by Jack Slater
All of his men had been trained by the best: both the Israelis and former British special forces. They were good shots, experienced under fire—and most importantly, loyal to a fault. A trait for which they were extremely well remunerated. To what extent that loyalty relied on financial recompense was a matter for debate, and one that Reyes was disinclined to engage in. When it came to his personal security, he preferred to pay over the odds than run the risks of cheaping out.
Reyes found a faded, creased faux-leather couch in the safe house’s plain living room and settled onto it. A silver pistol was lying on a dented coffee table a few feet away, among a small forest of upturned, gleaming brass rounds and several small stacks of dollar bills and pesos. There was no television, only a faded square on the whitewashed wall indicating where one had once sat. In the corner lay several black duffel bags, which contained money, clothes, and several flavors of false documents and weapons, all ready to be grabbed at a moment’s notice.
He closed his eyes, but the moment’s respite lasted just that. A mild commotion erupted nearby, coming from the front door, causing his lids to snap open and his eyes to dart around the room in search of the source. Miguel appeared barely a second later, quietly clicking his weapon’s safety switch off and sticking to his principal like glue. The bodyguard said nothing but placed a finger over his lips to indicate they should both remain quiet.
The momentary tension deflated as Emiliano Mendoza stepped into the living room. He was wearing an oversized black denim jacket and matching jeans. Perfect for blending into the night. He opened the jacket and shrugged it off, revealing a flak jacket lying underneath a pair of shoulder holsters fastened to a harness.
“Milo,” Reyes exclaimed with relief, lengthening the first syllable in his friend’s childhood nickname so that it rhymed with me. “You made it.”
“They have Carlos,” Emiliano announced without ceremony. “Took him last night. His wife’s been shot. She’s in intensive care. Might pull through. Probably won’t.”
Reyes absorbed the information without obvious concern, though his mind was roiling. Carlos was his cousin, and though it was putting it mildly to say that they didn’t often meet eye to eye, he was family. The indignity couldn’t be allowed to stand unanswered.
And they have Jennifer.
“Sit, Milo.” He gestured tiredly. “Any information on my wife’s whereabouts?”
Emiliano shook his head and settled into an adjoining armchair, resting his dusty tan boots on the coffee table, rattling the brass on top. One of the rounds toppled over, then rolled to the edge, where it rocked from side to side and briefly threatened to plunge to the floor. “Nothing. No ransom demand. No communication. I’m sorry.”
Reyes grasped his knee and massaged the joint, digging the base of his thumb into the bone and pressing down until his eyes began to water. Carlos was one thing, but Jennifer? She wasn’t fair game. Family was off limits. That had always been the case.
“Who is behind this?” he spat. “The Federación?”
Emiliano shrugged. His face was heavily lined with exhaustion, and he rolled his neck from left to right with evident pleasure, reaching to his side to adjust the position of a pistol that was clearly digging into his ribs before he spoke. “Makes sense, no?”
“But why?” Reyes wondered aloud, mostly to himself. “What do they have to gain? The peace was prosperous for us all.”
And why now?
Emiliano didn’t answer. He pursed his lips with the look of a man who wants to say something but fears the consequences.
“Spit it out, Milo,” Reyes muttered, waving with irritation. “Whatever it is, it will only burn your throat if you keep swallowing it.”
“Miguel,” Emiliano grunted at the sicario, who was already attempting to make himself scarce. “Outside.”
He waited until the bodyguard closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone, before he spoke again. “What does your wife know?”
“Jennifer?” Reyes squinted.
“Do you have another you haven’t told me about?” Emiliano said sardonically.
“Careful, Milo,” Reyes said, his face darkening.
His friend threw his hands up in apology. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean it like that. Just a long day, that’s all.”
“A long week,” Reyes agreed, forgiveness granted immediately. “She knows nothing. Nothing important.”
“This place?”
