novelxo Savior Complex: Chapter 1
Nacho yanks open the van door before jumping into the driver’s seat.
“This is a clusterfuck of epic proportions,” he says in Spanish.
He’s right. We’re parked in front of a restaurant that minutes before, had been full of diners enjoying their food.
Unfortunately, we had pretty convincing evidence that the people working in the back weren’t there of their own free will.
A bullet whizzes over the top of the van, and I hesitate with my response, unsure if I’ve got the conjugations and tenses right in my head. “Bram is going to kill Charlie for putting us in the middle of this.”
My brother Bram and I are therapists at Wild Heart Ranch’s Equine Therapy Center, which is owned by Charlie Wills. Charlie’s side hustles include high-end bounties and rescuing survivors of human trafficking. We offered to be on hand for non-violent operations to support the people who need it.
Turns out, this op wasn’t as non-violent as Charlie had hoped.
Nacho sends me a thumbs-up as another bullet zips by. “Excellent conjugation!”
“Would you two focus?” Bram asks, sliding open the side door of the panel van. He hurries into the back as another pop of gunfire goes off, taking out the driver side mirror as he noisily slams the door shut.
“You were saying, brother?” I ask in English.
“We can hear your Spanish lessons over the comms. At least mute yourself.” Gesturing to the mother and teenage son huddling in the rear corner of the van, he adds, “They don’t need to hear what you’re talking about.”
Nacho looks in the rearview mirror, narrowing his eyes at Bram. They’ve been together for a while, and he’s good for my brother. Especially when he puts him in his place, which is about to happen in three, two, one…
“I’m speaking in Spanish for two reasons. One, your brother asked me to speak in Spanish to him on this mission to test out whether or not he’s integrated Spanish comfortably enough to use it under duress. Charlie approved it.”
Speaking of the devil, Charlie runs in front of the van, knife in hand. An enormous mountain of a man comes from the side and takes his legs out from under him. The man goes to pull his weapon, then keels over, revealing Erik with a smoking gun.
Looking through the windshield, he sends us an apologetic shrug before helping Charlie up and running off.
“And?” Bram asks, deeply put out.
“And what?” Nacho asks, flinching as a bullet skims the roof on his side.
“Fuck. Levy, Ignacio, get in the back,” Bram grumbles, pulling Nacho back through the two captain’s chairs before he can protest.
A bullet glances off of the windshield, and the mother screams while I decide my brother might have a point. I reach into the back and grab Erik’s empty rifle case, standing it up and shoving it between the two front seats.
“Levy! You’re supposed to stay on this side of the case!” Bram shouts as I drop into the driver’s seat and start the van.
“Fuck, who let Levy drive?” Nacho asks in Spanish, cracking himself up as I peel out of the now-abandoned parking lot. I misjudge the exit and end up going over the sidewalk, landing in the road with a thunk and a pair of whining axles.
“Sorry, guys!”
“Say it in Spanish!”
“¡Lo siento, muchachos!”
“¡Excellente!”
A bullet pings off the back bumper, and I scrape the side of a parked car as I find the main thoroughfare. Bram pulls away the rifle case and leans between the two front seats, staring at the side of my head.
“Do you even know where you’re going?”
Charlie’s calm voice filters over the comms as gunfire continues to go off in the background. “Drive to the end of the block and turn right, then keep going until you hit the highway.” Rat-tat-tat-umph. “Go south and head home. We’re a few minutes behind you.”
“Ten-four, good buddy,” I crack as I roll through the stop sign and hang a right.
“Your other right, Lev,” Bram grits out as I make a highly ill-advised U-turn in the middle of the street.
“Got it!”
This operation has been sideways from the get-go. Some Dallas muckety-muck hired Charlie to find his adult son, who’d—according to him—had gone off on another bender.
For these high-end bounty jobs, Charlie insists on being paid up front, with the stipulation that he will not drag the target back to domestic violence or any other illegal or dangerous situation. If Charlie finds out the client lied, the fee is forfeit.
