Funny how the three of us can transition from pacifists to unrepentant killers in the space of hours. But facing the ultimate fight-or-flight choice will do that. Before we even knew a choice would ever be required, Oscar was kidnapped, and our path made clear.
Carlos pulls the body behind the fermentation tank in which the drunk narco’s body resides, then rejoins us.
We advance past the fermentation tanks and creep over to the wall. Next to us is the large doorway leading to the rest of the distillery—and, hopefully, Oscar.
I peek around the doorframe.
Nothing…
…although muted sounds reach my ear—strange noises with a metallic timbre I don’t recognize.
“Weapons,” whispers Miguel. My expression must be skeptical, for he continues. “Remember what the firing range sounded like when we loaded our ammo?”
I nod in agreement.
Is this a routine activity, or have the narcos been alerted? Maybe they’ve somehow detected our presence, or perhaps they’ve discovered their outside guards are missing. Either way, we’d better move fast—before these fuckers have finished their preparations.
Our prearranged hand signals won’t work in the crypt-like gloom of this room, so Carlos leans towards us and speaks in the faintest of whispers. “Sounds like they’re readying their weapons. But we know they’re not guarding this end of the building. They’re expecting a full-on assault from the main entrance. That works to our advantage. But don’t forget: we’re still badly outnumbered, so let’s not take them on until we have to.”
Miguel and I whisper our agreement.
Carlos leans his head across the doorway and studies the passageway leading toward the distilling room. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 43
Leaving the fermentation vats behind us, we creep through the threshold into the distilling room. This larger area stretches a good forty or fifty meters long where a row of brass stills line each wall, leaving a three-meter-wide alley between them. Along this alley are crowded parallel rows of wooden barrels pushed up against the stills, waiting to store distilled tequila that never arrived.
Unlike the fermentation room, the distillation room sports meter-high windows across the top of each wall, allowing a wide swath of moonlight to spill into the room.
The illumination reveals four narcos sitting on the cement floor behind barrels—two on the left, two on the right. Their backs are turned to us. Makes sense. They figure an attack would come from the main entrance, so they’re facing that way.
Works for me.
Looks like it works for Carlos, too. With a half-grin, he motions with his head for us to return to the fermentation room.
We slip back through the opening, move a few meters along the wall, and huddle up. The narcos’ noisy preparations work to our advantage, ensuring our whispered conversation will remain undetected.
“The aging room is on the other side of the distilling room, right?” asks Carlos.
“That’s right,” I answer, “along with the drugs, Oscar, and probably most of the narcos.”
“Which explains why the four in the next room are facing that way,” says Miguel.
“Agreed,” says Carlos. “And that’ll work to our advantage.”
Miguel cocks his head, waiting to hear our mentor’s idea.
“No matter what weapons we use,” continues Carlos, “even if it’s just our hands, the narcos in the aging room will hear it. We’re too close.”
“So how is that good?” asks Miguel.
“We don’t have to worry about operating silently anymore. We’ve taken that concept as far as it’ll go. We won’t be hobbled by that constraint. We can use the guns we’ve collected on the way in here.”
Talk about the glass being half full. “That’s true,” I say, “but that also means the other…let’s see…twenty-seven or so narcos in the other rooms will hear us and come running.”
“Yes, but once we take out the four guys in the next room, we’ll have the defensive advantage.”
“Only if we take them out quickly enough to hide. It’ll only take a few seconds for the rest of them to come pouring in there.”
“Maybe,” says Carlos. “If they do, we need to have a plan to use those seconds wisely.”
Skepticism drips from Miguel’s voice. “Have anything in mind?”
“We’re already looking down their defensive line from behind. Taking those four out should be the easy part.”
“But the furthest two are a good twenty meters away,” I point out. “How do we take them out?”
