It was a waning moon, still bright, but clouds took turns blotting it out and plunging the scene into blackness. Except for the occasional glowing cigarette. Both brothers removed their sport jackets, tossed them into the back seat where the guns were stored. Alejandro still wore his tie. Eduardo kept his wide lapelled shirts open to nipple level, showing off his considerable bling and curly, black chest hair.
‘What the fuck are they waiting for?’ said Alejandro, just as one of the men stepped away from the others and began to move toward the house.
Sensing they were losing their moment, Eduardo said, ‘I’m going around back. See what’s up.’
Alejandro nodded. ‘Check your weapon.’
Eduardo glanced at his gun, a 9 mm, sixteen-shot, Sig Sauer, with Night Sights and a Ti-Rant silencer on its muzzle that his brother had equipped for him. He patted his pocket and assured himself his other weapon of choice was still there – the ten-inch stiletto purchased in Italy where they still made them as true switchblades, unlike the knockoffs made in China and sold to gangbangers in America.
Alejandro looked at his brother, noting the scar on his ear he’d given him from one of their many fights as young, quarrelling siblings. In one melee, he’d slammed him into the corner of a heavy table and scarred his ear. But, Eduardo never told on him; he’d said he’d fallen down. That’s what they both used to tell their parents when asked about their new wounds: they fell down. Now, though their killing styles were vastly different, they were the closest friends in the world, still covering each other’s asses.
‘Be careful, mi hermano,’ Alejandro cautioned.
Eduardo smiled, slipped out of the car and darted across the road, skirting the shadows like a panther, crouching low, silent, and lethal.
Alejandro checked his weapons as well. He carried the same Sig as a backup, so he and Eduardo could easily trade ammo, but he didn’t go anywhere without the semi-automatic Drako AK-47, with thirty-round clips aplenty. The Drako was small, like a pistol, really. If fired singly, it could have the accuracy of a sniper’s rifle, or serve as a machine gun on auto. The gun was like an extension of Alejandro’s arm. He checked the clip, slid the bolt back and forth, smelled the oily scent of the well-maintained gun. He checked the Sig, too, and the gargantuan, Ruger .44 Magnum Super Blackhawk with a ten and a half-inch barrel he liked to bring along. It wasn’t practical. The weapon only held six shots and was heavy and cumbersome. But, if you needed some extra stopping power and a pistol that had more range, there was no equal.
Alejandro loved his guns almost as much as his hermano.
Ellis Coody told his buddies to wait by their trucks. He felt it was his duty to bring the woman out, seeing how it was his son that she shot. Besides, he thought, these clowns would probably piss themselves if anything DID go down. He made a show of checking the slide on his Colt .45 Double Eagle before shoving it into the holster on his belt. No one argued with him. He sucked in his gut, pulled up his pants a notch, and strode toward the house like a sheriff from an old John Ford western.
The house was dark.
Coody approached the front door and banged on it with the edge of his fist, rattling the jalousie windows across the front of the house.
Eduardo Lopez moved through the backyard, mixing with the shadows, a panther moving quietly in the shadows, taking advantage of the cloud coverage. He saw the back door and wondered if he could get inside, kill the woman, and slip back out before the rednecks knew he was there. He was going to try.
In the corner of the dark bedroom, Erica could hear her own breath and tried to hold it, so she wouldn’t give herself away. She had seen the posse gathering across the road out front, heard their twangy exultations about ‘Florida Cracker justice,’ and cursed Moral, again, for taking her gun. Who was it that said, ‘Never bring a knife to a gunfight?’ Here she was, facing a makeshift militia with a dull kitchen knife. She thought of calling the police, just turn herself in and hope for the best, but, when she checked her purse, the phone was gone. Moral had taken the fucking cell, too! She was screwed.
She heard someone enter the house. Boots scraped on the terrazzo floor.
A light in the small living room came on, removing any shadows she might have hidden in.
‘Erica Weisz!’ he hollered.
She recognized Coody’s voice from the news coverage.
‘I knowed you’re in here. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you. You just need to come with me and answer for some things.’
He slid the gun out of the holster as he checked the kitchen, then began to make his way toward the back of the house.
