged, his own knife thrusting desperately towards Father's chest. But Father was quicker, sidestepping the clumsy attack and bringing his blade up in a vicious arc. It caught the mugger across the face, laying open his cheek to the bone.

A scream, raw and primal, tore from the man's throat. He staggered back, one hand pressed to his ruined face, the other still gripping his knife. Father advanced, implacable.

"Please," the mugger whimpered, backing away, his feet slipping in his companion's blood. "Don't... I..."

Father's eyes were pools of sorrow, his face a mask of grief. "I take no pleasure in this," he whispered. "But it must be done."

The knife flashed again, burying itself to the hilt in the mugger's chest. A gasp, a shudder, and then he too fell, his body folding in on itself like a marionette with its strings cut.

Father stood over the fallen men, his breathing heavy, his hand still gripping the knife. The snake coiled around his arm like a bracelet, its scales glistening red. A single tear tracked down Father's cheek, mingling with the blood that speckled his face.

"Forgive me," he breathed. "Forgive me."

Father stumbled back from the corpses, his boots squelching in the spreading pool of blood. He wept openly now, great wracking sobs that shook his frame. The knife fell from his nerveless fingers, clattering on the asphalt.

"Mercy," he groaned, his voice a deep, guttural rumble. "Mercy, Lord, for these lost souls."

He staggered towards his ATV, his gait unsteady, his eyes fixed on the heavens. The snake hung limp.

"I am but Your instrument," Father intoned, his words punctuated by gasps and sobs. Sometimes… he wondered if the voices he heard really came from above. Or somewhere much, much darker.

He reached the ATV, bracing himself against it, his head bowed as if in supplication. The flashing lights of the approaching sirens painted his hunched form in alternating shades of red and blue.

"Mercy," he whispered again, his voice cracking. "Mercy for the wicked, for the lost, for the damned."

His litany continued, a ceaseless mantra of mercy and righteousness, even as he heaved himself onto the ATV. The engine roared to life, drowning out the wail of the sirens, the crackle of the police radios.

Father gazed back at the scene of carnage, his eyes wide and gleaming with a fevered light. "I am the instrument," he declared, his voice rising above the din. "A sword of divine retribution."

The ATV surged forward, bearing Father away from the bridge, away from the cooling bodies of the muggers. But his prayers lingered, hanging in the air like the echoes of gunshots, like the final gasps of dying men.

"Mercy," he chanted, his voice fading into the night. "Mercy, mercy, mercy..."

These two had died for their own sins.

But her ? She’d died for the sins of the others.

For what had been done. And soon, the cops would find her corpse.