“Easy, boy, easy.” The man patted him on the stomach. “I can’t understand a word you are saying.” He hummed the chorus of the song playing and nonchalantly lifted a scalpel from the tray. “You, my friend, are supposed to be protected, but I just couldn’t help myself. Believe me, it was a real pain in the ass getting you into that wheelchair. You are a pretty thick fella.”
Black flashed the sterile surgical tool in front of Leeland, causing the big man to once again pull at his bonds. “What Salazar doesn’t know won’t hurt him, but it will sure as hell hurt you. Been too long since I’ve had the privilege of having what our Mexican friends call a gringo on my table. This will be fun, trust me. We don’t have much time though.”
Leeland’s eyes spun around in wild circles as he tried to focus on what was really happening to him. With all his might, he yanked again at the unyielding restraints.
“Now, now.” Black rubbed Leeland’s bald head. “Let’s not shoot your wad all at once. Breathe slowly, and relax. You move too much, you won’t fully enjoy it,” he said, drawing the scalpel across Leeland’s quivering belly. “Too bad you won’t be getting the VIP treatment… we just don’t have the time.” Black sighed wistfully. “Oh, well.”
He set the scalpel down on the tray and picked up something that Leeland thought resembled an ice pick. “You might want to close your eyes for this.”
Leeland’s last cognizant thoughts were of a kitten he’d tortured as a kid. The wannabe wise guy had done some of the same terrible things to that cat that this man was now doing to him. Leeland had finally crushed the cat's head in with a rock to stop it from crying and to put it out of its misery. Leeland knew deep in his now bleeding gut that this man wasn’t about to extended the same mercy to him. Karma could be a heartless bitch, he thought to himself as the real pain began.
THAT’S FOR FUCKING MY SISTER
CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
The central courtyard of Camacho’s compound was filled with dancing and drinking. The small five man mariachi band, The Eagle’s Claw, played loudly and proudly on the large bandstand that was built specially for the missing Bando de Gigantico. The band’s accordion player and lead singer, Silvio, tossed his sombrero into the crowd as he yelled heartily into the microphone. The wide hat sailed into the air and crashed into some of the stringed lights that were spread out over the dancing and dining area. Some of the guest clapped gleefully as his sombrero remained suspended above the crowd, entangled in the light wires. Silvio gave a loud yip then proceeded into a fast accordion solo as the enthusiastic crowd continued to dance and party.
Domingo sat at a table with a few of the other cartel men that had been lucky enough to get the night off for the party. The table was littered with full and empty beer bottles. The cartel lieutenant took a swig from the bottle of cheap whiskey he’d been sipping on for the past hour. He wiped his mouth and set the whiskey down heavily on the table. Nacho, who’d been sitting next to him watching the action on the dance floor, jumped a little. He reached over and patted his boss on the shoulder.
“You okay, Domingo?” Nacho asked.
“No.” Domingo drummed his fingers across the wet and sticky table top. “I am tired of all this. Have you seen the American women?”
“No. Why don’t you go ask some of the party girls to dance? Look, even Dirty Sanchez is out there.” Nacho pointed the end of his beer bottle in the direction of a crowd of dancers. Domingo could see the goat lover doing some weird gyrations and turning motions while one of the girls tried to follow his weird-ass moves.
“Dancing is not want I want.” Domingo smiled widely, exposing his nasty, yellowed teeth. He grabbed up the whiskey bottle and took another drink. “Maybe I should go pay them a visit, no?”
“Why go through the hassle, hermano?” Nacho knew that Domingo was in one of his notoriously evil black moods; once the cartel lieutenant was in that mindset, all that could be done was to stay out of his way and let him work it out of his system.
“This party sucks, Nacho. I need some ass.” Domingo stood up on wobbly legs and scooped his whiskey bottle off the table. Nacho and the other men at the table all glanced at their boss with drunken concern in their eyes. “Don’t worry, putas,”—he took a quick swig from the bottle then waved his arms about—“El Jefe can’t hear me, he’s too busy dancing with his mama.”