I once jokingly asked Charlie if anyone’s ever come after him for taking their cash and not completing the job.
“Not if they know what’s good for them.”
Ah, well.
Charlie had easily tracked the son to Llano, of all places, and since it was so close, he wanted me to go along.
When we’d intercepted the son at a local bed and breakfast, his first words were, “I’m not going back to Dallas.”
The guy had been in the mood to talk, so Charlie gestured for me to take over. He’d shown us his ninety-day chip and explained that when he got sober, he realized his father was involved in a lot of shady shit. Bribery, extortion, tax evasion, multiple coverups.
When he discovered his dad sold the housekeeper who’d practically raised him to a known trafficker, he’d tracked them down to this restaurant in Llano.
Charlie had called Nacho and Erik for backup, and Bram insisted on coming because “The two people I love the most will be in danger.”
Bram’s way more sentimental than people give him credit for. Though, at the moment, he’s beyond annoyed at both of us.
What the son did was both a little brave and a little stupid, something our team knows a lot about. He hadn’t realized his father is the trafficker and this restaurant is one of his many fronts for his operations.
To be fair, we hadn’t either until the restaurant manager tried to pull a gun. He didn’t get very far.
“Highway!” Nacho calls from the back, and I cut off a few cars—their light had only just turned green, it’s fine—to get to the on-ramp.
“Made it to the highway,” I say over the comms.
“Barely,” Bram grumps.
Erik’s chuckle over the line is interspersed with more gunfire. “Wimberley took care of local PD, but keep it to the speed limit on the road, yeah?”
“You got it,” I say, setting cruise control for five over.
Nacho asks, “You think we’ll still make Sunday dinner?”
“We might not make it, but y’all should definitely go,” Charlie answers good-naturedly.
Stifling a laugh, I find my brother’s reflection in the rearview mirror, and his jaw is clenched.
Like a dog with a bone, he turns to his beloved. “You said there were two reasons.”
“Huh?”
“You said there were two reasons you were speaking Spanish. What’s the second one?”
Thumbing a gesture at our guests, Nacho explains, “They don’t speak Spanish.”
Bram scratches his head. “What?”
“They’re from Brazil. They speak Portuguese and Tupian, not Spanish.”
“Fuck.”
It’s kinda funny when Charlie curses. I mean, the dude will curse from time to time, but it kinda conflicts with his chill vibe.
“That one’s on me. I assumed,” Charlie admits.
Nacho shrugs. “The translation app worked for once, so it’s okay.”
“Hey, the gunfire stopped,” I note, hoping to cheer up the car. “Does that mean you got everyone?”
There’s another single pop of gunfire, and Erik’s voice comes on the line. “Yep.”
It turns out Charlie was right. We get home in time to clean up, take a disco nap, and grab Charlie’s husband, Justin, for dinner with our friends. We drive to Rebel Sky Ranch using a shortcut through the Bash family vineyard.
We’re pleasantly surprised when Charlie and Erik show up, even if they are a little late.
Sunday dinner is, as always, a delicious, hilarious, slightly unhinged affair. Anders has shown up with his buddy, Hopper, and they seem to get along with Ant. Bram and I share a look because that’s definitely going to be trouble.
With any luck, it’ll be the good kind of trouble.
By the time we get back on the road, we are full, happy, and looking forward to next Sunday. We’ve agreed our Friday dinner tradition should stay small, but that doesn’t mean we can’t invite one or two extra to enjoy the start of the weekend.
Pulling into Wild Heart, I puzzle at the banged-up compact Toyota truck with Mexican license plates.
“Whose truck is that?” I ask, right about the same time a handsome, salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman with a trim, mostly white beard comes into view. He’s sitting on the front porch, and when he sees us, he stands.
“Oh shit,” I breathe out. “Hello.”
Talk about a silver fox.
Bram and I look at each other and shrug. Given what we do with our free time, we’re all a bit apprehensive as we exit the truck.
