The Rebel of Goza

by Steven F Freeman

  As angry as I am at Alex, his presence is still a dilemma. Knowing how ruthless narcos act towards the innocent, I have no problem giving them a taste of their own medicine. But Alex is different. Since discovering his betrayal, I’ve hoped to have a chance to cut off his cajones. But shooting him? I can’t visualize that. Alex let his dreams drown out his common sense. Unlike the narcos, I can’t see him taking a busload of students to the desert and murdering them all.

  My walkie-talkie crackles to life again. I rush to turn it down. Did the trio in this room with us hear it?

  No. The transmission on their own unit drowned out the one on mine. I put the unit to my ear.

  “This is your chance, amigo,” says a commanding voice. “Take out some federales, and we’ll know you can be trusted.”

  “You can count on me,” squeaks the reply. Even over the garble of the transmission, there’s no mistaking that voice: Alex.

  I see him peek around the side of a barrel, a sleek grey sidearm clenched in his hand.

  Would he really shoot federal police? At this point, would he have a choice?

  At least I don’t have to worry about his two companions. From their dozens of tattoos to their gangster clothes, they’re unmistakable narcos of the most hardcore variety.

  One of the thugs swings his arm, pointing towards different spots along the back wall. They spread out, taking up positions, unaware they’re being watched.

  I study their positions. They’re so focused on the end of the room, the source of Carlos’ earlier shots, that they gave my direction only a cursory glance before ignoring it.

  The closest narco is three or four meters away, the next one maybe ten. If I’m quick enough, perhaps I can take advantage of their tunnel vision and take them both out. That would leave only Alex.

  I take a second to mentally rehearse my movements, then emerge from behind the still and pepper them with half a magazine of shots within seconds, unleashing a tempest of flame and noise.

  The first narco falls on the first shot, the second on nearly the last one, after he’s managed to fire off a few rounds of his own. But now both narcos lie in twisted heaps on the floor. These fuckers will never again kill women and kids for profit.

  Before Alex’s vision can recover from the dazzle of muzzle flashes, I move behind the still and scope the far side of the room.

  On the far side of the room, Alex’s terrified eyes peer out from behind a barrel

  I hold my fire, wondering what he’ll do. Will he look for a way to avoid Volante’s order to kill?

  Alex’s walkie-talkie squawks, but I can’t make out the incoming transmission.

  He emerges from behind a shot-up barrel. He creeps forward on unsteady legs, leaning low and holding the sidearm a bit too far out in front of him. I wonder if he’s ever fired a pistol before. He used only rifles during our visits to the gun range.

  I move behind my still to hide my presence until Alex is closer. His footsteps approach, almost on top of me. And yet I still can’t bring myself to fire.

  The footsteps stop.

  “Amigo,” says Alex, just out of sight. “All this was you?”

  Of course. Miguel is lying across the floor, much easier to spot.

  “You’ve had a thing for Gaby for a long time, haven’t you?” continues Alex. “What…you trying to be a cowboy? Impress her?” He shuffles a step closer. “Maybe she’s not with me anymore, but I can make damn sure she’ll never be with you.”

  The metallic click of a handgun’s hammer being drawn back echoes in the silence.

  Fuck!

  I emerge from my spot and level my rifle at him. “Drop it!”

  Alex spins a quarter turn to stare at me. “Gaby!” He pivots his handgun, training it on me.

  Before he can squeeze the trigger, I fire off three shots: two to his chest, and one to the head as he’s falling. He tumbles straight backwards, his head impacting the wall with a sickening crack on the way down.

  Sightless eyes stare at the ceiling. Alex is dead. Perhaps later some kind of emotional storm will hit me, but at the moment, my heart is numb.

  I rush back to Miguel. Blood from his wounds leaks from around both makeshift bandages.

  “Gaby,” he mumbles, trying to rise.

  “Stay here,” I tell him while placing a gentle hand on his chest to restrain him.