“Domingo,” Nacho said, trying to at least keep his boss from being noticed by El Jefe and maybe fed to the tigers for his insolence. The lieutenant was about to say something else when he felt a hard grip on his shoulder. Domingo spun around ready to fight when he found himself face to chest with Salazar.
“Come with me,” Salazar said calmly. His voice was low but Domingo could hear him clearly above the music and the crowd noise.
“Si, Salazar.” Domingo dropped his hands to his sides and followed the bigger man away from the courtyard. Nacho took a sip from his beer bottle and resumed watching the excited crowd on the dance floor, happy in the knowledge that Salazar would be the one dealing with the drunken cartel lieutenant.
“Salazar, hey, I was just having some fun,” Domingo said as he followed the cartel captain into a darkened alcove away from the prying eyes of anyone in the courtyard. “You know me, esé, I get a little loud.”
“Yes.” Salazar turned around and looked down at his subordinate. “I know.”
“Just lookin’ to break off a piece of ass.” He raised the whiskey bottle up at the cartel boss. “The American chicas…”
“I don’t care about that, Domingo.” Salazar rested a big hand on his shoulder. He could feel the lieutenant relax a bit.
“What do you need, boss?” Domingo frowned.
‘‘My sister, Eddie,” he said, using his subordinate’s first name.
The cartel man had never ever heard Salazar call him by that. This was either good or very, very bad for Domingo. “You got her pregnant.”
“Salazar…” Domingo suddenly became sober and very afraid. “Sala…”
“Shh,” he said as he raised a big, calloused finger. “Just listen, Eddie. Can you do that?” Domingo bit his lip and quickly nodded in agreement. “Good.” He kept a firm hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Listen, you know how much Blanca means to me. I practically raised her.”
Domingo started to say something but he saw Salazar’s jaw start to clench and thought better of it. “Good. Now you will stay away from her. Never a word from you to anyone. I’m sure you won’t because,”—he glanced around making sure they were truly alone then whispered in his ear—“if El Jefe ever found out that the baby was not his, he’d feed your cock to the tigers, yes?” Domingo just nodded. “Excellent. No more between you and Blanca ever. Yes? Yes.” Salazar smiled tightly. “Do this and we are good, Eddie, yes?” Domingo just stared at him wide eyed. “You can answer now.”
“Yes, yes!” Domingo nodded relieved. “Of course, Salazar, I will not ever speak of or look at Blanca again.”
“One more thing.” Salazar, with his left hand still firmly on Domingo’s shoulder, pulled him forward, and quickly smashed his right fist into the other man’s jaw. The cartel lieutenant tried to jerk away from Salazar but the bigger man slammed his fist again and again into Domingo’s stomach. Salazar then shoved him backwards and onto the tiled floor. Groaning and gasping for air, Domingo struggled to get to his feet. With a steel toed ostrich skinned boot, Salazar kicked him hard in the side, causing Domingo to collapse face down on the ground. The injured man let out a small moan and rolled onto his side away from Salazar.
“That’s for fucking my sister, puto!” He spit on Domingo’s face. “If you weren’t valuable to me I would kill you myself. You should feel lucky I still need you. Go clean up and get back to the party. Throw Señora Camacho a dance. I’m sure she’s tired of El Jefe stepping all over her toes.”
APOLOGY TEXT
USS BOXER EN ROUTE TO CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
The big Sea Stallion helicopter ascended off of the crowded stern of
the carrier and into the gloomy evening sky. The ship became a tiny dot in the blue sea as the aircraft made its way toward the landing zone in Mexico. In the belly of the old Marine aircraft, Alpha and Bravo teams sat across from each other prepping for the much anticipated mission. Captain Galvan’s Alpha team sat on the right and Morgan’s Bravo team were on the left. Lieutenant Kubicek was to the right of the captain, busy texting on his smartphone. Morgan jabbed Hale in the ribs and nodded in the officer’s direction. Hale looked up from his mission phone and glanced over at Kubicek.
“Probably writing you an apology text, Morgan.”
“Yeah, followed by a dick pic.” Morgan grabbed up the smartphone from Hale. “The map program on this thing is insane.”
“I wish we had these five years ago; would have saved me this.” Hale ran a finger across the five inch scar on his right cheek just above his beard line.
