Cartel Fire

by Tom Riggs

  Silvano and his men got out of their SUVs more slowly, more calmly. Let the gangbangers take the brunt of anything El Ingles had. He ordered his men to split up and take the flanks of the villa. They did so quickly and quietly, moving cautiously through the palm groves and outhouses, their M4 Carbines raised to shoot at anything out of the ordinary. Silvano moved forward cautiously too, following the Salvadorians through the main door. Because his left arm was in a sling he only carried a pistol, his favourite, a Beretta Cheetah 9mm semi-automatic. But it was all he needed. His men had enough weaponry on them to start world war three. Enough to take out El Ingles. Enough to kill the gringa.

  Five minutes later and Silvano walked out onto the large terrace that separated the villa and the long white beach. There was smoke and dust everywhere, and his ears were ringing from all the shooting. The Salvadorians had shredded anything and everything in the villa with their automatic weapons. Sofas, a large TV, wooden furniture. Everything had been ripped apart by hundreds of nine millimetre rounds. But there were no bodies. The men were still running around, a strange wired look in their eyes, but they had for the most stopped shooting. Some were running up the wide stairs that led up from the living room, others were kicking open doors to broom cupboards and toilets. A few shots were being fired, although mostly the men were just yelling at each other. Some sort of battle cry, Silvano guessed. He looked around the terrace. Sun loungers, a glass table now smashed. But no bodies. No Ingles. No gringa. On either side of him, his own men came up, their weapons lowered, shaking their heads. No Ingles. No gringa.

  Silvano looked around him. The villa had been taken apart. The living room floor was thick with empty shell casings. The Salvadorians had covered every room. El Ingles was not in the villa. He looked out at the villa grounds, palm trees, dried up lawns and outhouses. His own men were fast and efficient, El Ingles was not there either. Silvano looked down onto the beach. Perhaps, he thought, and went to order his men to search there too. Too late he remembered Hector’s words. It could be a trap. Too late he heard the whir of helicopter blades. Too late he looked up to see three black shapes above him, flashes of smoke coming out of them.

  Munro pulled the car hard across the highway and up a small exit ramp to a set of petrol pumps. Two pumps, diesel and unleaded. No attendant, no shop. Just a swipe machine and a keyboard. The service industry had reached Mexico.

  The car was a Mini Moke, open top. It could do 0-60 in about half an hour, going downhill. Its engine would have been more suitable on a scooter. And it was out of gas. It spluttered to a halt two yards short of the pump.

  “Got a credit card on you?” smiled Munro. “I left my wallet at the villa.” Anna jumped out of the car, not even bothering to open the door.

  “What the fuck is going on Jack?” she screamed at him. “One minute we’re lying under a palm tree, naked, making pillow talk, and the next you say we have to get out of the villa right away. What the FUCK is going on?”

  Munro looked at her, standing there furious, a light summer dress still wet against her bikini. She looked good.

  “And don’t just sit there smiling smugly you asshole. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Munro stopped smiling. “Sorry for the dramatics. Eduardo just sent me this message.” He pulled out his Blackberry and showed her the email that had caused him to jump up off the lounger and frog march Anna to the villa’s garage. That there had been a car in there was the best stroke of luck he had had in days, despite it being so low on gas. But he did not tell Anna that. She read the message:

  “Jack – the villa has been compromised, get out of there fast. Meet me at the airport. Sorry old friend.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked. “Why does he say sorry?”

  “He set us up,” said Munro putting his Blackberry away, “he used the villa as a trap with us as the bait.”

  Anna paused and looked at Munro.

  “My God, you’re not even joking are you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “And you don’t even seem surprised, I thought this guy was one of your best friends.”

  “He is, and I am not. It was the obvious move. Eduardo hates the cartel men more than you can imagine. They’ve killed dozens of his men, usually by cutting off their heads while they’re still alive. He would do anything to take them out.” Munro paused. A man at war. Thinks like a man at war. “He knew that they were after us and would follow us wherever we went. It was the obvious move. I just wish he had given us a bit more notice, I think those choppers that flew over us might have been something to do with our friends.”

