by Brent Towns
The constant fire had been too much for the Mexican, and he jumped up and began to run as fast as he could, trying to get away.
Kane brought the HK into line with the fleeing figure and shot him in the back of the head. The hammer-blow propelled the man forward, and he went down in a tangle of arms and legs. His weapon bounced and then skidded along the alley when his lifeless fingers released it.
As the echo of the shot rolled away into the desert, Kane moved forward to check on the killer. He instinctively knew that the man was dead, but his training forced him to make sure.
He knelt beside the body and checked for a pulse. Climbing to his feet, he was about to turn around when a voice snarled, “Drop the weapon, or I’ll put a bullet in your fucking head.”
Cleaver had watched the fight unfold from across the street and cursed inwardly when he saw the plan all go to shit. The constant staccato sound of the Mexicans spraying bullets couldn’t be contained within the jail, and from outside, it sounded like fireworks at Chinese New Year.
Then he saw Kane emerge from the jail and knew it was all bad. The only hope left was that Montoya’s last man could finish the job. That too did not go well.
“Christ,” he cursed and drew his own Smith and Wesson then started across the street.
He approached the alley while Kane had his back turned. Raising the handgun, he momentarily contemplated shooting Kane from behind. Then, just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, Cara emerged from the front door.
Cleaver said, “Drop the weapon, or I’ll put a bullet in your fucking head.”
Kane turned to face the deputy but retained his grip on the HK.
Cleaver licked his lips. “Do it! Now, damn it!”
“Lower the gun, Art,” Cara told him. “He helped out with these assholes who tried to kill us.”
The deputy hesitated.
“Lower it, Art,” Cara said again.
Cleaver holstered his gun.
“Where’s your milk?” asked Kane.
“What? Oh, the store was closed.”
“Convenient.”
“I’ll go and phone the M.E. Get these fellers on ice. I’d say the DEA will want to check them over when they arrive tomorrow.”
They both noticed the change in Cleaver’s face. “What DEA agents?”
“Oh. I forgot to tell you. I called the DEA today. They’re sending agents out here. It appears that Walt’s killer was none other than Montoya’s sicario, Cesar Salazar.”
“Damn it, you should have told me.”
“I’m telling you now.”
Cara disappeared inside, and Cleaver stared at Kane. “You might as well get out of here. We can look after this mess.”
Kane’s face remained passive. “I might hang around. Montoya could have another man on this side of the border. You never know.”
Sonora
The cell rang.
“What is it?”
“Your crew screwed up. They’re all dead.”
Montoya ground his teeth together. “What happened?”
“Somehow they knew.”
“Impossible.”
“Yeah, well. I think they know about me too.”
“You were told to be careful.”
“I was, damn it.”
“Obviously not enough.”
“Forget about that. You’ll love this. There are meant to be DEA agents arriving tomorrow. Your boy left fingerprints, and they red-flagged. And you want to lecture me about being careful?”
There was a long pause.
“Another thing. I did some digging into our friend Kane, and guess what I found? He’s an ex-marine. Not just any marine though, special forces. Him and that damned woman took your men apart like they were damned children.”
More silence.
“Well? What the fuck are you going to do, Montoya? The way things are, it’s all going to turn to shit.”
“I will fix it!” Montoya snarled and hung up.
“Another problem?” Salazar asked.
Montoya glared at him, his eyes sparked with anger. He looked at his gold Rolex and then spoke to his sicario, “Señor Cleaver has outlived his usefulness. I want him dealt with.”
“Tonight?”
“Can you do it?”
Salazar looked at his own watch. “Can I use the helicopter?”
“Yes.”
“Then yes, I can do it.”
“Good.”
“What about the other problem?”
“No. Leave them for the moment. The DEA will arrive in Retribution tomorrow. They cannot touch us. However, we’ll need to shut down our operation for the time being. Tell that gringo Barrett I want my money delivered tomorrow night.”
Salazar reached into his pocket and took out a cell. He hit speed-dial one and put it up to his ear.
The Desert
The Sikorsky S-76 touched down on the gravel road to the south-west and three miles outside of Retribution. The downdraft from its rotor wash blasted dirt and grit in all directions which formed a large cloud. Salazar waited until the rotors had slowed considerably before climbing out.
Bent low, and carrying a large duffel bag, he hurried towards the beat-up Ford F-150 where Barrett was awaiting his arrival. He dropped the bag in the back and climbed into the truck before closing the door.
Now that he was clear, the pilot inside the helicopter powered up, ready for the quick hop back across the border.
The inside of the truck smelled of stale beer and sweat. Salazar wrinkled his nose then looked across at Barrett and asked him, “Do you ever bathe?”
Barrett nodded. “Sure, twice a week.”
“Maybe you need to try three.”
Barrett took offense to the remark. “Do you want to fucking walk wherever it is you’re going, Mex?”
Salazar moved with speed, and before Barrett knew what had happened, the sicario had a Five-Seven pressed against the side of his head.
“Be careful what you say, gringo.”
“OK, OK. Keep your shirt on.”