“Once we pass through the doorway, I’ll head along the right wall until I’m behind the closest kettle,” says Carlos. “I’ll start firing from there. You two will crawl around to the left. The kettles and barrels on that side should keep you out of sight. Don’t fire until you’re in position at the end of that wall. The narcos will be so focused on me that they won’t see you until it’s too late.”
“What about the narcos in the aging room?” I ask.
“That’s why I want you to go along the left wall as fast as you can instead of stopping to fire. Once you reach of the end of that wall, you’ll be in position to pick them off one-at-a-time when they come through the passageway. I’ll join you all at that side of the room as soon as I can. Once the guys in the distilling room are laid out, those in the aging room will hang back, but not for long. Narcos are used to gang wars. They’re too aggressive to let gunfire slow them down for more than a minute or two. And that’ll work to our advantage.”
“How?” asks Miguel.
“They don’t know who’s attacking…that we’re here for Oscar. They’ll probably figure us for the Sinaloa cartel taking revenge for yesterday’s battle, or maybe some other cartel. Their pride will be at stake—and their territory. That means they’ll keep trying to overrun our positions, and we’ll be able to take them down when they do.”
Miguel exhales. “Seems like a dangerous plan, amigo, especially for you.”
“More for them than for me. The narcos are hiding behind the aging barrels, which are rotted out after all this time. My rounds should pass right though them. But I’ll be behind the brass still—solid metal. I might take out all four narcos before you have a chance to join the fun.”
I hope he’s right.
Sixty seconds later, we’re huddling up inches from the threshold leading into the distilling room. We remove the rifles from their positions strapped across our backs and ready them for action.
Miguel and I crouch, preparing ourselves.
“On my mark,” whispers Carlos with a reassuring nod. “Ready…set…”
CHAPTER 44
Volante surveys the men deployed inside the distillery’s main entrance. Everyone crouches in their assigned spot. And the usual mix of joking and cursing have ceased. He nods in approval at the discipline he’s finally managed to pound into these slackers.
He wonders what kind of military officer he would have made. A damn good one, that’s for sure. Who else could mobilize untrained narcos into the force in front of him? He could have made colonel, perhaps even general. His flight of fantasy carries him across one success after another in a career that never existed.
“Everyone here is all set,” says Ramirez, breaking the reverie. “Just like you said.”
“Good work,” replies Volante.
But what about the others, the ones not deployed here at the main entrance? Keeping his Magnum 45 in one hand, Volante uses the other to send a signal over his walkie-talkie. “All stations, check in.”
“Garcia here. We’re ready.”
Volante’s voice takes on an icy quality. “Garcia, how did I tell you to check in?”
“Sorry, sir. Station one, checking in, sir. Nothing to report.”
“Don’t forget next time,” grunts Volante. “All other stations, continue.”
“Station two, checking in. Nothing to report,” comes a raspy voice over the speaker.
“Station three, che
cking in. Nothing to report,” says another.
“Wait,” interrupts Volante before the next station can begin. “Any sign of the men who were outside before?”
“No, sir,” replies Garcia. “Want us to go look for them?”
“No, just stick to your posts.” Four men have already disappeared out in the farmland. Sending more to search for them risks losing additional resources before the battle with the federales has even begun. “Station four, continue the check-in.”
“Yes, sir. Station four, checking in,” says the lead man in the aging room. “Nothing to report.”
The airwaves grow silent. Volante fights the urge to swear at the pendejos in the distilling room, instead giving them ample time to transmit.
Only the slight crackle of static breaks the silence.
“Station five, you got your head up your ass?” barks Volante at last.
Still no response.
What the hell is wrong with those men? Granted, they aren’t trained soldiers, but still…
Shaking his head, Volante marches off in the direction of station five, the distilling room.
You can’t send boys to do a man’s job.
CHAPTER 45
“Go!” shouts Carlos.
He passes through the entrance to the distilling room and darts along the wall to the right. Had I not trained with him for so long, I’d be surprised a man his size could move so silently. He pads across the floor like a coyote stalking its prey.
