The Gunman from Guadalez

by Eric Meyer

  He didn’t miss with the tomahawk. He slashed one man across the face, and as he howled with shock and pain, the other tried to slam the barrel of his rifle down on Walker’s wrist to make him drop the terrible weapon. He pulled his wrist back, the blow met thin air, and he kept the tomahawk moving, prescribing a full circle back to the man who was trying to bring his rifle up to take a shot. Kaz slashed into his lower leg, and he stumbled. Another chop into the exposed ankle, and the tendons parted like broken guitar strings.

  The guy collapsed, still trying to use the rifle. Kaz chopped down hard on his right arm, and the blade sliced through flesh and bone, so the arm hung uselessly, its owner screaming in agony. He put him out of his agony with a backswing that dug deep into his neck, and he fell, drowning in blood. The guy he’d hit first was recovering, wiping the blood off his face. Kaz used the flat of the steel blade like a club to beat him over the head, and he fell unconscious. He relieved him of his submachine gun and went back to Clarence. He’d knocked the drug lord on the head with his rifle barrel, and he was prostrate on the concrete terrace. They’d beaten off the attack from one side, but more were coming from three other sides.

  “Kaz, there must be sixty or seventy of the bastards. We’re not gonna get out of this.”

  He nodded while surveying the bullfighting arena. He was right. There were too many, and their hopes of using Martinez to stop them shooting at them had proved to be ill-founded. Whoever was out there wanted his boss dead, along with the two gringos who’d captured him. “We have to make sure we kill the bastard before we go down.” He hurriedly put a fresh magazine into the Browning, “I’ll do it.”

  “Better make it now. They’re not gonna wait much longer.”

  The Mexicans had changed position, moved higher up the terrace, and bullets were chipping at the concrete around them. All that saved them was their notorious accuracy with the MAC10s. If they’d brought along M-16s, they’d have been long dead. Kaz held onto the pistol with his one good hand and used the barrel to nudge Martinez.

  “Wake up, you bastard.”

  The eyes opened. “What…what…”

  “I don’t have any choice, even though I don’t like to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Kill you. We’re finished. We can’t hold out any longer, and I’m not prepared to leave you alive. I know they want you dead, but before I die, I have to be sure you go before me.” He gave him a savage grin; “You’ll be waiting for me when I get to hell.”

  His eyes flared in terror. “No, no you don’t need to do this. Let me talk to them.”

  Before he could reply, he shouted, “You men, cease fire. Do not kill us. I can guarantee you a larger share of the business. Things will be better from here on in, I promise.”

  There was a brief pause, and a minute went past. Then two. They were talking about it, probably with whoever was running things out there. At the start of the third minute, they sent their reply. A fusillade of automatic fire forced them to hug the ground, clutching their weapons, waiting for it to end, and the final assault to take place. Kaz screwed the muzzle of his Browning into the back of his head.

  “I can’t wait any longer, Martinez. You have to pay for my wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  He told him about her death in the drug-related drive by, and the Mexican gulped, understanding what drove this man. He wanted him to suffer in order to get justice for his wife. A life sentence in a deep hole in some remote penitentiary would be the minimum he’d settle for.

  “My wife. I hate killing an unarmed man, but I can’t take the chance you’ll get away and deny justice for Sheryl. Goodbye, motherfucker.”

  He took up the first pressure on the trigger and started to squeeze.

  “Kaz.”

  He looked at Clarence. “What is it?”

  “I hear something. A helicopter.”

  “That doesn’t help us any, and it could even be the cops. Let me finish him, and we’ll go out in a blaze of glory. And, Clarence, I’m sorry I got you into this.”

  He chuckled. “My life has been shit for a long time. I haven’t had so much fun since,” he paused, “Since the Gulf. Say, those were good times.”

  “We could do with a few more like them. Like a helicopter coming to my rescue, and you hanging out like a crazy fool firing an M-60 machine gun.”

