The Gunman from Guadalez

by Eric Meyer

  “We want you to draw a diagram for us.”

  “Sure, I said I would.” She looked at Manuel. “And thanks for taking me in. I’ll pay you back every cent for my board and lodge.”

  He waved away. “It’s on the house. The place is brighter and more interesting with a woman in it.”

  She smiled at the compliment. “I’ll draw the diagram. By the way, do you know about the woman at Paco’s place? The American?”

  Kaz moved closer. “Tell us what you know.”

  * * *

  Paco Martinez wrote on a slip of paper, ended the call, and glanced at Alberto. “We have him.”

  “Have who, Jefe?”

  “This American who beat up our men in the town. He’s the Sheriff from Lewes.”

  “Lewes in New Mexico? The city where…”

  He gave him a wolfish smile. “Where Diego went on a killing spree. Put the fear of God into those Norte Americanos.” His grin faded, “Do we know where he’s gone now?”

  “No, Jefe. He took the Jaguar and left town. We don’t know where he’s gone.”

  “We’ll worry about Diego later. In the meantime, that Sheriff has come to us. He’s in Mexico, and I have his cell number. A call to our contacts in Telcel, and they will triangulate his position. I will show this man the price of beating up on my men.” He passed the man the paper, “Get onto it, and tell them I want to know where he is. Now.”

  “Yes, Jefe.”

  He ran off and came back ten minutes later. “We have him, Jefe. He’s in Samalayuca.”

  Paco’s brow furrowed. “Samalayuca? What’s he doing there?”

  A shrug. “I’ve no idea, there’s nothing…wait. Wasn’t there a retired United States Marine who set up in business down there? A ranch. Something to do with horses.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “No, he has little to do with the locals. He’s Mexican, but his customers come from outside the country. Mainly the United States and Canada. What do you want me to do about him?”

  He pondered for a few moments weighing the advantages. His contact in America wanted him dead and his body returned to Lewes, blamed for the mall shootings. Which would put Diego in the clear, provided his killing spree had ended. If not…too bad, they wanted this gringo dead, and he deserved nothing less for attacking his men.

  “Take a team, go down there, and kill them all. What happened to the girl who escaped?”

  “I guess she’s still with this American. You want me to bring her back?”

  “No, kill her, too. Take some more men and plenty of ammunition. And some gasoline, you can burn this place out as well. A lesson to anyone who thinks they can attack my men and get away with it. When you’ve finished, I want nothing left except a smoldering ruin and bodies.”

  “Yes, Jefe.”

  “Get moving. And Alberto, don’t let me down. Comprendes?”

  “Si, Jefe. I will not fail. They’re as good as dead.”

  * * *

  The going was even harder. Pounding up and down the dunes, and Manuel was with them. Even at his age, he kept up, and sometimes put them to shame, outrunning and outshooting them both. His wrist hurt like hell, and once he fell and without thinking threw out his arm to cushion the fall. The pain was agonizing, and he had to call a halt.

  “Manuel, I need to take a break and start again later today.”

  “You’re pushing it too hard, Kaz. Take the rest of the day to rest. We’ll get back to it tomorrow.”

  “There isn’t time. I have to keep going.”

  “I don’t agree. Juanita,” he called to the girl they’d rescued, “We’ll take our lunch early, if that’s okay.”

  “Yes, Manuel.”

  She gave him a dazzling smile, and it was already obvious what was happening. Her story wasn’t unusual, forced into prostitution due to poverty. In her case, she had a child, who was eight-years-old and attending a boarding school. He didn’t ask how she could afford it, and he guessed there were charities in Mexico that covered that kind of thing.

  She set out the picnic on a cloth square, and they sat around to eat it, washing the burrito down with lukewarm Mexican Corona beer. Kaz massaged his wrist, trying to restore some feeling to his hand, and all it did was make it worse. Juanita was engaged in a murmured conversation with Manuel, and he and Clarence exchanged glances without speaking. If it worked out for them, she deserved a break, and she seemed like a decent enough woman for the former Marine.