  “Are you kidding?” he says, once again struggling to sit up but failing. “You and Carlos can’t take on the rest of the cartel by yourselves.”

  I’ll tell him about Carlos later. That’s the last bit of news he needs to hear while his own life hangs in the balance. “You’re probably right, but you’re too wounded to fight anymore. We definitely can’t take care of you and try to fight the narcos at the same time. Stay here. Rest. Then we can focus on what we need to do.”

  He starts to nod before his head slumps to the side. He flinches, mumbles something incoherent, then closes his eyes.

  “Stay here,” I repeat.

  He mumbles something incoherent, then closes his eyes.

  I pray my improvised bandage will be enough to keep Miguel alive. Given the uncertainty, my first instinct is to stay here and tend to his care. But if I did, we’d be overrun by angry narcos in minutes. No, the only way to keep him safe and ensure Carlos’ sacrifice doesn’t go to waste is to enter the room where Oscar is surely being held.

  It’s time to rescue my brother.

  CHAPTER 47

  Volante crouches behind one of the crates of talco, his mind racing. The narcos in the aging room have just given him an update of the last five minutes’ combat. Good thing he arrived here when he did, or more of them might have made a foolhardy charge into the line of fire awaiting them in the distilling room.

  What would the great generals do? Alexander the Great, Sun Tzu, Napoleon, Santa Anna, Lee, Patton? In their battles, they experienced flashes of insight, a knack for move and countermove. The key to victory is thinking like the enemy, anticipating his logical course of action, and preparing the appropriate counterattack.

  The federales caught him a little off guard by launching an attack from the rear of the building. And he’d paid the price: eight men gone, plus Alex Flores—not that that spoiled sack of shit was good for anything in a fight anyway. Volante could only hope his men had taken out an equal number of federal agents before perishing.

  The federales hold a tactical advantage in the next room. They can sit back and wait for Volante’s men to attack, then continue to pick them off as they pass through the doorway. But why should Volante oblige them? After all, the federales are the invaders. If they want the talco, they’ll have to come to him.

  “Sir, do you want me to bring in some of the men from the main entrance?” pants Chavez, who has just caught up.

  “No!”

  The man’s face screws up in utter confusion. He looks to the distilling room, then back to his boss. “But the federales…?”

  “…are waiting for us back at the main entrance,” finishes Volante.

  Chavez cocks his head, dog style.

  “Don’t you see?” snarls Volante. “It’s a trick. They’re trying to lure us away from there…divide our forces. Then they’ll send their main force through the main entrance once our defenses there are weak. But I’m a step ahead of them. I’m not going to pull my defenses out of that spot. When they attack, we’ll annihilate them.”

  “But what about the federales in the next room?”

  “You’re right. We can’t just leave them.” He raises his voice. “Hernández, Alarcón…advance until you’re ten meters from that next room. Don’t go in. Just make sure no one tries to come through.”

  “Yes, sir!” Relief oozes from the voices of the hardened narcos. Apparently, they had no appetite for charging into the distilling room and meeting the same fate as their dead comrades. Now such a reckless charge is unnecessary.

  Trying to stay low, the two narcos waddle in a crouch to the last pair of barrels and take up p
ositions behind them.

  Volante turns to his right-hand man. “First we beat back the federales at the main entrance—pick them off one at a time as they try to come through. Then we redeploy most of the men here and take out the ones left in the distilling room. Then we’ll have our product, and all the federales’ weaponry.”

  CHAPTER 48

  I take a deep breath. Maybe this won’t be so bad. After all, didn’t Carlos say Volante would probably leave most of the narcos at the main entrance? Or am I just trying to convince myself that this last stage of our attempted rescue isn’t as impossible as it seems.

  Without the bomb Carlos planted outside the aging room, I’d have no chance. Even with it, the odds look pretty long. I pause to tally up how many narcos we’ve eliminated: the outside sentries, plus the men in the fermentation and distilling rooms. All told, we’ve taken out sixteen, leaving eighteen standing between me and my brother.

