The Gunman from Guadalez

by Eric Meyer

He put his arm around his hitman’s shoulders. “Nobody has everything they need. You can build a new house, next to mine. A fine yacht, a Gulfstream jet like mine, and a new sports car.”

  “I have a car.”

  He was thinking of his white Jaguar. His mind drifted away to the experience of driving the supercharged 5-liter V8. It drove like the wind, and there was no car on the road could beat him. He smiled inwardly, thinking of two men who’d tried once. They tried to overtake him in a Porsche, like his Jaguar the supercharged model. He put a bullet in the passenger, just a single shot that tore through the muscles of his upper arm. A warning. He was lucky to be alive, and Diego drove the final part of his journey without any other ignorant drivers trying to drive past. Then, as now, he was high on coke, and he loved the feeling. He was strong, so strong he was unbeatable.

  He realized Paco was still talking to him. “You were saying, Jefe?”

  He sighed. “Never mind. You know what you have to do. Don’t let me down.”

  “I won’t let you down, Paco.”

  He patted him on the shoulder. “Go to your post, my friend. Perhaps tomorrow we will know more, and you can do what you do best. But for now, we are vulnerable in this place, so stay alert. Too much is at stake to take any chances. You understand?”

  “I understand.”

  He walked away, heading to the rear of the building. When he got there, he found the staircase that led down to the ground floor, and outside, his beloved Jaguar was waiting. Waiting for him to start the powerful engine, to hear its throaty roar as he accelerated along the highway, on the way to…

  Where am I on the way to?

  It came to him then.

  Of course, a woman.

  He would set out now and drive to…he wasn’t sure where he should drive to, until Paco’s words came back to him, the Lewes Sheriff. That was it, the city of Lewes. He would drive there now and check into a motel. The following day he’d go the mall and to the hit, although he’d forgotten the description of the target.

  Wasn’t it a woman?

  The cocaine coursed through his veins, and he was all-powerful. He took no more than a few seconds to come up with the solution. He retraced his steps to his room. The whore surprised him, lying in his bed, and she sat up and looked at him with wary eyes.

  “Diego, are you coming back to bed now?”

  He was fast. The gun came out, and the tiny bullet spat out of the muzzle and entered her head, a fraction of an inch above the bridge of her nose. She slumped back, and he ignored the body. He’d come for the aluminum flight case he kept as a backup. It contained his spare guns, an AK-47 assault rifle, two MAC10s, and a score of spare magazines. He grimaced. He preferred the precision of the Beretta, but he was going to make sure. Enter the mall and kill them all. Paco would be pleased he’d gone to so much trouble to make sure of the kill.

  He left the room and almost bumped into Paco’s whore, who was fetching a tray of drinks. She managed to avoid dropping the tray, and she smiled at Diego.

  “I’m sorry. I was clumsy.”

  “Fucking whore, get out of my way. I have work to do.”

  She kept the smile pasted on her face to mask the terror of this man she felt inside. “You are Paco’s most loyal man, Diego. Where do you go this time?”

  Unusually, his ferocious expression softened. “To Lewes, there’s a shopping mall.”

  “What will you do there?”

  His lips stretched so they almost formed a smile. A dribble of drool snaked down his chin, and he patted the aluminum case. “I will kill them all. Today it is a mall. Tomorrow it will be a cemetery.”

  She automatically smiled. “That’s very good, Diego. Have a good journey.”

  He made his way down the back stairs and out into the street to the rear of the brothel. He climbed into the Jaguar and started the engine. The V8 roared, he engaged drive, and drove out of town at high speed. A fast journey to Lewes and rest up in a motel, and when the mall filled with shoppers, he’d arrive and start shooting. Paco would be pleased.

  Chapter Eleven

  He had an uneasy feeling about the white Jaguar that shot past them, and he couldn’t explain it. As if he’d witnessed death driving through the squalid streets, seeking a place to visit carnage on unsuspecting people. He shook his head. He must be mistaken. It was an English sports car, some wealthy resident driving out to meet his girlfriend, and he tried to dismiss the feeling of premonition.

  “I can’t see anyone at the rear. I reckon we can go in,” Clarence murmured.