My eyes watch him for only a split second before Miguel and I cross the threshold and peel off to the left. In a half-crouch, we hug the wall’s darkest shadows and advance towards the opposite side of the room.
We take up position behind the last distilling barrel and have started to peek around it when Carlos opens fire.
After hours of silence, the roar of gunfire is deafening. As the thunder of gunfire rolls, muzzle flashes light up the room.
A round smashes a narco up against a barrel before he can scarcely move. His head snaps sideways into the cask, then leaves a dark smear as it slides down the wooden surface.
While the other three narcos scramble around their barrels for cover, one of them points a wicked-looking silver handgun behind him and fires blind. Sparks fly as rounds ricochets off a still’s metal surface and the concrete floor. But none of the rounds lands near Carlos.
It doesn’t take long for that to change. The three surviving narcos train their weapons on Carlos’ position within seconds. The light show of sparks grows into a diabolical fireworks display.
Carlos returns the favor. His rounds chew through the aged casks, sending shards of wood and rusty metal bands spraying in all directions.
Two new plumes of gunfire catch my eye.
Shit. There are two more narcos in the room, ones we didn’t see until this moment. They were sitting behind the barrels closest to the aging room, out of our line of sight. But now they’ve joined the party, stacking the odds even further against Carlos.
Seconds apart, my mentor’s slugs find their mark. A thug with an arm wrapped around a barrel topples backwards as incoming rounds smash through the cask. Another stands up to fire and grasps his forehead as he slumps onto the barrel’s wooden top.
Even above the din, a cacophony of shouts echo from the aging room. The other narcos are coming. We have to act quickly.
The closest narco helps me with this task. Leaning over at the waist, he makes his way around the right side of his barrel. Perhaps he hopes to flank Carlos, but the tactic leads him within a meter of me.
Wanting to keep my position—and the element of surprise—hidden a little longer, I throw down my rifle, draw my machete, and thrust it straight through the man’s neck. He falls like a puppet as blood oozes over the blade’s dull steel.
Another narco somehow hears his comrade over the roar of the firefight and looks up in surprise. Miguel bum rushes him, brandishing his coa and stepping between me and our opponent.
As Miguel thrusts his coa forward, the narco swings around his rifle barrel and fires a pair of rounds.
The blast rips an evil gash in my friend’s shoulder and sends him spinning to the floor.
The face-off gives me all the time I need. Launching myself forward, I hack downwards with my machete, burying the edge of the blade in the narco’s carotid artery. An arc of blood squirts from his wound. The man’s rifle slips from his fingers, clattering on the concrete. He staggers, then takes a knee.
I chop again, and again.
The thug slumps onto his back, unblinking eyes wide open.
A lone narco still fires at Carlos.
Perhaps my mentor has run out of ammunition, for no more shots ring out from his position. It’s not like we had a lot to begin with, and Carlos wasn’t sparing the rounds.
That means I’ll need to be the one to take out this last adversary before the rest of his buddies arrive. This won’t be easy. The narco isn’t taking any chances. He keeps reloading and firing. At the moment, he’s positioned on the opposite side of his barrel and hasn’t spotted me.
Rather than consume my own ammo, I grab a rifle from the side of my first machete victim and waste no time sending a stream of hot lead in his direction. I’ve fired handguns out in the desert most of my life, but I’ve only fired a rifle a handful of times. But at such a close range, it’s hard to miss.
The narco’s position falls silent.
I rush to Miguel’s side and discover a second wound in his left bicep. If anything, this one looks worse than the shoulder injury.
“Gaby, they’re coming,” he says, glancing toward the aging room. “Take cover!”
“You, too.”
“Go. I’m coming right behind you.”
Face pale, he totters to his feet. I throw my arm around his waist to hold him steady as we hurry back to the protection of the closest still. He makes it only a handful of steps before dizziness overcomes him. He slides down the still’s copper side, head askew. He tries to rise but loses his balance again.
