by Joe Nobody
The Post’s article titled “God’s Gun” had been picked up by numerous newspapers throughout Mexico and Latin America. No one quite believed it, but the mere concept was enough to make powerful men salivate with desire. If only such a weapon existed! Whoever possessed it could rule the entire planet.
“How reliable is this source?” Vega casually asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.
“I believe what Juanita says. She is so stuffy and highbrow with her old-fashioned thinking and conservative Catholic values. She wouldn’t lie.”
The cartel man digested the statement for a bit and finally smiled slightly. He took a final sip from his glass, set his silverware in the center of his entrée, and glanced at his watch, his action disappointing the young banker. “I must be going. Thank you for making the effort to inform me of this situation. I’ll be in touch soon.”
Freddie stood with his client, his mouth trying to form a sentence of protest. “That’s… that’s it? You’re not interested?”
Vega threw a scolding, disappointed look at the younger man. “I didn’t say that. I will pass this information along and see if anyone has any interest in this resource. Until then, I suggest you have a relaxing weekend and think about how we can invest our money and not suffer the same decline of equity as this last week. Good evening.”
Fredrick stood stunned for a moment, watching his benefactor weave among the crowded matrix of dining room tables and hustling wait-staff. He was just about to leave himself when their waiter appeared beside the table. “Here is your check, sir.”
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he mumbled. “He didn’t even pick up the tab.”
Vega’s cell phone was in his hand before the valet had even pocketed the tip. As his plain, non-descript sedan pulled out of the lot, his boss picked up the call.
“You’re working late tonight,” the voice answered with a chuckle. “Or are you calling me at this hour trying to impress me with your dedication?”
“We should speak, sooner rather than later,” Vega replied, his tone sounding with both urgency and respect at the same time.
“I’m in the south right now,” the voice responded, indicating Panama City, or south of Mexico.
“This is a subject I would feel more comfortable addressing face to face,” Vega answered, letting his superior know it was a matter of importance.
“Go to the airfield first thing in the morning. My plane will be there,” came the instant response. And then the line went dead.
The Texas soil wasn’t cooperating. Hard packed, clay-thick, and seemingly kiln fired, Dusty thought it would be easier to dig a hole in concrete. Even though, it felt good to use his muscles on an honest task.
Taking a break to wipe the sweat from his brow, he judged there was an hour’s worth of daylight left. Despite the slow going, he would have enough time to finish the chore and make it back to the barn before the sun slipped below the horizon.
He was just reaching again for the digger when motion caught his eye. There was something stirring across the distant pasture, still too far away to identify with ease.
He continued to sink the post-hole, removing small amounts of dirt with each scissor-like action of the handles. Again, he glanced up, thinking he had heard the rumbling of a motor. He was right.
There, about 300 yards away, idled an ATV. The Texan’s heart raced for a moment, as the two men standing next to the vehicle appeared to be wearing uniforms. They’ve found me, he thought, preparing to make a mad scramble for his own transport and wondering if he could outrun the law enforcement officials.
But they didn’t approach. Dusty watched as one man lifted a pair of binoculars and gazed in the gunsmith’s direction. Maybe not, he decided, and continued to dig with his back toward the onlookers.
The pistol was sitting in his ATV’s seat, less than 20 feet away. When he heard their engine noise growing closer, he thought about making a dash for the weapon, but didn’t. Again, his observers stopped – this time less than a football field away.
After a few moments, Dusty chanced a glance in their direction and found them still sitting in their ride. One man was again checking him out with the binoculars. There was an odd symbol on the side of the small off-road buggy, an emblem he recognized as the Tri-Materials logo. Private security, he realized, relaxing just a bit. They’re probably making their rounds and are so bored they’ve decided to watch a man do honest labor for a while.
He was just setting the new post when he heard their motor again. This time they stopped less than twenty feet away.
Dusty looked up and nodded, mumbling a low “Good afternoon,” as the two private cops dismounted. There was no reply. After waiting a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders and continued to work on the job at hand.
Without realizing it, Dusty stepped across the fence line, the position necessary to straighten the post. The dust hadn’t even settled around his boot when a voice rang out. “That’s private property! You’re trespassing!”
Raising his head to first look at the guards and then scan down the fence line, Dusty threw them a look that clearly indicated he didn’t see the problem. Both started walking closer, their pace aggressive and with purpose.
“Please stay off of the facility’s grounds, sir, or I’ll detain you for trespassing and call the authorities,” spouted the older of the two.
Realizing immediately their intent was to intimidate him, Dusty ignored the remark and continued to work. They stopped a few feet away, their posture agitated and nervous.
“Threatening to have a man arrested for mending a fence isn’t very neighborly,” Dusty commented, never taking his eyes from his task. “I don’t think I’m hurting anything by having one foot on your side of the property line.”
He then looked up, scanning the two rent-a-cops with a critical eye. Both had pretty, crisp uniforms, complete with small patches and rank insignias. Both wore reflective sunglasses and baseball caps with logos that matched the emblem on the side of their ATV. Both wore shiny black patrolman’s belts, complete with sidearm. Both looked nervous.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s an inch or a mile, sir. My instructions are to keep all non-authorized personnel off Tri-Mat’s property. You are clearly on our side of the line.”