“I’m tempted to make Nacho and Ant stay back,” Bram whispers.
I give him my brother, please look. “I doubt they actually would.”
“Agreed.” Especially since Ant is still put out about not being allowed to go on the Llano trip. Or any trip for that matter. Which is fair, given the fact he snuck onto an op a few months ago and then brutally murdered that one guy who was trying to kill Erik.
He’s a bit of a wild card, is all I’m sayin’.
Bram and I manage to take the lead, making sure they’re behind us as we approach the handsome gentleman. He’s Latiné, maybe late forties, a little taller, broader, and trimmer than me, with sharp cheekbones and eyes sexily creased by the sun.
Sexily creased? God, I need to get laid.
I stroke my beard, feeling a little scraggly in his presence.
“Can I help you?” Bram asks, keeping his face neutral, as always.
Man, I wish I knew how to do that.
The guy looks behind us. “Antonio?” he asks, his voice trembling.
Ant steps forward before I can stop him. “Who the fuck are you?”
Blinking at the harsh language, he reaches for his back pocket.
“Hey!” I shout, moving in on him.
People tend to be intimidated by my tattoos and piercings, and the guy immediately holds up his hands.
“I apologize,” he says, his accent heavy. “I need to show you something.”
“Do it slowly,” I say, raising my brow.
His eyes lock on mine as he nods and carefully reaches back, pulling a folded piece of regular office paper from his back pocket.
Hell, why does he smell so damn good?
For fuck’s sake, Lev—focus.
Darting a look at Ant, the stranger hands me the piece of paper. I clear my throat and unfold it, quickly scanning.
“It’s a printout of yesterday’s article about the clean-up,” I say, showing it to Bram.
In the article is a picture of Nacho and Ant carrying large bags of trash, smiling at the camera. Well, Nacho is smiling. Ant looks like he’s been told to smile. Both are identified by their full names: Ignacio Rivera and Antonio Allende. Ant is circled in the picture, and his name is underlined.
The man keeps staring at Ant, seemingly unable to look away.
“Who are you?” Ant repeats.
“My name is Javier Hernández. I think I may be your uncle,” he says, a tear tracking down his cheek.
“What?” Ant spits out, incredulous. “How?”
“Because you look just like your mother,” he replies, his voice cracking. He looks at me and points to his other back pocket. “I have a picture. In my wallet.”
“Okay,” I say, touching his arm. “Just go slow.”
The man blinks at me. “Si, si. Uh, yes. Of course.”
Slowly he retrieves his wallet and flips it open. Pulling out an old photograph, he holds it out to Ant. Before Ant can touch it—who the fuck knows what kind of picture we’re talking about here—I intercept it, showing it to Bram first.
It’s the photograph of a young woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, holding a kid in her lap, maybe seven or eight years old. Despite the years that’ve passed, there’s no doubt in my mind who that little boy is. Carefully, I hand the picture to Ant.
He takes it and scans it, tears forming almost instantly.
“How do you have this picture?” he asks, holding it up like an accusation. “They…the traffickers. They took it from me.”
The handsome man leans forward as though he’s been punched in the stomach. I know that look. It’s the look a parent gets when I have to explain to them that something terrible has happened in their child’s past.
It’s one of my least favorite parts of my job.
At the same moment, Charlie, Justin, and Erik drive in through the gate, then course correct straight for us.
Erik is the first out of the truck and strides up to Ant. “Who is this?” he asks, glaring at our visitor.
Ant looks up at him, holding the picture in his hand. “He says he’s my uncle. This is my mom.”
Erik takes the picture and looks between it and Ant. “This is you?”
Ant nods, more tears falling.
Erik steps in front of him, facing the man, his voice like a thunderclap. “Are you the fuck who sold him?”
The man straightens from his bent-over stance, swaying as he shakes his head. “No! God no.”
“Are you related to the fuck who sold him?”
He shakes his head vehemently.
