by Guy Johnson
“What about San Vicente and Deleon?”
“We’ll have to hit them again, but I’d rather do it with a force of professionals in three or four days. We were very lucky tonight. I think we have minimal injuries, unless your friend Dan took a serious hit.”
“Where are Dan and Rhasan?” Jackson asked, turning toward the doorway, moving with his arm around Elizabeth.
Esteban pointed down toward the other end of the main house. “They were on the catwalk and there’s a door across from it.”
Carlos interjected, “If you have to spend time looking for them, I’d better check out the interior and give support to Julio and Reuben.” Esteban started to follow him, but Carlos gestured for him to stay with Jackson.
Jackson saw Carlos’s gesture and asked Esteban, “Would you please see Elizabeth to one of the trucks and stay with her?” Exasperated, Carlos threw up his hands and pivoted away, entering through the same door that they had exited.
Esteban gave a quick nod of his head. “If that is what you wish.”
Elizabeth pulled out of Jackson’s arms. “That is not what I wish! I’m not going anywhere without you! When you leave, I leave! And give me a gun!”
“It’s dangerous! Why risk any more?”
Elizabeth spat, “Dangerous! Where do you think I’ve been the last few weeks? I wouldn’t mind killing a few of these assholes myself! I know you’re carrying two pistols; give me one!” She stuck out her hand. “Let’s find Rhasan! I’m going with you!” Jackson knew it was useless to argue. He pulled a .45 from its holster and handed it to her. As she quickly pulled out the magazine and checked the chamber, she looked at the black outfits of Jackson and Esteban and asked, “All the good guys dressed like you?”
“Pretty much,” Jackson replied. “Everybody, including the one woman, is dressed in black.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed as she clicked home the magazine. “One woman, huh? Now you’ve got two.”
Jackson shook his head and turned toward the catwalk and moved swiftly to the door. He called out, “Dan? Rhasan?”
There was a loud explosion at the other end of the mansion as San Vicente’s arsenal detonated. The building’s floors above the explosion slowly collapsed with a tremendous rending of wood and metal, and debris fell into the courtyard below. There were fires throughout the compound and bodies littered the plaza.
Jackson’s heart was in his mouth when he called out again, “Rhasan! Dan! Where are you?”
Sunday, July 25, 1982
Deleon was sharing an expensive bottle of single-malt bourbon with Angel and Jesus in the communications center when the first explosion occurred. Angel leaped up immediately to look out the window, knocking over his bourbon-filled paper cup in the process. “What was that?” he demanded. The first explosion was quickly followed by several other, more powerful ones. The communications center was rattling from the force of the detonations. Angel turned to Jesus. “The front tower’s been blow away! Get on the phone! We’re under attack!”
Jesus picked up the phone and listened for a second, clicked the receiver button a few times, then returned it to its cradle. “The line’s dead! Let me get on the radio!” As he finished speaking, the power went out and the room was plunged into darkness.
“Don’t worry,” advised Angel. “The generator will kick on in a few seconds then we’ll get the alarm out!”
Deleon stood up, pulled his twenty-two-caliber pistol out of his jacket, and moved behind Angel. Another explosion, closer this time, broke a nearby window and caused some objects to fall off the shelves. Deleon shot Angel in the base of his skull. The sound of his small-caliber pistol didn’t even register amid the din of automatic gunfire which could now be heard. As Angel fell forward across his desk, Deleon shouted to Jesus, who was across the room twiddling knobs on the radio, “Damn! It looks like Angel has been hit!”
“What? How?” Jesus questioned as he stood up and went to help his companion. As soon as Jesus saw the blood flowing from the back of Angel’s head he turned to Deleon, but it was too late. Deleon fired point-blank into his cheek and then followed it up with another shot in the temple. Jesus collapsed without a sound.
