The Gunman from Guadalez

by Eric Meyer

  His laughter was a low rumble. “How? It was simple, a good friend of mind told me.”

  “Who?”

  He looked around and felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach. Juanita had moved toward him, and Manuel understood immediately. “Juanita, no!”

  She gave him a bittersweet look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “But…”

  She grimaced. “You weren’t the only man who could take care of me, Manuel. I’m sorry, Elena needed more.”

  “Who…”

  Weatherby put his arm around her. “You didn’t know, did you? Didn’t she tell you about little Elena, our daughter.”

  “Your daughter?”

  He looked amused, enjoying the shock on his face. “Oh, yes, I worked shifts in Ciudad Juarez, and Juanita shared my bed in the hotel where I stayed. Silly girl got pregnant, and when she decided to keep it, I offered to pay for her upkeep.” He looked at Walker. “You shouldn’t have come after me, you know. She hates Martinez, and she’d have done anything to hurt him. But you see, when you targeted me; that was too much. I’m the goose that lays the golden eggs, the man who pays for our daughter to attend a decent boarding school. All it took was a short text message.”

  She looked distraught. “Manuel, I’m sorry. He threatened me, and I couldn’t let them find Elena. I had no choice.”

  He spat on the ground. “We all have a choice. I thought you were better than this.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Do you know what it’s like to earn your living as a whore? To try to bring up a child in those conditions, and when a man offers to pay to take her out of it, what else could I do?”

  He wouldn’t look at her. “There’s always a way.”

  Weatherby pushed her aside and strode toward Walker. A small pistol had appeared in his hand, a Glock. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, Sheriff. You came close, I’ll give you that.” He held the gun pointed at the ground and looked at Clarence. “You, let my business partner go.”

  He didn’t move and Weatherby snapped out a command. Two men moved forward, slammed Clarence a hard blow on the head with the muzzle of a rifle, and took Martinez, who smiled with relief. “Thank you, my friend. I take it you will kill them all?”

  He nodded. “There’s nothing else we can do. They know everything. He took a step back and pointed the Glock at Manuel. Say goodbye to your friend.”

  “No!”

  She ran forward and pushed him out of the way, inserting herself between him and the muzzle of the gun. It fired, a single shot, and she crumpled, with blood pouring from her belly. She looked up at Manuel. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

  Her body jerked once, twice, and she lay still. Weatherby was looking down at the body with horror. He’d killed the mother of his child. “Juanita, why did you do it?”

  He showed genuine grief, and Walker seized the moment. He still had the tomahawk tucked into his waistband, and as the body of the medical examiner blocked him from the view of his Mexican thugs, he pulled it out, stepped forward quickly, and seized Weatherby around the neck. He brought the bloody blade in front of his eyes.

  “Tell your men to lower the guns, Doc. Either they put them on the ground, or this’ll slice through your neck like one of your postmortems.”

  Clarence took advantage and swept his leg around to bring down the two men who’d knocked him to the ground. They fell, and he gave each a vicious chop on the neck, enough to disable them. One man choked as he tried to suck in air. He hadn’t finished. They’d dropped their weapons, an Ingram and a MAC10, and he held one in each hand, pointed at the Mexicans. They swung their guns back to him, and then to Weatherby, not knowing who to shoot.

  “Last chance, Doc. They drop ‘em now, or you’re dead, some of your men as well.”

  “If there’s shooting, you’ll die, too.”

  “You were going to kill us anyway. Tell ‘em to do it now. I’ll count to three and then it’s goodnight. One, two…”

  “Drop your weapons!” Weatherby shouted in desperation, “Do it now, for Chrissake.”

  After a few seconds hesitation, they tossed them on the ground. Kaz relaxed. For a moment he’d thought they’d start shooting, no matter what their boss said. Maybe it was the sight of Paco Martinez that gave them pause. Weatherby paid their wages, but Martinez cast a dark shadow everywhere the tentacles of his drug empire stretched, a shadow of death. Cutting loose with automatic weapons would risk hitting him, and the consequences could be fatal.

