Sugarman

by Vincent Vargas

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I crossed the open ground quickly, an AR-15 up to my shoulder. If I got into the shit before I entered the building, this is what I’d use to get out of it, but everything was quiet as I slipped toward the one story structure. There was a truck outside, but no signs of life, and I thought that maybe I could make a silent entry before I heard the fucking dog begin to bark.

  Forget your ten thousand dollar intruder alarms. A dog is the best system on the planet, and this one was trying to fuck up my evening. With all hopes of stealth now out the window, I pushed the AR on its sling around my back, and lifted the Mossberg.

  I was about to blast off the hinges and kick through the door when something stopped me. By starlight, through a missing sliver of wood, I’d caught the slightest of shines of light reflecting off metal; they’d reinforced the door, and the dog was still fucking barking. Fuck.

  Nothing to do but to improvise, adapt, and overcome. I looked around me, and saw something that would work.

  I ran to the truck just as I heard the first sounds of voices inside. They didn’t sound happy. For a split second I considered sitting back and hoping I could pick them off as they came out to investigate, but I needed answers more than I needed bodies. No. I needed to get into that building, and I needed to do it now.

  I tried the truck door and it came open. Struggling with my size and the kit that I had on, I pushed myself inside, and tried the obvious places for keys. No luck, but I grew up poor, angry, and lost, and the truck was old. No sweat.

  I hot-wired it, then put it into reverse, lurching back forty yards from the building. Far enough. I took one more look over the dash to check my aim, then laid down across the seats as I mashed the accelerator.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The door was reinforced but the walls weren't, and the truck hit them like JJ Watt, showering down timber and plaster as it plowed half-way through the wall before getting caught up on debris. My eyes were assaulted for a second by light, the inside of the building lit up electrically. I didn’t want to give my hosts a second to recover, and so I lifted up the Mossberg and blasted out the windshield with the breaching rounds I’d had chambered, and then I put a few rounds of buckshot into the room to keep heads down as I opened the passenger door, and pulled myself out of it onto my front.

  I didn’t get shots back, only shouts, and I heard groans. Looking down beside me I saw the reason behind those; I’d parked the truck on top of a bad guy.

  He had no weapons in his hands, and he wasn’t going anywhere, so I left him to concentrate on his friends. I stood up in time to see a wide-eyed guy coming at me with a machete. I hit him with the Mossberg from two yards away and his chest disappeared. Speed, surprise, and violence of action where my allies in this fight and so I moved as quickly as I could from the truck, past the threadbare sofas and stacked pallets which I guessed held their product. A couple of rounds snapped at me from a doorway up ahead and I dropped the Mossberg and pulled my AR into my shoulder. The guy had thought he was behind cover, but a plaster partition wall is no match even for 5.56, and I drilled several double taps through it before moving forward. That was three bad guys accounted for, and I had no idea how many could be in here; I needed at least one alive, and I couldn’t count on my buddy the valet to hang on long enough to give me answers.

  It was thinking about that, and not my room clearance, that gave the big guy behind a pallet the split second he needed to grab the end of my AR. He was a strong mother fucker and pulled the barrel down toward the floor, where his leverage would be at its strongest, and mine was at its weakest. He knew it, and the big fuckers eyes were wild with ‘fuck you’ excitement as he kept his weight on the weapon, and tried to bite my face.

  I knew that thanks to physics, he had all the advantage in our wrestling match, and so I threw in the towel, and surrendered the weapon. His hands were on the barrel, not the trigger, and by the time he’d realized I’d let go, I’d drawn my pistol, placed it to the side of his head, and blown his brains all over what he was supposed to be protecting.

  The big fuck didn’t die in vain though. He’d bought his buddies time to rally, but from the sounds of the panic, they’d decided to retreat instead. Fuck that. I followed the two of them through the partition and saw them hurriedly pulling back the metal sheeting that covered their tunnel entrance. In desperation to save their lives they’d dropped their weapons to use both hands; I had my prisoners.

  “Put your hands up!” I ordered in Spanish. “Stop moving! Hands up! Now!”

  One of them, an older guy with a leather face, did as I said immediately. The other was so panicked that he didn’t know which way to look, but when I saw his eyes go to an AK a couple of yards away. I didn’t waste any more time, and put a double-tap into his chest. The blood hit Leather Face, but he kept his hands up; a good sign.

  “Want to live?”

  “Si senor.”

  “On your knees. Hands on the back of your head.” He complied. “How many of you here?”

  “Six, senor.”

  I’d accounted for that many. Now that the ringing of my last shots had left the room, the only thing I could hear were the groans coming from my parking space. I had a choice; sweep the building inch by inch, and risk the cavalry - or worse, law enforcement - arriving, or take my chances that there could be someone hiding, and keep speed on my side.

  I choose speed.

  “Tell me everything you know about Lopez, the kidnapper.”

  “I don’t know anything about --“

  I cut him off by putting a round into his friend’s head. The guy was already dead, but there’s something about seeing a skull crack open that loosens lips.

