“Put your hands behind your back,” the big guy said.
“Behind your back!” the young one repeated.
Frank moved his hands behind his back. “Tell Yosemite Sam there he can stop yelling.”
The sound of the Cessna came on the call. “What’s going on?” Pinto asked.
“Mayday,” Frank whispered.
“Be quiet!” the young one said.
The big man knelt down behind Frank. He cuffed one wrist, then the other. Frank hated the hard metal. Hated that click. Memories of cement walls and the smell of prison hit Frank like a hammer.
The big officer moved to Sam and cuffed him. Then the two officers searched them both. They took the BlueTooth units and the phones. They took Sam’s wallet and change.
The big officer got up, breathing a bit hard. “Okay, boys. On your feet. Time to get into the car.”
Frank and Sam climbed to their feet.
Frank said, “I think one of those guys might still be alive.”
“Could be,” the big officer said. “Those types are hard to kill. Kind of like cockroaches.”
Sam said, “They were chasing us. Shot my van to pieces. You’re going to need to call for backup.”
The younger cop with the shotgun grinned.
“Son,” the big cop said, all friendly like. “We are the backup.” Then he opened the rear door of his car. “Watch your head.”
28
Gorozas
FRANK GOT INTO the car behind the driver’s seat. The back bench was a hard plastic, baby blue, three-seater that looked like it might have been super-sized from some toy collection. The plastic, of course, made it easier to clean when dirt bags vomited or pissed or defecated in the back. It was not very comfortable, especially not with your hands behind your back and a workman’s tool belt around your waist.
There was a wall behind the front seat. The bottom half was metal, backed by steel plate. The top half was split in two with thick bulletproof plexiglass behind the driver and a square of steel mesh behind the passenger’s seat. There was no way to unlock the doors from the inside.
The cops escorted Sam to the other side and shut him in. Then the two of them got back in the car, the big guy behind the wheel and the younger guy in the passenger’s seat.
“We’re going to take a drive,” the older cop said. He started the engine. Normally, a police officer would immediately radio in the accident and the people apprehended. This officer did not.
Sam looked surprisingly calm despite his bloody arm.
Frank said, “You okay?”
Sam looked up. “I’ve got a feeling this isn’t going to end well.”
“We’re going to be fine,” Frank said.
“You sure are,” the young cop said.
That weak scrub of hair on his upper lip was beginning to really annoy Frank. “You get that hair above your lip off the floor of a barber shop?” Frank asked.
“What did you say?”
“I think you boys should call this in.”
The blond cop shook his head like Frank was a bit slow in the head. The older cop put the patrol car into gear and slowly drove away from the wreck. He drove down the road right back to the Goroza’s house, slowed, turned in the driveway, and headed down all leisurely, like he was stopping by for lemonade.
Two of the Goroza’s men were standing partway down the drive with their assault rifles. They parted, and the older cop buzzed his window down, then slowed and stopped between them. He looked up at the guy on his side and said, “We have two packages for Mrs. Goroza.”
The guy looked in the back.
“We won’t be long,” the older cop said.
The man stood back and waved them on. He brought a radio up, clicked it, and reported it in Spanish.
The big cop let off the brake, and they slowly rolled down the driveway. Frank figured the older guy was the one who’d been corrupted first. It took some cash to payoff a law enforcement officer. Took less if that officer had been foolish with his money. Frank figured the older one had been foolish. Figured maybe he’d gotten sick of trying to rise up in the ranks. Then he’d gone and corrupted Yosemite Sam’s pasty blond brother.
The older cop parked the patrol car in front of the garage. Then he and his partner got out. The big guy had a nice name tag above his right breast pocket. White letters on a black background that said R. Lyman. Officer Lyman walked around the garage to the front door. Yosemite Sam’s brother stayed by the car.
Frank thought Sam might break down at this point. Thought he might be thinking of his wife and young children. Thinking about what might happen to the wonderful life he’d had ahead of him right up to the point that he’d gotten on that horse and chased Flor down.
