by Derek Blass
“Pot of gold here, gentlemen.”
“Who is it?” Raul asked, slightly out of breath.
“Our police chief.”
T W E N T Y-E I G H T
__________________________________________________
Tyler's hands and ankles were bound. He tested the bindings, but they were rock solid. Shaver circled around him in the small room. Tyler could see him getting more and more agitated. His face started to turn red and his breathing shortened. He was a bull of a man, with biceps the size of Tyler's thighs. He wore an army camouflage jacket and black tactical pants. This only added to the intimidation level. Tyler spent the last hour praying that he would get out of this...somehow.
“The longer your sponsor doesn't call the closer you get to hell buddy,” Shaver barked. There would be no physical overtaking of the brute. Instead, Tyler knew he had to overcome Shaver mentally—something that was possible given his frazzled state.
“You know they're coming for you, right?” Tyler hissed. Shaver stopped his pacing.
“Who the fuck is gonna come for me?”
“The Chief is barreling into their trap. He's out of his territory and pretty much alone. I'd say the odds are heavily against him and that he gets nabbed.”
“Nabbed by cops?”
“No, nabbed by the cop with the video.”
“Martinez?”
“Yes, man!” Tyler said in exasperation. He twisted his body to take some of the pressure off of his shoulder. “Listen, could you at least sit me up? I'm no threat. I'm bound, weaponless and quite honestly, outclassed by your size.” Tyler watched as Shaver considered the request. It may have been the semi-veiled compliment that compelled Shaver to sit Tyler up on a chair.
“The Chief can't give me up. This journal will ruin him more than any video ever would,” Shaver said while holding up the journal from the doctor's house.
“I agree that the journal is critical, but the remorseless end of a muzzle in your mouth tends to produce illogical actions. Plus, what if he's made a deal to give you up and to get the journal in return? That way, he stays out of jail and at most loses his job.” This possibility visibly affected Shaver. Sensing a quarried prey, Tyler added, “Having killed, you don't have that option. Shaver shot him a vicious glance and then went back to pacing around the small room, interrupting the silence every so often by pounding his fist on a wall.
“What's your suggestion then, fucking smart guy?”
“Start getting ready. Start getting ready as of ten damn minutes ago.” Tyler hesitated before he supplemented the next part, not sure if he had coaxed Shaver enough yet. “Problem is you can't set this up alone.”
Shaver let out a chortle. “Who then...you? I ain't gonna let you out of those bindings. Have you jack me from behind while I'm not expecting it? I don't think so.”
“Listen, you know you can't do this alone. You've got open land on all four sides of the house. Little tree cover. No natural obstacles. It's the middle of a god damn field.”
“Why would you give a shit to help?”
Tyler laughed this time. “Look at me. Either you kill me or I help you fight these bastards. If we win, I get to walk.” Tyler cocked his head to the side and watched Shaver mull over the proposal. “Clock's ticking.”
“I know,” Shaver answered shortly. He pulled out a combat knife from a sheath on his belt and moved behind Tyler. A shiver went up Tyler's back as the hulk stood behind him, one stroke from spilling Tyler's blood out onto his lap. He felt Shaver's warm breath wrap around his ear and the cold knife blade under his chin.
“If you try to fuck me—even if I just think you are—I'm gonna rape you with this eight-inch serrated hunting knife. You fucking got me?” Tyler moved his head affirmatively. Shaver cut the bindings off of Tyler's hands and feet.
“I've got about twelve grenades and three proximity mines. A complete arsenal of handguns, semis, fully auto rifles. Shit, I've even got a Barrett.”
“Sounds like enough for a Waterloo to me,” Tyler said as he cracked his wrists.
* * * *
Martinez stood over the cowering Chief, watching him quiver. The sounds in the home died down to intermittent sobs, people shifting in their places. The adrenaline rush and then come-down bashed his mental capability. A recurring dream that he'd had since all the proverbial shit hit the fan asserted itself in his consciousness.