Erica saw Coody’s shadow coming down the narrow hallway. She moved quickly out of the bedroom and slid into the utility area leading to the back door, where Moral had surprised her earlier. She began to turn the knob, trying not to make noise with the handcuffs dangling from her wrist, but felt some resistance, as if someone on the other side was turning it the opposite way.
On the other side of the door, Eduardo wondered why the doorknob resisted. It had begun to turn, then stopped, as if a ghost had grabbed it. He felt sweat trickle from his scalp and down his neck.
Coody moved down the hall and spied the opening to the utility room. He heard a metallic click. He flattened against the wall and inched toward the sound, edging toward the opening. He gripped the .45 in both hands, extended his arms, and aimed as he held his breath and jumped into the doorway.
Eduardo won the tug of war on the doorknob and pulled it open.
Erica fell through the open door and spilled out into the yard as Coody, surprised by the commotion, fired the first shot into the darkness, momentarily lighting up the claustrophobic utility room. The echo of the blast was deafening in the small space. The bullet missed Eduardo, who quickly drew his own gun and shot into the tiny room, the thwick of the silenced gun muzzle lighting up the tiny room a second time, long enough to see the surprised look on Coody’s face.
‘Wha’?’ Coody grunted, feeling a heated pressure in his chest. He fired off another shot as he fell forward, shot through the heart, his forehead banging the side of the washing machine with a gong.
Erica removed her hands from her ears and looked up from the dew-dampened grass. She saw a flashy dressed Hispanic man, several gold necklaces glinting from his unbuttoned shirt, his pointy, basket-weave shoes in her face. A silencer on his gun.
The sound of people running through the front yard and crashing into the house sifted back to them. A door was kicked in and glass shattered, shoes scuffled on the terrazzo floor. Eduardo turned his attention to Erica, a grin stretched across his tanned face, a wisp of smoke dripped out the barrel of his gun. ‘The Esperanzas send their love,’ he purred.
Erica couldn’t afford to hesitate. She lunged and jabbed the kitchen knife into Eduardo’s thigh, feeling it hit bone.
He screamed as Erica jumped to her feet, grabbed his arm, and sunk her teeth into his wrist. Unable to maintain his grip, he dropped the gun, then backhanded Erica across the face, knocking her back onto the ground. He instinctively grabbed his stiletto with his other hand and flipped out the long, thin blade. It gleamed like a wolf’s eye in the pale, grey light. Scooping the Sig off the ground, Erica rolled onto her back and pointed the pistol at Eduardo. He stopped as if evaluating the situation. She rose to her feet, careful to keep the shaking barrel pointed at her attacker. Before she could pull the trigger, Coody’s posse arrived and discovered their fearless leader.
‘What the fuck?’ one of them yelled. Then, ‘Hey, there’s a guy out back.’
Someone flicked on the outside floodlight, simultaneously illuminating and blinding Eduardo. Erica was just outside the perimeter of light and took advantage of the distraction. She turned and ran on legs wobbly with fear and weak from feverish wounds. She stumbled forward, pushing her way through Brazilian pepper trees and crepe myrtle bushes that naturally fenced the backyard. Hearing another shot, she turned and peered through the foliage, just in time to see Eduardo f
all to the ground. More of Coody’s friends rushed into the backyard. She saw a flash of metal gleam in the yellow light as Eduardo, knowing he was done for, boldly threw his stiletto, striking one of the men in his protruding abdomen. The man looked at the blade as if wondering what it was, then raised his own gun, and shot Eduardo in the face.
Erica was transfixed, her mouth hanging open, gasping for breath. She heard more running, someone coming across the grass through the neighbour’s yard. People began turning on porch lights and she could hear, ‘What’s going on out there?’ and ‘I’m calling the police.’
Alejandro burst through the bushes just a few feet away from her and, seeing his brother lying on the ground, half his face gone, went into a wild rage. There were a half dozen men standing in the yard when Alejandro opened up with the Drako. The weapon lit the night like a beam from a police chopper. Blood sprayed as his bullets found targets and they began to fall. A few of the wounded managed to get their guns out and began firing wildly at Alejandro.
