Good Behavior: Chapter 16

The trip back to the ranch takes mere minutes, and Levy is on the front porch waiting for me.

“Where have you been?”

I take a deep breath, not wanting to lie to my brother. Thankfully, Charlie and Erik roll up in their truck, cutting short his question.

“I’ll…tell you later.”

His jaw tics, his eyes suspicious. “Yes, you will. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

I send him a quick nod and grab the kit from my room before running back out to Charlie’s truck.

“What’s going on?” Levy asks as we climb in the back of the cab. “Another missing kid?”

Charlie shakes his head. “You wanted in on the missions? Well, buckle up. Anders’ team out of Wimberley just ran cleanup on a massive domestic trafficking ring in Minneapolis. They were bringing a bunch of people from Guatemala up through the Mexican border, but the Wimberley crew was able to trace the communication that warned the drivers.”

“So what are we doing?”

“One of the trucks that got the message is, according to its GPS location, stopped just south of San Antonio and is awaiting further instructions. If we go now, we only have the driver to deal with, and we can get the people out of there.”

I hesitate. “Are we sure these people want to be rescued? We’re sure they’re not just coming up here for work?”

Erik shakes his head. “This isn’t a coyote situation where they’re being ferried to places of employment. They were lied to. They didn’t realize they were effectively being sold into slavery.”

Charlie continues, “And even though these assholes brand themselves as domestic traffickers, if any of those people are young and pretty, it becomes something else real quick.”

“My cousin and his team would run point for us, but they’re still cleaning up the mess in Minneapolis,” Erik says, answering my next question.

Charlie adds, “Remember, you don’t have to come with us. This is definitely more dangerous than what you saw with the search-and-rescue team.”

Levy speaks for both of us. “We’re in.”

I nod in agreement.

We pack up and are heading out when Charlie gets a call, which he puts on speakerphone.

“Go for Charlie.”

“Hey, Charlie-man. Highway’s been cleared of law enforcement. Feel free to book it.”

“Thanks, Anders. How’re things going with you guys?”

The sound of gunfire fills the cab, and Levy and I exchange a look.

What the fuck?

“Oh, you know”—

—“the usz. Uh…hold up just a sec.”

It sounds like he’s sliding his palm over the phone as he yells off in the distance. “Omar, baby, don’t get shot anywhere important—I’ve got plans for you tonight.”

Erik lowers his chin, his shoulders shaking. Charlie rolls his eyes. “Erik, how the hell are you the one?”

He shrugs, still laughing. “Parental rejection, dude. Meanwhile, Anders and Odd’s parents took a page out of the Dexter playbook and fucking encouraged that lunacy.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, wondering if Levy and I should’ve asked more questions.

Erik looks back like maybe he forgot we were back here and rubs his jaw. “Sorry, you weren’t meant to hear that. Let’s just say I’m pretty sure my cousin, and probably his twin, were always going to be some level of violently unright in the head. My aunt and uncle decided to redirect it so that if the twins were going to kill people, they would do it for the common good.”

“Kill for the common good,” Levy repeats, raising his brows.

“There’s two of them?” I ask.

“Now, cousin,” Anders’ voice rumbles through the line. “Careful with the unright in the head business. Remember, those tests were never conclusive. Bram and Levy—one of the things you’ll learn—or maybe you already know—is that some people just need killin’ and, well, we’re the killin’ crew. With your clinical and personal backgrounds, you’re perfect for the savin’ crew. See? It all works out.”

“What happens when you need both?” I ask.

Charlie looks at me in the rearview, making a slashing gesture at his throat.

“Ooph,” Anders responds, sounding like a murderous Matthew McConaughey. “Then you’re fucked.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Charlie says. “Thanks for clearing the road, Anders. We’ll let you know how it goes.”

“You got it, buddy.”

“Do I want to know how Howdy Fucking Manson knows our clinical personal history?” Levy growls.

Erik snorts. “Hey, you got his middle name on the first try.”

Charlie lets out a tired breath and merges on to 281. “You’ve heard us talk about our friends in Wimberley, yes? Anders, his husband Omar, etcetera.”

Levy and I nod. Ant’s also mentioned them a time or two, but we don’t say that.

“To answer your question, when you approached us to go on missions, we reached out to our friends in Wimberley to run background checks on you.”

“You already ran a background check on us when we were hired,” I say with an edge to my voice.

“Yes, a standard employment and criminal history check, the same one that all the employees and volunteers at Wild Heart get. Wimberley’s background check is a bit more…

,” Charlie says finally.

“More extensive in what way?” Levy asks, looking stressed.

Charlie’s jaw shifts to the side. “In addition to employment, credit, and criminal records, they can search your entire family history, including the accident that killed your parents. Beyond that, every financial statement, every job review, every patient, every dojo, gym, and subscription. You name it, they can find it. Even secret social media accounts.”

