The Gunman from Guadalez

by Eric Meyer

  It was as if he'd said a bomb was about to explode inside the bar. The voices stopped, and everything went quiet. The mechanic put down his beer, chugged the tequila chaser, and stood up to leave. "I never heard of it. There must be some mistake. There's no Gulfstream G650 ever landed here."

  "But we…”

  The mechanic quickly finished his beer, downed the rest of the chaser, and got up. “I never heard of that aircraft. You've made a mistake.”

  “But we…”

  He scowled. “I said I never heard of it. If I were you, I'd get out of the bar while you still can.”

  Kaz glanced at the bar and noticed the barkeep pick up a phone. He dialed and started talking urgently. Clarence saw it, too, and he read the sign right.

  “We'd better go.” He nodded to the mechanic, all smiles. “No problem, we made a mistake, Sir. We're leaving right now.”

  They hurried out into the street, dragging Eva between them, in time to see a cop car turn the corner. They ducked out of sight and watched it brake to a halt outside the bar. A cop went inside, and he came out a few minutes later. He called to the other cop in the car, who climbed out, and they started to search nearby alleyways, bars, and storefronts. Looking for them, and they were getting closer.

  Kaz looked for a way out. “We need to go, now. Something we’ve learned, the cops here work for the organization who owns that Gulfstream. Find out who, and we'll find our man.”

  “First we need to stay alive,” Clarence grunted.

  They retreated down a side street and came out on a wider street, and another cop cruiser drove past.

  “They’ve called them all out,” Eva murmured, and he had to drag her back as she went to step out into the street for a better look, “We’ve uncovered a hornets’ nest.”

  Another cruiser approached from the other direction, and a foot patrol came into view. They were boxed in.

  “What’re we gonna do?”

  He looked at Clarence. “Wait until they’ve gone.”

  “Or until the spot us?”

  Eva took a step away from them. “I can head them off and tell them you went another way. I'm a reporter. They won't touch me.”

  “No, don’t do it. Eva, no!”

  She ignored them and raced out into the street. The cops drew their guns and took aim, but when they saw it was a woman, they held their fire. Two men grabbed her and held her, shouting and protesting, but they ignored her. One cop made a call, and they stood waiting, looking up and down the street. After what seemed like an eternity, but was around a half-hour, a limo with darkened windows pulled up. The two men who climbed out needed no introduction. Narcos. Mirror glasses, sharp suits, each with a bulge under the left arm. They talked to the cops, handed over an envelope that had to be a bundle of cash, and put her in the limo.

  They were powerless to do anything and watched it drive away. They had to stand back as the cops came nearer, talking to themselves. The Spanish was hard to follow, except for a name. Señor Martinez.

  He glanced at Clarence. “Now we have a name, we can find out where they are.”

  “His place will be a fortress. Impregnable.”

  “Fortresses can be taken.”

  “With two of us?”

  “Okay, I’ll admit, it could be interesting.”

  Clarence was unconvinced. “It's not gonna work, Kaz."

  "I’ll make it work. Get Eva out, and kill Rivera."

  "He'll kill you before you even get close."

  "He can try."

  Wheeler was shaking his head. "Listen to me, Marine, you can count just the same as me. There's two of us, and those big-time narcos can call in an entire army." He held up a hand to stop him interrupting, "No, no, I'm not saying we shouldn't do it. I'm just saying we can't do it without help."

  “Help, down here in Mexico? You may as well look for water in the middle of the desert."

  "There is someone I know, an old Marine buddy of mine, Master Sergeant Manuel Cuevas. He retired to Mexico, even though he's a naturalized U.S. citizen, and I heard he bought a ranch with his severance pay. It's at a place called Samalayuca, about thirty miles south of Ciudad. He'd help a fellow Marine, I know it."

  He didn't like it, not one bit.

  Bringing in a Mexican, who’s to know if he has connections to the drug gangs? Like most people south of the border. Although if Clarence vouches for him, that does make a difference.

  “Okay, see what he says. You’re sure he’s reliable?”