He is in a room with hundreds of faceless people, all in suits, all with drinks in their hands. The room is completely and utterly silent. As he stands there, the faintest murmur begins to emerge from these people. Their bodies start to move, almost imperceptibly. At that point a knot builds in his chest and nervous spikes shoot out from his stomach. He's standing in the middle of that mass, that crowd of potentiality.
They start to move a little bit faster. Some move from faceless person to faceless person, each identifiable only by the shape of their body. Some raise their glass to drink. Some don't move at all but only stare at him. The talking gets a little bit louder, like someone is turning the volume knob up at an excruciatingly slow, but consistent, rate. Movements are increasing in speed at the same rate. His heart pounds as this beehive of faceless people thaws out and comes to thundering life around him. Eventually, the sound of people talking and clanking glasses and moving around the room is deafening. Even with his hands over his ears the sound cripples him. People move in blurs, contorting the image of their blank faces. In the end, he's balled up, fetal, and crying as the sound and movement keep increasing.
He looked down at the Chief, blinking and returning to reality—wondering how long he had been staring silently at the man. “I've had these weird dreams about a beehive of people since Shaver killed that man. Can't tell who the hell they are. It made me wonder what the hell's going on. I never used to have dreams. Every night was a blank slate. Now, this vivid-fucking-dream wakes me up in a warm bath of sweat every night. You know what I think it is?” The Chief didn't respond. Martinez didn't know it because he was locked onto the Chief, but everyone was holding their breath and looking at him, wondering if he was about to kill the Chief.
“All these pieces came together. The different treatment growing up because my last name is Mexican. The difficulty moving up in the force because of that same thing. The fact that time after fucking time people of color can be mistreated, beaten up and even killed by cops. And now this dream makes sense.
The people in the dream are those people of color—faceless, nameless, voiceless people. But those people are getting active, fighting the system, moving. Developing a voice. And that person in the middle of the room, it's not me. It's you, and every other ignorant fuck who sees what's coming up on you. The motion and the voice will overwhelm you. You are the one curled up in the middle of the room as the tide rises around you, drowned by people like me.”
Martinez knelt closer to the Chief and adjusted the bandage on his right leg. “What you gotta realize is that you can't just end us. This is slow-motion revolution. Every year the news will bring you one step closer to the new reality, a reality dominated by another face. My fucking face.”
“So what's the fucking point of this? You spics take over. You bring your black and your yellow and your women friends and you run the country into the ground because you are all a bunch of fucking idiots. Great. But, what's it got to do with me here, now?”
“Glad you asked. See this trigger?” Martinez asked while holding his gun sideways for the Chief. “Starts a reaction, doesn't it? Shaver killing the old man, a trigger. The video of Shaver killing that old man, a trigger. I'm going to show this video to the country. It will be shown and read on every local and national website, print media and television station. And then people will know their enemy.”
“Brilliant, just fucking brilliant,” the Chief said throwing his head back and laughing. “You see, this is what I'm talking about. You're going to take physical evidence and release it to the world before Shaver is prosecuted? Genius, Martinez.
You'll completely blow the case against Shaver out of the water.”
Martinez looked over at Cruz who half shrugged, half pulled his eyebrows back, implicitly agreeing with the Chief. “The trial will be the release,” Martinez said in an effort to regain his correctness.
“Whatever. My question stands—what the hell do you want from me?”
“Shaver.”
“That's it? That's all you want?”
“Yep.”
“Hell, I want him too. Let's go get him!” The Chief grinned at Martinez who was slightly confused by the ease of this.
“All right...let's go then.”
“Hold on there, brown boy. There's some negotiation involved in this. You know me.”
Martinez raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms on his chest. “Don't think you're in a position to negotiate. ”
“And neither are you if you want Shaver.”
“I could find him.”
“Sure you could, but that would take time. I'm kinda gathering you don't have much of that, seeing as you are wanting to start a revolution and all.” This jab pissed Martinez off enough that he thrust his right hand in between the Chief's legs and squeezed his balls. The Chief grimaced and his face turned bright red.
