Devil's Run

by Frank Hughes

  Now, with headshots my only choice, I needed precision. I brought the pistol up to eye level in the two handed isosceles grip I preferred and moved towards the door frame, muttering “front sight, front sight” like a crazy person. At the door jamb, I began incrementally leaning sideways, keeping the bulk of my body behind cover. The lead shooter was now ten feet away, the barrel of his submachine gun pointed right at me. I made the front sight blade clear and sharp on the dark blur of his head and squeezed the trigger.

  I didn’t hear the report of the pistol, but I clearly heard the clang of the slide and tinkle of the ejected shell. Blood spurted in a little arc from the center of his forehead. He collapsed in a heap. As he fell, I fired two rounds at the man behind him, who staggered back, but did not fall. I pulled back into the shadows, cursing, knowing at least one round had hit his weapon, not him. I’d focused on the danger, the gun, and not the man.

  I ran back into the clinic. The attackers would be cautious now, but they still had to move fast before some of the thousands of troops and federal police patrolling the city responded to the gunfire. I couldn’t remember whether a Para Ordnance magazine held twelve or fourteen rounds. I decided twelve, to be on the safe side. That left me with six rounds in the mag and one in the pipe. I got the spare magazine out of my pocket and did a tactical reload, stuffing the half-used magazine into my belt.

  Confused and panicked patients were spilling out of their rooms in a disorganized mob. I fired a couple of rounds into the ceiling to spur everyone towards the rear. The crowd swept towards the back of the clinic, gathering new members as it went. I heard the chatter of a suppressed gunfire behind me and turned to see an explosion of plaster dust and wood chips in the reception area. They were coming in.

  The corridor turned to the right. At the corner I fired two rounds towards the front door before continuing on. Ahead of me Joaquin was assisting an older man in a white shirt and faded khaki pants. A crutch dangled from his free hand. The older man’s left leg was in a cast, the trouser leg slit to accommodate it. His right arm was in a blue sling. He did not look like a drug addict. His features had an aristocratic cast, and the thick white hair and full beard were clean and carefully trimmed. He also looked ridiculously calm, but he wasn’t out of it. Dark, piercing eyes sized me up quickly.

  At the end of the hall, a shaft of sunlight appeared as someone opened the rear exit. The patients began spilling out, but their panicked babbling changed to shrieks of terror. Mingled with their cries was the steady flutter of silenced automatic weapons and the wet thud of bullets tearing flesh.

  Of course, they had men at the rear. The tide turned, and the dwindling pack surged towards us. Through an open door I saw a large communal kitchen.

  “This way!” I said.

  A long stainless steel food preparation table ran down the center, stained and blackened pots and skillets hanging on the rack above it. Along the back wall was a stainless steel counter with two deep sinks, a half dozen propane tanks stored underneath. Two propane stoves stood to the right of the counter, a big pot of something bubbling on one of the burners. There was no other door to the room. The only openings were two windows, one above the stoves, and the other just past the sinks. Through grime covered glass I could see heavy metal bars.

  “You appear to have led us into a trap, my friend,” said the older man, as if commenting on the weather.

  The remaining patients, now down to about a dozen, followed us into the kitchen. I pointed at an array of cooking knives, cleavers and meat tenderizing mallets.

  “Tell them to use those,” I said to Joaquin, pointing, “and cut a hole in the wall over there. Hurry!”

  He began shouting orders in Spanish. I went to the door and leaned out, firing two rounds towards the rear of the clinic, then two more in the opposite direction. I went back in the kitchen, and slammed the door shut.

  The survivors were chopping and kicking at a rapidly expanding hole in the wall. I looked for something to block the door. A wooden armoire, taller than I was, would absolutely fit the bill. I pushed against it, but it barely budged. There was some shouting and then three patients were beside me. The four of us managed to tip the heavy cabinet over, and it crashed to the floor, blocking the door.

  “Vamanos!”