“That was his grandfather. On his father’s side,” he explains, practically pleading for us to believe him. “She was estranged from us, his mother. His father’s family was…bad news. Always bad news. We didn’t know she’d died for several months, and when we asked about Antonio, all we got were lies.”
“What was my mother’s name?” Ant asks, his voice strong even as it shakes.
“Gabriela, the youngest,” he says automatically. Running his hand over his beard, the sadness in his eyes softens. “But she was so small we called her Gigi.”
Ant’s hand goes to his mouth as he lists to the side. Erik grabs him, crushing the photograph as he steadies him.
“Please,” the man says. “The picture.”
Erik, still holding Ant, extends the picture to the man, who tucks it into his wallet, then approaches Ant.
Ant’s chest hitches. “Wh-where did you get the picture?” he repeats.
“I—she bought a set,” he says, talking with his hands. “It was in a sheet. We all carry that picture. It’s the only one we have of you two together.”
“We?”
“Antonio, you have a whole family who loves and misses you. We have been looking for you for years.”
Shocked silence freezes the warm night air, and even the sounds of the country go quiet around us.
Ant’s eyes hold such hurt, my heart can hardly take it. He falls to his knees, and Erik kneels beside him, placing his large hand on Ant’s slim shoulder.
“Looking for me?” Ant repeats, his voice paper thin as if he dares not believe something so fucking unbelievable.
“For years,” Javier says, tears streaming freely down his face. “We have never given up on you. Ever. We have missed you, and we love you very much.”
Ant’s hands go to the soft dirt, and we all go still as sobs rack his small body. Erik, distraught, rubs his hand over Ant’s back until he settles. Finally, Ant takes a few deep breaths and sits up on his knees. Silently, he turns to Erik, who pulls him into a strong hug.
“We’ll get this all figured out,” Erik says, patting his back gently. “We’ll make sure this all makes sense. I promise.”
“How exactly did you find him from a local newspaper website?” Charlie asks, stepping in front of them.
Erik helps Ant to stand, and they brush themselves off, looking at our handsome stranger expectantly.
He’s shaking his head, blinking rapidly. “I-I didn’t expect it. I’ve had a Google alert on Antonio for years. Years. When I got the email notifying me, I thought it was a mistake. Another man named Antonio Allende. Because, surely, if he were still alive, his name would be different. That had been our hope, our best-case scenario. That he’d been kidnapped and adopted.”
Ant snorts, wiping tears from his face. “Yeah, no. That didn’t happen.”
“We stayed in the same area. My sister, your aunt, got married but kept her maiden name in case you were looking for us.”
“No. My grandfather said he tried to get the Hernández family to take me, but you said no, sell him.”
Javier balls his hands into fists, and we all step in front of Ant. He holds up his hands. “I’m not violent. Not toward the people I love. Señor Allende told us you were kidnapped.”
“You didn’t tell him to sell me?”
God, what a heartbreaking question.
Javier shakes his head, clasping his chest. “It’s been ten years. We’ve been devastated for ten years.”
Javier’s hands begin to shake, his chest rising and falling violently. His breaths speed up, and he stumbles backward, sitting hard on the steps, backlit by the powerful porch light. Gripping his knees, lowering his head to them, he can’t seem to get a hold of his breath.
“He’s hyperventilating,” I say, going to him.
Bram reaches into the truck, empties the little paper bag we use for trash, and joins me, holding the bag to Javier’s mouth. Javier grasps the bag, crushing it.
“Release the bag,” Bram orders gently. “Hold it to your mouth and breathe in and out.”
Nacho joins us and begins speaking to him in Spanish, repeating Bram’s words. Telling him we are good people who have been taking care of Ant. Telling him Charlie and Erik are the ones who saved Ant.
Javier’s ragged breaths fill the night air as he slowly regains control. Finally, he raises his eyes to Erik and Charlie.
“You saved him from them?”