  Anna looked at Munro like you might a strange animal in the zoo. “You mean you knew they were coming and yet still you…like you didn’t have a care in the world?”

  Munro did not answer. Instead he smiled at her guiltily, lopsidedly.

  “You people are unbefuckinglievable,” she said turning around. “I’m gonna use the bathroom.” And with that she walked over towards the small concrete bunker that had a sign saying ‘banos’ to its side. Munro stood by the mini moke and watched her walk away. She really did look good. But he still had no credit card, and was covered in dust from driving down the bumpy jungle track in the moke. He followed her towards the banos himself.

  After splashing a lot of very cold water on his head and the back of his neck, Munro emerged into the hot Caribbean sun. He stood outside the concrete bunker for a few minutes, holding his face up into the sun with his eyes closed, feeling its glow warm his face.

  “I’m sorry I reacted like that.”

  Munro opened his eyes and looked down to see Anna standing in front of him, her hair rinsed and slicked back. The sun was behind her but managed to light up her light brown eyes. She smiled, “I know you’re only trying to help me.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” replied Munro, “but I didn’t want to worry you. To be honest, we didn’t have many options. This is Eduardo’s turf. I just had to trust that he would warn us in time, which in the end he did.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.” She was close now, inches away. All he needed to do was bend down his head. Munro bent down his head. He kissed her lips and she kissed his. After a while he pulled his head up.

  “Come on, let’s get some petrol and get out of this country,” he said turning, “there’s a private jet waiting for us at Cancun airport.”

  “Sounds good,” replied Anna also turning, “sounds very goo…” She froze for a moment and then screamed.

  Munro looked up. He saw a pick-up truck had just pulled into the garage forecourt and parked in front of the Moke, blocking its path. Stepping out of the pick-up was a man. He was medium height, but heavily built. But what Munro immediately noticed was his scars. A raw gash across his neck and hollow sunken cheeks that looked like someone had gouged them with a potato peeler.

  “Hector,” said Munro stepping forward, in front of Anna. With his right hand he pushed her further behind him. “Anna,” he continued, “why don’t you go and wait behind those banos.”

  But Anna did not move. Munro did not take his eyes off Hector, who was standing by his pick-up, staring at him.

  “Anna,” said Munro firmly, “go and wait behind the bathroom. If anything happens to me, anything at all, run. Run as fast as you can and get into the first car you see. Go to the airport and don’t look back.” He pushed her hard, “now go!”

  With the push, Anna turned and ran. Munro did not look to see where she went, his eyes were on Hector, who had not moved and was still staring at them. With Anna in relative safety, Munro stepped forward. He quickly evaluated the situation. It was bad, he had been sloppy. He was in open ground without any sort of weapon. No cover, no weapon. He could try to run, but it was safe to assume that Hector was armed. He could block any shot on Anna, but there was no chance for him to run and not get hit. But Hector had not pulled a gun; he was just standing there. Munro remembered his medical file. Paranoid, delusional, a category of psychopath as yet und
efined. Munro half smiled to himself, he had seen worse.

  He took a step forward, slowly, never once taking his eyes off of Hector. One step, he did nothing. He took another step, Hector did nothing. Munro knew his only chance was to get him in hand-to-hand. If Hector pulled a gun now it would be over. He paused, then took a third step. Still no movement. They were close now, close enough for eye contact. Munro looked into Hector’s eyes but looked away quickly. He did not want to recognise what he saw. Fear jumped up and paralysed him for a split second, but he acknowledged it and then let it pass by. His adrenalin was surging now, any fear went as quickly as it came. He took another step forward. Four meters now. He was just about to take another when Hector pulled a gun from a side holster.

  “That’s close enough Ingles,” he said.

  Munro looked at the gun. Hector held it at his side, not yet raised. It was a .25 calibre. Pearl handled. A woman’s gun, like you see tucked into a dancing girl’s suspender in westerns. Munro was four metres away. He quickly re-evaluated the situation. He estimated that Hector would probably have time to raise his hand and squeeze off two rounds before he got to him. Two .25 shells. In his body. As long as they did not hit him in the head, lungs or heart, he thought he would probably be ok. They were tiny, weak shells. You would have to be at point blank to kill.