  The men helping me scurried back to where the others were disappearing through the hole in the wall. Joaquin came over to me.

  “Una pistola. Give me a pistol.”

  I looked at the older man, who nodded. I don’t know why, but that reassured me. Keeping the .45 trained on Joaquin’s stomach, I handed him the Walther. He smiled grimly and tucked it in his belt before helping his companion through the opening.

  Glass shattered in the window above the stove and a hooded figure shoved the barrel of his MP5 through the bars. He hesitated before firing. Probably the dark room was invisible to him. I snapped off two shots and he fell back, leaving the gun hanging from the bars.

  I was alone in the kitchen now. I grabbed a full propane tank from beneath the sink and placed it on the stove next to the active burner. Then I went across the room and through the hole in the wall into the kitchen of a private home. Behind me, the blocked door began to disintegrate under a steady barrage of bullets. I positioned myself with the least exposure and aimed carefully at the tank on the stove. I fired one round and ducked back.

  Nothing happened. I chanced a look and saw that I’d hit my target. The dimpled hole was clearly visible, but the bullet had merely knocked the tank backwards to rest against the rear of the stove. Shit. If you can’t blow up a propane tank, what can you blow up?

  I heard the pounding of many feet on the floor above me. The escaping patients were moving to the roof. Probably a good idea, since the narrow street would be a shooting gallery. I moved deeper into the building. Just as I found the stairs, my ears popped and the building shook. A blast of hot air followed me into the room, pelting me with dust and wood debris. The propane tank had gone after all.

  I followed the sound of activity upstairs to a rear bedroom. The escaping patients had dragged a bureau beneath a trap door and were helping each other onto the roof. Joaquin was on a cell phone, speaking rapidly.

  He ended the call and handed the phone to the older man. I helped him lift his companion onto the bureau. While Joaquin held him steady, I jumped up and grabbed the frame of the trap door. The patients were already several rooftops away, so there was no one there to help me. I pulled myself through and flopped onto the roof, just as more explosions shook the building.

  I reached a hand back into the room and said to the older man, “Take it.”

  The hand that grasped my wrist was calloused and strong. There was no gratitude in the man’s face, only the expectation that he deserved such effort. As I pulled him up, Joaquin hopped onto the bureau and pushed him from below. Between the two of us we got him through, and he lay on his back, exhausted. Joaquin soon joined us.

  “Where?” I said to Joaquin.

  He pointed in the direction of where we had left the taxi. I nodded.

  We started across the roofs in that direction. I led the way, pistol at the ready, while he half dragged, half carried the other man. After a moment, I stopped to let them catch up, looking back just as two more explosions shook the clinic. Black smoke laced with orange flame rose from the site of the blasts. Sirens wailed in the distance.

  Joaquin reached where I stood. He and the other man looked back as well.

  “They will have gone,” said the older man. “The police and the army are on their way. It should be safe to return to the street. But, we must hurry.”

  “You want to avoid the police and the army?”

  “It would be best for me,” he said.

  I turned to continue. Three men were running towards us across the roof. They were bareheaded and carried submachine guns. I brought the pistol up.

  “No,” said the older man, his voice commanding.

  I turned to find Joaquin pointing th
e Walther at my face. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “No,” said the older man again.

  Joaquin looked at him, confused.

  “Not now. Perhaps later, but I have questions. Now, Señor,” he said to me, “Drop the pistola. Or I will indeed let Joaquin pull the trigger.”

  I believed him. Not to mention I was outnumbered and outflanked. I slipped the safety on and let the gun drop. It hit the roof with a thud. Joaquin spoke into the other man’s ear.

  “Joaquin would like his knife back, as well.” He smiled. “Por favor.”

  I retrieved the knife and tossed it next to the gun.

  “Gracias. And now you will join us.” He turned to Joaquin. “I would also like to see Dr. Alvarez.”

  “Sí, Patron.”

  “Not all of him, of course. Just his head.”