Frank said, “This is going to get a little rough. But it ain’t over until the fat lady sings.”
Sam said, “Pinto’s got a camera. I hope he’s catching all of this.”
“You ever done any fighting?” Frank asked. “Any martial arts in your youth maybe?”
“I have some Krav Maga DVDs.”
“Some late night infomercial aerobics routine?”
“It’s totally legit.” Sam sighed. “But all they’ve been doing is gathering dust. I only watched one.”
“Well, think about what you learned on that one.” The truth was that watching some DVD could never train you in self-defense, but Sam didn’t need to hear that right now. “Do you hear the fat lady singing?”
“I do not,” Sam said.
“Then this isn’t over, is it,” Frank said. “You stay alert and keep your eyes on me. If I say Zulu, I want you to go all Mossad. You get as Krav Maga as you can be. You fight like Satan and his minions are upon you, because, in fact, they will be. And they will not take prisoners. It’s us or them. On Zulu, the Cookie Man goes Jekyll and Hyde. Do you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” Sam said.
“All right,” Frank said. “Now run that DVD through your mind.”
Sam’s heartbeat was racing. Frank could see his pulse banging away in the vein on his neck. But Sam had shown some mettle. He’d shown a lot of mettle. Frank hoped he could hold it together just a little longer.
He didn’t expect Sam to go commando. He might not land a blow. But he could distract them. And when seconds mattered, a distraction could make the difference between walking out alive and having your head sawn off with a bowie knife.
Morale wasn’t everything in battle, but it was close. You could have the best weapon systems, the most highly-trained men, but if you lost morale, the whole thing was going to swirl the drain. Frank had his dreams. He had his fears, mostly for Sam and Tony. But now was not the time to dream dreams or entertain fears. “Now is the time to focus on the mission,” Frank said. “On nothing but the mission. And the mission here is to find Tony, destroy any opposition, and then get the heck out of Dodge.”
“What about those children?”
“Keep it simple, Sam. We can help them better when we go to the cops with our tale and Pinto’s photos. Now run that DVD.”
Frank ran his own movie. He was going to require some mobility with his hands. Frank wriggled on the Barbie bench, brought his cuffed wrists down to his feet, struggle a bit, and then brought them up in front of him.
Sam tried to follow his lead, but the man was a little too big around the waist to fold as flatly as the space required, and neither his tool belt nor his injured arm was helping.
“You’re all right,” Frank said. “I bet the cops are going to want their cuffs back. I’m betting they take them off.”
Officer R. Lyman came back around the garage. His light sensitive glasses had grown a few shades darker. He and Yosemite Sam’s cousin ordered Frank and Sam out of the back seat. Then they marched them around the house to the patio.
The patio was sheltered by a high roof. It commanded a fine view of the property, which included stables, another barn-looking building, a bunk house, the riding corral ringed by nice white-post fence,
and a swimming pool enclosed by a white, wrought-iron one.
On the patio, Flor Goroza sat at a table, her face and arms starting to show some very nice bruises. She was smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke out her nostrils. Some gauze was wrapped around an arm that she must have scraped in her tumble.
There were three men with her. Two more men stood back by the sliding door to the kitchen. They were tatted up, and their heads were shaven.
One of the men with her was José, Flor’s dried-out, cigarette-ash husband. The next was Hector. He stood about six foot four. He could have played football. He certainly weighed well into the 200s. His dark hair was raked back. A smile played across his face.
The third man sat at the table; he had a strong familial resemblance to Hector and Jesus. He was older than Hector, not anywhere close to José. He was shorter, dressed in a suit with a white shirt that was open at the collar, displaying a nice gold necklace. He had the air of an exacting man who was used to being obeyed.
