Retribution

by Brent Towns

  Cara turned away and walked around to the back of the Tahoe. She opened the rear door, found what she wanted and closed it back up. When she reappeared, she carried a Heckler and Koch 416 carbine and three spare magazines complete with 5.56 NATO rounds. On top, it had a red dot sight. She also had a tactical vest and a bottle of water.

  Cara held the weapon out. “Here, take this.”

  Kane was impressed. “You guys in Retribution are well-armed.”

  “Being in charge of the armory has its perks. You should see the sniper rifles the county bought us.”

  He checked it over and put the vest on. He kept the Smith & Wesson and said to Cara, “I’ll be back.”

  “Try not to get yourself killed.”

  Chapter 6

  Kane

  The walk was dry and hot. The breeze though negligible, still carried a fine grit that seemed to work its way into everything. Kane didn’t mind the heat; that he could deal with. Throughout his career as a recon marine, he’d been in hotter places.

  His path to the ridge was of his own choosing. Kane had left the road not long after the three had intersected. However, he did note that the tire tracks going southward matched the ones near the house.

  Finding a dry wash, he slipped down into it and followed it for a piece before climbing out into a mess of cactus, rocks, and other brush useful for concealing his approach.

  Kane paused in the shade of a large boulder and drank some of the water Cara had supplied; by now tepid, but it was wet. He replaced the cap and checked the HK for dirt. The last thing he needed was for grit to get in and jam the weapon in the middle of a firefight.

  Sweat ran down Kane’s back between his shoulder blades and seemed to pool at the base of his spine. While having a breather, he took a few minutes to look at the ridge and plot the next stage of his course.

  Near the top stood some large saguaros and a rock formation that looked like giant, grey steps. Above the rocks were small bits of brush and a gravel-laced crest.

  There was no sign of movement or of the flashes he’d seen earlier. Kane cradled the 416 across his chest and began to move again.

  It was slow work. He had learned quite early on in the corps, that to rush could lead to death. He remembered a time in the Congo where he and his team had moved a total of five-hundred yards in a day. They’d been surrounded by Congolese Rebels and had to extricate themselves before being found. It was a slow, excruciating process but by dark, the four-man team was out of harm’s way.

  Kane was halfway up the slope when the burst of gunfire came.

  Salazar

  The gringo was good, Salazar had to give him that. Watching Kane from the moment he’d left the house, the sicario knew that if he didn’t kill this man now, he’d become a problem later.

  So, he waited.

  Salazar had been waiting ever since leaving Grissom’s. He knew that someone would come eventually and was very surprised when the woman and man had shown up as early as they did. He was even more surprised to see Kane start out on foot for the ridge.

  How the gringo knew he was there, Salazar had no idea. Once he was certain that Kane was coming for him, he hurried to his SUV and took out a Mexican made FX-05 Xiuhcoatl complete with a scope.

  Salazar then returned to his position amongst the rocks just below the crest and waited for Kane to show himself again.

  The FX-05 was tucked into the sicario’s shoulder, and he stared through the scope. Sweat ran from his brow and along the bridge of his nose. Ants were running up his legs and a fly settled on his face, but Salazar didn’t move. He sat stock still, waiting for the gringo to appear, his finger on the trigger.

  When a head appeared, Salazar fired.

  Kane

  The burst hammered into the boulder next to Kane’s head, and the impact showered him with slivers of rock. A cut appeared on his cheek, his flesh stinging as the sweat invaded the wound, mixing with blood to run down the side of his face.

  “Shit!” Kane cursed. The bastard had been waiting for him all this time; watching his approach and almost killing him with the first burst of fire.

  He ducked back behind the boulder as more 5.56 caliber slugs shattered pieces from it. He leaned out and fired his own burst from the HK in the shooter’s general direction.

  Up the slope, the sicario ducked as the snapping sound of the bullets passed close by him. He then fired another two bursts at the gringo.

  Kane had pinpointed Salazar’s position with the last burst and now traversed up the slope. He used some of the dense brush and boulders for cover but was halted when the sicario saw his movement and emptied the rest of the FX-05’s thirty round magazine into the brush where Kane had stopped.

  The bullets snapped and cracked as they scythed through the vegetation. When they erupted out the other side, they showered Kane with debris. He dropped flat onto the rocky ground, more rounds slicing through the air above him, and one buried into the earth near his right shoulder.

  “Keep moving, Reaper,” Kane muttered.

  He rolled onto his side and dropped out the magazine from the HK. He slapped another home and prepared to move.

  The gunfire came to an abrupt stop, and Kane got to his feet. He began to press forward towards the rocks where the shooter was. He kept up a steady cycle of bursts and could see the puffs of dust and rock from the bullets impacting around the would-be killer’s cover.

  The magazine ran dry, and with practiced skill, Kane dropped the empty one out and replaced it with his penultimate one.

  In the rocks above Kane, Salazar was suddenly under a superior and accurate rate of fire. Rock splinters filled the air and peppered his exposed skin. A bullet passed close enough for him to feel the heat on his face.