When I glance at the rearview mirror, Charlie’s eyes are waiting for me, and his pointed look tells me everything I need to know. I follow only one person with my anonymous social media account, and connecting the dots wouldn’t take much time at all.

“On top of that, one of Anders’ colleagues is a profiler,” Erik says matter-of-factly.

Charlie dips his chin. “Once we got back her report on you, we knew you’d be a good fit.”

I doubt very seriously it’s the death of our parents that makes us a good fit. Our official record is clean, but it wouldn’t be too hard to discover that the reason my parents’ corner store was rarely robbed is because thieves always paid in black eyes and bloody noses. Levy wasn’t shy about defending himself and always had my back, to be sure, but at the end of the day, I was the one with the bloodiest knuckles. I never had to dole out a lesson more than once.

Levy picks at a hangnail. “Guess you know everything about me then. I’m the free-spirited brother who smokes pot, writes poetry, and is one traffic ticket away from losing my license, and Bram’s the stick-in-the-mud rule-follower.”

Charlie and I exchange another look before he answers.

“First of all, Levy, you smoke Delta 8, which is probably still legal in Texas, and according to Hedy, aside from your terrible driving skills, you are the one most apt to follow the rules.”

His head snaps up at that. “Have you not met my brother?”

“I dunno. Have ?” he tosses back.

Charlie refocuses on me. “You never really were the rule-follower, were you?”

Levy always thought the accident changed me, and maybe it did, to an extent. But it didn’t change me much. I drop my chin to my chest, wondering if he’s about to tell my brother about Nacho. Thankfully, he goes in another direction.

“During your tenure at the hospital, you facilitated the escape of undocumented workers. You engaged in insurance fraud to ensure coverage for patients who otherwise wouldn’t have qualified. And the night the son of a local state representative was beaten outside of a Baylor dorm, you went to the ER claiming sparring injuries to your knuckles. I could go on about your time in the prison system, Dr. Barlowe, but that should be sufficient.”

Dread pools in my belly as he verifies that he’s definitely aware of Nacho.

While I’m over here wondering if he’s about to blackmail me, Levy is boring holes into the side of my head.

“Bram?”

I stare out the window, watching the dark countryside fly by. Finally, I explain, “I couldn’t let those people get lost in the shuffle. I couldn’t just check a box and let the system do what it was going to do.”

“But you beat up…that was Matt Greene’s son.”

“He’d brutally raped one of my patients and was a known threat to the campus. Nothing was done about it.”

“You could’ve been caught.”

“I was quick.”

Levy blinks at me like he doesn’t even know me, but Erik snorts into a closed fist.

“

,” he repeats, laughing openly. “Your interaction with Mr. Greene lasted less than thirty seconds, and the dude ended up with a cracked orbital bone, a collapsed lung, and a ruptured testicle.”

I swallow thickly, looking down at my hands, feeling Levy’s eyes on me.

“Like you did with Ria’s stepbrother.”

I lift my chin and send him a sharp nod, and understanding fills his eyes.

“So…Bram was the one you wanted for these missions,” Levy says, the hurt impossible to hide in his voice.

Charlie shakes his head, turning to look at Levy directly. “No. Both. According to my contact, you’re better at de-escalation, more about the community involvement, better with technology, and your fighting technique is cleaner.”

He returns his attention to the road, and Erik continues. “It’s the balance between the two of you. I’ve seen it only once before, with my cousins. Anders is the unhinged one, Odd is the reasonable one, but they’re both assassins when it counts.”

“We’re not assassins,” I spit out, wondering if they view me as the unhinged one. Turning to Levy, I grab his wrist. “I’m not a killer. I swear it.”

His eyes hold something I’ve never seen from him. Distrust.

Charlie speaks up. “He’s telling the truth, Levy. When you two approached us about going on missions, my first thought was that I didn’t want killers. I wanted guys who could get their hands a little dirty. Who could work with our reintegration teams to figure out how to minimize trauma during this process. Not that we’d intentionally put y’all in a sticky situation, but if you found yourselves in a fight, you’d be able to defend yourselves.”

I’m relieved that Charlie seems willing to let the Nacho thing go, at least for now. It also fires up the fucked-up pride I have in making Nacho mine, regardless of the consequences.

Hell, maybe I the unhinged one.

While we go silent, Charlie has Erik give us the rundown. Charlie’s South Texas contacts will be waiting for us near the site to help the folks trapped by this circumstance.

Levy and I are to wait in the truck while Charlie and Erik go in to sneak the people out. While I’m itching to get into the thick of it, they want to keep us on comms to provide support and guidance.