Miguel’s shoulder wound bleeds down his sleeve. He reaches feeble arms around to try to staunch the flow, but the awkward angle and pain render that task difficult. His eyes close. I take his pulse. Fast and weak. Shock has set in, taking him out of the battle.
The other narcos haven’t yet stormed this room. I’m not sure why, but I might as well put the time to good use. I pull the shirt off the closest narco corpse and knot it around Miguel’s shoulder and arm. Not perfect, but it should provide enough compression to keep him from bleeding to death—I hope.
All the while, I’ve been keeping an eye on the wide doorway to the aging room. Why haven’t the rest of the narcos come barging through? Perhaps despite Carlos’ prediction, they had the sense to realize they’d be picked off if they did. After all, their amigos in here didn’t fare so well.
Now that the narcos in this room have been eliminated, our plan is to bracket the others with fire when they enter.
But why isn’t Carlos advancing along his wall? It’s risky to retreat to his position, but I need to coordinate with him and make sure he’s okay.
I reach the doorway leading back to the fermentation room. Looking down the channel in the middle of this room, I fire into the aging room’s passageway. That should buy me a few more seconds.
I reach Carlos and pull up short.
He isn’t injured.
He’s dead—shot through the forehead.
CHAPTER 46
I stare, dumbstruck. A quick check of Carlos’ pulse confirms his death.
I remain squatting by my friend’s body. Part of my mind screams at me, telling me to scramble before I meet a similar fate. But my legs don’t seem to move, can’t engage while my heart processes this tragedy.
Then I remember Oscar…and Miguel. I’m all that stands between them and death at the hands of The Brotherhood.
Clenching my jaw, I retrieve from Carlos’ pocket the remote detonator for the bomb attached to the exterior wall. Then I r
ise and head back to Miguel, firing a few rounds down the room’s center alley as I pass it.
I reach Miguel. He sees me and mumbles. As I lean over him, the crackle of a walkie-talkie pierces the air. It’s clipped to the belt of a nearby body.
What a stroke of luck! I snatch it off the corpse. Next, I gather two rifles and ammo from the dead narcos. In his stupor, I’m not sure Miguel will be able to fire a rifle, but I’m certain he won’t be able to reload. So I load a full magazine into Miguel’s rifle and keep the rest for myself.
After dragging Miguel and his rifle to the far side of a still, opposite the entrance to the aging room, I listen in to the walkie-talkie’s conversation.
“What are they saying?” slurs Miguel, who’s been roused a little by the movement.
I hold up my index finger in the universal sign of wait a second. After a half minute or so, the transmissions cease. “The other narcos don’t know who we are. They think they’re fighting federales.”
Miguel manages a chuckle, then groans at the pain it creates. “Have they moved anyone towards us?”
He’s in pain, so I lay him flat on the floor as I answer. “No. Looks like they’re trying to stay a step ahead. Volante said he thinks we’re a division. He said now that some ‘troops’ have invaded through the back, the federales are hoping he’ll move his men towards us, then come through the main entrance. That’s why he’s keeping most of his men up there—to fight them off when they come.”
“So no one’s coming back here?”
“It was hard to tell. Maybe a few—” I cut myself off as three forms enter our room. They crouch behind the first two barrels, oblivious to my presence twenty meters to their right.
Miguel stirs, like he’s readying himself to speak.
I cover his mouth with my palm and shake my head. Leaning close to his ear, I whisper, “Three more just came in.”
Wait…check that—two narcos and Alex. Son-of-a-bitch!
I fume. Knowing he’s working with them is different than seeing him in action with these scumbags.
His wide eyes peer above the barrel, then duck back down for safety. Maybe the big talk about independence and wealth and achievement was just that—talk. He doesn’t look like he’s longing for independence now. More like he’s about to piss his pants.
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