  39.

  I was led through a labyrinth of muddy back alleys and trash strewn side streets. It fell to me to assist the injured man. Joaquin and one of the other gunmen led the way. Twice we were forced to hide as army trucks filled with troops rumbled past. Then we found refuge in the squalid back room of a cantina to avoid a small squad of hooded men dressed entirely in black. Policia Federale was stenciled in white on their body armor.

  Once they passed, we continued our journey and minutes later were crouching in the mouth of an alley next to a well-paved road. We were there only seconds before a battered Ford delivery van pulled up. The side door slid open and a man with an MP5 motioned to us. I was prodded with a gun barrel. I carried my charge to the van and handed him in. Another, less gentle prodding and I climbed in too. The others followed, and the van was speeding away before the door closed.

  It was cramped and uncomfortable on the metal floor, not to mention all the guns and surly looks. The older man, on the other hand, was treated with great deference by the others. He lay back on a small mattress and pillow, appearing quite content and unruffled. In short order, someone produced a cigar. He carefully lit it with an offered match, inhaling the smoke with great satisfaction.

  “Cuban,” he said, brandishing the cigar. “The best.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said.

  “Ah, yes. They are not legal in your country.” He looked at the burning tip. “A pity.” He looked back to me. “You are a cop, are you not?”

  “I used to be. Not anymore.”

  “What kind of cop did you used to be?”

  “U.S. Customs.”

  He nodded, as if he already knew. “Drugs?”

  “I was involved in drug investigations, yes.”

  “Where?”

  “New York. Mostly at JFK. Kennedy airport in New York.”

  He nodded. “Are you familiar with the name Cristos Sandoval?”

  I had to think for a minute. The name was vaguely familiar. I sorted back through the dusty memories of a previous life. Then I pulled it up. The name had come up, peripherally, as part of a background briefing.

  “I think so. Mexican cartel leader.”

  “Remarkable. And you know this how? I must warn you,” he said, his tone conversational, “that your life depends on you telling the truth. And I am very good at spotting liars.”

  “How nice for you.”

  The man next to me smacked me in the face with his weapon. I tasted blood.

  “He does not like your manner,” said the older man.

  “Tell him to take a number and get in line.”

  The gunman moved to hit me again, but one gesture from my interrogator stopped him.

  “Now,” he said, “while you can still use your mouth to speak.”

  “It was part of a briefing on the Mexican cartels smuggling cocaine into the U.S. Sandoval was one of the players they mentioned.”

  “I see.” He puffed on the cigar. “I am Cristos Sandoval.”

  I hid my distress by glancing around the van. “I pictured you rolling with a bit more style.”

  He sighed. “Yes, well times have changed somewhat.” He took another pull on his cigar. “Now tell me, Mr. Nicolas Craig, former federal policeman Nicolas Craig, how you happened to show up at a clinic where I am hiding, just before gunmen come to kill me.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “It is a long trip. And while you are still talking, you are still breathing.”

  He had a point. So I told him everything, from the moment Raviv approached me to my nights at The Retreat. He listened thoughtfully, occasionally interrupting with a question. When I was done, he had long since finished his smoke. For a long time he sat in silence, then he spoke in Spanish to one of the gunmen, who produced another cigar.

  “And you did not sleep with this woman?”

  “No.”

  “I understand she is quite beautiful. You are a man of considerable strength.”

  Joaquin leaned over and whispered something to him. Sandoval laughed.

  “Sí, Joaquin, or a puta, like that husband of hers.” Sandoval examined the new cigar and then bit off the end with teeth that were gleaming white and surprisingly small. He spit the shred of tobacco onto the floor. “This woman. You are aware, are you not, that her name before marriage was de Verdugo? Corazon de Verdugo.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that the chemical plant where you landed in your private plane, the one that is now gone, is affiliated with Verdugo Enterprises?”

  “I was not aware. However, I am not surprised.”

