Shot Down

  The altar itself was magnificent. A statuary of life-sized saints inhabited large alcoves with gold inlays, and lined the back wall of the altar. There was a huge circular cutout recessed into the ceiling above the altar that was painted gold and ringed with religious symbols and figures. A small white Communion rail made of stone separated the parishioners from the altar. There, in the very middle of the massive altar, sat the closed casket of Christina Escalante. A beautiful arrangement of flowers rested on top. How long had she been in there? I wondered.

  Father Alejandro Balzan introduced himself, which silenced the rumbling chit chat, and he began the memorial service. He spoke in both Spanish and English and, from the parts I understood, he rained praise upon both Christina and the Escalante family. How they had been patrons of the church for decades, how he’d seen the children grow, and how despondent he was that just a year ago, he stood in the same spot and mourned over the casket of Carlos Escalante. Boy was he in for a surprise.

  When he finished his remarks, he called Luis up to the pulpit to say a few words. Luis rose from his seat in the front row, his slick white hair visible to us all the way in the back. Before he got anywhere near the altar, two other figures popped up from the front pew on the far left, and beat him there. Enrique and Gustavo. Somehow they had snuck in without being seen.

  “Here we go,” Ingo said. “Be ready.”

  My heart pounded out of my chest and I said a little prayer. I was Jewish, but considering where we were it seemed appropriate. Gustavo shoved the elderly priest out of the way, and Enrique took his elbow and led him to his chair on the altar. The crowd gasped and mumbled, while I did my best to steel myself for what was coming.

  With a fiery look in his eyes, Gustavo commanded Luis to return to his seat. “Have a seat, Uncle. We got this.” Luis slowly, reluctantly, sat back down.

  Enrique joined his brother at the pulpit and, for the next few minutes, the two gave a mock eulogy of Christina. They spoke of how evil she was. How violent and vindictive.

  “Let’s face it,” Gustavo said, “Christina was a bitch.” Enrique laughed and the crowd gasped.

  “And wherever she is,” Enrique added, “she probably still is.” Gustavo laughed hysterically.

  They talked about how they’d been mistreated, disrespected. About everything that had been stolen from them, mainly by Christina. The two took turns roasting her, and it was obvious it had been rehearsed. The crowd began to grow restless, the chatter got louder, and it was clear the mourners were losing their patience. The twins wrapped up their speech with a declaration.

  “Our brother, Carlos, and our sister, Christina, are both gone,” Enrique began, and the brothers sloppily crossed themselves with sneers on their faces. “So it seems we will be taking over control of the family’s interests.”

  “But you know what?” Gustavo added. “Let’s just make sure…” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a gun, and began firing at the closed casket. People screamed and the church was pandemonium. They jumped up from their seats, and tripped over each other as they pushed and shoved their way toward the exits. People toppled out of pews and spilled out into the main aisles in a panic.

  Ingo and I stayed put, out of the way of the stampede that charged past us and through the double doors. I even spotted the Attorney General and my scumbag attorney hastily making their escapes, but I doubt they saw me in all the chaos.

  We stood up on our pew to see over the crowd and onto the altar. Gustavo was still laughing, and Enrique had a huge smile on his face. He walked over to the casket and flung the lid open, sending flowers flying everywhere. Gustavo was right behind him. They looked inside, fully expecting to see Christina’s bloody, bullet-ridden corpse. But the smiles left their faces when they saw what was inside.

  Nothing. It was empty.

  “Oh, shit,” I said. “She’s not in there!” I stood on my tiptoes and strained my eyes to confirm what I saw was true. It was. She wasn’t there. And that could only mean only thing.

  “She knew they’d figure it out,” Ingo said, before I could.

  I nodded.

  Shocked and enraged, Enrique and Gustavo whipped back around to face what remained of the crowd, only to find a dozen guns pointed at them. As we had planned, Luis’s men were scattered among the pews, guns up and aimed at the two brothers on the altar.