Reyes shook his head. “I promise you, she… prefers not to look too deeply into what it is we do and where the money comes from. Perhaps in the future, but not now. She has never visited this place. Nor does she know anything about our operations. Maybe a few names, but nothing they couldn’t get from Carlos or from any of the other capos.”
“Whoever they are,” Emiliano murmured.
“We need to find out,” Reyes said, his face suddenly animated. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs in an inelegant, hunched pose. “Another week of this and there won’t be any capos left.”
“I’m trying,” Emiliano said earnestly. “They’re like ghosts. They leave nothing behind. Just bodies and empty cartridges. I’ve even had those analyzed. It’s a dead-end. Same stuff the Army uses. Could be a hundred different dealers for it.”
Reyes jumped to his feet. The fake leather covering audibly crackled as he rose from it, though he paid it no attention. He strode forward and plucked the pistol from the coffee table. He released the magazine, checked it was loaded, and slammed it back in. The weapon felt reassuringly heavy in his hand. It was a reminder of precisely how much damage man was capable of inflicting on other men.
Something Ramon Reyes was no stranger to. Hundreds of men and women had died at his direct command. Thousands more became collateral damage in fights over territory, over status, or just because they were in the way. Countless others had lost their lives to the product he pushed with indiscriminate abandon across the continent.
“Then we raise the stakes,” he spat through gritted teeth. “Start hitting back. I don’t care who, I don’t care where. We start fucking them like they are fucking us.”
Out of his peripheral vision, Reyes saw his friend stiffen, then lean forward, the wrinkles on his face creasing ever deeper.
Emiliano said, “Ramon.”
“They need to learn the consequences of going up against the Crusaders,” Reyes said, slapping his thigh excitedly. “See what happens –”
“Ramon!”
Reyes clenched his fist with unbridled irritation. “What?”
“Shut the hell up, hombre,” Emiliano said softly, head slightly cocked. His eyes were darting around the room, and he had the hungered look of a hunting dog first catching a scent.
Even with the arousal rising within him, Reyes knew better than to argue with his oldest friend. Emiliano had a nose for danger. It had saved both their lives on more than one occasion.
“You hear that?” his friend whispered, rising to his feet as his right hand searched for the butt of his pistol. He unclipped the holster but didn’t yet draw the weapon.
Reyes shook his head. He heard nothing. Sensed nothing.
Or did he?
A muffled crack echoed in the street outside. It might have been nothing more than a car driving over a drainage grate, or the closing of a metal gate. It might have been.
But judging by the look on Emiliano’s face, it was not.
“Miguel!” his lieutenant hissed.
After a hesitation of no more than a second, the sicario entered the room, concern and confusion inked on his face in equal measure. The man spoke in an outside voice. “What is it?”
Emiliano gestured him to hush. “Cameras – where are they?”
Suddenly alert, Miguel glanced around the room, unconsciously half-raising his weapon to his shoulder. Emiliano shook the sicario with impatience, and the man got the message. Miguel led them deeper into the safe house, into a room hastily converted into a security center.
It had once been a child’s bedroom, complete with a hand-drawn chart in blue crayon corresponding to a boy’s height year by year. The entries were uneven. March one year, May the next. The trend was undeniable.
On an office desk pushed against the wall were four flatscreen monitors. Each was split into quadrants that contained a distinct surveillance feed. Only fourteen of the squares were active. Two only displayed blank tiles. A sicario was sitting behind the desk, and he looked up as the three men entered the room. He blanched as he saw Reyes.
“Move,” Emiliano grunted.
The pistol now felt even heavier in Reyes’ palm than it had a few moments before. What was it that Milo had said? That they were ghosts.
No, not ghosts. Men, Reyes thought scornfully. And yet did that make things any better? Whoever was coming after his organization, they were professional killers and exceptional at their trade. His cousin was gone. Probably dead. Jennifer, too, though at least she likely still lived.
Were they now coming for him?
“What do you see?” Reyes hissed, unable to bear the silence a moment longer.