  Clarence put out a hand to make him take notice. “Don’t take that shot.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re not gonna believe this, but there’s a helicopter coming toward us, and there’s a crazy fool hanging out the door behind an M-60 machine gun.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I kid you not. Look!”

  He looked. The helicopter had tilted its nose over, flying broadside to the bullfighting ring, and he distinctly saw Manuel standing inside the door. Somehow, he’d rigged up the M-60 on an improvised mount, and as Curtis flew past, he opened fire. Bullets churned into the Mexicans. Some fell, others ran, but they weren’t finished. The helicopter swung around, and he came back, hosing down the hostiles on the other side. They had no way to counter the terror that had descended on them. They weren’t soldiers. They were brutal thugs and murderers, and Manuel showed no mercy.

  The Bell went into the hover, and still he kept firing. Kaz could see Eva and Juanita helping load new belts into the breech. He even smiled when he saw they were talking to each other as they worked feverishly to keep the gun firing.

  The attack was devastating, a dark menace that fell on them from the sky, and they had no way to defend themselves. Some men ran; others lay on the concrete terrace, their bodies riddled with bullets. Curtis spun the rotorcraft on its axis, giving Manuel a chance to cover every corner of the bullring, and the gun went quiet. They’d gone, running away from the menace of the improvised gunship. He settled down onto the sand into the center of the ring, keeping the rotors turning, and opened the door.

  “Get over here fast. We can see them reforming about four hundred yards away. They’ll be back, and they’ll have sent men for some heavier ordnance. We need to be out of here like yesterday.”

  They dived into the cabin. Clarence had barely pushed Martinez inside before the Bell started to ascend. He grabbed for a handhold, and they helped pull him inside as they climbed higher. Curtis turned and shouted back to them.

  “This is a stolen helicopter, and I’m about to make another illegal border crossing, so hang on, I may need some fancy flying. By the way, Kaz, where do you want to land?”

  “On the ground,” he grunted. Eva was working on his wounds, cleaning up the blood, and trying to fix dressings on the worst of the cuts.

  “I need a destination. We can’t stay up here forever. This thing has a limited amount of gas.”

  “What about your place, the old Army helipad you fly out of on the east side of town?”

  “That’s a good plan, ain’t many people go there these days. Usually it’s just me and the Huey. Well, just me, now the Huey’s gone.”

  He winced as she pressed down on a dressing to stop blood that had started to ooze out. “Ouch, that hurt.”

  “It’s better than dying,” was her sharp retort.

  “Not much. Curtis, I was thinking. How would a Bell 600N fix you up?”

  He looked around again. “You mean this? I can’t do it, Kaz, even if the owner is about to go down for many years. There’s the question of registration. Paperwork, you name it. By the way, we just crossed the border. We’re in the good ole’ U.S. of A. now.”

  “I’ll ask Martinez. The Huey was damaged by his people.” He looked around at the drug lord, and he didn’t look much like a drug lord, “What do you say, are you prepared to sign this over to Curtis?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I’ve known him get real mad, and he’s even worse after the loss of his beloved Huey. When he flew in Iraq, they said he dumped a guy out the door from five thousand feet because he refused to cooperate.”

&nb
sp; “He wouldn’t dare. I’m Paco Martinez, a respected businessman, and when we land, I’ll…”

  “You’re a respected piece of shit who’s outlived his sell-by-date. Okay, Curtis, say the word, and I’ll push him out, and he can try skydiving. At least, he can try it the once, unless he bounces when he hits the ground, which I doubt.”

  “I will sign the helicopter over to him,” he shouted in panic, “Give me a pen and paper, and I will make it legal.”

  “Good for you, pal.”

  They rummaged around and found pen and paper. When they’d made an agreement that was as legal as possible, he signed over his aircraft in return for ‘services rendered.’

  They droned on through the night sky. Juanita left Manuel’s embrace and came near enough so they could talk.

  “Kaz, my daughter is in boarding school in Mexico. I was supposed to visit her tomorrow, but if we are going to the States, I need to send her a message. Otherwise, she will be worried.”