  “Semper Fi, my friend.” The motto of the Marine Corps.

  “Okay, then.”

  The city was coming alive with the new day, streets filling with people. They were able to walk out hidden by the crowds and hitch a lift on the main highway heading south. A United States registered truck delivering air conditioning units, who stopped when he saw American faces.

  They climbed into the cab, grateful for the ride. The driver eyed them up and down for several seconds. With one hand out of sight, both men knew it would be touching the butt of a gun at the side of the seat. He decided what he saw wasn't a threat. The big semi rig rolled south, and in less than an hour they were walking up the long drive to the ranch of Manuel Cuevas, retired Master Sergeant, United States Marine Corps. He came out to greet them personally when he saw them approach. His face lit up when he recognized Clarence Wheeler.

  "Corporal Wheeler, as I live and breathe. What brings you here? Don't tell me you've decided to take up horse riding?"

  He shook his head. "Manuel, the last time I got on a horse, I fell off. Nearly broke my neck."

  "You should have landed on your head. You always were hardheaded. So, I guess it's something else." He was no fool, "You need my help."

  Clarence explained that Martinez was sheltering the shooter who'd carried out the slaughter in Lewes. That he’d kidnapped Eva McCoy, and if they didn't get her back, he’d most likely kill her. That if they didn’t locate and kill the shooter, the bodies would continue to pile up.

  He nodded slowly. "I know of Martinez. He has a huge spread up in Guadalez. As for the shooter, it has to be Diego Rivera. Almost the whole of Mexico lives in terror of that guy. He'd slaughter his own mother if he got the idea into his head. And if someone paid enough."

  "Not an easy target to take down."

  He grimaced. "You’ve chosen just about the hardest target in the Americas, North and South. Martinez has scores of soldiers on his payroll, and plenty of them live on his place. As well as that he can call on many more if he needs them. Taking on Martinez, it's a bit like you two men taking on the ISIS threat in Syria. Except Martinez’s crew makes ISIS look like a Boy Scout troop. They’re the most ruthless, cold-blooded killers, and you’d be lucky to even get near them. Even luckier if you pulled this off and survived, and I wouldn't rate your chances."

  Clarence shrugged. “Nevertheless, we're going in. We have to do this, Manuel."

  He gave him a long, hard look. "You been hitting the sauce again, buddy?"

  "Not in a couple of days."

  He frowned. "I guess that's a start. A couple of weeks would be better, and two months or two years even better." He looked at Kaz. "You look fit enough, Mister, at least fit enough for a cushy Sheriff’s job in the North, but for this, it’s not enough. You’re talking about the big league.”

  "What’re you saying?"

  "I'm saying you need to get fit, both of you. If you're going to tackle Martinez, you need to be tough, to move fast and shoot straight, like real Marines. Shoot straight when you're under fire from a dozen narcos doing their level best to kill you.”

  “That sounds like a long haul, Manuel.”

  He grimaced. “And then some. I can help, but it'll take time. At least a month to get you two guys up to scratch."

  "We don't have a month. Eva doesn't have a month. A week maybe, they won't keep her alive any longer. After that she's dead. She may already be dead.”

  He nodded slowly. "Okay, a week will have to do. I’ll do my bes
t with you guys. Come inside, I'll get some breakfast, and we’ll get started. In the meantime, I'll see what I can find out about Señor Martinez and his hitman."

  It was the beginning of the hardest few days Kaz had gone through in his life, including Marine boot camp. Running up and down steep hills, all of them soft sand dunes, every step agony as he extracted his boot from the sand to take the next one. Even worse, Manuel made them take turns carrying the M-60, with a pack on their backs loaded with the cartridge belts. At the end of the first day, every muscle in his body ached, and he concluded anything was better than this. Dying would be easier. The second day was even worse. Every muscle on fire, his lungs panting for breath, raw and burning with the effort, and at every step he fired a curse at Manuel. Yet he kept going. Clarence was twenty years older and newly sober, yet he surprised him. He kept pace with Kaz, and sometimes he even got past him. By the third day, his mind was a blur. There was just running uphill with heavy weights, the sand holding him back, and the weightlifting in Manuel's gym set up in an old barn. At the end of the day, he fell into the first deep sleep he'd had in a long time.