  The sicario rammed home a fresh magazine and commenced firing again, but this time, the FX-05 was on auto, and he sprayed the area below with careless abandon. He could see the spurts of dirt and sand leap from the ground about the advancing figure’s feet.

  Salazar burned through the fresh magazine in no time flat. He cursed under his breath and patted his pockets for another. There was none. He swore vehemently and threw the gun to the ground. Then he did something he’d never done before in his life. He turned and ran.

  Down below, Kane saw the figure leap to his feet and run up the ridge and disappeared over the top. He climbed the rest of the way at a steady pace, the 416 raised and ready, remained silent.

  When he reached the shooter’s hide, Kane found the discarded FX-05. He bent and picked up the still-warm weapon, examined it, and found it empty.

  “That’s why you ran,” he muttered.

  Kane kept on going until he crested the ridge. In the distance, he could see a black SUV bouncing over a rough trail headed south where it would intercept the road on Grissom’s land.

  Kane stared at the retreating vehicle and then down at the FX-05 in his hand. He shook his head. “Coyote my ass.”

  The Grissom Place

  Cara couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when Cleaver and the county medical examiner arrived. They had traveled together in a Chevrolet with the words ‘Medical Examiner’ on both doors.

  First out was the M.E. He was a short man with a wrinkled face. His name was Grover Cleland.

  Cleaver casually climbed out of the passenger side, carrying another HK 416 and wore a cream-colored Stetson. He reminded Cara of a gunman out of an old western movie. Strutting towards her he asked in an authoritative voice, “What have we got?”

  “Two dead inside,” Cara informed him. “Did you inform State and Border Patrol?”

  There was arrogance in his voice when he asked, “Why would I do that?”

  Cara rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe because I asked you to. Or maybe because one of the dead is the fucking sheriff! Christ, Art!”

  Cleaver grew defensive. “Fuck you! Maybe you should have told me that in the first place!”

  “Yeah, right. Just announce it over an open channel? I ask
ed you to do it, and you didn’t. Now …” Cara’s voice trailed away as she flung her arms helplessly into the air.

  “I guess that puts me in charge then, doesn’t it?” Cleaver said.

  Cara gave him a bewildered look and was about to say more when distant gunfire erupted on the ridge that Kane had left for.

  “Shit!” she cursed. “That’s all we need.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  Cara started to run for the Tahoe.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just call State and Border, Art!”

  Thirty seconds later, the Tahoe was careening over the dirt road in the direction of the gunfire.

  Kane

  Kane heard the Tahoe from a long way off. He stared towards the gravel road and saw the vehicle bounce wildly as it hit numerous holes and ruts. It hammered along, at one stage appearing almost out of control, a large plume of dust following.

  “Damn, Cara,” Kane muttered and started down the slope headed for the road.

  He was waiting for her when she pulled up at the base of the ridge. The Tahoe locked all four wheels as it skidded to a stop. The trailing cloud of dust caught up and washed over the SUV, briefly obscuring it from view. When the dust cleared, Cara was out of the vehicle with her sidearm in her hand.

  “What the hell happened?” she blurted out.

  Kane held up the FX-05. “Your Coyotes are well armed.”

  She frowned. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yep, a Mexican made FX-05.”

  “But only Mexican armed forces –”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means –”

  “Which means he wasn’t a Coyote. My guess is he was Cartel. He lit out of here in a black SUV.”

  Cara thought for a moment as she digested the information. It made sense, the brutal way the bodies were displayed. She said, “Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “For a drive.”

  “What about the crime scene?”

  “Cleaver can do it.”

  They climbed into the Tahoe and had traveled around two miles when they found something unexpected; a dry wash which had been loaded with rock and leveled to make the crossing easier.

  “Someone has been busy,” Kane pointed out.

  “For a road that is said to be almost impassable, it’s not bad. No wonder Grissom was complaining about the activity.”

  They kept driving and found another four the same. Deep channels which had been fixed and made useable. All had been filled with rock and compacted. When they topped another ridge, Cara stopped the Tahoe.

  “That’s the border down there,” she informed him.

  “What? No fence?”

  “That’s how easy it is. I’ll let the border patrol and the DEA know about it. Maybe they will be able to do something.”

  They sat in silence for about five minutes and stared at the desert before them when Cara said, “Let’s get back.”

  Kane nodded. “Yeah.”

  The Grissom Place

  “What do you mean they aren’t coming?” Cara asked in a savage tone. “You told them what the hell was going on, didn’t you?”

  Cleaver nodded. “I did. State and Border said because of where it was, to call the DEA. They said that if it has anything to do with the Montoya Cartel, which by the way you’re eluding to, that we are to stay away from it as far as possible.”

  “But they murdered Walt!”

  “Don’t you think I know that! I saw his head for Christ sakes. They said to investigate the murder, but if it leads over the border, we drop it.”

  “What about the FBI?”

  “I thought about that too. I called their Phoenix office, and I’m still waiting for the agent in charge to call me back.”