Frank did the math. Two out on the drive, two by the kitchen door, and the three Gorozas—that was seven. Plus wasn’t there a sentry watching the back? That could be eight, which meant that Carmen hadn’t seen everyone, or hadn’t counted them right.
Flor turned to Officer Lyman and said, “Leave them here.”
Officer Lyman replied, “Let me suggest you send someone to clean up that mess on the road before it’s called in. You wouldn’t want it tracked back.”
“Wouldn’t you be the one to respond?”
“You want paramedics and another squad car and a fire truck? As good as I am, it’s highly unlikely I’ll be able to make four bodies and two cars vanish before their eyes.”
Flor looked over at the third man sitting at the table. “Amador,” she said. “Take care of this.”
Amador nodded his head at one of the men back by the house. The man immediately opened the sliding door and disappeared inside.
Officer Lyman took a handkerchief out of one pocket. He wiped the cuffs. Then he pulled his cuff key out of another pocket, wiped it, and set the key on the table next to Flor. He folded the handkerchief and shoved it back into his pocket. “Good day,” he said. “Officer West and I now have an appointment with a doughnut.” Then he turned around and walked back toward his car. He saluted Frank and Sam as he passed. “Have fun in Hell, boys. Save me a seat at the sauna.”
Flor fingered the key, then slipped it in her leather vest pocket. “My son is dead.”
“That was Ed’s fault.”
Anger filled her face. “I don’t want to hear your lies.”
“It’s the truth.”
Amador reached behind him and came up with a wooden baseball bat. “We’ll have the truth soon enough. You’re going to tell me who killed my little brother.”
“Not here,” Flor said. “It will never come out of the stone.”
“You give me my nephew,” Frank said, “and I walk away. This is your last chance.”
Flor’s face pulled back into a threatening glower, showing her teeth, “You killed my son, then come in here making demands?”
“Ed brought me in. It is Ed who got your son killed.”
She stood up and spit in Frank’s face. Then she stepped back and sicced her boys on him with a nod. Hector came at him from one angle, Amador the other. Frank backed up and ran into Sam. Then Hector lunged.
Frank tried to dodge, but Amador jammed him in the gut with the end of the baseball bat.
Frank gasped.
“Hold him,” Amador said.
Hector grabbed Frank. Hector was not only big, but he was also strong. He locked his arms through Frank’s elbows and then behind Frank’s back.
Frank struggled to free himself.
“Hold still!” Amador said and put down his bat.
Frank raised his foot to stamp down on Hector’s, but Hector was wise to that move, and Frank missed.
Then Amador pulled back his fist and struck Frank in the jaw with a huge right hook.
Frank’s head whipped to the side. He tried to wrench away, but Amador came in with a left jab straight to his eye. He connected. Pain exploded in Frank’s face, and his head jerked back. Amador wound up and went for Frank’s nose.
Frank turned his head, letting his cheek bone take part of the blow. Amador connected. Pain shot through Frank’s nose. Blood whipped out, a drop spattering the light stone floor and another staining Flor’s shirt.
Flor looked down. “Gah! I said the pig shed.”
Amador struck Frank once more in the gut. His fist felt like an iron post.
Frank tried to struggle free, but Hector held him fast.
“Give me my nephew,” Frank said.
Flor rolled her eyes in disgust and exhaled two streams of smoke out her nose. “Get them out of here.”
Amador picked up his bat. “Tell us what we want to know, and maybe we’ll go easy on you.”
Yeah, because drug cartels were known for their gentlemanly sense of fair play.
Hector released Frank and shoved him forward.
Frank turned. “You do not want to do this.”
Hector pulled a hand gun from the back of his waistband and motioned with it toward a narrow walkway at the back of the patio that ran alongside the pool fence. “Move.”
“Where’s my nephew?”
“You’ll be together soon enough,” Hector said.
Out in front of the house, the patrol car made its way back down the drive. A moment later the Goroza’s cleanup crew followed in an SUV.
Frank turned to the walkway.