  “If we have a cell signal, it shouldn’t be a problem. We’re flying low, so why don’t you look at your phone?”

  She switched it on and examined the screen. “Yes, I have a signal. Where are we going? I have to tell her. She is my daughter.”

  Curtis overheard. “Desert Drive, East Lewes. Leave the city heading east and you can’t miss it.”

  “I will tell her and thank you. How will I get back to Mexico to see her?”

  Manual supplied the answer. “I will take you, querida. Leave it all to me.”

  She gave him a grateful smile. “Gracias, Manuel. You are my Guardian Angel.”

  He nodded in appreciation of the praise. “I do what I can, my darling. Soon, this will be all over, and we will start a new life together. Perhaps we can live in Lewes, if we are able to get the necessary permits. You, me, and Elena, of course.”

  They held each other close, and Kaz moved away to the other end of the cabin to give them some space. He was close to Martinez, who sneered.

  “Who do they think they’re kidding? Lewes is the last place any sane person would want to be, not now, not for a long time.”

  “Why? What’s the problem with Lewes?”

  He chuckled, and the tone carried the ring of pure evil. “The problem is Diego.”

  “Diego? How come?”

  “Before you arrived, he was supposed to be on guard. During the attack, I asked where he was, and one of my men said he’d seen his white Jaguar XKR driving north, toward the border.”

  “Back to the U.S., what for?”

  “He’s not himself. He has a head wound, and I believe the bullet is still inside. He keeps replaying an order to kill a woman and two children in a shopping mall, and he’s got it into his head that mall is in Lewes. He told this guy he couldn’t work out who he had to kill, so he was going into the mall to commit mass slaughter. To kill every man, woman, and child he could find.”

  “But, why?”

  Martinez stared back at him, and his eyes seemed to shine with pride at the monster he’d created. “Because that’s what he does. And he’s the best. Walker, when he walks into that mall, it’ll become a cemetery.”

  “Which mall?”

  “Where it all started, don’t you get it? It’s like I said, his mind is stuck in a continuous loop. He’ll go back to the start and begin again.”

  He was smirking at their horrified expressions, and he hit him hard, slugging him with a vicious uppercut that almost took his head off.

  “Curtis, how long before we get there?”

  “Buddy, we may not get there. We’re running low on gas. I don’t know if we’re gonna make it.”

  “We have to make it. Otherwise, people will die. A lot of people.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Walker was visualizing the carpet of bodies torn apart by concentrated gunfire, strewn around the mall, bloody heaps of bodies. The innocent.

  “Do better than your best. Get us there, no matter what.”

  First, I have to stop the slaughter. And when Martinez is locked up, it’s time for a reckoning with Dr. Nathan Weatherby. Revered pillar of the community, respected for his medical skills for his calm compassion, and scumbag associate of drug dealers. Helping launder their wages of death, misery, and poverty.

  Chapter Twelve

  The thought of going up against Rivera again was satisfying. He’d reloaded the Hi-Power, slid out the magazine, and made sure it was full. He still carried the tomahawk, and he could visualize nothing better than burying it in the bastard’s head.

  Not too deep, just enough for the Mexican hitman to know he’s dying. Slowly. Rivera first, and then Weatherby. I’ll produce Martinez, and they’ll tie the medical examiner to the Mexican drug trade and the huge investments in commercial property in Lewes.

  And after, he didn’t care. They could arrest him, put him in jail, and throw away the keys. Except for Eva, and he glanced at her. She was watching him. Her eyes narrowed, as if she was reading his thoughts.

  “Kaz, when this is over, we have some talking to do. I let you go once, but it won’t happen again. Unless you don’t like me.”

  He thought about the way she’d carried herself through this business.

  Brave, clever, and never too scared to do the right thing. The fact she is, well, more than a bit pretty, that’s just a bonus. Isn’t it?

  “I like you.”

  “You’d better. I’m sure they’ll reinstate you as Sheriff.”