  He talked. I listened.

  “Is there money here?” I asked him. He nodded and gestured to a crate on the far side of the room.

  I walked to the front of the man, and looked into his face. I saw terror, but did I have sympathy for that? He had chosen a life where terror and pain were the currency. I almost wanted to ask him why. Why this? Why the cartel? I couldn’t shake the feeling - the voice - telling me that this guy hadn’t grown up wanting to be a mule for a drug gang. That he had wanted more from life.

  Fuck it.

  “What did you want to be when you were a kid?” The killer in the Sugarman mask asked him, pointing a gun at his face. “When you grew up. What did you want to be?”

  He stammered an answer. This question seemed to spook him more than any other. Maybe he’d realized that my questions were over, and with them, the need to have him alive.

  “I wanted to be a race car driver.” The guy stuttered.

  I almost laughed. Not at him, but just at…

  Everything. Neither of us had grown up wanting to be in a room that now stank of blood and death.

  “I wanted to be wrestler.” I told him honestly. “You remember Hulkamania?”

  “Please don’t kill me…”

  “Lie on your front. Keep your hands behind your head.”

  “Please, sir, please don’t kill me.” He begged, but he did as I told him, and then I pressed my knee into his back.

  “I need you to take a message back to Mexico.” I said, and I felt his relief shake through his body.

  Then I felt his agony, as I cut off his fingers and thumbs.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  There was something about Leather Face that had made me not want to kill him, but I had probably killed his dream of being a race car driver by cutting off his trigger fingers and thumbs; I’d heard the French used to do it to captured archers back in the day, and it made a lot of sense. Why let someone with a grudge against you hold a weapon?

  I’d sent Leather Face into the tunnel, and then I’d helped myself to a duffel bag of cash. By the time that I’d gotten back to the truck my valet was dead, and I didn’t have to hear him scream as I backed out through the wall. I did go back to him though. Trying not to look too much at the wheel rut I’d left across his torso
, I placed a roll of money in his hand. I didn’t do it for my amusement, but because I wanted people to talk. I wanted Lopez to know that there was a psycho in a Sugarman mask out there who drove trucks over people and then tipped them like the world’s best valet. I wouldn’t want that guy coming after me, and with a guy who’s into his sick fucking torture like Lopez evidently was, then you’ve gotta get inventive to get his attention.

  I loaded the truck up with what I needed, and took a short drive. I went back and forth for the next twenty minutes, and by the time that I did it I was soaked with sweat, but I knew my message was sent.

  It was time to get the fuck out.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Tracking back to my ranch I throw in misdirections and stops to make sure I’m not being followed before placing my weapons into heavy duty trash bags and burying them in a cache in the desert. I’ve used them all, so they all have to go, at least for now.

  When I get home I strip and put my clothes in a barrel, soak them with gas, and light it up. I look at the Sugarman mask in my hands, know that I should burn it, but I can’t bring myself to throw it into the flames. I just can’t. I don’t know why. I’ve never been much of a sentimental type. Maybe that’s the point.

  Instead I put it into my fresh pants and check in on Diego. Kid’s flat out on the couch, but Netflix is still on the TV. I don’t see Piranha 3DD in the recently viewed. Instead it’s superhero after superhero. Maybe I should buy him some comics?

  I shake my head. I’m playing happy lives with the kid, but the truth is that his is fucked. I don’t even know if I’m going to make it out alive in keeping my promise to Ethan. Shit, do I even want to? Right now I’ve got a mission. I’ve got a cause. I’ve got purpose. What happens when that goes away and it’s just me, myself, and my thoughts. Maybe Ethan knew what he was doing.

  Snap out of it.

  I sit back into an arm-chair. I make sure my phone is on loud, and sitting on my chest. I close my eyes, and try to sleep before the coming shit storm breaks.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I haven’t been out for more than forty minutes before my phone begins to bark at me. My eyes feel like they’ve been glued together. I open them with the back of my hand, and look at the screen; the office.

  “Yo?”

  “Hey, Dom.” I recognize the voice of Ortega. “Sorry, were you asleep?”

  “No, no, just dozing. What’s up?”

  “I know you’re not in until tonight, but…” but I know you that don’t have a life, and you live for this shit, “remember that tunnel house we thought we might have?”

  Yes, Ortega, you could say I remember it. “Yeah. What about it?”

  “It got hit last night.”

  “Hit?”

  “Hit.”

  I do my best to sound confused. “What, like, by our guys?”

  I can almost hear the sound of awe down the phone. If there’s one thing Agent Ortega likes, it’s dead cartel. “Why don’t you come out take a look?”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “Great. I’ll text you the location. And bring me a coffee, would you?”

  “Sure, popcorn too?”

  Ortega laughs. “You’re not gonna have much of a stomach when you see this mess.”

  He hangs up, and I get to my feet.