  So many. Shit.

  It can’t be helped. The only way out of here is through the next room.

  Lowering myself to a crawl, I pull the rifle onto my arm so it won’t drag, then slide on my belly towards the entrance to the aging room. The position limits my mobility, but I’m less worried about my reaction time than an incoming narco spotting me and taking me out.

  Noises echo from the spacious aging room, but as yet, no one appears. Thank God.

  Reaching the doorway’s edge, I stop and draw the Camry key from my pocket.

  It’s time to light the candle. I squeeze the lock symbol.

  Nothing.

  Depressing the unlock symbol releases hell. A muffled whump precedes an explosion that vibrates the building to its core and sends a shockwave washing over my face. If that’s a small blast, I’d hate to see what Carlos would have considered a large one.

  Still on my stomach, I peek around the doorway just as a commanding voice—surely Volante’s—orders men to deploy to the newly formed opening.

  The two closest men stagger into an impenetrable dust cloud obscuring the entire left side of the aging room. A cacophony of shouts and a few cries from the wounded rise from the chaos on that side.

  Time to move. I crawl through the doorway and snake off to the right, pulling up behind an overturned barrel.

  Now…where the hell is Oscar? And did the blast injure him? Finding him won’t be easy. Even on this side of the room, it’s difficult to see through the dusty haze, like peering through translucent glass.

  “Sir,” shouts a voice from within the dust cloud. “I don’t see anyone out there!”

  “They’re not gonna stand up and wave their dicks at you,” replies Volante’s disembodied voice. “The only reason they’d blow the wall is to come through the opening. Take up defensive positions. Be ready.”

  “Yes, sir!” reply several men at once.

  Carlos was right. Volante assumes an armed force is attacking him, not a lone woman. That element of surprise is my only advantage. I have to play it right.

  I low crawl to the next barrel, this one remaining upright. Glancing around each side of it fails to reveal Oscar’s location. Perhaps some of the narcos had been concentrated around him before the blast. If so, they’ve now left their easy guard duty to face an unknown enemy outside the crumbling wall. Perhaps they’ve left him unguarded.

  I’ve made it to a third barrel when a voice calls out. “Sir, who’s that there?”

  From fifteen meters away, a dust-covered man points a grimy digit my direction, then turns to see if he’s been heard.

  Fuck! So much for the element of surprise.

  Pulling myself up to one knee, I raise my rifle and squeeze the trigger in one fluid motion. The blast roars through the room and sends the narco hurling backwards.

  Heads turn. One thug shouts a warning, then another.

  I execute a frantic low crawl, moving sideways to a pile of collapsed shelving.

  A narco with a wicked-looked rifle strapped around his neck sends a hail of bullets slicing through the upper half of the barrel I’ve just left. A splinter from this fusillade rips a gash in my cheek, sending a tendril of warm liquid down my chin. That’s the least of my problems.

  “Don’t fire over there!” yells Volante. “You’re more likely to hit our own men than the unfriendlies. Just make sure they don’t advance.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Through the dust, I can barely make out a pair of scowling faces peering from behind the pile of crates.

  Not my fault they’re fighting with one hand tied to their cajones. I unload my clip in their direction. My rounds chew up their wooden crates and send a narco tumbling backwards.

  “Fuck this,” says his companion. He lets loose his own maelstrom of bullets.

  Splinters fly.

  A searing, white-hot sensation lances through my left forearm. Shit—I’m hit!

  Pain blurs my vision. Oscar…Miguel…what will happen to them if I go down? And what will happen to me before they finish the job?

  Rounds and debris continue to rain around me.

  Nothing like fear-induced adrenaline to supply a jolt of unexpected energy. Keeping my left arm off the floor, I manage to crawl along the concrete, grateful for the haze’s partial concealment.

  My adversary stops firing—probably to reload. I roll onto my back behind more debris and rest the rifle on my stomach. Ejecting my magazine and popping in the partially filled one, I return the favor, squeezing off a shot every second or two.