“You would do well to remember this.”
“So, what brings you this side of the border, mi amigo?” Barrett asked hurriedly.
“Cleaver.”
Barrett chuckled. “What? Oh shit. What did he do to piss off the big guy?”
Salazar remained silent.
“It had something to do with the shooting earlier, didn’t it?”
The sicario turned to stare at Barrett. “Drive.”
The helicopter was disappearing into the darkness when Barrett dropped the clutch and spun the F-150’s rear tires. The beat-up vehicle bounced over the gravel road for a mile before finding the tarmac and then turned left towards Retribution.
When they reached the outskirts of town, Barrett asked, “Do you know where he is?”
“I would say the jail.”
“That’s where I’ll take you then.”
“No. Take me somewhere high with a clear field of fire.”
Barrett thought for a moment before saying, “There’s the water tower.”
“That will do.”
Two minutes later, the Ford stopped at the base of the tower. In the headlights, Salazar could see clumps of weeds and what appeared to be wild blackberry brambles surrounding the old, disused steel-framed structure that looked as though it might collapse at any moment. But Salazar didn’t complain. He climbed out of the truck and grabbed his duffel, then put on a head-lamp and went to work.
When the rifle was fully assembled, Barrett stared at it in awe. “Whoa. Holy shit. What kind of gun is that?”
Salazar switched off the light and looked at him. “It is an L115A3.”
“A what?”
“Arctic Warfare Magnum. British-made sniper rifle.”
“Uh huh.”
Conversation over.
Salazar scooped the weapon up and walked towards the tower.
Retribution
Kane watched the M.E. drive away with the four bodies. H
e turned back towards Cara and said, “What now?”
She shrugged and looked at the gathering crowd of onlookers. “This is getting way out of control. I’m calling for extra law enforcement.”
“No!”
Cara turned to see Cleaver approaching them. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Art, we’ve got a damned war starting here.”
“The DEA will be here tomorrow, leave it up to them.”
Kane shook his head. “You’re full of shit.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, you crooked son of a bitch, that you’re on the cartel payroll and set us up to die.”
Cleaver snorted. “I know what happened to the drugs from Sully’s. You’ve been using them. Stupid asshole.”
“It’s true, Art,” Cara said. “I didn’t want to believe it but tonight proved it.”
Cleaver’s face screwed up. “Not you …”
There was an audible slap followed by a loud grunt escaping Cleaver’s lips. He buckled at the knees and sank to the ground.
“Sniper!” Kane exclaimed. “Get the hell down!”
He took cover behind Cleaver’s SUV which was parked beside the Tahoe. Cara joined him, and they helplessly scanned the dark for a shooter.
Kane gripped his HK and lowered himself back down.
“That came from a fair distance,” Cara observed.
“Where though?”
Cara shrugged.
“The shooter would need to be up high with a clear field of fire. Everything around here is too close.”
She thought for a moment. “The old water tower. It’s the only place.”
“Where is it?”
She told him.
“Give me your keys. I’m going after him.”
Cara gave them up, and Kane, keeping low, opened the driver’s door on the Tahoe. He leaned in and put the HK on the passenger seat. He was about to climb in when Cara grabbed his shoulder. “He still could be up there.”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
With swift movements, Kane climbed into the driver’s seat and engaged the key. He gave it a turn, and the engine started first go.
Once it was running, he engaged reverse and mashed his foot on the accelerator until he was far enough out onto the street then stopped and selected drive, bracing himself for the expected impact of another round to shatter the windshield.
When it didn’t happen, he slammed the pedal to the floor once again, and with a screech of tires, the Tahoe shot forward up the street. The Ford was gone by the time Kane reached the water tower. The Tahoe skidded to a halt, and he flung the door open. Taking the HK when he exited, Kane moved around the door to take cover behind the engine compartment.
No shots came, and all he could hear was the tick of the SUV’s engine. With the HK up to his shoulder, Kane drew a bead on the top of the tower and tried to see if anyone was there. He doubted it.
Still, no shots came, and Kane was about to climb back into the Tahoe when the faint thumping sound of helicopter rotors reached his ears, and he scanned the sky. Far off in the distance to the south-west, he could just make out the flash of navigation lights.
“Gotcha.”
Kane bundled himself back into the Tahoe and floored it. The back end fishtailed and gripped when he hit the blacktop again. He pointed it out of town, and the vehicle topped out at a hundred along the straight road.
Off to his two o’clock, he could see the lights of the helicopter a lot brighter now. It was much lower too, almost down to pick up the shooter.
Suddenly Kane jammed his foot on the brakes, and the Tahoe’s anti-lock braking brought it to a shuddering stop. He slammed the shift into reverse and backed up around fifty yards until he came level with the gravel road he’d overshot.
He turned to the right and once more the Tahoe was careening along at a reckless rate.
Kane seemed oblivious of the road corrugations as the vehicle rattled and shook violently, drawing ever closer to the helicopter. The navigation lights shone brightly as the helicopter began to lift from the ground, its rotors beating out a steady whop-whop-whop.
