by Mark Rogers
The bartender palmed the hundred and gave me an appraising look, then walked away.
I clinked bottles with Sally. “We’ve got his attention.”
“Can we get to Dylan before its dark?”
“We have to. If they learn Siete’s dead — ”
“You killed him?”
“I had to.”
Sally gave me a look like she was seeing me for the first time. “I don’t know you.”
“We haven’t known each other for a long time. Years. You did your thing, I did mine.”
Sally was still staring at me and I said, “Doing my thing didn’t include killing people. Siete is the first time I’ve crossed that line.”
I downed my beer and signaled for another.
The bartender set a cold one in front of me. I made a show of fanning five C-notes across the bar.
“Someone’s gonna get this money,” I said. “Might as well be you.”
The bartender pointed toward a corner table. “Over there.”
I picked up the money from the bar and Sally and I went over to the table. A moment later, the bartender was pulling up a seat and joining us.
He got right down to business. “What is it you’re looking for?”
“Two pistols. Automatic. Two shotguns. Lots of load.”
The bartender nodded. “That can be done. But it will cost you. More than five hundred.”
“How much?”
The Bartender did some accounting in his mind. “Two thousand.”
“You get it to me in an hour and I’ll give you three.”
Back on the road at half past four and we were only miles from Pedernales.
Sally shifted in her seat and glanced at the duffle bag in the back.
I hung a left onto a dirt road.
Sally said, “Is this the way?”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t fired a gun since I was sixteen, at my uncle’s farm.”
I pulled off to the side of the road. There were no buildings around. Not much of anything. What there was, was a dead tree, its pale branches twisting this way and that.
I hauled the duffle bag out of the back seat and laid it on the hood of the car. I took out the lighter of the two shotguns — the other was a heavy-duty Mossberg 500 — and a box of shells. Sally watched as I loaded the gun, thumbed the safety, took careful aim and blasted a huge piece out of the dead tree’s trunk.
I held the shotgun out to Sally. “Think you can do that?”
She’d been paying attention. She wasn’t quick about it, but she managed to slip in a shell, pump the gun, take aim. Her shot was wide, but it still knocked a love handle off the tree.
I withdrew the automatic pistols we’d bought. Two Brazilian Taurus, with 15 round magazines.
I handed a Taurus to Sally. “When you fire, think spraying the bullets from a hose. Pass across your target.”
“How do you know these things? Burner phones. Spraying bullets.”
“Lots of time sitting on planes reading thrillers. Go ahead.”
Sally pulled the trigger and a stream of bullets pocked across the tree.
We repeated these maneuvers with both weapons until we were able to load and fire without screwing up. We weren’t proficient. We weren’t expert. But we’d be deadly if we got first drop.
My ex-wife looked dazed as I packed up the weapons. I laid it out for her best I could. “If you go in there with me, they’re gonna try and kill you. If we want to bring Dylan home, we’ll have to kill them first. Later, we can sort it all out. But today, we’re gonna have to kill them all.”
Chapter 18
The huge sign by the side of the road, hammered together with lumber and painted plywood, proclaimed the future site of the Caribe Tropique Beach Club & Resort. A hundred yards away stood the half-finished two-story building, a concrete shell open to the elements, facing the sea. Sally and I peered out at the structure from behind a screen of thick foliage. We’d parked the Corolla a half-mile from the site, in the shade of a leafy tree, and walked in carrying the duffle bag of weapons. I flicked a red ant off my pants leg — no way did we want to stay here any longer than necessary.
“Your eyes are better than mine,” I said. “Do you see anything?”
Sally concentrated, a slight grimace on her face. “I think someone’s on the roof — I’m not sure.”
I unzipped the duffle and handed Sally an automatic pistol and the lighter of the two shotguns. I tucked the remaining pistol in my belt and took the heavy shotgun — the Mossberg 500 — for myself.
Sally was staring at her shotgun as though she’d never seen one before, even though she’d been firing one only a few minutes ago.
I said to her, “Don’t flake on me now.”
She glanced up from her shotgun. “Fuck you.”
“Take another look at the building. Tell me what you see.”
Sally peered at the hotel roof. “I can see two or three men. It looks like they’re building something.”
“There’s no way of knowing how many they have in there.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Plan?”
“Yeah,” said Sally. “We need a plan.”
“I don’t have one. We’re gonna have to play it by ear. Find Dylan and back our way out of there.”
“That’s your plan?”
“Yeah,” I said. “And don’t get shot.”
Sally gave me a pissed off stare. “That’s a fucked-up plan.”
During our marriage, I’d become used to seeing that stare if I dodged weekend chores or left the milk out. It was strange seeing it when we were on the brink of getting down and dirty with shotguns and automatic weapons.
Sally got up and took a step through the thick foliage, heading toward the hotel.
I followed, both of us crouching low. I looked at the horizon. The sun was hanging low. We probably had an hour before darkness fell.
We paused behind a bulldozer about fifty yards from the building. Both of us looked up at the roof of the hotel — at a large wooden cross.
“Do you see that?” asked Sally. “What’s that all about?