  He nodded and followed the older man through the door. They were inside the brothel, with its stink of sweat, cheap perfume, and sex. They came to the stairs almost immediately. Kaz hesitated to listen, but he heard nothing apart from the noises he’d expect, groans and sighs of many couples engaged in sex, the odd scream and shout of anger; nothing unusual, at least, for this place.

  “I’ll go up the staircase first. Cover me.”

  He drew the tomahawk, feeling ridiculous to be carrying such a crude, simple weapon going up against sophisticated traffickers with their array of weaponry, and they’d never hesitate to use them. Yet the tomahawk had done plenty of damage in its time, terrorizing the early settlers heading across America to build new lives. He hefted its weight, and it felt capable of doing the job. Of killing an opponent, provided he could get near enough. He had the Browning Hi-Power, but a single shot would bring the narcos pouring out of the woodwork. No, it had to be the tomahawk. And hope to Christ he didn’t wind up like its previous owner.

  They made it to the third floor, and he couldn’t believe Martinez had been so sloppy as not to post guards at the rear. But the reasons didn’t matter, what did was getting to him, find a way to bundle him out of the building, and take him north. If he was going to provide the evidence to finish Nathan Weatherby, Martinez was his sole chance. He wouldn’t want to talk, of course. But when they offered him the choice of a cell buried deep below the ground, with bare concrete walls and a light blazing twenty-four seven, or a deal, it wasn’t rocket since to work out which way he’d jump.

  A door opened along the passage, and a girl came out. She walked toward a door to a room, which by the stink could only be the bathroom. She stopped when she saw two gringos at the top of the stairs. Her mouth opened to shout in surprise, but understanding came to her eyes, and she hesitated.

  “You came for him?”

  “Maybe.”

  She looked him up and down, and then Clarence. “Why else would you be here? He’s in the room I came out of.”

  He felt surprise. “You don’t mind if we take him?”

  “Mind? Why would I mind? He’s a pig. Take him, kill him, I don’t care, but hurry. He’ll be suspicious if I take too long getting back.”

  “Does he have a gun with him?”

  She looked scornful. “Does a dog have fleas? Of course he has a gun, a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster.” She thought for a moment, “No, that’s not all. He has a bigger gun in a leather bag he tucked under the bed. A big Colt, like the gun in the movie.”

  “Dirty Harry?”

  “I think so, yes. It is big, with a long barrel.”

  “.357 Python, six-inch barrel, okay. That’s it?”

  “That is it.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am. We’ll take it from here.”

  She nodded. “It would be best to kill him.”

  “Okay. What about Diego Rivera, do you know him?”

  “The Beast? Of course I know him. We all know him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He left in his white Jaguar.”

  “Do you know where he’s gone?”

  “No, but he had a case of automatic rifles.”

  He looked at Clarence. “We’re wasting time. We need to go back and find this creature.”

  “They’ll arrest you when you cross the border, you know that, Kaz.”

  “It doesn’t make a difference. The guy has to be stopped.” He looked at the g
irl. “Thanks for the help, and now you should make yourself scarce. Very scarce.”

  “I will, and don’t forget. Kill him.”

  “You can count on it.”

  She skipped away, and he put a hand on the door handle and turned it. It opened, and they stepped into the room. Paco Martinez lay on the bed completely naked, his eyes blurry with booze.

  “Where the hell have you been, bitch? Come here and blow me. I feel horny.”

  “Not for long you don’t.” His eyes flared open as Kaz ran to the bed and held the tomahawk in front of his eyes, “You have two choices. I can bury this in your balls, or you come with us. Make that three choices. I can bury it in your skull just as fast, and it would stop you making a fuss. What’s it gonna be, shithead?”

  He recovered fast. “You know who I am?”

  “Sure we do. The target for this tomahawk.”

  “I’m rich, richer than you can imagine. Name your price.”

  “The price is you. Get your pants on. You’re coming with us.”

  “Coming where?”

  “North.”

  Understanding came to him. “You’re that sheriff who’s caused me so much trouble. You’re playing with fire, Mister.”