  “That’s a load of horseshit,” Cara snapped. “Walt was law enforcement. They should be falling over themselves to get down here. I’m going to try again.”

  “Leave it, Cara. I got it.”

  “The hell I will.”

  Cleaver’s voice took on a hard edge. “I said leave it. With Walt gone, I’m in charge.” He glanced at Kane. “Take Rambo here and head back to Retribution. Break the news to Walt’s wife. I’ll finish up here with Grover. I’ll log everything. Going by the crime scene, there won’t be much. Maybe a few prints.”

  “Here,” Kane said and tossed the FX-05 to him. “Get some prints from that.”

  Cleaver stood and watched them leave, wondering how the hell he was going to clean up this mess.

  He walked across to the Medical Examiner’s truck and took out a satellite phone he’d brought with him. He stared at the number pad for a few seconds and then dialed.

  Sonora

  Montoya picked up after two rings. “Yes?”

  “What the fuck did you do?”

  The cartel boss turned and stared out his large windows. “Careful my friend or I can get Salazar to turn around and complete another job.”

  “You didn’t have to kill the sheriff too.”

  “With him gone, you will be the boss, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “I still have to clean up this fucking mess your man made. Once the State Troopers and the DEA get wind of this, they’ll be crawling up my ass in no time. And then there’s the other deputy.”

  “Get rid of her.”

  “What?”

  “Get rid of the bitch. If she is a problem, then kill her. It is simple.”

  A muffled, “Christ,” came through the phone.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “That’s all I need. Another dead body in a uniform.”

  “I can send Salazar to do it if you do not have the cajones to do it.”

  “No! He’s done enough. I’ll fix it.”

  “I knew you would,” Montoya said and hung up.

  He stared out at the desert for a few moments and sighed. “Now, where was I?”

  Montoya stuffed the cell into his pocket and turned to face the bloodied form seated on the chair in front of him. “I’m sorry for the interruption, Señor Garza. It was a business matter. But I promise you shall have my full attention from now on.”

  He reached across to a table, which, like the floor, was covered in clear plastic. Atop it were various tools which Montoya was adept at using. The one he selected was a cordless drill with a large, rusted bit inserted into the chuck.

  Montoya held it in the air and squeezed the trigger. It made a high-pitched whirring sound that seemed to mesmerize the cartel boss. Then, “Oops, I almost forgot.”

  He gave his victim a mirthless smile as he grabbed up a blood-spattered apron. “My wife would be most upset if I got blood on my white suit.”

  Garza watched him with pain-filled eyes. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his nostrils flared as fear surged through him. Across his mouth was a white strip of tape to muffle the high-pitched screams.

  The chair was a timber one with high armrests. Garza’s arms were lashed to these, his right hand missing all its fingers, now a mass of bloodied stumps. His left was only shy two. So far.

  With the apron secured, Montoya took the drill back up and moved in close to the terrified man.

  “You should have taken my offer, Directorate General. It would have been so much easier,” Montoya surmised, using Garza’s Drug Division title.

  The cartel boss shrugged, and the drill began to whirr.

  Retribution

  Cara stopped the Tahoe outside the driveway of the motel for Kane to get out. He looked across at her and said, “Are you sure you want to do this on your own?”

  Cara hesitated and then nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Meet you for a drink tonight?”

  Cara shrugged. “Depends on what we’re doing, I guess. If I can, I will. I’ll probably need one.”

  “OK. If I see you, I see you.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Just yell if you need help
with anything.”

  “Sure.”

  Kane climbed out and watched her drive away. It was one task he didn’t envy her in the least.

  He didn’t worry about going back to his room. Instead, decided to call on Druce to see if he could get the job back. He walked along the street until he reached the gas station and went inside.

  He found Druce out the back in his office. The man had been beaten and lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Kane placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “Druce, can you hear me?”

  The man moaned.

  “What happened?”

  “They … came back.”

  Kane muttered a curse. “I’ll call for a paramedic.”

  “No,” he groaned and tried to sit up.

  Kane ignored him and reached for the phone on Druce’s desk. He got the operator, and within moments help was dispatched.

  “Who did it, Druce?” Kane asked.

  “Barrett …,” he moaned as a wave of pain washed over him. “It was him.”

  “Why?”

  “To teach … a lesson.”

  Kane ground his teeth with anger. “Don’t worry. He won’t get away with it.”

  Druce clutched at his arm with a feeble hand. “No law. You can’t.”

  “That suits me,” Kane hissed. “Where can I find them?”

  “N – No, he’ll kill you.”

  “Where?”

  “His gang usually hangs out most nights at Sully’s. That’s the other bar in town. If you go there, watch your back. They’re a rough crowd.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Ten minutes later the paramedics arrived to tend to Druce, swarming over him with their paraphernalia. While they began to work on him, Kane slipped out the door.

  Kane returned to his motel room, showered, and put on his last set of clean clothes. Instead of bothering to find a Laundromat, he hand-washed the dirty ones, wrung them out, and spread them about the room, draped over various pieces of furniture to dry.