Erica watched the elevating carnage for another few seconds, then turned to hobble away in the direction the last shooter had come from. She emerged onto the street, looked one way, and saw the balance of the truck posse running into the deadly house with guns drawn, rebel yells echoing into the chaotic night. She looked the other way and saw a car sitting at the corner of the next street, its door hanging open, the inside lights on. No one was sitting inside, and the motor was running. She limped toward it and jumped into the driver’s seat, closing and locking the door behind her. Her wounds throbbed, the stitches pinched as if someone was pulling them tighter. The car’s inside light faded out, and she sat in darkness and began to breathe again, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She looked down and found the Sig in her hand, its barrel still warm. On the passenger seat was another gun, a huge one with a gaping barrel that looked as though she could fit her whole hand in.
Two jackets were strewn across the seat as well. She picked them up and checked the pockets. A fat cowhide wallet fell out with a plop in her lap. She opened it and found a Mexican driving licence that belonged to Eduardo Lopez. She squinted at the photo and realized he’d been the man who had pointed the gun at her in the backyard. Inside the billfold was a thick wad of money. She checked the second jacket and found another wallet filled with cash and an ID for Alejandro Lopez. Killer brothers, she thought. How original. So, now she had their money and their guns. With those, she could get anything else she needed.
A GPS screen was on the monitor on the car’s dash. Erica looked at the screen and could see the route the car had taken. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, the handcuffs still dangling from one wrist.
The places where she was supposed to be safe from harm had all turned into places of danger. The man who was supposed to protect her had sold her out. She listened to the distant gunfire – acoustic shadows – again. The sounds of battle surprisingly much clearer, now, than when she was in the middle of it. Anger filled her, body and soul, as she closed her eyes. The faces of her loved ones floated by like the ghosts they were. She could not think clearly. She could not think at all, in fact, so she let her instincts take over; they told her to follow the route the car had taken. She was tired of running and hiding. Maybe the path would lead her to the men hunting her. If it did, then she could kill them, or die trying. She had nothing to lose. Nothing at all.
NINETEEN
Thiery made it to Guava Lane in just over twelve minutes. Headlights charged at him as he bumped over the dirt road, and a green Chrysler 300 sped past, careening close enough to knock his car’s side mirror askew, then fishtailed onto the main road, and was gone. Thiery had caught a glimpse of the driver, a blonde woman, her eyes wide with fear, wrestling the car’s steering wheel as if it were alive.
About a half-dozen men wearing either John Deere caps or straw cowboy hats with the edges turned down, raced between the house and a cluster of parked trucks along the road, guns blazing. Thiery caught one man in the headlights. The man turned and fired off a wild shot. Thiery ducked as he heard the bullet ricochet off the roof of his car. He braked, flung open the door, pulled his own weapon, and yelled, ‘Police Officer! Drop your weapon.’
He was encouraged when, in the brief silence that followed, he heard sirens approaching. Hopefully more cops with more guns and not the Johnny-on-the-spot county rescue guys who showed up with little more than a box of medical supplies.
Ahead, the man in the street dropped his weapon to the ground as one of his friends appeared with his own gun. ‘I got yer back, Sonny,’ the newcomer declared, pumping a round into his shotgun, the barrel facing down.
‘You level that weapon at me, friend,’ Thiery addressed him, ‘and I’ll shoot you dead.’
‘It’s a cop, Bubba,’ Sonny cautioned, his hands held high above his head. ‘Best put yer gun down.’
Bubba slowly bent and placed the shotgun gingerly on the ground, his eyes never leaving Thiery’s. As he returned to a standing position, he held his palms flat and facing forward.
‘Your friends on the lawn, too,’ Thiery nodded and gestured with the barrel of the gun. ‘Tell them to drop their weapons.’
The men complied.
‘Now,’ Thiery said, holding his gun pointed at Sonny and Bubba, while continuously sweeping the rest of the crowd with his eyes, ‘someone want to tell me what’s going on here?’