  “Do you want to come as you are, or put your pants on? I’ll count to five, one, two, three…”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll do it.” He swung his legs over the bed and reached down to the floor, “I dropped them down here when I undressed.”

  “Don’t try anything stupid.” But he’d noticed the movement and recalled what the girl said about the Colt. He nodded to Clarence. “Make sure he doesn’t make a sound.”

  He clamped a hand over his mouth while Walker chopped down on the hand that was reaching for the Colt Python. The squeal almost made it past Clarence’s hand, and his eyes watered with the pain. When he looked down, two fingers were lying on the floor in a mess of blood.

  “I told you not to try anything stupid. Get dressed.”

  Clarence moved his hand away a fraction so he could speak. “You cut off my fingers.”

  “Better than your balls. Get them on.”

  He pulled up his pants, and they allowed him to wrap a handkerchief over the bleeding stumps of his fingers. Clarence looked outside the door and nodded.

  “It’s clear. There’s nobody around. We should get him out now.”

  “Okay. Martinez, you make a sound, and next time it’s your balls. Comprendes?”

  “Si.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  They left the room and reached the rear staircase. Nobody tried to stop them as they left, and he wondered where the guards were. It was inconceivable he wouldn’t have posted guards. He was a wealthy drug trafficker and wouldn’t have survived as long as he had without taking precautions. Yet none were in evidence, and they made it outside the building and into the street. Clarence went ahead, and he pushed the narco in front of him, the tomahawk pressed against his neck. Just in case he forgot.

  He thought they were going to make it and get away without anyone sounding the alarm, until Martinez stumbled. When he was clear of the tomahawk, he screamed a warning.

  “Gringos, they’re trying to take me away. Help, stop them!”

  His cry echoed around the streets and inside the brothel they’d just left. The result was instant chaos, men shouting, running feet, and the beams of flashlights as his troops woke up to the threat. A bullet tore overhead, and someone shouted for the man to hold his fire. Clarence reached the next street, looked around the corner, and shouted, “Run!”

  They ran, and the car was a hundred yards ahead. Clarence put on a sprint, and he almost made it before a Jeep tore around the corner, headlamps on full beam lighting up the street like searchlights. They were trapped, blinded by the intense beams, before Kaz saw an open doorway.

  “In here, we’ll find another way out.”

  He pushed Martinez before him, and they were in a kind of arena, a round area surrounded by stepped terraces. In the center the ground looked like it was sand. Realization dawned as Clarence joined them, breathing hard from exertion.

  “It’s a bullring. Start looking. There has to be another way out.”

  Martinez gave him a sneering smile of triumph. “You know nothing, gringo. The doors are solid oak, with heavy iron locks. I own this place, and it’s designed to make sure no one gets in without paying.”

  “Clarence, check it out.”

  The Mexican chuckled. “You will soon find out you’ve walked into your own graves.”

  “Yours, too, shit-for-brains. When your men start shooting, you’ll be caught in the crossfire. Better say your prayers while you still can.”

  He snorted. “There’s no way they’ll shoot, not when they know I’m in here.”

  The first burst of gunfire ripped past them, and the bullets buried themselves in the sand of the arena. He pushed the trafficker down behind a concrete terrace and looked up as Clarence came racing back. “Anything?”

  “The bastard was telling the truth. The doors could guard the entrance to Fort Knox. We have ourselves situation, pal.”

  He dived flat as another burst roiled the air overhead, and then all hell broke loose. A dozen guns fired, and there were no more shouts for them to stop. Martinez was cursing, and it wasn’t hard to work out what was happening. Someone in his chain of command had decided to take the opportunity for promotion. In the drug gangs, it came by way of dead man’s shoes, and one of his lieutenants would have seen no benefit in keeping the Jefe alive.

  He was searching for a target, watching the muzzle flashes, but a greater danger appeared. Two shadowy figures raced onto the terrace from an entrance above.

  “Clarence, watch him.”