Emiliano’s gaze roved across the four monitors, settling on one camera feed in particular. It looked out over the street. He pointed at the sicario who, moments earlier, had been watching the security feeds and now had an embarrassed look on his face. “You – there’s a man in that car, right?”
The sicario nodded and mumbled an agreement.
“Radio him. Tell him to flash the lights.”
A fumble at the radio handset later, the order was carried out. All four men leaned forward and stared at the camera feeds. It was dark outside, and any flare of light would be immediately obvious in the high-resolution security feeds.
None came.
A weevil of concern squirmed down Reyes’ spine. “Again,” he said.
The sicario spoke louder into the radio, as though that would help. But no reply.
“Someone’s jamming the radios,” Emiliano said matter-of-factly. “Miguel, you’re with us. You – make sure everyone knows we are about to be attacked. Do not allow this place to fall. You understand?”
“Yes, yes,” the sicario mumbled, eyes now white with fear. He grabbed his rifle from where it was leaning against the wall and ran out of the room, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to leave.
Strangely, Reyes now felt very little fear. Perhaps it was adrenaline, or perhaps just a reminder that he hadn’t always been the boss. Once he was just like Miguel, or the sicario now running into battle.
“What’s the plan?” Miguel asked.
“Follow me,” Emiliano said without explanation.
He led the small procession down into the basement, bolting the wooden door at the top of the stairs behind them in three places. It wouldn’t repel a determined attempt at entry but might at least buy a few seconds.
Reyes remained silent. Though he had never laid eyes on it himself, he knew what this place was. As Emiliano searched for the light switch, he turned to Miguel and placed one of his meaty palms on the young man’s shoulder, pulling him forward and directly holding his gaze. He settled his bare hand on the stock of his rifle. “Are you with me, Miguel?”
“Sí, jefe.” The kid nodded. “To the end.”
He conjured a smile on to his face that he did not really feel and chuckled, “Let’s hope it doesn’t get that far. You see that door?”
A nod.
“Shoot anyone who comes through it.”
Reyes held the look long enough to be sure the kid knew exactly what he truly meant. There was to be no retreat. Not for the sicarios above.
As they spoke, Emiliano holstered his pistol and pulled a moth-eaten wool rug from the floor. A thin layer of dust and grit fell off it, choking the basement’s cool air like a coal pit. He tossed it aside and crouched down, sliding his palms slowly across the dusty concrete floor.
From outside the basement’s door came the unmistakable, clattering sound of gunfire. It was close. It had begun.
Miguel glanced anxiously over his shoulder. “Is that –?”
“Eyes on the prize, kid,” Reyes growled, voice devoid of empathy. “What’s your job?”
“To… To shoot anyone –”
“To kill anyone who comes through that door.”
Miguel’s stance widened, yet a small but undeniable tremor which had early appeared slowly but clearly began to fade. He would do his duty.
“How you getting on, Milo?”
“One second…” Emiliano murmured, then he let out a guttural grunt of satisfaction. “Got it.”
He pulled one of his pistols free, flipped it in his hand, and used the butt as a hammer, gently tapping at a barely visible indentation on the basement’s concrete floor. The concrete – really ceramic – shattered. Emiliano swept it aside and revealed a metal circle, which he yanked upward. A length of metal chain came out, attached to what was evidently a hatch hidden in the concrete.
“Give me a hand, Toro,” he said, raising his voice over the advancing rattle of gunfire above. It sounded only feet away. “Quick.”
“They’re coming!” Miguel yelled.
“Quiet!” Reyes hissed. Without pausing, he grabbed the middle of the chain. Turning to Emiliano, he said, “Ready?”
“Go!”
The two men yanked at the same moment, and with audible effort, the hatch came free, shattering a thin layer of painted plaster around the edges of the hatchway. It disintegrated into a thin gray dust. Emiliano tossed it back and jumped inside.
Miguel looked over his shoulder once more, an expression of relief lighting his face as he glimpsed a way out.