Dusty grunted, sorely tempted to antagonize the over-zealous man. He stopped mid-thought, realizing that any action on his part might result in the county sheriff being called… a deputy who might recognize Dusty’s face from a wanted poster.
Using a voice much more polite than what he was feeling, Dusty replied. “I think if you check the county ordinances, you’ll find that adjoining properties are allowed an easement for repairs,” he bluffed.
The statement obviously wasn’t what the two men expected, and a hushed conversation ensued while Dusty continued to work on the hole. Eventually, the older guard returned to his ATV and picked up a small radio.
It was all Dusty could do to keep from laughing as he listened to the guard call his supervisor. The response that crackled over the airwaves was even funnier. “Hold on. I’ll call the corporate attorney and see if that’s true.”
He unhooked the wagon and used the ATV to stretch the wire, all the while his audience monitoring his progress. With the final staple hammered into the new posts, Dusty set about policing up the worksite, picking up tools, and double-checking his work.
When he bent to retrieve the old posts, he noticed the odd indentations on the wood again. Glancing across at the guards’ ATV, he noticed two scuffmarks on the unit’s bumper. “No,” he whispered. “They wouldn’t go that far.”
He eyed it again, deciding it was the right height. Knocking down a neighbor’s fence is akin to declaring war, he thought. Feuds have been started over less.
Recalling the incident with Penny’s husband, Dusty decided that might just be what he had walked into – a range war of sorts. The thought caused his temper to rise, any sense of self-preservation pushed to the back
of his mind. He hefted the post and moved to the fence.
Both of the guards seemed shocked when Dusty started to climb through the wire carrying the broken post. “What are you doing?” the younger one asked, his hand moving to his sidearm.
Dusty ignored them, marching directly to their ATV. He held the post upright, matching the scarred wood exactly to the bumper on the front of the vehicle. “Well I’ll be damned,” he grumbled and then spun to face the two men, squaring his shoulders and spine.
“I’m not sure about down here in south Texas, but where I’m from, fouling another man’s fence is a serious offense,” Dusty said, his voice low and mean. “I don’t know whose idea it was, or who did it, and I don’t care. What I do want is to deliver a message. This is a dangerous game someone’s started, and I’m more than willing to play. Mike and Penny Boyce are good, peaceable folks. I’m not.”
His little speech concluded, Dusty began to trek back to the Boyce property, intentionally sidestepping the two security men. The older one reached for his sidearm.
He was too slow… and too close. With one motion, the man from West Texas snapped the end of the post into the guard’s lower arm, landing a numbing blow, and pinning the limb mid-draw. The pistol flopped to the ground. Before the antagonist could even think of reaching for the dropped weapon, the end of the post slammed into his midsection, a whoosh of air signaling it had hit its mark. The security man dropped to his knees as Dusty kicked the pistol away.
The second guard hesitated, stunned that the confrontation had spiraled into violence so quickly. Before he could react, the sharp, pointed end of the fence post was six inches from his eyes, Dusty’s scowling face and weight-forward posture clearly prepared for a strike. “Go ahead, boy,” Dusty growled. “Fill your hand with iron. I’ll break your fucking neck before the muzzle clears leather.”
The kid lifted his arms into the classic, “Don’t shoot,” position and backed away from the menacing post. “I didn’t start any shit, Mister,” he retorted with a voice a few octaves too high.
Dusty shook his head and spun, moving briskly back toward his home turf. He glanced over his shoulder twice, making sure no one was feeling frisky. He threw the post into the wagon with more force than necessary, the anger still surging through his veins.
He cast one last disgusted glance at his foes and then accelerated away from the scene. “What’s this world coming to,” he mumbled into the air rushing past. “That’s about the most piss-poor security force I’ve ever seen.”
Day Four
Vega kept a bug-out bag packed and ready for such events. In honesty, its primary justification was for a time when the authorities were gunning for him, but it had been used for regular business trips as well. Riding the elevator down to the garage from his 21st floor flat, he rehearsed his presentation to the cartel’s top man.
“Uncle” or “Tio,” as he was called in the Spanish-speaking world, was an internationally known figure. With an estimated personal worth in excess of 10 billion dollars, the head of the Gulf Cartel was ruthless, shrewd, and extremely aggressive. No one rose to the top of such a cutthroat enterprise without such qualities in abundance. Vega feared the man.
Notorious for punishing incompetence with slow, torturous death, legend had it that Tio often executed his victims personally. Vega had witnessed the results of his superior’s management style, arriving at a prescheduled meeting only to find his boss eating dinner while seated on a stack of headless bodies. It was clear from the blood-splattered shirt that Tio had wielded the nearby machete with his own hand.
Now, Vega was on his way to meet with one of the most powerful men in the world. A man whose empire traversed into numerous countries and who possessed weighty influence on every continent. He wanted his presentation to be professional, fact-based, and to the point.