  Curtis and Manuel scooped them up while Clarence kept them covered. Weatherby nodded slowly. “Not bad for a wanted man. What’s next, Sheriff?”

  “Clarence, you and the others find some ropes to tie them. We’ll deliver them to the Sheriff’s office.”

  Eva found a handgun they’d dropped and pointed it at Weatherby. “Give me an excuse to kill you, please.”

  He shook his head. “You’re all mad. I can make you rich. You’ll have everything you could ever want.”

  She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Not one of us could live with the stench, Doc. You disgust me.” She looked at Walker. “What now?”

  “My priority is to make a call. Make sure they don’t get away.”

  He left them to it and took out his phone. It answered in a few seconds.

  “Sheriff’s office, this is Sheriff Tolley speaking.”

  “This is Walker. We need to talk.”

  For several seconds he didn’t answer. “Sheriff?”

  “Not anymore. You have a situation, and I’ve called to help you.”

  “Help us? You’re wanted on several counts, are you planning to hand yourself in?”

  “Not yet. You’re in serious trouble.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “He’s back.”

  “Who’s back?”

  “The Beast.”

  He didn’t say a word, not for almost a minute. And then, “It’s the Mayor.”

  The familiar blustering voice came down the line. “Walker, this is William Bridges. What the hell’s going on?”

  “Hell is about right, Mr. Mayor. The shooter is about to turn Beechtree Mall into a bloodbath. This time he’ll be using automatic weapons, and when he starts shooting, he won’t stop.”

  The voice was authoritative, sneering. “You’re talking crap, Walker. I happen to know he left town.”

  “In Martinez’s jet?” There was a silence, “Yeah, I know about that, Mr. Mayor. I’ve got bad news for you. We have Martinez, and when he’s in custody, he’ll spill everything he knows, so if I was you, I’d start shredding documents, and I doubt that’ll be enough to save you.”

  “I did it for the city, for Lewes.”

  “Tell that to the judge. Listen, we’re wasting time. Do you want to save those people or not?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then get every cop you have over to Beechtree Mall. They know what they’re looking for, and if they find him, tell them to shoot first. Try to evacuate the shoppers if there’s time.”

  He heard Bridges giving the order to Tolley. “Anything else?”

  “You could try praying. That’s about all we have left.”

  “What’re you doing now? Where will you go?”

  “Beechtree Mall. In case the cops don’t stop him, I have to.”

  He ended the call. “Curtis, we need some wheels.”

  “Sure, you can take my Chevy truck. But I’m going with you.”

  “Me, too,” Clarence snapped.

  Before Manuel could speak, he cut him off. “Stay here and guard the prisoners. You, too, Eva.”

  She was kneeling over the prone figure of Juanita, and she looked up. “Kaz, she’s still alive. We must get her to a hospital. They may be able to save her.”

  He took out his phone again, dialed 911, and gave them the details. He took a last look at the prisoners, all bound with thin parachute line from Curtis’ supplies, and decided they were secure.

  “We’re leavin
g. If any of ‘em try to escape, you know what to do.”

  “Shoot them.”

  “You got it. And good luck with Juanita.”

  He kissed her hard on the lips, and she responded. “I’ll be seeing you, Eva.”

  “Stay safe. We have a lot of ground to catch up on.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  He was about to leave when he had an idea. Rivera’s boss, Paco Martinez, the one man he may listen to. He grabbed his bound wrists and took him along.

  “You’re gonna tell him to lay down his weapons and surrender, Martinez.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then no matter what, I’ll gutshoot you. Your death will be excruciatingly painful. It’s your choice.”

  “I will do it.”

  “That’s a wise decision. Probably the wisest one you’ve ever made.”

  They grabbed every weapon they could find. He took the M-60 with a final ammo belt, and they ran to the Chevy, a battered old V8. The engine caught after the third try, and Curtis drove like a demon. The twenty-minute journey to the mall took them half that time. A cop cruiser had already pulled up, and two deputies were standing uncertainly outside the door. One was Rick Tolley. He nodded a greeting to Kaz.