Deleon looked at his watch. It was only nine-thirty. Obviously, Jackson didn’t want to wait until the time he had suggested. A hum emanated from the banks of equipment, and the monitors and the emergency lights came back on. Deleon stepped over Jesus’s body and went over and flipped the red switch on the radio which sent out the recorded alarm over the police band. He figured that with the holiday festivities, he had at least half an hour to forty-five minutes to finish his business before the first police arrived. He left the communications center and heard the clatter of a heavy machine gun firing from one of the dormer windows of the main house. But no sooner than Deleon had located it, it was destroyed by rocket fire and the resultant blast blew off a large section of the roof. There were more rocket explosions throughout the compound. The attackers had already destroyed much of San Vicente’s security system. Both guard towers were destroyed. None of the security beacons were lit, vast parts of the complex were in darkness. As he started on the catwalk that led across to the main house he saw pockets of defenders in firefights with the attackers; several of the guards were pinned down in their barracks. He didn’t give a moment’s thought to helping either side. He had his own agenda.
He was halfway across the catwalk when he saw a rocket’s fiery tail heading directly for the center. He threw himself down as the rush of hot air from the explosion blew bits of debris over him. He got up into a stoop and hurried for the safety of the main building. Once in the shadows, he moved to the guard wall of the balcony and took stock of the situation. Jackson’s team and their rockets were overwhelming the defenders. San Vicente’s men were giving way rapidly. Deleon’s only fear was that Jackson was winning so quickly that San Vicente would make his escape before Deleon could deal with him. He knew that if San Vicente was able to get away and gain the protection of the police then his own life would be forfeit. Down below on the ground at an entrance midway toward the other end of the house, there was machine-gun fire followed by a small explosion. He saw the dog handler, Adolfo, staggering toward the kennel to unleash the dogs. Adolfo made it to the gate, but before he could open it he was cut down by a burst from an automatic weapon. Deleon shook his head. Things were going fast.
He went into the main house, heading directly toward San Vicente’s quarters. Earlier in the evening, he had heard San Vicente tell his men that he was bringing in a woman. He hoped that San Vicente was sufficiently distracted that he hadn’t had time to empty his safe and escape. The interior of the house was dark, only intermittently lit by emergency lights. Deleon stayed close to the walls and made as little noise as possible as he hurried through the wide halls and down the broad, swirling stairs. He expected that some sort of resistance would be set up to stop the invaders, but strangely he saw no one. In sharp contrast to the din outside, the interior of the house was as silent as a tomb. It was almost eerie. He had to be cautious. He didn’t want to rush into an ambush. San Vicente had a small arsenal in his bedroom and his most trusted men would make their way there to defend him.
As Deleon turned into the shadows of the corridor that led to San Vicente’s bedroom, he heard the sound of footsteps coming toward him. Deleon faded back into the darkness next to curtains along the wall. As the man came abreast of him, Deleon saw that it was Tercero. He was carrying a machine pistol and was moving cautiously. Deleon waited until Tercero had moved past him, then he stepped out silently behind him and sprang upon him, pulling back his head and cutting his throat before he could utter a sound. He grabbed the pistol as it slipped from Tercero’s helpless hands and eased the body to the floor. Moving quickly, he dragged the body close to the wall. He thought a moment about keeping the pistol, but it was an unfamiliar make and in the darkness, he couldn’t see much but the trigger. He decided that it was better to use weapons he knew and left the machine
pistol by the corpse. He made no effort to move farther up the corridor for he heard more footsteps coming in his direction.
“Tercero? Tercero, venga aquí! Venga!” San Vicente moved cautiously down the corridor whispering, “Hombre! Dónde está?”
Even in the darkness, Deleon could see that he was carrying a heavy strongbox and an automatic rifle. Had Deleon kept the heavier caliber machine pistol, he might’ve considered shooting San Vicente and ending it right there, but the truth was he wanted to kill San Vicente up close and personal: He wanted to kill him with his knife. He waited until no more than three paces separated them before he rushed his adversary. San Vicente heard him after his first step, but his ability to turn was slowed by the weight of the strongbox, and by the time he swung his rifle around, Deleon easily blocked it with a chopping blow, knocking it out of his hand. San Vicente dropped the strongbox and tried to defend himself, but Deleon was too quick for him. Deleon thrust his blade into San Vicente’s chest, but it was deflected by a metal object under his bulletproof vest. San Vicente fell over his strongbox and sprawled on the floor. In the darkness, Deleon could not risk continuing his attack. There was always the chance that San Vicente might have a handgun. He pulled his pistol and waited until San Vicente regained his feet.