  Clarence suddenly looked away, back toward the house. “Can you smell smoke?”

  He sniffed the air, and there was no doubt, something was on fire. He looked at Manuel. “Something’s burning, and it’s coming from your place.”

  He looked up fast. “You’re right. Run!”

  He picked up the M-60 with his good hand, slinging the pack with the belts on his back. They went fast, grabbing everything, and made a mad dash for the house nearly a mile away. As they drew nearer, smoke could be seen billowing out from the building, and Manuel picked up speed.

  “It hasn’t reached the stables yet. I have six horses in there. I’ll get them out first. Clarence, call 911 and get the fire brigade moving. Kaz, if you can reach it, there’s an extinguisher in the kitchen. I expect that’s where the fire’s coming from. Take care. And, Juanita, come with me.”

  They were almost at the house when Kaz spotted something wrong. A truck was parked outside, and a man was watching over it. A narco, and it wasn’t hard to work out what had happened. Clarence was in the front yard, putting through the call and he shouted, “Get over to the stable, and tell Manuel we have trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  He pointed to the man guarding the truck. “One there, and there’ll be more around somewhere. It’s an attack.”

  “Roger that, I’ll tell him we need weapons.”

  Clarence still had the phone pressed to his ear as he ran. Kaz walked toward the truck guard. The guy had been listening to music through headphones, so he didn’t hear him coming. Not until the last minute, and he swiveled around. His mouth opened like a goldfish when he saw the gringo in front of him, and he made a grab for the gun in the holster. Kaz swung the M-60, and the steel barrel hit him hard on the head, knocking him down. He made another grab for the gun, and he had no choice but to finish it. He snatched out the Browning Hi-Power and fired a single shot that took him in the neck. He began choking. Kaz knelt beside him and gave the neck a hard twist, Marine style.

  He left the body on the ground and started toward the house, but Manuel and Clarence were ahead of him. Both men armed with automatic rifles that the Mexican would have stashed in the stables. “Kaz, we’ll handle the house. Stop that truck getting here.”

  “Truck? It’s already here.”

  Over the noise of the fire he hadn’t heard the engine. “Not that one, the other one.”

  He looked down the drive. Another vehicle was roaring toward them, an open back truck, and the back was crowded with men. He counted six armed men, and another man in the cab with the driver. Eight hostiles, and he was armed with a Browning automatic, useless against those kinds of numbers. He felt the weight in his hand and went to put it down.

  He didn’t hesitate. Browning on the ground, bipod out, cartridge belt inserted in the breech, raise the rear sight, and he lay down behind the butt with it pulled into his shoulder. The truck was getting nearer and nearer, no more than eighty yards away, and coming on fast. He took aim at the driver and paused. He calculated fifty yards would be about right, near enough to make sure he got them all. Seventy yards, sixty yards, almost there. Fifty-five, take aim. Lead the target by a fraction, fifty yards, and he squeezed the trigger.

  The noise was like the kind of drill they use on road mending gangs, but the effect was altogether different. His bullets tore into the driver, and he walked the fire across to the passenger. Both men were dead before the truck left the road. It went over on its side and slid along the ground, shedding men as it skidded to a
stop. Some made it out, others were trapped beneath the upturned vehicle, and he counted three leakers. They were running toward the house, as if their lives depended on reaching the men they’d been sent to kill. He had no doubt that’s why they were here. The first truck had torched the house, and it was only luck that had delayed the second truck. He heard firing and ignored it. He had three men to deal with, three men to stop from reaching Manuel’s house. And whoever was back there it was down to Clarence and the Mexican. Two former Marines, and he’d no doubt they’d handle it.

  He was about to fire a short burst to take down the leading man when the three runners suddenly spotted him and changed direction. Running toward him, and it was like a suicidal charge. Three narcos, confident they could terrorize and kill any man who opposed them. They were still thirty yards away, and he could see their faces contorted into expressions of hatred and vengeance. They were firing at him, using assault rifles, M-16s, and bullets spat into the ground around him, although none came near. They were hoodlums, not trained soldiers.