  But Hector did not raise his gun. Instead he put it onto the bonnet of the pick-up, never once taking his eyes off of Munro.

  “You have caused me a lot of problems Ingles, a lot of problems.” He continued to stare at Munro, “and for that, I am going to kill you slowly. Kill you like the puta you are.” Hector reached into the cabin of his car. Munro was just about to jump him, catch him unawares, when Hector quickly pulled out a large machete. The sun glinted off its blade, which Munro could see was sharpened to perfection.

  “You know the machete Ingles?” said Hector raising the blade. “Campesinos use it to cut the sugar cane. We use it to cut the limbs.” Hector smiled and Munro once again noticed his eyes lit up.

  Munro took a step back to avoid being in swiping range of the large blade.

  “Hector Ortega,” he said, “I have reason to believe you were responsible for the murder of Richard Lipakos. If you put down your weapon now, and accompany me to the nearest military base, I promise not to hurt you.”

  Hector smiled wider and took a step forward, Munro took another step back.

  “You joke with me Ingles? You know what I am going to do to your gringa, after I’ve sliced you up? I am not going to kill her. No Ingles. I am not going to kill her. I am going to keep her alive for a real long time.” He reached into his pocket with his spare left hand and pulled out a bottle of liquid. “This is acid Ingles. You know what this will do to the face of a pretty gringa?” Hector smiled, an almost orgasmic look coming over his face.

  “I’m only going to warn you once Hector, put the knife down and give yourself up. Or I will hurt you.”

  Hector ignored him and took another step forward, still holding the bottle of acid in one hand and the machete in the other.

  “After I’ve burnt her gringa face away, do you know what I am going to do Ingles? I am going to take her to Tijuana. They have a special house there, a house for freak whores. A pretty gringa with no face will make a lot of money, a lot of money Ingles. People come from far away to fuck them, to beat them. A pretty gringa with no face won’t last long Ingles, she’ll die real nasty Ingles. Real nasty.” Hector put the bottle back into his jacket, and raised the machete higher, getting ready to attack.

  Munro looked at the man they called Hector. He knew he should probably take another step back, turn and run. He could probably outrun him, Hector did not look particularly healthy. Now Hector had no gun, Munro had a chance. He knew he should probably run. But he didn’t.

  Munro did not run. He would let Hector come to him. And come he did. Hector ran at Munro letting out a high-pitched yell and swinging his machete. Munro crouched to avoid the first swing, and then rolled sideways and forward. Get behind him. But Hector was fast too, and turned with Munro. Munro felt the air slice as the blade went past his head, missing him by millimetres. He got up and turned. The other side of Hector now. But Hector had turned too, and was facing him. Blade raised, ready to swing.

  “You know you really should see someone about those scars Hector,” said Munro. “It’s amazing what plastic surgeons can do these days.”

  Hector charged again, silent this time. Munro jumped to the side and Hector missed him with the first swing. Munro was thinking fast. He could keep avoiding Hector for as long as he needed. Hector was fast, but not that fast. But sooner or later, he would have to get closer to him. It was the only way. Hector swung at him again, from the side this time. Munro swerved to avoid him and in the same movement went for Hector. He went to punch him, his palm clenched and up so that he could hit with the full force of his arm. He made contact with Hector on the left side of his face, hitting him hard on his pitted skin. But not hard enough. Hector had been in the process of swinging at Munro again, and the punch was not strong enough to stop the blade’s momentum. It cut through the shirt on Munro’s shoulder and sliced through the skin and muscle, only stopping when it hit bone. Feeling the contact Munro instinctively rolled away, over the concrete and up against one of the pumps. The pain was intense. Being stabbed is by far the most immediately painful injury you can have. There is no shock to dull the initial impact pain, like there is with a gunshot wound. Just deep, searing pain. Munro was up against the diesel pump, on the other side of the pick-up and the bike. He looked up. Hector had been stunned momentarily but was now charging towards him. He knew Munro was injured. He could smell victory. Could smell death. But the look in Hector’s eyes was wild, unhinged. Munro knew that instant that he had him.