San Vicente pulled his own knife and challenged, “You want knives? I’ve got a knife and I’m facing you! And Tercero is somewhere behind you!”
“Tercero won’t be coming to help,” Deleon answered as he judged the distance between himself and his prey.
“You killed Tercero?” San Vicente asked incredulously.
“Just like I’m going to kill you,” Deleon answered as he started toward him.
San Vicente circled to his right and suggested, “We can both leave here alive, and I’ll call things equal between us.”
Deleon stopped for a moment and laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea then replied, “You’ll never leave here!”
San Vicente tapped his chest and growled, “Entonces mátame! Kill me if you can!” He charged Deleon, who easily ducked under his slashing blade.
Deleon closed quickly with him again, ignoring his feint, and thrust past his guard. This time there was nothing to deflect his knife. He drove the blade up to its hilt into San Vicente’s stomach, twisting it up and to the right. As he was falling San Vicente tried to counterattack, but Deleon blocked his knife with his forearm and head-butted him hard across his nose. San Vicente fell backward and hit the floor heavily. “Now things are equal between us!” Deleon said as he wiped his blade on the hall curtains.
San Vicente gasped, “You black fuck! You didn’t keep our agreement!”
Deleon chuckled. “You were the one who said agreements were made to be broken.”
San Vicente growled, “I’ll be waiting for you in hell!”
“See you there.” Deleon walked over to him and fired his .22 into San Vicente’s head. He turned away and picked up the automatic rifle. This was a weapon he knew. He checked the chamber to ensure that it was loaded and headed for the basement. Outside the gunfire had fallen silent. Deleon deduced that if the police hadn’t come by now, they weren’t going to show up at all. No police involvement meant that Jackson was in control of the compound. It also meant that the possibility of his leaving the compound with his life was minimal. Surprisingly, that did not disturb him. If he could get Elizabeth then he could perhaps trade her for safe passage, but he didn’t really want safe passage. He wanted a face-to-face with Jackson Tremain to repay him for stealing his opportunity to kill Xavier. He wouldn’t mind dying if he could take Tremain with him. Plus, it all had a poetic, Shakespearean quality: the last DuMont and the last Tremain who mattered dying together. His mood was light; he almost smiled as he opened the door to the basement.
As soon as Deleon had partially opened the door, Rex’s head surged through it and bit his left hand, the hand in which he was carrying the automatic rifle. The rifle clattered to the floor as Deleon put his weight against the door and slammed it hard on the dog’s head. The animal loosened its grip with a yelp and Deleon was able to force the door shut, but his thumb, index, and middle fingers of his left hand were torn open and bleeding. His left hand was useless. He picked up the rifle one-handed and fired a burst through the lower part of the door. He reopened the door and saw the dog lying midway down the stairs. Deleon fired another burst into the dog and stepped over him as he descended into the basement. There was only one emergency light illuminating the basement at the bottom of the stairs. As soon as Deleon saw the door to her room open, he knew Elizabeth was either dead or had escaped. He went on and searched her room anyway. Deleon stumbled over Alejandro’s mangled body, but there was no sign of Elizabeth. Frustrated, he turned and retraced his way up the stairs.
He needed a plan B now, but he didn’t have one. One thing was for sure, he had to get out of the building. If Jackson had Elizabeth, Deleon figured that he would blow the compound to rubble from a distance. Deleon cut a long piece of backing off one of the curtains and wrapped it tightly around the fingers and thumb of his left hand. Holding one end between his teeth, he tied the bandage securely. He opened the injured hand with a grimace. At least with his fingers wrapped together he would be able to grip objects with his left hand. He went to the next staircase and began making his way to an upper story. Perhaps he could find a hiding place from which he could shoot Jackson. He would probably have to expose himself in order to get off a shot. With limited use of one hand, the rifle was unwieldy and his pistol wouldn’t provide a killing shot from any distance.