They share a look. “Yes,” Charlie says quietly. “I found him in a hotel room. Erik was the getaway driver. Our friends made sure the man paid.”
Javier’s face crumples. “You saved him from sex traffickers?”
Charlie carefully neutralizes his expression as he nods. Ant admits that one of the hardest things to overcome is the judgment he sees from people when they find out what happened to him. Like he’s damaged. Unrecoverable. In some ways, that’s more damaging to his recovery than what actually happened to him.
Javier, however, is not judging Ant. Instead, he dissolves into racking sobs, and we worry he might hyperventilate again. After a moment of hesitation, Ant pushes past us and quietly sits next to Javier, reaching for his hand.
Erik rocks forward, but Charlie stills him with a soothing hand to his chest, dispelling some of the tension. “Ant, if you’d like, we’ll do a full background check on him. We’ll verify he’s who he says he is. Until then, he can stay in the main house.”
Erik, unmoved by Javier’s display of emotion, tightens his jaw. “No. He stays with me in the trailer.”
Erik is still in the mobile home Charlie bought as a temporary house when this whole place went up in flames. Charlie rebuilt the main house pretty quickly, and the idea was that Erik would eventually build a home for himself on the property. They’ve been blowing and going so fast, though, he hasn’t had a chance to think about it.
It’s pretty nice as far as mobile homes go, but I don’t think his offer is as generous as it sounds. I’m pretty sure he means to keep an eye on this man who has put forth some kind of claim on Ant.
“I would like that,” Ant replies. “A lot.” Turning his attention to me, he asks, “Do you think it would be okay if I give him a hug?”
A collective inhale is followed by a round of shared glances. Of all of us here, I’m the one who works most closely with Ant on a regular basis. He’s made a ton of progress in accepting physical affection, but offering a hug to a stranger? Not only does that show progress, it tells me that Ant believes this man.
For what it’s worth, so do I.
Erik’s chest rises sharply, and I hold up my hands, turning to Javier. “Can Erik pat you down?”
I keep the before he loses his fucking mind to myself.
Javier stands, his posture broken as he holds his arms out. Erik’s insultingly thorough pat down is just shy of a body cavity search.
“Open your mouth.”
I share a look with Charlie, but Javier opens his mouth without complaint.
“No weapons on your person,” Erik finally says, narrowing his eyes. “Am I going to find any in your truck?”
“Yes. I have knives in the glove compartment and a gun,” Javier answers quietly, his eyes never leaving Ant’s.
“Mind if we take those for now?” Charlie asks, moving toward the truck.
“Keep them.”
Ant’s eyes meet mine, a question in his expression. Believing is not the same as trusting, and Ant is looking for reassurance. I take Ant’s unsaid question to heart and consider Javier closely.
Save for a truly gifted psychopath, it is hard to fake real grief. Something’s always off about the intensity or the way they’ll look for confirmation that their tears are working. Javier’s broken composure tells me more than what Charlie and Erik will find in their background check.
He’s devastated. Horrified and devastated.
I turn back to Ant and dip my chin.
Slowly he walks up to the man, getting a full look at him. Javier stands silently and lets himself be observed, anxiety marking his features. Ant reaches out, his arms tentative before he wraps them around Javier’s waist, resting his forehead on the man’s chest. Javier hesitates, equally tentative, then carefully wraps his long arms around Ant.
They stand there, holding each other, swaying silently under the bright Texas stars as emotion quietly overtakes them. Ant’s narrow shoulders rise and fall as his quiet sobs fill the night air.
I wipe away tears and look around, finding not a single dry eye. Even Erik, who will dig into Javier’s every move since birth, has given in to the reality of the situation. A single tear streaks down his cheek.
This is often what reunification looks like—a mixture of broken and grateful. Bram is holding Nacho as he cries, his face pushed into Bram’s neck. Charlie and Justin have their arms wrapped around each other’s waists, heads tilted together.
Ant finally steps back and his eyes flick to mine. In them is something new.
Hope.