I had an answer. But I didn’t want to give it to her.
“Well?” asked Sally.”
“Leave it alone.”
“Listen, you bastard. What do you know that you’re not telling me? What did Siete tell you?”
“You want to know? You really want to know?”
“Tell me,” said Sally bringing the shotgun up to her chest and giving it a shake. Not as a threat to me, but as a signal she meant business.
“That cross is for Dylan.”
Sally waited for more, as though she couldn’t process what I was saying with so little information.
“When that hits the news,” I said, “it’s gonna be Aruba all over again. Who’s gonna come to the D.R.? A place where they crucify tourists.”
Sally pressed a hand against her forehead. “This is too unreal.”
I felt bad giving her the details but she needed to hear them. “We don’t have a choice. I got it all from Siete. They want to kill a U.S. senator’s grandson. When the D.R.’s tourism goes in the toilet from all the bad press, they’ll move in and buy up property cheap.”
“You ass,” said Sally. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”
“And have you fall to pieces?”
“I’m in one piece,” said Sally, looking grim. “I’m ready to do this.”
“Then let’s do it.”
We both set off at a trot toward the building. We hadn’t even reached the opening in the ground floor when we heard it — our son’s voice, screaming. “I didn’t do anything!”
In seconds we were inside the concrete shell and the empty first floor. Dust hung in the air and we heard Dylan scream again, “Let me go!”
I put my hand on Sally’s arm. “It’s coming from upstairs.”
We crept toward the cement stairway and paused when we heard footsteps. I don’t know what I expected
to see — most likely a thug like Siete. Instead, a lissome woman came walking down to the second-floor landing, in high heels and a clingy dress. She had her phone in her hand and was listening to music through earbuds. She looked like she’d be more comfortable on a catwalk than a construction site.
She saw us and froze for a moment, then turned and began to bolt upstairs.
Sally fired her shotgun and the woman was blown off her feet onto the first-floor landing. The blast of the gun echoed in the stairwell.
I took a step back. “Jesus… Sally.”
From above came the garbled voices of men. I heard Renaldo’s voice cry out, “Juanita!… Juanita!”
I grabbed Sally by the arm and we both fled up the stairs to the second floor. It was as empty and as unfinished as the first. I pulled Sally behind a generator that gave us a clear view of the stairwell.
Sally had her automatic pistol in her hand, breathing hard, approaching shock. She asked, “Did she… did she have a gun?”
“I don’t know — maybe.”
We heard footsteps from above. Seconds later, two Dominicans with guns appeared on the second-floor landing. When they descended another flight and they came upon the woman’s lifeless body, I heard a muffled, “Carajo…”
I said in a whisper, “They’re gonna come back. First thing they’ll do is come through here with their guns drawn. We have to let them get inside the room and then take them out.”
Sally nodded.
We heard them before we saw them, their footsteps on the stairs. They came in slow. I motioned to Sally to take out the guy on the left and I’d take the one on the right.
We leaped from cover. My bullets ripped through the guy on the right. Sally wasn’t so lucky. Her shots went high, pocking the cinderblock wall and missing her target. Maybe it didn’t matter since the remaining thug was so frightened he threw his gun down.
For a long moment we stared at him, our guns aimed at his chest.
“Please…” said the Dominican.
I gestured toward the third floor with the tip of my pistol. “How many?”
“Please.”
“How many?”
“Two more on the roof. I didn’t want to kill the boy.”
I felt everything in me tighten. “He’s dead?”
“No,” said the Dominican. “No. He’s alive.”
I gave Sally a look. She was right with me.
We fired simultaneously and the Dominican twisted and jerked in a fury of bullets.
I moved toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”
We were only steps from the stairs when a huge Dominican appeared coming down. He burst into the second floor.
Sally ducked down in a crouch —
The huge Dominican saw us and lumbered for cover behind a cement column.
My automatic pistol jammed. I tucked it in my belt and unslung the Mossberg from my shoulder and fired in a single movement. The blast from my gun took out a huge chunk of the column.
I dashed over for cover behind the generator. I saw Sally giving me a look that was impossible to read. Then she was off and running toward the stairs.
The huge Dominican got off a shot at Sally but missed. I could hear her steps on the stairs. I had to give her credit. She didn’t know how many men she’d be facing. What she knew was our son was in danger.
I heard gunfire from the stairs above.
“Sally!” I yelled.
Nothing.
The Dominican scurried away to find cover behind a second column. I fired and my heavy-duty Mossberg blasted away a huge chunk of the column, leaving the Dominican exposed on one side.
It wasn’t a game but it had all the markings of one. The Dominican took refuge behind a third column. That was it. Options over. There were no more columns for him to hide behind.
I counted my shotgun shells. Six left. Would it be enough?
I took aim from behind the generator. For some reason, a quote attributed to Michelangelo violated my mind. When Michelangelo was asked how he created his beautiful sculptures, he replied “The sculpture is already complete within the marble block before I start my work. It is already there. I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.”
BLAM! I chiseled off a piece of the column.
BLAM! Another chunk went flying.
Two more blasts and now the column was only half its original width.