Reyes jumped into the tunnel after Emiliano. It was only a few feet tall, and so even though he was not a tall man, he found it necessary to crouch. Every few yards on the tunnel, glowing electric lamps lit the way, exposing strange shapes covered by blue tarps.
“Can I join you, jefe?” Miguel called, his voice taut as a fishing line. “They’re coming…”
Above, only barely muffled by the basement’s thick walls was the unmistakable sound of a helicopter hovering just feet over the safe house’s flat roof. Reyes imagined the dropping of rappelling lines and the thudding of boots.
Behind him, Emiliano cast one tarp free, then another. The cartel boss gripped his weapon tightly, knowing that this was a moment of truth. No matter how loyal, no matter how well trained, all men are liable to snap when their backs are placed against a wall.
“No, you fool,” Reyes hissed coldly. “Close the hatch and cover it. Do as I say.”
“Quick, Toro,” Emiliano muttered. “We have to get moving.”
“Set the charges,” Reyes replied.
“Please, jefe,” Miguel said, peering down from above, his weapon now slack in his arms. His voice was barely audible. “If I do this –”
“I won’t forget it, Miguel,” Reyes said, imbuing his tone with a practiced manipulator’s art. He focused his gaze on the sicario without blinking. “You will be richly rewarded. Now close the hatch.”
Miguel moved jerkily, with the numbed, leaden limbs of a condemned man walking to the gallows. And yet he did it. Condemned himself to death. And the hatch thudded closed above Reyes, causing a thin shower of dust to coat his hair.
Bloodlessly, Reyes bolted the hatch shut. Perhaps it was imagined, but he thought he heard a moan of despair from above as he did so.
An explosion rocked the safe house’s foundations, and Emiliano grabbed his arm a second later. “Time to go, boss.”
“It’s armed?”
Emiliano nodded.
Now exposed in the tunnel’s dim lighting were two electric mopeds. Their keys were taped to them, and Reyes ripped his set free, quickly turning the motor on. On the dash in front of him, three green electric bars gleamed. Out of five.
That was an oversight. When were they last checked?
It doesn’t matter. Not now.
Reyes led the way as the two men sped down the tunne
l, crouched low over the front of their scooters to avoid outcroppings of rock and exposed support beams in the roughly hewn tunnel. It was mostly straight but curved gently to the left, so it was necessary to apply a slight touch to the controls to avoid scraping against one of the jagged walls. The air tasted stale.
Though they were making almost thirty miles an hour in the cramped tunnel, the electric motors below them let out only a low-pitched whine which gave the scene an almost science-fiction feel.
It took less than ninety seconds to travel the full length of the tunnel, a distance that had cost six months of relentless hacking and filling in the desert soil. Reyes braked sharply as a solid wall quickly consumed his vision, and behind him Emiliano only barely avoided a collision.
Reyes winced. Not exactly the way he wanted to go. He killed the moped’s electric motor and leaned it against the wall gently, so as not to make a sound. Behind, Emiliano did the same.
The two men stood in a half-crouch, each now holding a weapon once more. They communicated with hand signals and quiet whispers as they stared up at a ladder that led either to salvation, or death…
Reyes shrugged. He was in God’s hands. “I’ll go first,” he murmured.
Emiliano shook his head vehemently. “I go.”
“Not this time, friend,” Reyes replied, grabbing a rung and pulling himself upward to forestall the argument. He paused halfway up the ladder. “You think they figured it out?”
Emiliano looked back down the tunnel. “I’m guessing any moment now.”
Both men ducked from the faraway sound of an explosion. Seconds later, as Reyes climbed the ladder with renewed fervor, a rush of cool air bathed them. It was a breaching charge, he knew. Whoever was after him had figured out the escape route. Given how professional they appeared to be, it was only a surprise they hadn’t already known.
Unless they were waiting on the other side of this hatch.
Reyes considered the prospect with equanimity. Gripping the pistol tightly in his hand, he quietly slid back the bolt. Blood rushed in his ears as he lifted it, moving in fractions of inches.