  Time to go look at my handy work.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The scene of the crime is crawling with law enforcement, most of them with hard-ons. Some are working what’s now a murder case, but a lot have just come down here to see dead bad guys. In many ways the cartel are an invisible enemy like the ones I fought overseas, and so it gives people a nice fuzzy feeling to see one with their skull split open.

  “What the fuck happened to your truck?” Ortega asks me as I arrive.

  “Mexico.”

  He doesn’t say anything in reply. Just gives me a little smile, figuring there’s only one reason for a single guy to be crossing south.

  “Take a look at this.” He gestures to me, and I walk with him to the body of the guy I’d crushed with the truck.

  Ortega shook his head. “That’s gotta be a thousand dollars in his hand.”

  I shrug. “How many of them?”

  He gives me a guided tour of the place, all of the bodies where I left them. “Find any cameras?” I ask, knowing the cartels sometimes film their own men to keep them honest.

  “None that we’ve found.”

  We walk to the body of the big guy that had grabbed my AR. He doesn’t look any better dead than he did alive.

  Ortega turns to me. “I don’t know of anyone in El Paso who’s kicked in more doors than you, Dom. What do you make of this? How many guys to pull it off? They must have come in with the truck, right?”

  “Seems that way.” I shrug. “I don’t know, Orty. I’ve kicked in doors, sure, but I was a grunt. I wasn’t ever in on the planning, and things.”

  “But to kill five guys and not lose anyone?” He presses me.

  “How’d you know they didn’t lose anyone?”

  “Blood.” He said as if it’s obvious, but I shake my head.

  “I’ve seen bodies that didn’t leak more than a few drops. I wouldn’t rule out that they took their dead away.”

  Ortega runs a hand over his chin, then nods. “We’ll get blood samples anyway. See how many we can identify through that.”

  He doesn’t get a chance to reply before Martin puts his head in through the door, looking like an excited puppy. “You gotta come see what we found in the river!”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Martin leads Ortega, myself, and a half dozen others the short distance to the river. As we walk, the group tosses theories back and forth about who was responsible for the hit, and why.

  “It’s an inside job.” Martin says with assumed authority. “They brought in outside help.”

  But when we get to the river, Ortega shakes his head. “If it’s an inside job, then why’d he dump the coke in the river?”

  The banks are littered with dead fish.

  Martin’s smile drops.

  I’ve seen enough.

  “You’re out?” Ortega asks me as he sees me walk away.

  “Got a date.”

  He slams his fist into his palm. “I fucking knew it!” He grins. “Where’s she at?”

  I smile back.

  “Mexico.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I’d been south of the border for three hours in a rented Camry. I’d picked the shittiest thing they had on the lot to try and avoid attention, and so far it was working. The AC was about as efficient as me flapping a hand in front of my face, but I wasn’t complaining. Perspective is a powerful thing, and I knew that I could be a lot worse off.

  The proof of that was down the street a hundred yards away. It was a safe house that Leather Face had told me about before I took his trigger fingers and thumbs. A place where Lopez’s gang held their victims until ransoms were paid.

  This area was not like the slum barrio that was home to Diego’s junkie dad. This was middle class Juarez, with no one working corners, and regular police patrols. The residents pay for their protection, and I guess that includes Lopez. Without doubt he has a cartel umbrella, and that probably comes with police and politicians too. The all-inclusive scum bag package.

  Just the thought of Lucia’s kidnappers begins to bring a red mist over my eyes, and I think about pushing my thumbs into Lopez’s eyes until I feel them burst. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone more in my life, or more slowly, but I do what I can to force the feelings away. Not because they make me uncomfortable, but because I want those dreams to become a reality, and the best way to make that happen is to keep cool, and stay vigilant.

  I catch sight of movement in my rear-view and see a police car slowly crest the hill that leads to the top of the street. I see two bored faces, just cruising, and they pull to a stop about fifty yards ahead of me as I do my best to sink my big frame back into the Camry.


  The cops get out of their car and take a seat outside of the restaurant. They’re totally nonchalant, one even with his back to the road. Either they’re idiots, or this is a no-go zone. A spot that rival cartels have agreed to leave out of their turf wars so that their kids have a safe place to go to school, and their wives can get their nails done. There’s no such thing as a war without rules, no matter what people tell you, and even the biggest jefe believes in happy wife, happy life.

  The cops are sipping beers by the time the next vehicle of interest rolls down the street. Sometimes you just get a sense for things, and this one put my back up. Maybe it was the tint on the glass. Maybe it was the way it cut off a signaling car. It was a minivan driven with attitude, and when it passed by the cops, I saw the cops look at each other and say something. They knew, and they didn’t want to know, and they stood up and took their beers inside.

  It was no surprise to me then when the gates opened and the minivan pulled into the house that I had been told belonged to Lopez. On instinct I turned on the engine and pulled into the road, slowly cruising, not wanting to spook. The gates were almost closed by the time that I rolled by, but looking through them I saw enough; a gagged woman was being dragged out of the mini-van by her hair, and led inside.