  He thought about Bridges then, and the way he’d leaned over to help Rivera escape on that jet. He doubted he was totally corrupt. But neither was he clean, not enough to give him his old job and admit he’d done the wrong thing.

  “I doubt it. I’ll be looking for another job.”

  They flew on, and the lights of a small city came into view. “We’re almost home,” Curtis shouted, “We have about enough fuel to fill and eggcup, but I think we’re gonna do it. A few minutes and we land.”

  He slowed as the helicopter flew over the old airfield, and he hovered over the helipad, descending for a landing. The engine cut out when they were fifty feet above the tarmac, but the rotors kept turning, the effect known as autorotation, and it brought the aircraft in for a soft landing. Not quite as soft as they’d have hoped, and the underbelly skids hit the ground with force, tossing them around the cabin. But they were down, and they were safe.

  Curtis climbed out of the cockpit and inspected the skids. The port side had buckled with the impact, but he shrugged it away.

  “Who cares? I can fix this up for a few hundred dollars.” He stood back and admired the craft, “Wow, who’d have believed it? I mean, it’s not a Huey, but that bird needed more than its share of maintenance, and it drank gas like I was pouring it down a drain. With this baby I can start to make some money. Pay off my loans, and who knows, get my business on a solid footing. It might even persuade me to stop drinking, like Clarence.”

  “This may help.”

  He glanced up at Clarence, who was pulling Martinez out of the helicopter with one hand, and the other clutching an aluminum valise. “He signed over the Bell to you, and I reckon this is part of the deal.”

  “What is it?”

  He chuckled. “Do you recall you mentioned a case stuffed with banknotes?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “It’s a case stuffed with banknotes. Should buy you a few tanks of gas to keep you going.”

  He handed it over. Curtis opened the lid and stared at the bundles of high denomination U.S. dollars. “I don’t believe it. Should we share this out?”

  The three men answered as one. “It’s all yours.”

  Walker explained. “We’d have been dead without you, Curtis. It’s the least we can do, and besides, we may need to hire you again.”

  He winced. “Just don’t make it anytime soon. Say, Kaz, what’s the plan? With you being a wanted man, are all you gonna just waltz up to the Lewes Sheriff’s office and hand over this scumbag? Chances are they’ll arrest you
as well.”

  “They won’t arrest him,” a voice called out from the darkness, “Because he won’t be going anywhere near the Sheriff’s office.”

  Headlamps came on and lit them up. The speaker was behind them in the darkness, invisible to them, but he’d recognized the voice.

  “Doc Weatherby.”

  “Yeah, it’s me. What made you think I’d sit back and let you ruin everything, Sheriff? Although I guess it’s now just plain Mr. Walker.”

  He was wracking his brains trying to work out how Weatherby had found out they were coming back, and they had Martinez captive. He was also wondering how many men Weatherby had with him, but he got the answer. Men ran to surround them, and he counted six in all. Mexicans, armed with assault rifles. Pointed at them, and they looked like they were waiting for the order to shoot.

  Inside the helicopter they had the M-60, one MAC10 with a part filled magazine, and the M-16 Clarence had used. He’d emptied the Browning Hi-Power and hadn’t any spare magazines to reload. As if he’d read his mind, Weatherby shouted at them to drop the guns.

  “You can’t get away, Walker, so don’t make this hard.”

  He dropped his pistol, and men raced to pat them down. One nodded in the direction of Weatherby. “They’re clean.”

  The Chief Medical Examiner emerged from the darkness and approached.

  “In case you have any doubts, these are the men I employ to help run my estate. I hire them because they’re also good with a gun. They were all on the run from the cartels, and they needed a job and a place to stay, so we were able to help each other out. What I’m saying is don’t think they don’t know how to shoot. They’re all veterans of the drug wars in South America. Good men, all of them.”

  He didn’t acknowledge the description of his hired killers. He was still trying to work out where he’d gone wrong. “How did you know how to find us, Doc?”