  We were twenty rows back, but it was plain to see Uncle Luis was furious.

  “You had your brother killed, and now your desecrate your sister’s funeral?!” he shouted. “You have violated the sacred rule—family before all else! And you stand before us and pretend to care about what’s best for this family?! No! Over my dead body!” He put on a good show. He knew neither Carlos nor Christina were dead, but he had to sell it.

  The twins stood quietly and listened his tirade. Enrique folded his arms, while Gustavo feigned a yawn. When Luis was done, they both smiled. Gustavo stepped forward to the front of the altar and smiled a wicked smile at his uncle. “I was kind of hoping you’d say that,” he said. He snapped his fingers and there were sudden, rapid movements above us. Fifteen to twenty rifles appeared, leaning out across the three balconies, all trained on Luis and his men.

  Ingo and I ducked down between the pews hoping not to be spotted. A moment ago, we were ready for Luis and his men to take out Enrique and Gustavo. I may have even had a smile on my face. But just like that, the tables had turned.

  “Oh man, we are so fucked,” Ingo said.

  He had always been cool and level-headed, never expressing fear or concern. Having him at my side made me feel almost invincible. Now I was terrified. I looked at him, and for the first time, I saw my fear reflected in his eyes.

  “We’re covered from an elevated position,” he went on, “we’re surrounded, outnumbered, and outgunned.”

  “They were expecting a trap,” I said, and he nodded.

  We had both brought our pistols, but we never intended to get caught up in a gunfight. Our hope was that Enrique and Gustavo would kill Christina, Luis and his men would kill Enrique and Gustavo, and we would walk away scot-free. If Luis happened to get shot in the crossfire, so be it.

  Enrique stepped forward and joined his brother. “Tell your men to lower their weapons,” he said calmly.

  “Come mierda!” Luis spat. Eat shit. I remembered that one from high school. His famous temper clouded his judgment and he reached for his gun, but his age made him too slow for his younger nephews. Gustavo raised his pistol and fired before Luis could even pull his from the holster. The bullet struck him, and he spun around from the impact, slammed against a pew, and fell hard to the ground.

  With the first shot fired and Luis hit, his men opened fire on everything that moved. Enrique and Gustavo dove for cover behind Christina’s coffin, while the shooters from above began picking off Luis’s men one by one. They returned fire, even hitting a few, but it was a lost cause. They were under attack from above, from three different directions, and they were dropping like flies.

  We had to get out of there before we were spotted. We hit the deck and crawled to the far end of our row until we reached the wall. We made a sharp U-turn, looped around behind the back row, and moved to the main entrance where we’d come in. Ready to make our escape, we jumped up and pushed on the doors. They wouldn’t budge. They weren’t locked, but felt more like they’d been barred, or chained. Who would do that?

  With gunfire echoing off every surface in the church, no one heard us banging against the doors, trying to get them open. There was nowhere to run. Every other exit would expose us to the shooters above and we’d be sitting ducks. We scurried back to our spot behind the last pew and laid low. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This is it, I thought. This is how it ends.

  Ingo and I both came to the same realization: We had no choice but to join the fight. We couldn’t just lie there, waiting for them to kill all of
Luis’s men and then come for us. We would fight our way out or die trying. In the back of my mind, I had known it would end this way, even before we left Ingo’s house this morning.

  I drew my pistol, did a quick chamber check to confirm there was a round loaded, ejected the magazine to make sure it was full, and slapped it back in. I grabbed the spare mag from my pocket and confirmed it too was full. With my heart in my throat, I looked at Ingo.

  “Make ‘em count,” he said with an encouraging nod.

  I had eleven rounds in my pistol, and another eleven in the spare mag. Ingo had fifteen in his Sig 229 and another fifteen in his extra mag. The shooters above had semi-automatic assault rifles and, most definitely, a lot more ammo.