  As Hector charged, swinging the machete up for the death blow, Munro paused. Just for a beat. The timing had to be perfect. Just as Hector was swinging in to smash the machete down into his skull, Munro rolled away, fast, using the pump for extra leverage and speed. He rolled right past Hector, fast to his right. Hector’s swing was too fast, too angry. And off target. As Munro rolled away, he swung into nothing and then into the pump. His blade sliced into the top of the hose. Munro quickly jumped up, turned and round-house kicked Hector in the ribs. He made contact hard and felt several of Hector’s ribs break under his boot. Hector’s blade had cut through the diesel feeder and green liquid was squirting out like a thick sprinkler, covering Hector, who had stumbled against the pump.

  The kick knocked him further back into the pump, and Munro went for another, at his head now, lifting his right leg high and jumping round to put his entire body’s weight into the blow. His boot made contact square with Hector’s jaw, sending teeth and blood flying. Hector dropped his machete and fell to the floor. Munro jumped back and put his hand to his injured shoulder, checking for damage. The wound was deep, but no arteries had been severed. But it hurt. It hurt a lot.

  Hector staggered up, now without his machete and covered in the green diesel that was still spewing out of the pump. He looked shocked to have been bested, but only momentarily. He looked up at Munro, standing a few metres from him. Also injured, also breathing. Hector smiled and reached into his jacket, under his arm, and pulled out another pistol. A .45 automatic Munro saw. More than capable of shredding him to chum from three metres. Hector’s smile broadened to a grin as he quickly raised the pistol, to shoot.

  Suddenly Munro saw a movement behind him and heard three shots, fired in quick succession. He turned and saw Anna, holding Hector’s small pearl handled .25 tight in both hands. Munro turned back to look at Hector. Only one of the bullets had hit him, and it had grazed his left arm. Hector paused, then continued to raise his automatic. His forefinger was just squeezing the trigger when Anna fired off three more shots, this time all on target. All three shells hit Hector square in the chest, two going through the front left pocket of his jacket. Hector froze for a second and dropped his gun. He
looked down at his pocket, which was beginning to bubble and fizz. He fell down onto his knees with a winded cry, as the acid began to burn through his t-shirt and onto his skin. He desperately tried to rip off his jacket, but it was too late. The bullets had cut through his clothing and the acid followed them down to his skin, burning through it in seconds. Munro and Anna stood there in stunned silence as they watched the man they called Hector have his heart burnt out with sulphuric acid. Munro walked over to him and picked up his discarded .45.

  He aimed the automatic at Hector’s head and fired two bullets straight into his forehead. Hector fell down hard onto the garage forecourt, and Munro tossed the gun into some nearby bushes and walked up to the pick-up. The keys were in the ignition, the engine was on and he saw that it had a full tank of gas.

  “No-one deserves to die like that,” he said to Anna in response to her quizzical look, “not even him.”

  Half an hour later, Munro pulled the pick-up up at a gated part of the chain-link fence that surrounded Cancun airport. They were on the far side of the runway, a long way from the terminal buildings. The fence was twelve feet high, topped by rolls of razor wire.

  “Is this it?” asked Anna, as Munro stopped the pick-up. He looked around. The grass verges were perfectly trimmed, there were a few small light industrial buildings dotted around. They could have been in a business park.

  “This is where he told us to meet him,” replied Munro, turning off the ignition on the pick-up. His shoulder hurt like hell. Anna had applied a makeshift bandage, made out of his torn shirt. She had tied it tight to stem the bleeding, but it still burnt with pain. He wouldn’t die, but there would be a nasty scar.

  Just then they looked up to see three large black Humvees driving towards them, across the runway, fast. Their blue lights were flashing and Munro saw ‘Policia Federale’ written on their side doors. Munro and Anna looked at each other, thinking the same thing.