  He was a trained soldier, and his bullets didn’t miss. There were plenty of bullets, two hundred of them, of which he fired no more than twenty. He could spare a few more, and he squeezed the trigger and kept it squeezed, sending a long line of bullets. They tore into the men, tossing them aside like straw in the wind. He didn’t need to check if they were dead. He’d seen enough dead men in the Middle East, their bodies torn apart by machine gun bullets. There was renewed firing coming from behind the house. He picked up the weapon, and as he ran, he made a quick calculation. He’d fired no more than sixty bullets, which meant one hundred and forty rounds to help his friends. Enough.

  They had them pinned down. Manuel and Clarence were inside the stables, with the lower half door closed, firing from over the top of the low door. The single-spaced shots suggested they were low on ammo. The incoming fire was devastating. The narcos were behind a wall that separated the house from the stable yard, and they were pouring on fire like ammunition was on special. The bullets hammered from a variety of weapons, two MAC10s, an Uzi, an M-16, and two were using Kalashnikov AK-47s, the terrorist’s budget weapon of choice. The gun that had killed more men than the atomic bombs dropped on Japan in 1945.

  He counted six men, and they hadn’t noticed him come up behind them. He held the gun at the hip, Rambo style, and took aim. And stopped.

  “Drop it, hombre.”

  He’d come up behind him and pressed the muzzle of a gun into his back. He cursed under his breath for not being more careful. Two men, and another murmured in Spanish, which he gathered was something about putting a bullet in him. He needed time, and he needed space, so he played for both.

  “Which one?”

  “Que?”

  “You said drop it. I have the machine gun and the pistol on my hip. Which do you want me to drop?”

  A pause. “The machine gun.”

  “You sure? I mean, I can’t use the gun at short-range, but the pistol could be a danger. Are you positive you want me to drop the machine gun first?”

  The spoke to each other in rapid Spanish, and the command came back to him. “Drop the pistol first. Then the machine gun.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Real slow.”

  “No sweat.”

  He turned, putting a hand to his Browning. With his injured hand, he extracted it from the holster and leaned forward to put it on the ground toward the two Mexicans. They weren’t about to win any scholarships to university. Both men were wearing stained, worn clothes, had black and rotting teeth, and black hair roughly cut with the bangs popular in South America. One had a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and the other was looking away from him, until Kaz realized he had a cast in the left eye.

  They were cannon fodder, men recruited from the filthy slums of Mexico’s sump cities. Low intellect, but quick on the trigger, he warned himself. The gun hit the ground, and he looked up. “Do you want me to remove the cartridge belt? The weapon could be dangerous if it’s loaded.

  “Si, si, the belt, remove it.”

  “Sure.”

  He was so compliant, and so eager to help they relaxed. Another victim too scared to fight them, and maybe hoping if he went along with them, they’d spare his life. He removed the cartridge belt and dropped it on the ground, close to the Browning.

  “I’ll put the machine gun down now.”

  “You do that, amigo.”

  He bent forward again to lower the machine gun and stumbled, crying out in surprise as he went down, dropping the gun, and tripping over it. They sniggered at his clumsy performance. He’d fallen over the Browning, with one hand touching the butt. It felt good, and even better when one Mexican kicked him in the ribs, so he rolled over onto this back.

  “Now you die, Americano.”

  The gun was aimed at his belly, but it didn’t fire. Not when the first bullet from the Browning tore into his heart, and he jerked backward. His buddy looked down in surprise, too shocked to react, and Kaz put a second bullet into him. This time the lead went into his face, up through the roof of his mouth, and into his brain. Two dead, and he didn’t pause to check them. The others were in trouble, and the Mexicans were delivering a hurricane of fire under which two men were rushing toward the stable. They couldn’t shoot back, and in seconds those men would reach the door, and pour automatic fire inside.