“Fuck you Martinez,” he spit out.
“Fuck me?” Rage blurred Martinez's vision and he held his gun up to the Chief's face.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Cruz screamed as he jumped up from the couch and put his hands up in Martinez' face. “This is not what we want.”
Raul stepped closer to Martinez and put a hand on his shoulder. “I know you're loco from the stress right now, but this won't help. Spending the rest of your life in a Mexican prison is no way to live.”
Martinez's vision cleared up. He lowered his gun and stepped away from the Chief. “Look,” Cruz started, “tell me what you want.”
The Chief used his shoulder to wipe perspiration from his forehead. “Just one thing Shaver has.”
“What is it?”
“That doesn't matter. One thing, very important to me and completely irrelevant to any of you. You promise I get it and you get Shaver.” Cruz looked at Raul and Martinez. Raul seemed indifferent. Martinez had turned his back to all of them.
“Fine. I promise you get what you want from Shaver. Now tell us where to find him.”
* * * *
Cruz and the rest of the convoy spent most of the trip to Shaver's place in silence. They encountered a brief issue at the border. Bringing in a cache of weapons was frowned upon. The Chief came in handy though, because he “knew” a border supervisor. Another pawn in the pocket.
One of Raul's men drove Sandra and Carmen back to Sandra's place. Martinez drove himself, Cruz, Raul and the Chief. The group had held a small memorial for Alicia before arranging to have her shipped back to the States. Another car followed them with Alfonso and three more of Raul's men. Everyone was bandaged, bruised, beat up and exhausted.
Cruz tried to sleep but couldn't. He felt raw and energized, but thin as paper. He laid his head back on the headrest and thought about what had been going on. The violence replayed in his mind with photographic vividness. Sandra's blistered face. The confrontation at the hospital. Alicia's chest exploding. The old man and his daughter begging for their lives. He shook his head, wondering if this really represented humanity—if he could call it that.
Martinez saw Cruz shake his head in the low glow of the car's instrument clusters. “What's wrong?” The question caught Cruz off guard. He had assumed he was alone in those thoughts. He looked over at Martinez and wondered if this was a conversation he could share.
“Just contemplating whether this is it. If this is what people are about.”
“Good versus evil?”
“That...but more. The violence is startling.”
Martinez shifted in his seat and grabbed a bottle of water in the center console. “I've gotten used to it.”
“I'm sure you have, but is that healthy? Isn't it insane to say you are acclimated to two innocent people being slaughtered right in front of you?”
“I didn't say I was used to the injustice or the evil of it. The violence though, the blood, guts and that look a person gets right before they are about to die. You get used to that or you can't go on. It's a fact of life for someone in my line of work.”
“That's my problem. It's a fact of life for all of us. Maybe there are varying degrees. Some people have never seen a dead person other than in a movie. But violence and death are a fact of life for everyone. Media pumps it into our veins every day. Local news is about assaults and rapes and murders. National news is about serial killers and mass shootings. International news is about civilian death counts in war and the latest number of people blown up by some self-proclaimed martyr. They used to strap bombs to men and blow up in markets. Now they strap bombs to women and detonate in mosques. Next, children in daycare. Then, chemical weapons. I'm waiting for the first dirty bomb to be set off in the States.”
“The area around the Mexican border is the same,” Raul piped in. “Except, we are in the dark ages of violence. Hand-to-hand brutality. You have reached the renaissance age in your country. You can direct a drone to attack from a ship at sea—brilliant. We will make ourselves obsolete at some point.”
“Is this my punishment?” the Chief asked. “To listen to three wetbacks ruminating about the fate of my world?”
“Your punishment hasn't begun,” Martinez answered. “And if you drop any more slurs, I'm gonna pinch one of your balls and slice it off.”
They spent the rest of the trip in silence, letting the weight of their conversation lay over them. The topography changed as they neared Shaver's house. Rangy mountains flattened to rolling hills and then to expansive plains. Evergreens became junipers and pine which gave way to sparse vegetation cover. The car's headlights illuminated a calm, desolate and beautiful nothingness in front of them.