The headlights on the Tahoe picked up the back of the Ford as it disappeared behind a combination cloud of dust created by both the vehicle and the rotor blades.
The SUV slid to a stop, and Kane leaped from the cab. He brought up the HK and cut loose with a stream of bullets at the helicopter.
The Sikorsky did a one-eighty in the air, and although it took some hits from the HK, seemed untroubled and flew off into the darkness.
Kane stopped firing and cursed out loud, “Shit!”
He turned and stared in the direction the Ford had gone but saw nothing. He kicked the dirt. “Damn it.”
By noon the following day, it seemed like the sky had opened and rained law enforcement. State Troopers, FBI, ATF, all had been dispatched with the utmost haste. As suspected, Art Cleaver had never even contacted them after the death of the Retribution sheriff.
When Ferrero and Pete Traynor arrived, the town looked like a damned circus in the making; cars everywhere, news trucks with their satellites on top. The sheriff’s office had been taped off, and there was a one block exclusion zone where no one but law enforcement was allowed to tread.
“Christ, Pete, what the hell have we got here?” Ferrero growled when he saw the throng before them.
Pete Traynor was a tall man with broad shoulders and an unshaven face. Before he’d been transferred to the Washington office, he had served time across the border as an undercover agent.
That was before he’d been sold out by an agent on the cartel’s payroll. He’d been lucky to get out alive. If it hadn’t been for Ferrero going off the reservation and coming into Mexico to pull him out, he’d have died under the torturous intent of a psychotic cartel boss.
Ferrero stopped the GMC just shy of the cordon when they were approached by a state trooper. “You can’t go any further this way, sir.”
Ferrero flashed his credentials. “What’s going on?”
“There was an incident here last night.”
“What kind of incident?”
“Had some cartel action here. Four of the cartel were killed, plus a deputy.”
“Wouldn’t happen to be a female, would it?”
“No, sir. You’ll find her over at a temporary command post at a diner just around the corner.”
Ferrero gazed out the windshield at the crime scene techs who were going over the site with a fine-toothed comb.
He nodded. “All right, thanks.”
He put the GMC in drive and moved on around the corner that the trooper had indicated and parked next to an SUV with an ATF sticker on the side.
Inside the diner was a bottleneck of agents. Ferrero shook his head and stood up on a chair.
“Hey!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Who’s in charge of … all this?”
A bald man stepped forward. “I am. Forest, FBI. Who are you?”
Ferrero ignored the question. Instead, he said, “You and me, outside.”
Kane and Cara stood off to one side and watched both men leave the crowded diner, a man wearing a jacket with ATF stenciled on the back, trailing along behind.
“Is that your friend?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Ten minutes later they returned. This time it was the FBI man who stood on the chair and spoke. “Listen up. All FBI and ATF, we’re done here. State will process the crime scene and DEA is taking over everything else.”
And that was it. Done and dusted.
Once the room cleared, only Cara and Kane, along with the two DEA agents were all that remained.
Ferrero said, “What a fucking fiasco.”
He turned to Kane. “Once again, Reaper, we’re hip deep in shit, and you’re at the center of it.”
“Good to see you, Luis,” Kane greeted and held out his right hand.
The agent took it in a firm grip and patted him on the shoulder. He looked at Cara. “
You’d be Deputy Billings?”
“That’s me. Cara.”
“Call me Luis or Ferrero.”
Cara nodded.
Ferrero said, “All right, let’s get right to it. Tell me what happened last night.”
They told him about the cartel men, about how Cleaver had set them up, the sniper, and the escape in the helicopter.
“What about the drugs that are coming through here?”
“They’re being distributed by a criminal named Barrett Miller,” Cara said. “We’ve raided him time after time and come up empty. But with Art giving him information, we were up against it from the start.”
Ferrero was quiet for a moment before he said, “Just give me a few minutes. I want to make a couple of calls. I won’t be long.”
They waited patiently while Ferrero went outside and did what he had to do. Twenty minutes later he was back. He said, “Reaper, how would you like to come and work with the DEA for a few days?”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever I tell you to do.”
He glanced at Cara. “I don’t know.”
Ferrero said, “You too, Cara. I want you on this as well.”
“What about my job?”
“It now falls under the jurisdiction of the Pima County sheriff. So, you’re out of a job. If all this works out, I might even offer you a full-time position.”
Cara was stunned. “Why? You don’t know me.”
“I did some digging on you. Impressive military record. Also, read where you were mixed up in that embassy fiasco. Same one as Reaper. That’s good enough for me.”
“What are you going to do?” Kane asked.
Ferrero smiled. “You remember when we were in Columbia? What was the best way to piss off a cartel?”
“Steal its money.”
“And that’s what we’re going to do.”
“How?” Cara asked. “We don’t even know where it is.”
“Your boy Barrett. He’s selling the product, which means he has the money somewhere.”
“You want to raid his place? When?”
“No time like the present. How about tonight?”
They nodded.
“Good, we’ll do it then.”