The two men glanced at each other like kids caught writing on bathroom walls. A few of the trucks cranked up suddenly, and attempted to do three-point turns, trying to flee the small, tight road, rooster tails of dirt kicking up behind. One became stuck; another backed into a nearby canal in a scene that might have been comical if it weren’t filled with weapon-wielding drunks.
Sonny spoke up, his breath coming in gasps. ‘We was driving around lookin’ for that gun-totin’ teacher that ran away from the hospital, you know, tryin’ to he’p out, ’cuz the cops and all are lookin’ for her. But, when we got here, Ellis Coody went up to the house and someone … heh, hee.’ He started to cry, much to Thiery’s disbelief. ‘Someone shot ol’ Ellis,’ he managed, before breaking down and sobbing.
‘Coody’s shot?’ said Thiery. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s out back,’ said Bubba. ‘We called 911, but I think it’s too late for him.’ Then, almost like an afterthought, he added, ‘There’s a dead spic back there, too, and another crazy one with a machine gun.’
Just then, the fireworks inside the house erupted again, and Thiery immediately recognized the unmistakable sounds of a semi-automatic. What remained of Coody’s posse abandoned position and, with an extreme lack of grace, dived behind Thiery’s car.
‘You men stay here,’ Thiery ordered. ‘Tell the cops what you told me when they arrive. If fire rescue shows up, tell them to stand back until we’ve secured the scene. Got it?’
The two men nodded, then lowered their heads as if ashamed.
Thiery grabbed a portable radio from a charger in his car and flicked it on. When he raised dispatch, he identified himself and gave them a brief synopsis, adding there were armed men on the scene and at least two men down. Call all nearby units,’ he instructed, ‘and have them respond yesterday, understand?’
He checked his gun quickly – a Glock 21, department-issued, .45 calibre, bad guy stopper – and felt for the two extra thirteen-round clips he carried on his belt. That gave him thirty-nine rounds. If he needed more than that, he thought, he really should retire. He ran to the house, hugged the first wall he came to, and cautiously inched around the corner. Bullets smacked the walls and chunks of cinder-block broke off the house like styrofoam chunks. He wished he had taken the time to don his Kevlar, but he was committed, now.
Peeking into the backyard, he saw flames coming from a gun at the perimeter like a tiny dragon spitting fire. A yellow light illuminated bodies lying about, patterns of blood soaking their clothing. Thiery watched for any signs of life, but didn’t see any. That was good to know in case he had to laun
ch a full bore attack; he wouldn’t have to worry about civilians getting hit.
The dragon quit spitting fire. Out of the shadow and into the pale yellow glow of the porch light, a man emerged, carrying an assault rifle at the ready. Hispanic, tall, well dressed, with a loaded shoulder holster. He stepped out confidently, swinging the gun side to side, looking for, but finding no other targets. He nudged a few of the bodies with his elegant leather shoes. He stopped and lingered over the figure that looked like him. His shoulders slumped, a shiny streak visible on his face.
A dollop of sweat slid down Thiery’s nose and dripped off. He could hear it hit the ground and hoped the other man could not. He took a slow, quiet breath, locked his arms, and aimed his gun at the man with the assault rifle.
‘Police officer!’ he shouted. ‘Drop the weapon. Now!’
The man sniffed and glanced up casually, letting his eyes focus. He rolled his head around on his neck, like a crazed bobblehead trying to form a thought.
Alejandro remembered a time when he and Eduardo had attended a birthday fiesta. They were ten and twelve. It was Eduardo’s turn to put on the blindfold and strike at the piñata, a colourful toro so full of treats it had taken two men to hoist it on the rope that held it aloft.
Eduardo swung and missed. Twice. But on the third try, he connected, and the paper bull’s stomach exploded open. Candy and treats rained down, reflecting the orange light of the late afternoon so they looked like sweet comets flying everywhere. Eduardo struggled to remove his blindfold. When he finally did, he had to scramble for what little candy was left. As he grabbed for the few remaining pieces, another boy pushed him out of the way and took the treats from him. Having witnessed the incident, Alejandro strode into the mix and punched the young thief in the face, spraying blood onto the other kids and the empty husk of the piñata. Then he handed the thief’s candy to his little brother.
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