Once they have the situation in hand, the people will be transported to a dorm on a piece of property that used to house a convent and will be taken care of there until immigration and reunification can be sorted.

Anders was right—we don’t pass a single police vehicle on the road. That Wimberley crew’s got some kind of power. Soon enough, we’re driving through San Antonio with only big rigs to keep us company. We exit at Von Ormy and spend a few minutes on surface roads before parking in an abandoned strip mall next to an old Walmart.

Erik checks something on his phone, then looks across the dusty, dark space. “Yeah, it’s that one over there,” he whispers, pointing to an eighteen-wheeler truck parked in the back of the old Walmart lot.

I curse under my breath, whispering, “The people are the trailer?”

Charlie nods. “Looks like the driver’s in his bunk. He’ll be armed, but he won’t put up much resistance.”

“Shit just got real,” Levy says, taking the words right out of my mouth.

Erik turns and grins, giving us a double thumbs-up. He and Charlie exit the truck, guns in hand, and approach the big rig. We listen in as Charlie produces a Slim Jim and quickly gains entry. Disappearing into the cab, all we get is the brief sound of a scuffle and the guy yelling in Spanish. Seconds later, Charlie reappears, holding the disheveled driver by the scruff of his neck, pushing him toward Erik, who pulls a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket.

When the driver, still cursing them out in Spanish, is subdued, Charlie moves to the back of the truck and opens it. Given how warm it is tonight, I can’t imagine how hot it must be in that trailer. People begin pouring out of the back—adults, children, the elderly—and anger flushes my neck as I note their visible fear.

Charlie pulls his phone out and begins speaking into it, then shaking it and trying again. Finally, Erik starts speaking in halting Spanish. The people closest to him shift from wary to fearful and begin moving away from him. Rumbles go through the two dozen or so people.

“Es migra,” one guy says.

“Es ICE,” says another.

“Shit. They think Charlie and Erik are immigration,” Levy says, getting out of the truck and waving his hands.

“No es ICE!” he says, and I follow suit. “Estamos tratando…help you!”

Charlie looks at his phone again and yells, “No eres mala gente!”

I’m pretty sure that’s wrong, based on their reactions.

Fuck.

This whole thing has gone to hell in less time than it takes to unbuckle my seat belt. Charlie keeps trying to speak into the translator, and it looks like he’s half about to throw it on the ground. A couple of young guys take off running. The families and older folks stay together but back away from Charlie.

Grabbing my phone, I do the only thing I can think of to save the situation from completely spinning out of control.

“Mm…Bram? Tha’ you?” Nacho asks, his voice heavy with sleep.

“Nacho, I need your help.”

There’s shifting in the background. Nacho getting out of bed.

“I’m here. What’s up?”

“Uh, look. I’m going to explain this real fast, and you’re gonna hafta get mad at me later, okay?”

“…Okay.”

“Levy and I are with Charlie and Erik, helping a group of folks trafficked through the US-Mexico border. They think we’re ICE, and they don’t trust us. Our translators aren’t working, our combined Spanish is not cutting it, and I need your help.”

“I thought this was about someone at the ranch.”

“I lied,” I say bluntly. “We intercepted a tractor-trailer full of people who were going to be trafficked into domestic servitude and migrant work. Charlie’s got people coming to support them until they work out the safest way to get them where they need to go.”

While Nacho curses me out, Charlie’s not faring any better. People are beginning to move pretty quickly.

“Nacho?”

“Fine. Put me on speakerphone.”

I approach Charlie and show him the phone. He grinds his jaw but nods.

“Nacho, do you know what’s going on?”

“More or less.”

“Can you tell these folks I’m not ICE?”

Nacho begins translating for Charlie while Erik attaches a portable speaker to my phone. After a long beat of silence, a middle-aged woman ventures back and begins asking questions.

“Uh, Bram? She wants to see my face. Not sure that’ll go well with the tattoos and stuff.”

Looking at the woman he’s speaking to, I answer, “Not sure you have any other choice. Here, I’ll pull up FaceTime.”

When the screen switches to his pillow-creased, slightly disgruntled face, I can’t help but smile.

“El es tu novio?” the lady asks, looking between us.

Nacho chuckles.

“What did she just ask?”

“She wants to know if you’re my boyfriend.”

I rub the back of my neck, my cheeks heating.

She says something else, which makes Nacho laugh even harder, and that sets her off as well. Her laughter draws everyone in, and I decide I’ll wait to get into that tomorrow.

They go back and forth, and it’s clear Nacho is being incredibly kind to the lady. She’s asking Charlie and Erik the kinds of questions that leave no doubt about the nature of what they do. While Nacho’s doing a good job keeping a neutral face with the lady, I can tell he’s not loving the answers he’s translating.