“What the hell happened?”
“Lieutenant read his map wrong, walked us right into an ambush. Bad guys weren’t real happy about us finding them. Got this scar and I almost lost an eye.” He took the device back from the other sergeant. “Good times.”
“That L.T. was probably Kubicek’s older brother.” Morgan dug into his vest and pulled out his own issued smartphone. “I just bought a Chevy with a GPS in it. The system is so damn precise, I bet it could even find Duley’s daddy.”
“Good luck with that, Sergeant. Ain’t no finding a black man running from child support,” Duley said, tightly rolling up his comic book and shoving it into his pack.
“My dad was around but most of the time he was either blackout drunk or trying to score garbage pills. On top of that, I think he would only shower every other week. Consider yourself lucky.” Cross patted him on the shoulder. “I prayed for mine to run off.”
“Always told myself I’d be a better pops.” Duley pulled another comic out of his pack. “Just gotta find the right baby momma.”
“I know you’re looking hard,” Cross said, pulling her hair into a tight ponytail. “I see you holding auditions every weekend.”
“I can’t deny the ladies of the world all this,” he said, spreading his hands open in front of him like a magician displaying a grand illusion.
“I think the ladies of the world are holding on to their panties until your return,” Cross said, trying hard not to crack a smile.
“Girl, you don’t even know.”
“It’s true, Duley.” Hale pointed to his smartphone screen. “Seen it on the Fox news feed.”
“I saw it on the Armed Forces Network,” Morgan said, deadpan.
“I know you all think it’s funny but the ladies love me,” Duley said sullenly as he flipped open his comic book. “And I know all you can get on them phones is directions.”
“Wish I would have had one of these fancy map apps during my first marriage.” Morgan slapped Duley lightly on the back. “I’m not one of those stop and ask direction kinda guys, definitely would have saved her a lot of grief.” Morgan clicked on the phone and went to the app. The combat phones they carried were only programmed for maps and communicating with other team members so their battery usage would be minimal. The sergeant tapped the thin Kevlar casing with a finger and brought up a route from their LZ to the compound. “We have a two mile hike. Not bad.”
“At least it’s not straight up some fucked up hillside goat trail.” Hale snapped off his smartphone and tucked it back in his vest. “You ever been to Mexico, Morgan?”
“You mean for fun?” the sergeant asked, not looking up from his map screen.
“For anything.”
“Yeah, on my first honeymoon. Travel agent I went through totally fucked up our reservations. We had to spend the first night in this shitty motel that charged by the hour. I mean really skanky. The bathroom didn’t even have a door on it and the back window didn’t shut. Sheets and blankets were all dirty and cum stained. Hell, we stayed there about fifteen minutes and couldn’t take it anymore.” He turned off the phone and placed it in his pocket. “I went back to the front desk to get my money back. Surprisingly enough the guy didn’t argue with me but he thought my wife was a hooker. The clerk kept winking and smiling at me like he’d just caught me jerking off to his grandmother’s Sears catalogue.” Morgan chuckled. “That was some funny shit. Though, my wife didn't find the humor in it until much later.”
“That was Ginger?” Cross asked as she turned down the volume of her IPod.
“Yeah, Ginger.” Morgan smiled as he fondly remembered his first wife. “Hell, I would have quit the Army and sold rugs on the side of the road if that’s what Ginger wanted.”
“Your ex?” Hale asked.
“No, my first wife.” Morgan smiled. “She died while I was deployed to the Balkans. Staph infection. She was having her gallbladder removed. Ginger died from a simple fucking staph infection. A surgery people have every day.” Out of the corner of his eye, Morgan could see the big Air Force sergeant lean forward and start to offer his condolences. He held up a gloved hand to stop him. “It’s all good, brother, that was ten years ago.”
Over the years Morgan had tried to forget the pain of losing Ginger but he found the harder he tried, the harder the memories fought to hold on. His second marriage to Caren had just been a product of Morgan trying to run away from his grief. Morgan glanced over at Cross who was fiddling with her IPod. “What are you listening too?”
“Mötley Crüe.” She held out an ear bud to Morgan. “Shout at the Devil.”