BLAM! A chunk flew off. I’d created my masterpiece. There wasn’t enough column left for the Dominican to hide behind. His meaty left side was now in view.
I loaded my last shotgun shell, took careful aim, and fired.
The huge Dominican flew backward, his left side ripped open by the shotgun blast. I watched him crawl away across the floor, dragging himself forward with his right arm, inch by inch. He’d dropped his gun when he was hit.
I trotted over to him and scooped up his Glock, which I recognised from a hundred movies.
He looked over his shoulder at me. Even with his blood spilling out his eyes were on fire. “I want to live.”
“In the next world,” I said, aiming the Glock and putting a bullet behind his ear.
I left the Mossberg behind — it was useless to me without any shells. I reconnoitered the stairway to the roof and saw nothing. But I could hear plenty.
Renaldo's voice was saying, “No. You’ll have to leave. Without your son.”
“Mom!” cried Dylan. “Don’t go.”
I heard Sally say, “Don’t worry, honey. I’m not going anywhere.”
I crept upstairs as quietly as possible. When I got to the top I hid behind a sheet-metal shed on the roof of the building. I could see Sally aiming the shotgun in front of her, but her target was out of view. There was no sight of Renaldo or Dylan. I had to hope Renaldo was the only one left.
I heard Renaldo’s voice again. “Put the gun down.”
Then Sally. “Move away from my son.”
“I can’t do that.” Renaldo’s voice was as calm as though he was bullshitting me over drinks in a lobby bar.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Sally.
Renaldo laughed. “Please…”
“Give me Dylan and we’ll leave,” said Sally. “That’s all I care about.”
“Do you hear?” said Renaldo. “No more gunfire. The last shot I heard was from Tago’s Glock. That means he will be up here any second.”
I worked my way around the sheet-metal shed to get a clear view. There was Renaldo, perched on the edge of the roof using Dylan and the wooden cross as a shield. Renaldo had a pistol aimed at Dylan’s head. The Glock shook in my hand, seeing my son duct-taped to the cross. The sickness. Killing a child to drive down the price of real estate.
There was no clear shot. If there was I would have gladly emptied the Glock into Renaldo’s belly and then looked into his eyes as he died. In his last moments he’d know it was me who blew him off to God’s left hand.
Renaldo pointed toward the stairs, and said to Sally, “If Tago sees you with that shotgun, he will kill you.”
I saw Sally glance nervously toward the stairs, afraid of being blindsided.
All of Renaldo’s attention was on Sally. I was no marksman but there was no time to weigh the pros and cons of what I was going to do next. For all I knew Renaldo had a second force of men on their way.
I took careful aim with the Glock and fired.
Wood chips from the cross went flying.
Renaldo turned toward me, still using the cross and Dylan as a shield. He fired at me and a bullet caromed of the sheet-metal of the shed, only inches from my head.
I fired again and Dylan cried out in pain as my bullet nicked his ear.
Sally shouted “No!’ and took a step forward, holding the shotgun braced against her chest, ready to go after Renaldo hand-to-hand —
Renaldo took aim at Sally —
Before he could get off a shot, I fired a third time and blasted a hole in Renaldo’s chest —
Renaldo stumbled away from t
he cross.
Stepping out from behind the shed I trained my pistol on Renaldo.
He gave me a smile. “Mister Caribbean.”
“You’re dying,” I said. “Don’t waste our time.”
Sally dropped her shotgun and began ripping away at the duct tape holding Dylan to the cross. Blood dripped from Dylan’s ear. As she tugged at the tape, she said over and over, “My baby… my baby.”
Dylan, with one hand free, clutched at Sally’s shoulder.
Renaldo staggered toward the edge of the roof facing the sea. I kept my Glock trained on him the whole time.
An orange sun was sinking below the horizon line.
Renaldo stared out at the setting sun and a huge white cruise ship on the water, and said, “More tourists…”
He collapsed. If this was a movie he would have pitched over the side of the building. No such luck.
I was no expert but when I bent next to him, everything told me he was dead. And if he wasn’t, he would be soon.
A ripping sound made me turn around. I watched Sally tear off the last of the duct tape. Dylan sobbed as they embraced. She stepped back and tore the pocket off her blouse. She placed it over the bloody ear and lifted Dylan’s hand to hold the compress in place.
“Apply pressure,” said Sally. “You’re going to be all right.”
Sally said to me, “I’m sorry… leaving you down there… but…”
Truth was coming easier and easier for us both. “I would have done the same to you.”
I walked over and embraced my son. Instead of relief I felt an immense weariness.
Over Dylan’s shoulder I saw a tremor in Sally’s hand and saw her bottom lip quivering. I walked over to her. When I put my hand on her shoulder I felt her flesh jump.
She looked at me, a line of grimy sweat tracking her cheek. “I need to get home.”
“Can you make it to the car?”
“Of course.”
Dylan held the makeshift compress against the side of his head. “You shot my ear.”
I said, “Consider yourself lucky.”
“Such a lucky child,” said Sally.
I ignored her and said to them both, “You ready to walk out of here?”
“I never want to see this hellhole again,” said Sally.