THE THOUSAND DOLLAR MAN: Introducing Colt Ryder - One Man, One Mission, No Rules

by J. T. Brannan

  It soon became apparent that he was on his way to the slaughterhouse, as we seemed to be travelling the reverse of the route I’d used when I’d escaped. The little torture chamber was situated in an old cattle slaughterhouse, part of an abandoned farm in the countryside outside Nuevo Laredo, just south of Quetzalcoatl International Airport.

  When I’d escaped, I’d taken one of the cars I’d found in the courtyard outside, keys still in the ignition and obviously belonging to one of the men I’d just killed. I’d driven that car back into the city, left it in a side street – unlocked and with the key still in the ignition as I’d found it – then located and stolen the Honda.

  We were headed for the airport now, travelling south along Route 85 before going west on Boulevard Aeropuerto. The traffic was busy here, and I had no trouble flitting in and out from a distance, keeping the convoy in my sights ahead of me; three big vehicles in a row might be good for protection, but it was easy to follow. But with the amount of vehicles on the road, and with the daylight fading fast, I knew I would be harder to spot.

  If I carried on along the dusty countryside roads after the convoy though, I would immediately begin to stand out; and so as we drew nearer, I refreshed my memory of the area and chose my plan accordingly.

  Sure enough, the convoy pulled off the main road before reaching the airport. I was still okay to follow for a while – the sun was almost gone now, headlights were on, and identification would be more difficult for the guys up front – but soon, I would have to change tactics. After all, I didn’t want to catch up to them and take them all on. They would all be armed with handguns at a minimum, and probably had much more in their cars – machine pistols, assault rifles, shotguns. All I had were the semi-medieval bladed weapons I’d taken from the slaughterhouse, along with a single handgun that I’d found in the waistband of one of the men I’d killed.

  The FN Five-SeveN was an effective weapon, and a favorite of the cartels due to its alleged ability to penetrate the body armor of law enforcement and military personnel. It was disputed whether that was indeed true, but it gave the pistol a reputation that the gangs wanted to have a piece of; its ‘cop killer’ moniker suited them perfectly. Its lethality was due not to having a large caliber, but the reverse. At only 5.7mm – hence the pistol’s designation – the round travelled at enormous speed, which contributed to its penetrating power. At muzzle velocities of over two thousand feet per second, the effect of the little bullet could be devastating. The size of the long, narrow rounds also had an additional benefit – a magazine capacity of twenty rounds, much more than conventional pistols.

  It was less than I would need against seven men though, and so – for the moment at least – I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and I would keep my distance. The abandoned farm was up a small dirt road that didn’t carry on any further; if Sanchez and his men wanted to leave at any point, they would have to return the same way they’d come.

  I therefore decided to pull over on the last metaled road and watched the convoy roll off into the distance. I would douse my headlights and sit tight, then follow them when they returned. Maybe they’d lead me back to Sanchez’ home, or else another cartel hideout; any intelligence I could gather would be good.

  But then, as I sat there in my car, I began to see things differently. I was on the clock now – my fingerprints had been taken, and I had no idea who they’d been fired off to. The FBI might be on their way here right now.

  There was also the fact that the cartels were also after me already, and the longer I spent south of the border, the more likely it was that I’d end up as yet another one of the headless corpses that the gangs left in their wake. And I would be damned if I was going to let that happen.

  I reassessed the situation in light of this. As it stood, my target – Miguel Ángel Sanchez – was right now in an abandoned farm at the end of a dead-end dirt track. There were six men with him, but there was no other way out for them, no ingress or egress except that single narrow road. If I could take him there, I would have the luxury of being able to interrogate him in a relatively safe environment. If I followed him home, who knew how well protected he’d be.

  I reassessed my weapon again too – it had twenty rounds, and there were only six people that I needed to put out of commission. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility.

  But then I remembered that Sanchez must have got the word about what I’d done from someone, and that someone might well still be there too. And how many someones might there be? The trouble was, I had no way of knowing. I didn’t want to turn up and be faced with an entire platoon of gun-toting sicarios.

  On the other hand, I was running out of time and – despite my years of subtle recon work – times had changed, and I was no longer the patient man I once was.

  I looked down at the FN pistol that had appeared, unbidden, in my hand, felt the knives and blades that were secured to my body, and came to a decision.

  I was going in.

  Chapter Five

  The sun was gone now, and the land was dark once again; perfect for a man like me, and for what I had to do.

  I’d left the SUV parked at the end of the dirt lane, blocking off access to the farm. It wouldn’t stop people forever, but it would certainly delay Sanchez and his men leaving, or others arriving.

  I moved swiftly across the open fields and dirty scrubland, keeping low at all times, careful never to silhouette myself. I knew where the light came from – where the moon was, where the clouds were, from which direction shone the lights of Nuevo Laredo’s urban sprawl – and I used it to my advantage, coming across the countryside at just the right angles to be invisible, a silent and unseen wraith coming to wreak havoc and mayhem on the enemy.

  I hoped.