  Yet he felt better than he had for a long time. On the fourth morning it all started again, and he was racing up the hills, carrying the M-60, the pack with cartridge belts on his back. Manuel had increased the load with lead weights. He went past the pain threshold and came out the other side. His legs moved like pistons, stronger than they'd been when they arrived. He was unbelievably fitter and faster in such a short time, more than he would have believed possible.

  It was going well. So well, that he relaxed his concentration at the wrong moment. His boots slipped on a loose, hidden rock. He fell and threw out his arm to cushion the fall. He landed on his right wrist and pain shot up his arm. When he pulled himself to his feet, he tried to pick up the M-60 that he’d dropped, but his right hand wouldn't take the weight. Already he could see the swelling in the muscles. Clarence stopped beside him.

  "You need to get that strapped up. Get back to the house, and I'll get Manuel to put a dressing on it."

  It needed more than a dressing. Manuel examined the wrist, and he looked grim. “It’s a sprain, a bad one. There’s no way you can carry on now."

  "I have to," he snapped, "We're so close. We have to keep going."

  “Hombre, you can't carry the M-60. You can't even use that wrist to fire a pistol. What’re you going to do, swear at them, and hope it frightens them away? It’ll take a while to recover, a few weeks, and you can try again when it's healed."

  He shook his head. "No way. Eva needs us, and Rivera will already be lining up his next targets. It must end now. We go on."

  They ate lunch, and afterward, Kaz couldn’t take the wait any longer. “We’ve heard so much about this guy Paco Martinez, we should go check out his place. Treat it as a Marine operation, and the first priority is to recon the enemy.”

  Manuel grunted. “The first priority is planning.”

  “There’s no time. We’ll drive up to Guadalez to see how it looks. Getting in, getting out, and what we’re likely to face when we’re inside.”

  It made sense, and the former Marine offered them the loan of his Ford F150 truck. They set off in the late afternoon, heading for Guadalez. When they arrived, the place was no surprise, like so many small towns in Mexico, a mix of poverty and wealth. Mostly dirty, with litter-strewn streets and cars up on blocks. The people, mainly men were sitting outside their houses, staring into space, without work, without money, without hope.

  When they arrived at Martinez’s place, everything was different. Several acres ringed by a high wall topped with razor wire. As they drove slowly past, Clarence said, “Razor wire won’t cause us any problems. Throw a tarpaulin over it and climb over. Easy.”

  “The security cameras,” Walker pointed out, staring up at the nearest lens. The cameras were modern and sophisticated, although he had no idea how sophisticated. He’d heard of facial recognition systems, but the Lewes PD never had the budget to consider installing them.

  Paco Martinez had no such problems, and his security boss made it his business to identify everyone who came close to his house. As he continued talking to Clarence, the computer system linked to the camera was already flashing his photo around the world, searching for a name to fit the face, “They’re everywhere, mounted on posts, and although we can’t see the main house from the road, there’s sure to be plenty of them.”

  “We’ll go in at night.”

  He pointed at the top of the posts. “Floodlights, and my guess is they’ll have sensors to trigger them. It’s not going to be easy.”

  “Any ideas, Kaz? There has to be a way in.”

  He was thinking hard, and several solutions came to him. Find a truck taking in supplies and conceal themselves inside was one idea. Except when they drove past for a second time, a truck pulled up at the gates, and the security guards were unloading the cargo. Mostly cardboard cartons, and it’d probably be foodstuffs, or maybe household supplies. Whatever it was, they weren’t taking any chances.

  “Forget hiding in a truck. It’s not going to work.”

  Clarence grimaced. “Any other ideas?”

  “Only one. Apart from a frontal attack, that is.”

  “Kaz, we don’t have an M1 Abrams.”

  “In which case, it’ll have to be Plan B.”

  “Plan B?”