As Deleon started up to the second floor, he heard voices, voices speaking English. He climbed the stairs slowly and silently. He heard two men’s voices; one was groaning in pain while the other was trying to soothe him. Deleon dropped down into a crouch. He had not dared hope for such luck, but it looked like fate was now smiling upon him. He stopped four or five steps from the top of the staircase and listened. The muffled conversation sounded as if it was originating in the vestibule of the second-floor entrance, a large room off the hall. There were no other sounds in the hallway. Using all his guile, he moved catlike up the remaining stairs and across the hall. Keeping to the wall, he tiptoed to the vestibule’s doorway and listened.
“I’ve got the tourniquet as tight as I can, Dan,” Rhasan said with concern. “I can’t get it any tighter.”
Dan gritted his teeth. “Try and give it another half turn, Rhasan. The blood’s still oozing out! Oh, shit! It’s looks like I’ve lost a quart already. Where are vampires when you really need them?”
Rhasan made a face. “I don’t think we can stop it. The bullet went clean through your thigh and the hole in the back is pretty big.”
Dan lay back flat on the floor. “I’m getting groggy. Hard to stay awake …”
To Deleon, it sounded like there were only two men in the vestibule. He peeped around the corner and saw that he was correct and both men were faced toward the outside door, away from him. They were on the floor next to a low coffee table beside some heavy wooden chairs. He moved quietly into the room, relying on stealth to get as close as possible before he made his presence known. He was within ten feet before either man noticed him.
It was Rhasan who saw Deleon first. A questioning frown crossed his face then he demanded, “Who are you?” He started to reach for the Uzi, which was a couple of feet behind him.
“Don’t!” Deleon warned, pointing the barrel of his rifle at Rhasan. “Not if you want to live another minute!” Deleon moved forward swiftly and kicked the Uzi across the room.
Dan lifted his head, but he couldn’t focus on the voice. “Is that you, Jax?”
Deleon didn’t answer. He walked around Dan to make sure that he had no weapon. Dan’s face was sweaty and he was starting to tremble a bit. Deleon told Rhasan, “He’s beginning to go into shock. If you want to help him, tear down one of the curtains and cover him. But don’t make any sudden moves, or it’ll be you lying on the floor with b
ullet holes in you!” Rhasan got up obediently and pulled down one of the heavy drapes that lined the wall. He made sure the tourniquet was still tight then tucked the drapes around Dan’s body.
Deleon studied Rhasan. The boy had a bit of a goatee, but his brown skin had the smooth softness of youth. In prison he would be considered a virgin fuck. Such a boy would be reserved only for the most powerful gang leaders. He was a real prize. Deleon regretted that he did not have the time to sample the boy’s flesh, but his thoughts gravitated to the business at hand; destiny was pressing and it required all of his attention.
Rhasan said to Deleon, “Whoever you are, you can still escape. My uncle will be here soon. He’ll be coming to check on us!”
Deleon smiled. “You’re Jackson’s nephew? Good. Very good. I want to see your uncle.”
“What do you want with him?” Rhasan demanded. A look of alarm spread across his face.
“That’s my business. I want you to call him.”
Suddenly Rhasan understood. He pointed at Deleon and exclaimed, “You’re a DuMont! You don’t just want to see him, you want to kill him!”
“You answered the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Now, go and call him!” Deleon’s voice was cold and hard. “Do it now!”
Rhasan pounded his chest with youthful bravado. “You can kill me! I don’t care! I’ll never call him!”
Deleon snorted at Rhasan’s foolishness. Rhasan was too valuable to injure immediately. Deleon merely pointed his rifle at Dan’s supine body and said, “I’ll put a bullet in him for every time I have to ask you!”
Rhasan put his hands up, pleading, “Don’t shoot him. It’s me that’s disobeying you. I’m the one that’s not going to call!”
“I’m going to fill him up with bullets then I’m going to start on you. What do you bet that when I make you scream, your uncle will come in here anyway? And, boy, I will make you scream! This is time number one. Go to the door and call your uncle!”