“Perfect.” He took the cord from her and placed it in his ear. Hard and loud rock and roll assaulted his senses. “You actually like this?” Morgan asked as he listened to the music flowing from the ear bud.
“I think it’s their best album,” Cross proudly added.
“Hmm, needs more cowbell.” Morgan handed her the ear bud back. “If it’s not 70’s rock forget it.”
“You need to expand your musical horizons, Sergeant Morgan,” Cross said, taking the wire thin cable from him. “More to music than Peter Frampton and the Eagles.”
“Blasphemy, Cross.” He pulled his ball cap down over his eyes and lay back in the netting. “Will you wake me up in twenty, ya blasphemer?”
“You’re what they call a music snob, Sergeant Morgan.” Cross adjusted her gear so she could get a little more comfortable in the makeshift seat.
“Whatever that is,” Morgan said as he closed his eyes beneath his cap. “It’s not music. Sounded like hyenas fucking.
“Snob, Sergeant… music snob.”
WRIGGLE ROOM
ABOARD A CH-53 SEA STALLION
EN ROUTE TO CAMACHO’S COMPOUND
“Want a bite?” Redwood held his half-eaten Snicker's bar out to Doc Kegy. The other sergeant just stared at the remains of the candy bar and shook his head.
“Maybe you could have asked me before you opened it. You know, broke me off a piece so we’re not sharing slobber.”
“I always get the first bite. Bad things happen if I don’t.” Redwood offered the rest to Vanelli, who grabbed it up without a second thought.
“Thanks, Redwood,” Vanelli said, wasting no time in cramming the Snicker's bar into his mouth.
“Vanelli, you are a human garbage can,” Doc Kegy said as he watched the soldier devour the remains of the second-hand candy bar. “No wonder you got the squirts before we left.”
“I’m feeling better now, Doc.” Vanelli grinned. “I thought some chocolate might help to smooth things out.”
“Might smooth shit out in your pants… literally,” Doc Kegy said, finishing up scribbling a letter to his girlfriend back in Atlanta. After this mission, he’d have two weeks leave and he was dead set on spending most of it in her bed.
“Writing Christine?” Vanelli asked, still chewing on what was left of the Snicker's bar.
“Yes, thought I’d get one done before we go dark.” He tucked the note-pad into his vest pocket. “Soon as we wrap up this deal, I’m catching a plane to Atlanta and then two
weeks of pure uninterrupted wild animal sex!”
“Now you’re sounding like Duley,” Redwood yawned. “Christine know about your plans or is this one of this bow wrapped around your dick surprises?”
“Sergeant Redwood, that is a damned good idea. I’d have to get one of those big ass bows they put on cars.”
“You’re too modest, Doc.” Redwood smirked.
“Be careful if you try it, Doc,” Vanelli said as he scrounged around in his pack for a water bottle. “I tried it once. I tied the ribbon too tight and left it on while I drove a half hour to my old lady’s house.” He found his water bottle and smiled as he twisted off the cap. “Almost lost my dick. Bow cut off the circulation to it. Scariest ER visit I ever had.”
“Dipshit.” Doc Kegy chuckled.
“Maybe your dick was trying to commit suicide; hell, I mean it is attached to you.” Redwood grinned.
“Your dick only wishes it was attached to me.” Vanelli said, thinking he’d put the big Native American in his place.
“What?” Redwood frowned. “Did you just say you wanted my dick attached to you?”
“Damn, Vanelli.” Doc Kegy shook his head.
“That’s not what I meant,” Vanelli said sheepishly.
“Then what do you mean?” Redwood moved in closer to the now sputtering man.
“I meant; your dick would rather be mine than yours…” As Vanelli said it, he knew it was wrong and before Redwood could say anything, Vanelli hung his head and put his hands up in surrender. “Never mind… forget I even said anything.”
“Oh no.” Redwood smiled, grabbed Vanelli by the tactical harness, and playfully rocked him back and forth. “That one won’t be going away any time soon.”
“Nope.” Doc Kegy rubbed his hands together and smiled broadly at the red-faced Vanelli. “Not for a long time.”
Operation Zulu: Dos Page 20