  I was scared beyond rational thought. My heart pounded, my hands shook, and I struggled to control my breathing. Ingo looked calm, cool, and collected. He had been to war. I had been to optometry school. Somehow I was in the middle a shootout in a Catholic church, and my life depended on it.

  How the hell did I get here?

  Ingo grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes. “Remember your fundamentals. Solid grip, good sight picture, firm trigger press, and don’t forget to breathe.” He practically had to shout over the gunfire. I nodded. Breathe. Right. He gave me one last look, then gripped his pistol tightly.

  “Here we go,” he said. He raised his pistol and took aim at one of the shooters above. We had the element of surprise, but we both knew as soon as we fired, their attention would turn to us. He looked over his shoulder, gave me a nod, and I took aim. “Now!” he shouted.

  We both fired simultaneously at the shooters leaning over the balcony on our right. They had been shooting at Luis’s men, most of whom had taken cover behind or under the closest pews. Ingo hit his target and the shooter was knocked back from the impact. I missed badly. The bullet embedded in the wood of the balcony a good foot below where I was aiming. The shooter quickly realized where the shot had come from, brought his gun around in my direction, and opened fire.

  “Get down!” Ingo shouted, and tackled me to the floor. I hit the ground hard, with him on top of me, and it took me a moment to catch my breath. I winced as the wooden pews around us splintered from the gunfire. We were pinned down.

  For a brief second, the shooting stopped, and Ingo took immediate advantage. He popped up, fired two shots, and dove back down, just before bullets tore up the top of the pew behind us.

  “These fucking pistols are not gonna get the job done!” he said. “We need more firepower!”

  I was flat on my back on the cold marble floor, staring up at the underside of the rear balcony. I propped myself up on my elbows, keeping my head low. “What do you suggest?”

  He seemed to be considering our options, as if we had any, then an idea appeared on his face. What he did next I would never forget as long as I lived. Which might not have been very long. He got low, moved down the pew, and along the back wall near the door. He positioned himself on the aisle, between the two center rows, and got down onto his back. He bent his knees, put his feet against the wall, and pushed off as hard as he could. My eyes went wide as I watched him slide on his back, across the polished marble, skirt past the overhang of the balcony above, and start firing. He hit the shooter he’d been aiming for twice in the chest and the guy toppled forward over the balcony, dropping his rifle. Ingo reached up, caught the falling gun with one hand, tucked it into his chest, then rolled out of the way just as the shooter fell dead onto the marble floor. Ingo snatched the extra magazine from the shooter’s belt and ducked between pews. He crawled back around to me and, when he got there, I just gawked at him, astounded by what he’d just done.

  “Now we’re in business,” he said with a smile, oblivious to how insane that was. He ejected the magazine from the assault rifle, and checked its status. Satisfied, he slapped it back in and got up on one knee, with his head down.

  He popped up and began firing. A second later, I did too. Ingo’s skill with a rifle equaled or exceeded his skill with a pistol, and he took out two more shooters above. The deafening cracks all around and the bullets whizzing by made it almost impossible to focus. It took my whole first magazine to find my groove, but when I did, my bullet found its mark. “Yeah!” Ingo shouted, and we both took cover to reload.

  We’d drawn the attention of the shooters above, allowing a few of Luis’s remaining men to get back in the fight. They surprised the shooters above and managed to take out two more of them. Ingo and I both swapped out mags and were right back at it. He continued to make the most of his shots, striking two more of the shooters. With his cover fire shielding me, I was able to take a second longer with my shots and most of them hit their target. When my slide locked back and my gun was empty, I got down fast. I’d managed to take out three more shooters. Some quick math and we figured there were only a couple of them left.

  Enrique and Gustavo were out there. Were they still taking cover on the altar? Or did they make a run for it?

  “I’m out!” I shouted to Ingo.

  “Me too,” he said, tossing the rifle.

