Chapter 9: The Desert Kidnapping - Part 2
POV: Hank
Dawn crept across the New Mexico desert like spilled copper, painting the barren landscape in shades of rust and regret. Hank Schrader sat in his DEA-issued Tahoe, studying the anonymous tip that had led him forty miles into nowhere: Tuco Salamanca. Adobe shack. Coordinates 35.2431° N, 106.6914° W. Armed and dangerous.
The tip had come through the narcotics hotline at 3 AM—digitally distorted voice, untraceable number, the kind of intelligence that was either solid gold or a trap designed to get federal agents killed in the desert. But Hank's instincts, honed by fifteen years of chasing scumbags through the Southwest, whispered that this one was legitimate.
Tuco Salamanca. The name made Hank's jaw clench involuntarily. Psychotic dealer, cartel connections, suspected in at least six murders that they could never prove. The kind of predator who made Hank remember why he'd joined law enforcement instead of following his father into the insurance business.
The shack squatted in the distance like a cancerous growth, heat shimmers already dancing around its adobe walls despite the early hour. Two vehicles parked outside—Tuco's black Escalade and an older sedan. Maybe backup, maybe victims. Either way, Hank was going in alone until backup arrived.
He checked his service weapon, a Glock .40 that had never let him down, and activated his radio. "This is Agent Schrader. I'm approaching the coordinates from the anonymous tip. ETA on backup?"
"Fifteen minutes, Agent Schrader."
Fifteen minutes might as well be fifteen hours if shooting started. But Hank had faced worse odds and walked away breathing. The trick was controlled aggression—hit hard, hit fast, and never give the enemy time to think.
He approached the shack in a tactical crouch, weapon drawn, using the sparse desert vegetation for concealment. Fifty yards out, he could hear voices—Spanish mixed with English, agitated conversation that suggested people under stress.
Movement at the front door. Tuco Salamanca emerged like a violent jack-in-the-box, chrome pistol in his hand, eyes scanning the horizon with paranoid intensity. When those eyes locked onto Hank's DEA vest, the world exploded into motion.
Tuco opened fire immediately, muzzle flashes strobing in the morning light. Hank dove behind his Tahoe as bullets sparked off metal and shattered windows. His radio crackled with static and distant voices, but the words were meaningless noise compared to the immediate mathematics of survival.
"Contact! Shots fired! Officer under fire at grid coordinates—"
The firefight that followed was pure chaos—Hank returning fire from behind his vehicle, Tuco using the shack's doorway for cover, bullets whining across empty desert like mechanical wasps. Somewhere inside the building, people were screaming.
Hostages. The realization hit Hank like ice water. This wasn't just a drug bust anymore; it was a rescue operation.
POV: Elijah
Gunfire erupted outside the shack like the Fourth of July designed by sociopaths. Elijah threw himself against the back wall as bullets punched through the thin adobe, filling the air with dust and the acrid smell of cordite.
Walt and Jesse had gone pale as corpses, pressed against the floor while Tuco screamed Spanish obscenities and returned fire through the shattered front window. Hector's wheelchair had somehow been positioned behind the sturdiest wall—even paralyzed, the old man understood battlefield tactics.
Elijah's mind raced through probability calculations with desperate efficiency.
Probability Assessment: Current survival scenarios.
If we run now: 23% Tuco shoots us during escape attempt. If we hide here: 67% Hank breaches building, discovers us, arrest follows. If we create distraction during firefight: 78% escape during chaos.
Cost: $2,100.
Option three. Create chaos, use the confusion to escape. But how?
Elijah's eyes swept the makeshift laboratory, cataloging chemical precursors and equipment. Jesse's meth-cooking supplies were scattered across the table—beakers, propane burners, volatile solvents that could turn a controlled fire into an explosion.
Tuco ducked back inside to reload, blood streaming from a shoulder wound where Hank's return fire had found its mark. His face was a mask of chemical rage and physical pain, the combination that made him more dangerous than a wounded animal.
"We're pinned down!" Tuco shouted to his crew. "Gonzo, flank left! Get behind the DEA pendejo!"