The navigation system broke their silence.
“How far should we approach on foot?” Raul asked.
“We have no cover at all. Our lights are visible from hundreds of feet away, so I'd say we walk the last mile or so.” Martinez slowed down and let the car with Alfonso in it pull alongside. He rolled down the window and waited for Alfonso to do the same before saying, “Follow me up the road, then we'll stop and hoof it the last mile.” Alfonso nodded his head. Cruz noted a steeled look on the young man's face. It was remarkable that just a short time ago his father was sabotaging them. Now he was ready to die for their cause. Powerful emotion, that guilt thing.
The two cars kept moving up the road. Martinez left the window down and Cruz could hear the crunch of gravel under the cars' tires. Soon the crunch turned into the raspy sound of dirt passing under the cars and they stopped. The pitch-black night sky was all encompassing. A few crickets made lazy calls in the knee-high grass. Cruz gently opened the door and stepped out. Alfonso and his full car of mercenaries gathered around where Martinez was standing. Raul pulled the Chief out of the car by his collar and set him on the ground next to the back tire. Cruz stood alone for a moment, admiring the heft of darkness that created its own silence.
“We're going to split into three teams,” Cruz heard Martinez start. “Team A will be the reconnaissance team; Team B will be the diversionary team; and Team C will be the strike team. Alfonso, I want you to lead the reconnaissance team, which will be one of Raul's men, the Chief and you. Team B is going to be Raul and Cruz. Team C is me and the rest of Raul's men. Team A is going to advance up the road to Shaver's house while Teams B and C take positions on opposite sides of the house. Teams B and C will swing in wide arcs to the house so that not all of the teams can be detected at once. When recon gets fifty yards from the front of the house, I want you to get down on the ground and lay low. Team B, your primary tactic will be using flashbangs in order to disorient Shaver and whoever else he's got in there.”
“Probably Tyler,” the Chief said.
“When we hea
r your flashbangs, Team C will gain entry and attack from the other side of the house. Plain and simple,” Martinez said with a smile as he looked around at everyone. “Raul, these guys of yours speak English, right?”
“Not so much.”
“Well, the...then why the hell didn't you tell me before I went through all of that?”
“You seemed so excited.”
“Shit...I was.” While Raul translated Martinez's plan into Spanish, Cruz approached Martinez to hopefully take care of some frayed nerves.
“You know I've never done anything like this?” Cruz said scratching the back of his head. “I mean, I'm a lawyer. I yell at people and write some nasty letters, but that's about the scope of my violence.”
“You'll be fine.” Martinez grabbed one of the flashbangs and showed him how it worked. “Once you release the flashbang, it will do three things. First, cause a flash of light equal to 300,000 candlepower. Second, emit 150 decibels of sound. Third, because these ain't the bargain-basement variety, the flashbang will emit CN tear gas. The effect is a complete loss of balance and orientation.”
“Can Shaver fight these off?”
“Sure, with the right equipment—and he's been trained to counteract the various effects. But I don't necessarily care if the flashbangs actually work on him. The diversion is what I want. The few seconds those flashbangs buy will be important.” Cruz stood staring blankly at the dense piece of metal in his hand.
“What do I do after that?”
“Wait. The house would be too crowded with you and Raul in it too.”
“You'll need all the help you can get,” the Chief smugly added.
Martinez knelt down next to the Chief, his nose inches from the Chief's crimson cheek. “That's a fine suggestion. I think I'll use you as a human shield. Any more of 'em?”
“Of what?”
“Suggestions.” The Chief sat silently and turned his head away from Martinez.
“Get your gear and nuts together. Three minutes and we'll head in.” Cruz looked on as the other men moved around, clipping clips, adjusting straps, snapping weapons. He pulled his windbreaker on and leaned against Martinez's car, analyzing the cylindrical flashbang in his right hand and squeezing it a few times. Raul saw him and grinned.