The pig shed was most likely part of the barn that stood farther out, across from the corral.
“So what happens in the pig shed?” Frank asked.
“What do you think, pendejo?” Hector said with a smile.
“Cupcake parties?” Frank offered.
“We slaughter the family pig.”
“The shed doesn’t sound like such a good place for a pig.” Didn’t sound like a good place for Frank or Sam either, but the patio wasn’t the place to fight. Too open. However, the walkway that ran alongside the pool fence was not. That nice piece of ground was just over three feet wide, flanked by the fence on one side and bushes on the other. It was just a little bit wider than a hallway in a normal house, which would force them all to walk single file.
Frank marched to the narrow walkway, making sure to get there first. Amador filed in behind him with his bat. Next came Sam, then Hector, then José bringing up the rear. Flor stayed back on the patio with her cigarette.
Frank could feel his lip swelling, his eye puffing. The swelling was already making it so he couldn’t open his eyelid all the way. He felt his aching teeth with his tongue. Amador packed a wallop.
The narrow walkway was paved with stones. Not cement look-a-likes but real slabs of red sandstone. It went well with the line of red-orange daylilies that grew just inside the pool fence. It went well with the white fence. Somebody had done some color coordination.
Frank took a few steps down the path, then slowed down just a little. He felt the line stack up behind him.
Amador rammed the end of the baseball bat into his back. “Move.”
Frank flinched. He looked around and said, “This is quite the place.”
“Amador,” Hector said. “I believe he’s trying to chat us up, break the ice. Maybe he’s got something to offer.”
“You got something to offer?” Amador asked.
“Let me think,” Frank said.
“He’s going to think,” Amador said.
“Better be quick,” Hector said. “It only takes so many blows to the head, and then the brain doesn’t think very well anymore.”
The narrow walkway was about twenty-five feet long. It didn’t feel like such a confined space because the bushes and pool fence were relatively open and only chest high. But that feeling of freedom was an illusion.
One of the fundamentals of military doctrine was to seek to use a more powerful force
to engage a less powerful one. In this case, the enemy had more numbers. So the easiest way to eliminate that advantage was to line them up so you only had to fight them one at a time.
Frank looked ahead at the pig barn. He figured now was probably as good as it was going to get. He slowed again.
“Move,” Amador said again and popped him in the back of the head with his bat. The blow was hard enough to make Frank’s jaw clack.
Frank took a step forward, then used that leg to pivot and spin around. He didn’t go for the bat. He lunged instead, his two hands locked together, and speared Amador in the throat with his knuckles.
“Zulu!” Frank shouted.
Amador’s eyes went wide. He released the bat, letting it clatter to the ground, and clutched at his throat.
Hector shoved Sam out of the way and aimed his gun at Frank.
Frank pushed the wheezing Amador at Hector.
Hector pulled the trigger. Fire shot out the muzzle, and the bullet took Amador in the chest. Then it took some of what should have been inside and blew it out his back. A smattering of blood struck Frank’s arm.
Amador went down to his knees, opening a clear shot for Hector.
Hector’s face screwed up in rage. He yelled.
Frank lunged out of the way.
Hector fired and missed.
Frank pivoted and sprang at Hector, but his foot landed on the baseball bat and rolled underneath him, causing him to stumble.
Hector swung his gun over, took careful aim.
Then Sam got his Dr. Jekyll on and came flying at Hector from the side, yelling like a mad man, hands cuffed behind his back. He barreled into the big man with his shoulder, knocking him one step to the side.
Hector turned to strike Sam, but Sam arched back like a snake and slammed forward with his forehead into Hector’s face. Right into his mouth.
Hector stumbled back into the pool fence.
Sam charged, drew back and struck again. This time his forehead connected with Hector’s nose. The nose folded over to one side, and blood began to pour out like water.
Sam pulled back, struck again. Pulled back, struck.
Hector lunged to the side to escape the mad attack.
Bad Penny Page 30