This was the moment. Tuco distracted, attention focused on the tactical situation outside. Elijah grabbed a glass beaker filled with methanol and hurled it at the propane tank near Tuco's position.
The collision produced a sharp crack followed by the hiss of escaping gas. Elijah fired his lighter—a flame that caught the vapor cloud and exploded outward in a brilliant orange fireball.
Tuco spun toward the unexpected fire, raising his gun instinctively. Hank's next shot took him center mass, the impact spinning him around and dropping him to the concrete floor.
"Go! NOW!" Elijah shoved Walt and Jesse toward the back window, already calculating their escape route. The window frame was rotted wood, easy to break. The desert beyond offered minimal cover but multiple directions of flight.
They crashed through the window in a shower of glass and splintered wood, hitting the sand in a desperate sprawl. Jesse rolled, came up running. Walt stumbled, recovered, followed. Elijah brought up the rear, scanning for threats from Tuco's crew.
Behind them, the gunfire continued for another thirty seconds before falling silent.
Half a mile into the desert, lungs burning from the thin air and adrenaline crash, they finally stopped behind a cluster of sagebrush. Walt collapsed to his knees, hyperventilating. Jesse vomited into the sand, his body rejecting the terror and physical exertion.
Elijah activated his Omniscient Locator, checking the aftermath.
Locating Hank Schrader: Alive, securing crime scene, calling for backup and medical. Locating Tuco Salamanca: Deceased, blood loss from gunshot wounds.
Cost: $400.
They'd survived. Barely. But survival was only the first problem.
Probability Assessment: If we're found near this scene?
89% probability of arrest for kidnapping association. Evidence will place us at scene within 24-hour window.
Cost: $1,200.
"We were never here," Elijah said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Walk to the highway separately. Hitchhike back to the city. Meet at Jesse's house in six hours."
Walt stared at him with something between gratitude and suspicion. "How are you this calm? We were just in a gunfight. Tuco's dead. The DEA—"
Elijah's speech curse activated when he tried to explain about tactical assessment and probability calculations. "I do yoga... with llamas!"
The absurd statement hung in the desert air like a surreal punctuation mark. Jesse, despite his terror and nausea, began laughing—hysterical, exhausted laughter that bordered on breakdown.
"Yoga with llamas," Jesse gasped between fits of manic giggling. "Dude, you're insane. But that's the funniest thing I've ever heard."
Even Walt cracked a smile, the tension breaking like a fever. Sometimes survival required laughter, even when nothing was actually funny.
"I've spent $8,000 in probability calculations during this ordeal. My balance is now $6,600. Critically low. I need Miami income immediately, or I'll lose access to the powers that keep me alive."
They separated at the highway, three men walking in different directions toward an uncertain future. Elijah caught the first ride from a trucker who asked no questions about why a businessman was hitchhiking in the desert at dawn.
Six hours later, they sat in Jesse's living room like survivors of a particularly vivid nightmare. Walt studied Elijah with the intensity of a scientist examining an unexpected result.
"You saved us. Twice. How?"
Elijah couldn't explain about supernatural powers or cosmic entities, so he pulled out a napkin and wrote: I'm good at reading situations.
Walt read the note, clearly unconvinced but lacking alternatives. Jesse had passed out on his couch, emotionally and physically exhausted by their forty-eight-hour ordeal.
Elijah's phone showed four missed calls and a text from Dexter: Where are you? I have a situation.
The Entity's curse wouldn't wait for him to recover from kidnapping and gunfights. He booked a red-eye flight to Miami, already calculating how to explain his absence without triggering further suspicion.
The double life was becoming impossible to sustain, but the alternative was fading into nonexistence. He'd burned through most of his financial reserves keeping them alive, and now he needed to earn money in Miami before his powers became unusable.
As the plane lifted off from Albuquerque, Elijah stared down at the desert where Tuco Salamanca had died and three men had learned the difference between television crime and reality.
The Entity's game continued, and the stakes kept rising.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
Can't wait for the next chapter of [Breaking Bad and Dexter: Pay to Survive ]?
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them (20+ chapters ahead!). No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1