  If Sanchez and his men were using night vision goggles, I might not be quite as invisible as I’d hoped. But there was no real reason to suspect that this was the case; Sanchez had left dinner after the call and hadn’t stopped to pick up any equipment, and I knew that the slaughterhouse didn’t have such sophisticated items.

  Besides which, I could see electric lights up ahead, and I knew that the slaughterhouse lights would be on full, car headlights also aimed around the rest of the farm. People like that didn’t like darkness any more than the next person; and Sanchez would want to have a good look at what I’d done.

  I considered that he might send out patrols to look for me, but with limited men – and at night – I didn’t think he’d make that call. He was an expert in death too, and would probably be able to tell that his men had been killed many hours before, that whoever had done it would be long gone by now.

  He had no reason to suspect that I was coming back.

  Besides which, even if there were patrols, I was confident that I would hear them before they could see me. Range with night vision goggles wasn’t great, while sound travelled a long way at night, across open terrain. And my own eyes were adjusted to the dark now, enabling me to move swiftly and surely across the arid land.

  I could hear the sounds coming from the farm already, Sanchez’ voice loud and demanding, the voices of his cohorts explanatory, pleading.

  Sanchez was pissed – five of his men had been killed, and he would have no idea who’d done it, or why; and a man like that hated not knowing.

  I was getting close now, picking through thorny bushes and gliding across red-topped soil, the illuminated buildings already in my sights.

  I slowed myself, edging forward more cautiously, all too aware that Sanchez might have sentries posted, that the light from the car headlamps was spilling out into the land around the farm, creating a network of light and shadow. I had to be careful that I monitored it properly; the last thing I wanted was to be caught at the wrong point, for my body to be illuminated or for my shadow to suddenly appear in front of Sanchez and his men.

  I came closer and closer, crawling now, low beneath the high, burnt grasses that bordered the farm, moving so slowly that my
progress was barely noticeable. I could hear the voices more loudly now, translated the Spanish immediately in my head.

  ‘He’s not going to fucking be here, you idiots!’ Sanchez shouted. ‘Those men were killed this morning! He’ll be halfway to fucking Acapulco by now!

  ‘What do we do?’ came another voice.

  ‘Now?’ Sanchez replied. ‘Now? Now we think. The police should get me ID from those prints soon, then we’ll know who this fucking guy is, then we might start to understand what the fuck is going on.’

  I was at the border now, the decrepit, broken-down fence that ran around the main yard, and I could see clearly into the brightly lit central courtyard where the cars had parked up.

  There was the Mercedes, the two Cadillacs, and another car which I recognized as belonging to the men I’d killed. In addition, there were two other vehicles, a big Ford pick-up and a Toyota sedan. Presumably, they belonged to the men who’d discovered the bodies and notified Sanchez.

  The pick-up only had a front cabin, so would have had two occupants maximum. Worst case scenario for the sedan was five, two up front and three in the back. So there were possibly seven more men in there, in addition to Sanchez and the other six. Which gave me fourteen possible enemy combatants; not favorable odds by any stretch of the imagination.

  Twenty rounds, I told myself. You’ve got twenty rounds in the FN.

  You could shoot them all and still have six left over.

  I almost laughed at that. I was good, but not that good.

  Especially as I saw the sort of hardware the men were carrying, tooled up with another cartel favorite, the AR15 assault rifle. Thirty round mags of .223 that could be emptied on full auto in just three seconds; dangerous little toys, and they all seemed to be carrying them.

  I could see Sanchez holding court, unarmed, in the center. Around him stood two of the six men he’d come with, and three others I didn’t recognize. I couldn’t see anyone else, but could hear voices echoing from the barns and outbuildings that dotted the area, and knew they must be doing a search of the farm, just in case I was holed up there. It was possible; I might have been injured, and unable to escape any further. The men who’d arrived on the scene first were probably showing the new arrivals around, pointing out how careful they’d been in their own initial search.

  Which meant that men were spread out around the area. Armed, yes; but probably unprepared.

  I could narrow down the odds here, I thought happily, and put the FN pistol back into my waistband, stalking around the fence line, the sounds of shouted Spanish from the courtyard covering my movement.

  It was time to start executing my plan.

  Chapter Six

  I took the first man quickly, stalking him from behind, matching my movement to his until I was just inches away; and then my hand went around the man’s mouth as the ice pick went up into the base of his skull, severing the spine and his entire nervous system with one firm thrust.

  I felt the body spasm and relax, and bent at my knees, lowering the already dead man silently to the floor.

  We were in a large barn, unused for years, full of junk, old farm vehicles and scrap metal. The men were using torches, and I scooped the dead man’s out of his hands and pressed onward.

  The second man was just a few feet away, completely unaware of what had just happened to his colleague. I walked toward him, torch shining directly into his face, making it impossible for him to see who was behind it.

  ‘Take that fucking torch out of my eyes, esse!’ the man said, arm reflexively covering his face; but I carried on forward, torch up until the moment I reached him, at which point I dropped the torch and stabbed the ice pick through his eyeball and straight through to the brain.