  Joaquin struck a match and held it up. Sandoval leaned forward to light the cigar.

  “Mmm-hmm,” he said, puffing gently as he turned his cigar in the flame. He sat back and let go a stream of blue smoke. “This is why Joaquin was your taxi driver.” He waved his cigar in a vague circle. “Those of us engaged in the trade here in Mexico, my partners, my competitors, we all have our spies, our informers, our traitors.”

  “Like Doctor Alvarez.”

  “Sí. You understand. It is a shame, but for some loyalty is for sale to the highest bidder. Such men have their uses, but the world would be a better place if there were only men like these.” He swept his hand grandly. “Men of honor and loyalty.”

  A smiling Joaquin quietly translated for the others, who quickly sported smiles of their own, revealing various degrees of poor dental hygiene.

  “You find it amusing, I suppose,” said Sandoval, “that a man like me, a so-called drug lord, speaks of honor?”

  “I am in no position to judge.”

  “So I have heard,” he said, giving me a meaningful glance. He lifted his injured arm. “I survived a recent attempt on my life, an ambush. A great number of my personal bodyguard died, as did some unfortunate innocents.”

  I had not been following the news closely, but I was aware that drug violence in Mexico, already high, had spiked to new levels in recent weeks.

  “The attack was planned by a rival and carried out by Barrio Azteca, but my Army sources inform me that among the attackers were also gringos with military, not prison, tattoos. The attack itself was military in nature.” He exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “I barely escaped with my life. My injuries forced me to seek care and refuge in that filthy clinic, until I was well enough to travel. I paid the owner, Dr. Alvarez, for his hospitality and discretion. I assume that my generosity made him greedy for more riches and he revealed my presence. The arrest of my bodyguards and his sudden departure just before the attack confirms this to my complete satisfaction.”

  So the good doctor had left his staff and patients to be massacred. Decapitation might be too good for him.

  “Yesterday,” said Sandoval, “through one of my own spies in the Policia Federale, I heard that a great sum of money had been provided to a high official to ensure the discreet and unobstructed arrival of a trained sicario.”

  I knew the term, a word that referred to an ancient splinter group of Jewish Zealots known as the Sicarii or ‘dagger men’. In the Latin American drug trade the word was synonymous with assassin.

  “This man would arrive a
t a certain time on a private plane at a certain airfield.” He let the sentence trail off and drew on his cigar. “This sicario, I was told, was coming to find and kill me. A city policeman of questionable ethics was assigned as a taxi driver for this man, told to take him wherever he wanted to go. And when you arrived on a private plane, at that airfield, you directed your taxi driver to come directly to the clinic.”

  “What happened to this policeman?”

  “It does not matter. We are all better off with one less corrupt puerco.”

  I said nothing. I was too busy contemplating how my head was going to look next to those of Doctor Alvarez and the original cab driver.

  “Did you come to kill me, Señor Craig?”

  “No. I did not come to kill anyone. I told you, I am looking for Kenneth Boyd, and I was told he was a patient at that clinic.”

  “The son of the Verdugo lawyer.”

  “Yes.”

  “You did not come to kill, but you are a sicario?”

  Everyone was staring at me.

  “I was,” I said. “A long time ago.”

  He nodded. “For your government, is what my sources in Washington tell me.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said. “Only a handful of people in the U.S. Government have that information.” Which meant the information had been deliberately leaked by someone anxious to see me dead. “If you thought I was here to assassinate you, why not just have me killed? Why take the chance?”

  “Curiosity. Sending a single assassin is very unusual in my country. I wanted to see what sort of man you were. And I hoped to question you, to learn the identity of my enemy.”

  He looked down, closely examining the burning tip of his cigar. I felt the eyes of the others on me. The hatred was palpable. Finally, Sandoval looked up at me.

  “I have been at that clinic for nearly five days. No norte americano has been a patient or a visitor there.” He waved the cigar at the men in the van. “I would have known.”