  “I’m, uh, not sure how to handle this.”

  “Is he inside?”

  “We believe so. The security guards said a man answering to his description entered a few minutes before we got here.”

  “Did you get any of the people out?”

  He shook his head. “Not enough time. You think I should announce an evacuation over the loudspeaker system?”

  I think you should do your job.

  “Do that, and he’ll know something’s wrong.” Someone had to take charge before the mall became a bloody fiasco, “We’ll go inside and see if we can see him. Cover the doors, and make sure he doesn’t get away.”

  He was obviously relieved at having the decisions taken off him, and the risk. “Uh, sure, okay.”

  Kaz walked through the doors. A few people saw the M-60 he carried and began to melt away. They made a few feet before someone screamed, and the crack of a .22 pistol reverberated around the walls.

  He pushed Martinez forward. “Tell him to stop. Order him.”

  “I can’t. He…”

  “Do it!”

  He stood in the center of the walkway and shouted, “Diego, it’s me. Paco Martinez.”

  Heads turned. People were starting to run away from the sound of the gunshot, and the name Paco Martinez was enough to set them off. The trickle of people running away became a flood. They shouted, screamed, and jostled for space as they raced out into the parking lot.

  “Jefe?”

  The running people parted like the Red Sea, pouring past either side, until there was a clear channel. At the far end, around fifty feet away, Rivera stood in his outlandish leather waistcoat, tapered pants, tooled leather boots, and he’d managed to find another Panama hat. His gun hung loosely in his hand, pointed at the floor.

  “Yes, it’s me, Diego. Do not do this, do you understand? I do not want you to kill these people.”

  “Why not?”

  “Diego, mi amigo, it is all over. If you do this, we will spend the rest of our lives in a prison cell. Or they may execute us. You have to stop before it is too late.”

  “But you said you wanted to kill them to send a warning. If I let them live, they will think you are weak.”

  “No, they will not think that. Put down the gun and put up your hands. Do not put our heads in a noose.”

  “Jefe, I do not believe you.” He suddenly saw Walker standing behind him. “You! I should have killed you.”

  He brought up his pistol, and Walker hefted the M-60. “Drop it, Rivera.”

  “In your dreams, cop.”

  He pulled the trigger, and a tiny bullet smacked into his shoulder. He winced with the pain of yet another wound, but it didn’t alter anything. The Browning was pointed in the right direction, and he squeezed the trigger. He didn’t let go, and the belt clattered through the breech, brass cartridge cases spewing out onto the marble floor.

  The roar of the 7.62mm bullets was awesome, the mighty vengeance of a man who’d been through too much. The vengeance of a man who’d seen his wife murdered by a Mexican thug, who’d been shot at, beaten, fired from his job, chased across the border and back by bloodthirsty hoodlums, and Rivera danced.

  The clatter of the unending burst was like the finale of a grand opera, the death of absolute evil. The Mexican’s body juddered and shook as the lead tore into him and seemed to hold his body up by the sheer force of the long, killing burst. When the last round left the barrel, and the firing pin clicked on empty, he eased his finger off the trigger. He put the machine gun on the floor, turned, and walked outside. Clarence picked up the gun and followed, together with Curtis, who pulled Martinez along like a tethered goat.

  He got into the truck. “I’ll drive.”

  He didn’t speed. It was as if he’d gone into a kind of fugue, his brain working on automatic pilot. When he got back to the airfield, she was waiting. Manuel had the prisoners covered, and she threw herself into his arms.

  “Kaz, I thought you weren’t coming back. What happened?”

  “He’s dead. Lead poisoning.”

  “Thank God. What do we do now?”

  “We go home.”

  “Home?”

  He felt numb, numb with pain, with tiredness, and a peculiar exhilaration. They’d done it.

  Sheryl, it’s over. You can rest in peace.