  Hopefully Luis’s guys would finish them off. We stayed low, and then, suddenly, the shooting stopped. Were Luis’s men all dead?

  Footsteps echoed off the marble floor in the now silent church. My ears were ringing intensely, but I could hear well enough to know they were getting closer. I peered out around the edge of the pew and saw Enrique and Gustavo walking down the aisle, both armed. I pulled my head back in and turned to Ingo.

  “They’re coming,” I said. We looked at each other and, without a word, we both knew. This was it. I would never see Sara and the boys again. I pictured the day we met. Our first date. Our wedding day. The births of our kids. Their first steps. Their first days of school. Birthdays, anniversaries, graduations. I could hear their laughs and see their smiles, and a warmth spread over me.

  I prayed Sara would run, get away. She would take Jordan and Brock and Mandy and leave the country. Christina was still out there. And Enrique and Gustavo would be really pissed after this. If something happened to Sara and the boys, everything I’d done would have been for nothing.

  The footsteps got closer. I expected Ingo to do something brave or stupid, but he just hid with me. He had accepted our fate, as I had.

  “Come on out, Doc. You and your friend.”

  Slowly, we put our hands up, peeked our heads out, and took a seat on the pew, which was now splintered and riddled with bullet holes.

  The two brothers just stood there looking at us.

  “I gotta tell ya, very impressive,” Enrique said. “You guys really held your own.” He taunted us with a mock round of applause.

  “And you,” Gustavo said, pointing at Ingo with his pistol. “That was some Die Hard type shit you pulled! I mean, wow!” He sounded almost impressed.

  “But unfortunately,” Enrique continued, “you tried to have us killed.”

  “You even had Uncle Luis in on it!” Gustavo added.

  “I guess Christina had other plans though, huh?” Enrique asked.

  “Left you high and dry, huh? I told you she was a bitch,” Gustavo said.

  “She may not be dead,” Enrique went on, “like you wanted us to believe, but at least you killed that leech, Carlos. And now we’re that much closer to taking back what belongs to us. Since you were kind enough to spring that little prick, James, from his cozy prison situation, we can finally get our money back.”

  What money was he talking about? I wondered

  Seeing as how I was about to die anyway, I decided to burst their bubbles. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but Carlos is alive.”

  “Yeah, right,” Gustavo chuckled. But Enrique did not laugh, and the look on his face changed. He knew I wasn’t lying. What did I have to gain?

  “What are you talking about?” Enrique asked.

  “It wasn’t him in t
he bank,” I said. “It was a lookalike. You can thank your Uncle Luis for that one. It was his idea.”

  Gustavo scoffed. “Luis is dead. I shot him myself,” he said, proudly.

  “Well, maybe you’re not as good a shot as you thought,” I said, “because he’s standing right behind you.”

  The twins wheeled around to find Luis, bleeding badly from his left side, pointing a gun in Gustavo’s face. He didn’t hesitate. Nor did Ingo. While Luis put a bullet in Gustavo’s head, Ingo pounced on Enrique. He tackled him to the ground and the two wrestled for the pistol tucked into his belt. Enrique got to it first, but Ingo grabbed his wrist. He slammed Enrique’s hand against the marble floor until his grip loosened and the gun fell free. It slid across the floor and stopped at my feet.

  “Shoot him!” Ingo shouted, still wrestling with Enrique.

  I bent down and picked up the gun. It was a Glock 19, and felt strange in my hand. Ingo had managed to immobilize Enrique with his face pressed against the floor, and I leveled the pistol at his head.

  “Do it!” Ingo shouted.

  My hands were shaking and sweat ran down my forehead. I’d never killed someone in cold blood before. Especially someone unarmed.

  “I... can’t…” I said, and lowered the gun.

  “Well, I can,” Luis said. He walked over to where Ingo had Enrique pinned down and, without hesitation, shot Enrique in the side of the head.

  I turned away, revolted, and tossed the Glock aside.