  “A diversion. We can see four guards at the gate, and we have to assume twenty, thirty, maybe forty or fifty inside. We need to send them a message, make them think they’re under attack.” He grinned, “Like you are saying, an M1 Abrams. We don’t have one, but we can make them think we have.”

  “How?”

  “Explosives, a big bang, enough to stop them running to find out what’s happening, like they’re under a major attack.”

  “We don’t have explosives.”

  “Manuel is sure to know where we can get them. I want to drive around town some more, see what kind of place it is. The more we know about it the better, because when we need to get out of here in a hurry, it’ll be useful to know where we’re going.”

  They drove back into the town. They were fortunate the Ford truck was sufficiently ancient and covered in enough dust and dirt to not attract any undue attention. Clarence was driving, and he pulled into a gas station. “We’ll fill up with gas and replace what we’ve used. Besides, I could use some smokes.”

  He pumped fuel until the tank was full and went inside to pay. Kaz was watching the street the other side, rather the storefronts. In the center, was what looked like a hotel or more likely a rundown bordello. He saw men and women entering and leaving. The men were nondescript. They could have been anything, farmers, factory workers, or even day laborers. The women were whores, no question. The length of the skirts, the height of the heels, and the make-up troweled onto their tired faces left no doubt.

  He looked away. It was none of his business. Clarence was paying for the fuel and a packet of smokes. He looked back across the street, and an altercation started. A woman raced out of the brothel, followed by two men. They grabbed her and started shouting, their faces contorted with rage. He assumed it was an argument about payment, until one man raised his hand and delivered a stunning punch to the woman’s face. She fell onto the dusty street and tried to climb up. The other man sneered as he went forward and delivered a hard kick.

  A scream of pain echoed up and down the street. Faces turned to watch and turned back. No one was interested. No one was prepared to help a woman on her own being beaten in broad daylight. In his head he knew he shouldn’t do it, but in his heart, he knew he had to. He opened the door and raced across the street. The guy who’d delivered the kick had lifted his boot to kick her again. Kaz grabbed his boot, wincing with the pain of his wrist, twisted, and threw him facedown into the dirt.

  He was stunned enough not to get up right away, but his pal, the guy who’d delivered the punch, had other ideas. He ran at Kaz, fists raised, and managed to
land a hard punch he only just managed to twist away from. Instead of it slamming into his belly, the blow merely grazed his side. The Mexican cursed, and his hands dropped to his side. Kaz had no idea what he was going for, a gun or a knife. He wasn’t about to find out.

  He moved in close, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it up and behind his back. The audible snap as the shoulder dislocated caused the man to gasp in agony, and he tried to use his other hand to reach the weapon concealed beneath his jacket.

  He shook his head. “You guys never learn, do you?”

  The last thing he needed was to leave him armed and ready to attack again. So he took hold of the other wrist, swing up and behind his back again, and for the second time the awful snap as the shoulder dislocated was the precursor to another scream of pain. This time louder and shriller than the first, echoing up and down the street. The first man he’d put down was getting up, still dazed after the blow, and Kaz grabbed hold of his shirtfront.

  “Amigo, if I were you, I’d stay down. You’ll find it healthier that way.”

  The man’s gaze was more astonished than scared. “Do you know who we work for? You’ve heard of Paco Martinez? When he finds out what you’ve done, you’re dead!”

  He nodded. “I’ve heard of him, and if he goes along with treating women the way you do, he’s not worth a mouthful of spit.”

  “He’ll kill you!”

  With that, he wrenched himself away and swung a punch at his head. It whistled past him as he shifted a couple of inches to the side, so he had no choice. He brought his fist up in the into the guy’s groin, and as he doubled over in agony, began to demolish him. A triple punch to the head splattered his nose against his face, and a final perfect chop to the side of his neck stretched him out on the ground, alongside his pal.

  He looked around when he heard footsteps, but it was Clarence running from the other side of the street. “Jesus Christ, Kaz, what gives?”

  He pointed to the woman. “They were giving her a hard time, beating her up, so I just explained a few things.” He looked at the woman. “Ma’am, are you okay?”