  Again, the man dropped dead instantly. I took the man’s AR15, so like the M4 that had become almost a part of me over the years, and slung it over my shoulder. I would use it, but not yet; I was in silent mode at the moment, and an assault rifle was seldom quiet.

  I went to the first man, took the magazine from his weapon and pocketed it. They didn’t have any more ammo on them, but I was happy with what I had; it was substantially more than I’d had a few moments before.

  I turned my torch off and slipped out of the barn’s broken woodwork into the night beyond, moving toward sound to my right.

  I saw a brick outbuilding and headed over that way, noting through the half broken windows how torchlight bounced around inside. The door was open, and I maneuvered myself close, sure to time it right, enter the building when the light was aimed away from the entrance.

  I chose my moment well, inside before the lone man knew I was there; and I once again matched my movement to his, pacing up behind him, my hand once again going up to secure the mouth while my ice pick did the rest of the work, although this time – due to having less light, and therefore somewhat diminished accuracy – my target was not the brain stem but the kidney.

  The result was equally effective, the man’s body convulsing with the sudden shock and white hot pain before relaxing into oblivion.

  I took the magazine out of his weapon too. Waste not, want not.

  I moved quickly out of the building, watched from the shadows as Sanchez and his two men moved toward the slaughterhouse – perhaps to have one final look before they moved out.

  That left three remaining by the cars; with three dead, and the group that had just left, there were possibly five more unaccounted for.

  I was just working through my next set of actions when I sensed movement to my right, moved just instants before the torch beam would have lit me up like a Christmas tree. But I couldn’t take the risk of it happening again and so – with the torch beam leading me – I pulled out a long, serrated knife and launched myself forward.

  I trapped down the torch hand, using the sensation of the touch as a range-finder before I unleashed the knife, whipping it across in front of me to the point where I knew the man’s throat would be.

  I was spot on – there was a slight gargle, and I felt warm, sticky blood splatter across my face. The man dropped to his knees, then rolled onto his side, dead.

  That had been lucky; I hadn’t heard the man coming, and if his torch had been a few inches over, he might well have shot me before I would have had time to react.

  I was going to have to be even more careful if I wanted to come out of this thing alive.

  Keeping out of the way of the three men in the courtyard, I worked my way over to the slaughterhouse, peered in through a grimy window.

  The lights were on, and it looked just the same as when I’d left it; no effort had been made to move the fresh bodies. And why would Sanchez bother? The men had failed him and – in his eyes at least – he owed them nothing, not even the courtesy of a decent burial.

  I saw the other four men in there too, and felt relieved – everyone had now been located. Three outside in the courtyard, Sanchez and six others in the slaughterhouse.

  I quickly weighed things up, deciding which group to take out first.

  And then, my mind made up, I moved.

  Chapter Seven

  I used the torch trick again, shining it toward the men by the car and hoping that – holding the AR15 – my silhouette would be indistinguishable from one of the cartel members.

  I walked forward with confidence, copying the cocky gait of the men I’d observed, carrying myself as if I had all the right in the world to be there.

  The men weren’t positioned perfectly, but it could have been worse. One stood at the side of the Ford pick-up, while the other two were at the front, leaning against the hood.

  The one by the side told me to turn off the fucking torch, followed by arm waving and muttered complaints from the two by the hood, but by then I was just a few feet away.

  It was a risky strategy that I was engaged in, and I would have to move fast, just about as fast as I was capable of moving – but if it paid off, it would be worth it.

  Just one foot away from the first man no
w, and I could see his suspicions were starting to be aroused, but it was too late. I dropped the torch on the floor and – human nature being what it is – he couldn’t help but watch as it fell.

  In that momentary distraction, I plunged the knife deep inside his chest, tip piercing his heart and killing him before it could beat again.

  My other blade, a Bowie-style knife, was already arcing its way through the air as the men leaning on the hood eventually reacted, and it sliced straight through the first man’s neck and dropped him to the floor even as it reversed its momentum and cut back toward the second man.

  But he was faster than his friend and managed to get his rifle up to block the shot. Fearful that if he got a shot off and alerted everyone then all hell would break loose, my free hand immediately came down, impacting hard onto the rifle and making him drop it to the dusty ground.

  I spiked in again with the knife but the man was quick and dodged the blow, reaching out to grab my wrist with a powerful, meaty hand that threatened to break my arm in two.

  In the crisscross light of the gathered headlamps, I saw that the man was about to shout out to warn his friends and I launched my head forward, butting him straight in the face to keep him quiet, his words melting away into a tiny whimper of pain.

  But still he held my arm, and he punched me hard in the gut with his other hand. He drew it back to punch me again when I remembered that I had a spare hand too – and in the space he’d provided with his pull-back, I shot the bunched fingertips of that hand up into the nerve cluster between his neck and his jaw.

  He didn’t let go of my knife arm, but he did stagger back – which gave me just enough room to reach into my waistband and pull out yet another weapon from the medieval arsenal I’d taken from the slaughterhouse.