“What?” asked Cain.
“You just kicked the crap out of Ken,” he said in disbelief.
“So?”
“But you’re a girl and he’s a guy.”
“That’s not an answer,” she said in a croaky voice.
She knelt down and examined Ken. He was unconscious, but she checked his pulse. It was strong. She tugged on his arm and one of his legs. Though unconscious, his body reacted to the pull and the limbs involuntarily jerked back.
Okay, didn’t seem to be any spinal damage from his head hitting the ground.
She rose and looked at Rosa. “You okay?”
Rosa was staring down at Ken with stark fear.
“Madre de Dios. He . . . he will kill me when he wakes up.”
“Go get your things,” said Cain.
“Que?”
“You got any kids? Any . . . ni?os?”
Rosa shook her head. “We’re not . . . married.”
“Okay, go get your things. I’ll take you to a place where you’ll be safe.”
Rosa ran back into her room and they could hear her banging and slamming things.
“Hey!”
Cain turned to see the office woman striding toward her.
“Hey what?”
“You assaulted Ken.”
“I was defending myself.”
“I don’t think so. I’m going to have to call the police,” she said.
“I thought you might do that when he was beating the shit out of Rosa.”
“He was just disciplining her. You shouldn’t have butted in.”
“Well, the fact is, we’re leaving,” said Cain.
“Who’s leaving?”
“Me and Rosa.”
The woman said stubbornly, “You’re not getting your money back. No refunds.”
“Yeah, I can see how you might think that.”
“’Cause it’s true.”
“How long has Ken been here?” asked Cain.
“A month.”
Cain pulled out her phone. “Then I’ll make the call to the cops.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” the woman exclaimed, utterly thrown by this abrupt change in the discussion.
“Ken broke his parole. So I’m notifying the cops that he’s here and that you’ve been harboring him for a month.”
“Shit, are you drunk or what? How do you know he’s on parole?”
In answer Cain pointed to a tat on Ken’s arm. “That’s the membership symbol for the Aryan Brotherhood. They’re a prison hate group. You get that tat when you go inside. I can tell it’s a prison tat because it’s a shitty job; they use melted-down junk for ink and crappy, homemade shivs to do it. Now Ken’s on the outside. He’s a young guy. Parole is usually for quite a few years. That tat looks almost brand-new. But he’s got a knife and a gun. And he just assaulted a woman. Triple-strike parole violations. And you just admitted that you know he does this regularly. So that makes you an accessory. That’ll get you at least a year in jail, too.”
The woman took a step back, her confidence draining away along with all the color in her face. “How do you know so much about all that?”