Thankfully, though, he’s able to translate the answers to the woman’s satisfaction, and Charlie is able to call in his volunteers. While we’re waiting for them, Charlie asks us to find out if they encountered any abuses along the way, and a couple of the women point to the driver. Charlie and I spend a few moments with them as Nacho translates, and…it’s bad.

As Nacho illuminates us about their experiences, Charlie’s face transforms from concerned seriousness to barely concealed rage.

He waves Erik over.

“Anders is flying back tonight, right?”

Erik nods. “Already on the plane.”

“Get him on the phone.”

I don’t know exactly what it means for the driver that Anders is on his way back, but it isn’t good. In the end, the driver ends up hogtied under a tarp in the back of Charlie’s truck, and neither Levy nor I have any objections.

Refocusing on the brave women, Levy and I give them a few comforting words to get through these next days and promise to support them while we find counselors who speak Spanish. They hug us and kiss our cheeks and say lovely things to Nacho.

He wipes a tear as they walk away. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this conversation,” he says with more authority than I’ve ever heard from him.

Watching Nacho listen to these women with such tenderness makes my heart run headlong into feelings I didn’t know I was capable of. I wonder if I haven’t felt this way about him since the beginning.

I look up, and Levy’s doing that thing where he reads my expression and knows too much without me saying a word. He shakes his head, and I know we’re way overdue for an awkward—and unavoidable—conversation.

The people are loaded onto school buses to be taken to the old convent, and most of the guys who ran off circle back around and rejoin the group.

On the long drive back to the ranch, Charlie hits every bump and corner at full speed, throwing the driver around in the truck bed. Perhaps if I hadn’t heard what he’d done in full detail, I’d complain about the rough ride. But I did, so I don’t.

We stop at a private airfield in Wimberly, which appears to be part of a larger property protected by a guarded gate. As my mom would say, betcha a dollar this is the home of the illustrious Wimberley crew.

A sleek jet is pulling off the runway as we enter the property, and Erik’s cousin, Anders, deplanes, followed by his gorgeous husband—Omar—and a slightly shorter guy I’ve never seen before. While all three are tattooed and ripped, this third guy doesn’t look like a vigilante. He almost looks…Mafia.

Anders sees us and lights up, jogging over to the truck, followed closely by his friend.

“What’s up, y’all? Thanks for coming in clutch. This is my buddy from New York—he was with us in Minneapolis, figured I’d bring him along. Hopper, meet my friends. Friends, Hopper.”

We exit the truck and exchange handshakes, and I need no one to spell out for me that Hopper and Anders are the killers Charlie was referring to. They’re both friendly and charming, each in their own ways, but there’s death in how they hold themselves.

“Remember that story of…what was the angel’s name?” Levy whispers out the side of his mouth.

“Raguel,” I answer, nodding.

“The angel of justice.”

“And vengeance,” I add. “That driver is about to have a very, very bad day.”

Levy’s jaw sharpens. “I’m okay with that.”

“Me too, brother. Me too.”

Hopper, as his name implies, nimbly hops into the truck bed and uncovers the driver, who looks a little worse for wear after our trip. Anders joins him, and they both squat to examine the driver more closely.

Hopper pushes his hair off his forehead and straightens his collar.

“Look up at the stars,” he says softly.

Confused, the man looks around. Charlie pulls up the app and, for once, it translates his words.

Arcing his hand in a gesture that follows the brilliant band of stars above, Hopper explains, “Did you know that’s the Milky Way?”

The driver’s answer translates roughly to, “Why are you telling me this?”

“I wanted you to take a look because it’s the last time you’ll ever see the sky.”

Hopper’s grin turns dark as he works with Anders to pick up the driver and take him out of the truck. The man begins to scream in terror, and Hopper sends him a look that freezes the blood in my veins.

The driver’s abrupt silence is loud under the bright stars.

The pilot, a curvy woman with curly hair and sparkling eyes, pulls up with Anders’ husband in a truck. The guys work together to transfer the driver into the bed and then take off through the gate.

“Charlie?” Levy asks. “Have you ever been through that gate?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t need to see what goes on beyond that gate.”

Erik snorts. “Me either.”

We pile back into Charlie’s truck, not exchanging a single word as we pass over the empty roads back to the ranch. Charlie drops us off in front of the bunkhouse in the hazy predawn light. I hesitate as Levy makes his way up the steps, and he turns to me, his eyebrows pinched in confusion.

“You’re going to his house.”

Dropping my eyes to the dirt, I nod.

“Bram…”

“I’m sorry.”

Shaking my head, I pivot toward the truck, unable to rest until I’ve seen Nacho for myself and thanked him. Rewarded him. Been soothed by him. Things I can’t explain to my brother.