As he returned to his car, Vega tried to count the number of face-to-face meetings he’d had with Tio. In the 23 years he’d been employed by the cartel, there had been less than 20 meetings. Only a handful of those had been private, between just the two of them.
Accelerating up the entrance ramp for I-10 east, he checked the time. He’d be early, the remote, private airstrip just over 90 minutes outside of Houston. Still, when Tio was involved, it was always better to err on the side of caution, allowing for the sort of unexpected delays so common in the nation’s fourth largest city.
“God’s gun,” he whispered to himself. “With such a weapon, I could rule all the cartels myself. Hell, I could rule the entire world if it is as powerful as they say.”
His mind raced with the possibilities, the adrenaline rush he experienced was as much of a surprise as his upcoming journey. No wonder the U.S. authorities are keeping their mouths shut, he pondered. If this weapon really was the cause of all of the recent destruction, they are wise to keep it under wraps. Who wouldn’t want to possess such capabilities?
He shook his head as Houston sped by the windows, even the mere thought of treachery making him nervous. Tio was rumored to have a sixth sense when it came to disloyalty. It would be unpleasant if such tales were true. Still… to hold such power….
The ride from the Panama City airport to the Hacienda Polo & Country Club passed quickly, the stocky, scar-faced driver anything but talkative. Vega wasn’t put off at all, such behavior common among the cartel’s security staff, especially Tio’s private guard.
The scenery outside the car’s windows seemed more Mediterranean in flavor than Central American. The pastel colors, rounded architecture, and palm-lined boulevards tended to remind travelers of the south of France. There was luxury here, a mixture of plantation lifestyle and tropical charm that resonated through the more affluent communities. The passenger was well aware of desperate poverty in that locale as well, but the route to the polo grounds avoided such areas.
Panama was now considered neutral territory by the cartels. Ever since Operation Just Cause, the U.S. military invasion in 1989, the local government officials weren’t bribable. During that mission, the United States had sent in over 29,000 troops to depose the former dictator, Manuel Noriega, because of the dictator’s corruption.
General Noriega had been a known associate of the Colombian cartels at the time. He woke up on December 20th of that year to find an entire Airborne regiment parachuting down on his head. Hundreds died during the ensuing fight, with one entire neighborhood burning to the ground and leaving 20,000 citizens homeless.
Ever since that day, cartel activity was unwelcome and dealt with harshly. No elected official in his right mind wanted the 82nd Airborne Division to pay a visit, and they had proven it was a short flight from Fort Bragg.
In reality, the illegal behemoths could have circumvented even the most vigilant authorities and had done so in countless nations across the globe. Tiny Panama had been spared because the competing organizations had needed what most called the “Switzerland of Central America,” a neutral territory where even the most acrimonious rivals could negotiate, relax, and even dine side by side without incident or fear of violence. It was the one covenant that all of them honored.
Still, everyone understood that the American DEA kept an eye on the comings and goings of area visitors. With their high-tech observation capabilities and practically unfettered access to Panamanian personnel, the drug lords kept a low profile while in country. Leave it to the Americans to fuck up a good party, Vega mused.
His driver entered the full parking lot of the Hacienda Country Club, circling to park inside one of the many stables that dotted the grounds. Before the vehicle had come to a complete stop, the rear passenger door opened, and Tio slipped in to take a seat beside Vega. The driver exited, leaving the Mercedes sedan running so the air conditioning could deal with the equatorial heat.
“I assume you had a pleasant journey,” the boss opened.
“Yes, sir, I did. Your jet is a remarkable machine.”
“Our time together is limited. My body-double is in the men’s room, but
even the burliest shit doesn’t take so long. If I don’t return soon, the DEA hawks will become suspect and send people to find where I’ve wandered off. Seeing us together wouldn’t be good for your career in the United States.”
Nodding, Vega got right to business, explaining quickly his recruitment of Freddie and the subsequent progression of the relationship. When he came to the part about the FBI agent and God’s gun, Tio’s gaze became intense, reminding his guest of a lion about to pounce on a herd of unaware antelope.
“So your source claims the weapon is real,” the drug lord responded. “This correlates with other information I’ve received.”
The boss then paused, clearly thinking about what he wanted to have happen next. “You’ve done well,” he finally announced. “Take an extra 200K for yourself as a bonus. Use it to reward your resource if you wish. But now, you’re through with this. You are not to associate with the type of activity that will be required from here on out. Right now, you’re clean. I want you to stay that way.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tio reached across and patted Vega on the shoulder. “Enjoy your trip back to Texas.” And then he was gone, a rush of hot, moist tropical air filling the void as he exited the vehicle.
Hank’s pickup was waiting at the truck stop when the private tour bus arrived. The driver made an announcement that all of the passengers would have 90 minutes to eat, stretch, and use the facilities.
Grace had actually been quite surprised at how nice the trip from Houston had been. Most of the passengers were elderly, retirees who wanted to travel but didn’t want the hassle or risk of driving or flying. The bus had been comfortable and quiet enough that she had actually fallen asleep.