  The men he’d just killed were using M-16s, a weapon he was familiar with from his Marine days. He scooped up both weapons from the ground where they’d dropped them, held them hip high, and ran toward the two men racing for the stables. He took them first. Two long, raking volleys, and they stumbled, falling as the 5.56mm bullets tore into them. He didn’t have it all his own way. Shooters behind a wall spun around and immediately opened fire.

  A bullet plucked at his leg, and another tore through the fleshy part of his leg. He had no choice but to throw himself to the ground as the storm of bullets roiled the air overhead. Within seconds, they’d correct their aim and pepper him with lead unless something diverted them. The two former Marines inside the stables saw what was happening out in front and came out shooting.

  They’d had Manuel and Clarence pinned down under massive fire, and it was a matter of time before they pumped so much lead at them, they’d take hits, and they’d be dead. Now this crazy Americano was behind them, and when they turned to fire on him, the men in the stables decided they were no longer pinned down, and they came out shooting. Pinned between them and Kaz with the M-16s, suddenly things had changed. They still had the guns and the ammo to win but being fired at from both sides was a new experience. They tried to run.

  He had a dozen rounds in each of the M-16s, and Clarence and Manuel decided it was time to throw some lead. The tide had turned, and they poured it on. Long, shattering bursts slammed into them, and four men became four bodies stretched out on the ground. One was still moving, and he rolled himself onto his back and looked up. The words were in Spanish, but the meaning was clear.

  ‘Don’t kill me. I need help. Need a hospital, and I never meant to kill anyone. It was the others, they made me do it.’

  Kaz hesitated for a few seconds, as did the other two men. A figure appeared from the stables, running toward the man on the ground. Before they could stop her, Juanita picked up his Uzi, pointed it at his belly, and Clarence shouted, “Noooo!”

  Too late, he’d been wounded in the legs, but she was aiming for something altogether different. At point-blank range, she couldn’t and didn’t miss. The Uzi roared, and bullets spat out of the barrel until the firing pin clicked on empty. His hand moved instinctively down to his groin in a futile attempt to protect it, but the eight bullets she’d fired had turned his manhood into bloody ruin. He shrieked and shrieked in terrible agony, until Kaz stood over him and put a single bullet between his eyes. The shrieking stopped.

  He looked at the girl. “You shouldn’t have done that. He may have told us something useful.”

  “That p
ig raped me many times. He didn’t deserve to live.”

  He sighed. “I guess not. Clarence, we need to hit Martinez and fast. This is his work, a pre-emptive strike. Although…how did they know where we were?”

  “A tip-off,” Manuel suggested, “This is Mexico. People will do anything for money.”

  “But there’s no one else here.”

  And then their eyes fell on Juanita. She shook her head vehemently. “If you think I would do that, you’re mad. For what they did to me and the other girls, I want them all dead. You’re not like them. You’ve been kind to me.” She looked at Manuel. “I trust you, and I thought you trusted me.”

  He went red with embarrassment. “You’re right. I do trust you. I mean, you and me…”

  “Yes, I know,” she breathed, “You think I’d risk that?”

  “No. Kaz, however they found you, it’s not through her.”

  He felt guilty for even thinking it. “No, there has to have been another way, but how? They couldn’t have followed us from Martinez’s place, surely?”

  Clarence shrugged. “I doubt it, but you never know. That bastard probably has eyes and ears everywhere. What matter now is they’ve found us, and we have to hit back before they realize their men are dead.”

  Juanita looked dubious. “You know what you’re up against? Two men against Paco’s troops, you won’t even get near the place.”

  “Three men.” Manuel stepped forward. “They’ve burned my place, and while they were shooting at the stables, I let the horses go through the rear. They’ve wiped me out. I have no home and no business. They have to pay.”

  “Manuel, no!” Juanita shouted.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to do this. It’s personal.”

  She looked at Kaz. “And you? Do you want to die?”