  “That’s right, home.” He managed to smile as a wave of exhaustion overcame him, “But you’ll have to excuse the mess.”

  She returned the grin. “Just this once.”

  * * *

  He checked the time on the bedside clock and climbed out of bed. Time to go to work. After he’d showered, he donned his Lewes Sheriff’s Department pants, shirt, and buckled on his belt with the holster for the Browning Hi-Power, the gun that had never let him down. He looked around the living room, and it was different, and yet not so different. The same furniture he and Sheryl had chosen, the same drapes and décor, and the framed prints on the wall were the ones they’d chosen together.

  He didn’t need to wonder why it felt so different. The empty echo was no longer there. Neither was a sense of waiting for peace, for closure. And the loneliness had fled. He walked back into the bedroom and bent to the bed. Her eyes looked up at him.

  “You’re leaving now?”

  “I am. It’s a special day. I’m swearing in Clarence as a new deputy.”

  “Who will he replace? Tolley?”

  “Tolley stays, but he’ll be the permanent desk sergeant.”

  “So how did you get Mayor Bridges to extend his budget for another officer?”

  He grinned. “He owes me a favor or two. And I told him you never know when something bad could happen, and it wouldn’t look good if we were shorthanded. Martinez is in the local prison, along with his pal Doc Weatherby. Who knows, they could try to break them out of jail? I told Bridges if that happened, I’d have another look at how Rivera managed to get away on that jet.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said it was his duty to make sure that didn’t happen, and if I needed another deputy, no problem. The honest citizens of Lewes have to be protected.”

  “I take it he didn’t include himself with those ‘honest’ citizens.”

  “He didn’t say. What’re you doing today?”

  “Visiting the hospital. Juanita’s recovering well, and Manuel is there every day. What time will you be home?”

  “Around 18.00, hopefully.”

  “I’ll have your dinner on the table, Sheriff Walker. And anything else you want me to dish up.”

  “I can think of one or two things?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Like what?”

  “Like coffee and a slice of pie afterward.”

  She threw a
pillow at him. “Get out of here, before I do something I regret.”

  He gave her another kiss and left. He walked into his office and touched the M-60 for luck. Clarence was waiting for him.

  “Boss, did you hear the latest?”

  “I just got here, what is it? Let’s do this swearing-in first.” He read the script from a sheet of paper, handed him his badge and gun, and told him to get changed into the uniform he’d put ready in the locker, “Okay, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

  “A riot at the county jail.”

  He felt a sense of foreboding. “And?”

  “It’s Martinez. They got him out. He’s gone. Vanished.”

  His mind was in turmoil, thinking a hundred different things.

  Where’s he gone? How will he travel, and has he already crossed the border?

  “Have you put up roadblocks?”

  “Sure, it’s all being done, everything we can do.”

  He sighed. “Okay, let’s get out there and see if we can pick up his trail.”

  He returned home late after a long and exhausting day. They’d carried out a textbook jailbreak. While the riot erupted, Martinez claimed serious stomach pains, and they called an ambulance to rush him to the local hospital. He never made it. A road traffic accident involving a semi-trailer and a family saloon block the highway. The prison truck halted, and masked men stuck guns into the faces of the crew. They grabbed the drug lord, who seemed to have made a miraculous recovery, bound and gagged the crew, destroyed their radio and cellphones, and disappeared.

  A motorist reported it to the police less than fifteen minutes later. Too late, and it was assumed he’d crossed the border back to his own territory. Walker spent a fruitless day talking to witnesses at the prison, chasing up roadside camera footage, and all for nothing. An aircraft was reported as taking off from a remote strip, and he put two and two together and called off the search. He’d gone.

  He opened the door and like he always did, admired the display of Indian artifacts in the hallway. The tomahawk he’d acquired in Mexico had pride of place, although he wasn’t that certain about it. When he looked at it, it reminded him of a dark time. Still he patted it, like he did the M-60, back in pride of place in his office, expecting to smell the meal Eva had promised to cook when he left that morning. There was no smell of cooking and no greeting from Eva.