  Ignoring the gunfire, Kaz climbed the terraces, and they didn’t expect him. With no need for quiet, he tucked the tomahawk in his belt and pulled out the Browning. When the first man loomed in front of him, he squeezed the trigger to put one bullet in his belly. He went down screaming in agony, dropping his MAC10. Kaz picked it up and snatched the bag of spare magazines he was carrying on his shoulder. The second shooter had disappeared in the darkness, and he slid along the concrete surface to the next set of steps. Nothing.

  The voice was soft, accented English. Mexican speak.

  “Drop the guns, amigo. All of them.” He was behind him with the muzzle of a gun pressed into his neck. He put the Hi-Power on the ground along with the MAC10s.

  “Where is the Jefe?”

  “The who?”

  “The boss. Señor Martinez.”

  “Oh, him. He ran away.”

  “You are a liar. Tell me now, or I kill you.”

  “You’ll kill me anyway. I’ve got a better idea.”

  “What is that?”

  He’d kept his voice level, calm, offering no threat, and the pressure of the muzzle had eased. It was now or never, and he ducked fast. The explosion of the bullet was loud as it spat overhead, but he was reaching for the tomahawk, and he swung it high. The movement distracted the shooter, and he looked away for a fatal second. The blade swung down and smashed into his head, going deep. He didn’t even scream as the sharpened steel tore into his brain. His eyes took on a look of puzzlement before they went blank as his body fell to the ground.

  He scooped up his Hi-Power with the MAC10s, tucked the tomahawk back in his belt, and rejoined Clarence. He was lying prone on the concrete next to Martinez.

  “I saw you shoot the one guy, but there were two. What happened to the other one?”

  “I buried the hatchet.”

  “You what?”

  “In his head.”

  “Right. Kaz, we have a situation here, and we…shit!”

  They were coming again. A bunch of men had unlocked the door on the other side of the bullring. They were charging around the terraces on the same level as theirs. He grabbed up the MAC10s and tucked one under each arm. “Keep watching him. Don’t let the bastard get away.”

  He rolled down
to the next terrace and began sliding along toward the rush of men. They didn’t see him in the darkness, and they were no more than five yards away when he rolled out into the open, pointing the muzzles at the running men. Someone shouted a warning, too late, as the first bullets spat toward them, aimed at the leaders. Men went down, screaming agony, and those behind struggled not to trip over the dead and dying.

  Both weapons emptied, and he snatched out spare magazines, reloaded, and poured more misery into the bewildered and dying Mexicans. Not a single bullet came back at him as he loaded and emptied a third pair of magazines. Each one carried thirty-two 9mm rounds, and when he stopped firing, he’d delivered a total of one hundred and ninety-two bullets into the group. Some writhed in agony, badly wounded, and he took out the Hi-Power, finishing them with single shots. One pretended to be dead, and when he thought Kaz wasn’t looking, he started to snake away along the terrace. A final burst from the reloaded MAC10 ended his escape.

  For a brief, exhilarating moment, he thought they were in the clear. Until the doors crashed open from four sides of the arena, and a score of men raced in from each side. It was like they were fighting an army, and he crawled back to join Clarence, who was still guarding Martinez. Twice he had to expose himself to enemy fire, standing to get a shot at advancing shooters, and twice he suffered minor wounds when bullets sliced chunks out of his skin. A ricochet tore a strip of skin from his eyes, and when he put up a hand to wipe away the blood, another bullet tore through the palm of his hand. He had to drop back down as they kept coming.

  He made it back just as yet another rush of men came at them, and he emptied the MAC10s, firing the last round from the Hi-Power. They were still coming, like maddened bees. Clarence had Martinez lying on the ground face down, with his boot on his neck, facing off the attackers. Most pulled back rather than face the furious return fire, but not all. Two men were starting to run when one shouted something to the other. They never found out what it was, but both turned at the same time and ran back at them.

  Clarence was distracted by Martinez suddenly heaving him off, and it threw him off balance. Walker was out of ammo and with no time to reload. All he had to hand was the tomahawk, its blade stained with blood, and tucked into the waistband of his pants. He snatched it out and hurtled forward. They both saw the grisly sight of the bloody steel at the same time. They hesitated bringing up their rifles to fire, and it was enough. At the last moment he dived at them beneath the muzzles, and the weapons fired harmlessly overhead.