  The narco finishes reloading and resumes fire. He’s sent a handful of rounds my direction when one of mine at last finds its mark.

  The narco careens sideways onto the floor and twitches like a victim of satanic possession. Only when he falls still seconds later do I see the puddle of blood pooling under his head.

  Volante’s voice cuts through the room. “No, stay there!”

  I freeze in confusion. No one here asked him a question. Realization hits me: he must be on a walkie-talkie. “This enemy commander is clever. He wants me to bring you in here so he can walk right through the front door.”

  What a stroke of luck! The men guarding the main entrance will remain there. That means fewer of them trying to kill me while I’m searching for Oscar.

  Speaking of my brother, where the hell is he? The haze has spread to all four corners of the aging room. I look to Volante’s side of the room, but the smoke hasn’t dissipated enough to afford a full view. On my side, the view is clear enough to see that Oscar isn’t here. That can only mean one thing: my brother is being held near Volante himself.

  My arm throbs. A trickle of blood runs down my grimy wrist. As sporadic rounds continue to fly overhead, I use my bandana to create a makeshift bandage around my arm. The pain doesn’t let up, but the flow of blood slows to the slightest trickle.

  I take a deep breath, then move in an arc behind the barrels towards the other side of the room. With my injured limb, normal crawling is impossible. I lean sideways and make progress using a crooked, shuffling motion.

  Now to penetrate the fog…and find my brother.

  CHAPTER 49

  After ten meters of awkward movement, my breath comes in gasps. My forearm wound feels like it’s ignited, and my lungs are incapable of drawing in enough oxygen. For the third time, I stop to suck in breath like a landlocked flounder.

  Oscar is going to owe me for this big time. The thought of sharing that observation with him brings a smile to my lips. With the grim realization that this conversation might never occur, my grin vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

  Sixteen narcos. How many of them are in this room, hidden in the slowly clearing dust cloud? Probably not even half—not if they’re expecting an all-out attack from the main entrance.

  The occasional report of gunshots reminds me that those who remain in here are not my friends. I fight the urge to peek around my cover to see where my adversaries have taken up position. But rounds punching through old casks and ricocheting off cement walls convince me to keep out of sig
ht.

  I reach the doorway and continue shuffling along the floor, planning my next steps. I wish Carlos were here. He always had good ideas. Now it’s up to me.

  And that’s cool. This rescue mission was my idea. Time for me to step up—succeed or die trying.

  I drag myself further into the smoke on the room’s left side. Standing a little taller, I swing around my rifle to aim it ahead and clutch it desperately. This grip reduces my speed even more, but I can’t afford to let one of these fuckers get the drop on me.

  I inch forward, wondering where I’d keep a prisoner if I were Volante. A sense of lurking danger smothers me, screaming at me to run. But there’s no way I’ll live with that kind of regret the rest of my life. If my brother…

  An explosion of gunfire erupts from the main entrance. How can that be? Are jittery narcos shooting at agave shadows and night hawks?

  The rumble of gunfire from the main entrance grows to a full-on fusillade, drowning out all noise here in the aging room. Only an actual gun battle could produce such a deafening roar. It must be the Sinaloa Cartel, seeking revenge for yesterday’s battle. The attack couldn’t come at a better time.

  “Here they come!” shouts Volante, a strange hint of glee in his voice. “Time to use your weapons, boys.”

  I’m close enough to the drug lord to hear the crackle of his walkie-talkie. He’s talking to his men at the main entrance.

  “Sir, we’ve lost three men,” comes a frightened voice over the airwaves. “Can you send more?”

  Silence. At last, Volante speaks. “You’ll get four. That’s all I can spare.”

  “Got it.”

  “Salazar, Ubilla, Gaibort, Vicario…get up there,” commands Volante.

  Pounding footsteps announce the narcos’ quick exit. Now how many do I face? A handful? Less?

  The haze finally begins to clear—not completely, but enough to see more than a meter ahead.