by Cindy Gerard
“Just go,” he said. He didn’t want her anywhere near the action that he was ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain was about to break out. He also wanted backup and needed her to get clear of the cantina so she could call the guys and get them over here.
She hadn’t taken two steps toward the door when Wyatt heard the ominous scrape of a chair leg on the stained wooden floor. From the corner of his eye, he saw a big guy who’d been nursing a beer at a table in the back rise to his feet. Even at this distance, Wyatt could make out the MS-13 tattoo inked on the side of his beefy neck and the gunmetal-gray barrel of the Beretta he slipped out of his belt.
At the same time, two other men rose and blocked the exit door; the bartender replaced his counter rag with a Saturday-night special and laid it on the bar, his scarred fingers wrapped tight around the grip.
“Something I said?” Wyatt reached for Sophie. He pulled her behind him and out of the line of fire, angling his body so his left hip connected with the bar and Sophie’s back was to a wall lined with shelving approximately ten feet away from the bad guys.
Beef Boy stood, shoved a chair aside, and shuffled across the room toward Wyatt. One by one, his buddies rose and adopted menacing poses, intended, no doubt, to deliver the fear of God from the godless.
“Time to move on, gringo.”
Wyatt sized up the big guy, pegging him as the ringleader of this motley crew of miscreants, all the while keeping track of the cannon in his hand and his fat, stained trigger finger just itching to do some dirty work. The guy was around five-ten and 280, maybe 300, pounds of sweaty blubber, mean and stupid. And it was clear that every man in the bar—Wyatt being the notable exception—danced to the fat man’s tune.
Wyatt had been CIA, not military, before hooking up with Task Force Mercy and then teaming up with BOIs, but he’d always been a student of Colonel John Boyd and a believer in Boyd’s combat-operations process: Observe. Orient. Decide. Act. Wyatt had employed the OODA loop in more than one dicey situation. He knew from experience that in order to win—in this case, live— in a situation where he was outgunned and outnumbered, he needed to operate at a faster tempo than the MS-13 thugs populating the bar. Better yet, he needed to get inside those guys’ OODA loop, figure out how they would think, how they would react.
It didn’t take much to get a bead on that one. They wanted Sophie for fun and games and him for landfill. He saw how it would come down: the fat guy does a little strutting and posturing to show his boys how tough he is, then he shoots Wyatt, and they line up to gang-rape Sophie.
The plan was neat, simple, and done—unless Wyatt could stall them long enough for his guys to come charging in and save the day.
“Now, I heard this was a real friendly bar,” Wyatt said, flashing a tight smile, wishing to hell he hadn’t brought Sophie in here with him. Then again, she was an extremely resourceful woman. He felt her hand slide stealthily into his hip pocket where it was pressed against the bar, making certain no one saw what she was doing.
Resourceful and smart, and Jesus God, given the fix they were in, it took a lot more concentration than it should have not to react when her warm fingers connected with his thigh as she searched for and finally found his cell phone. They’d coordinated signals with the other guys before they’d ever started this little manhunt, so she knew to punch one to alert Gabe, who would in turn contact the other BOIs. All she had to do was keep the phone on, and the guys could lock in on their coordinates via the phone’s GPS. This rat-hole village wasn’t much more than a few streets lined with bars, a lone gas station, and a handful of run-down shacks. The guys couldn’t be that far away.
“You heard wrong,” Beef Boy said with a pig-eyed smirk.
“Well, now, surely there’s something I can do to change that,” Wyatt drawled. He lifted his hands to show he had nothing threatening and slowly reached into his breast pocket for the cash he’d stuffed inside. All the while marking the positions of the other eleven men who were circling this one who was as big as a wagon wheel, Wyatt peeled off several bills. “Where I come from, a man could always use more friends.”
“I don’t need to be your friend to take your money,” the fat man said. He held out his hand, making impatient “come on” motions with his fingers. “Hand it over, the pouch on your belt, too—and I might let the woman live after she and me get real tight.”
He smiled then, oily and cocksure and mean, and it was all Wyatt could do to keep from lunging at him, plowing his fist through the dirt bag’s face, and jamming a knee so hard into his balls he’d be eating them for a late lunch. He could take him out in a heartbeat—and he would when the time was right, but in the meantime, he had to get a read on how the other men backing him up would react when their lardy leader went down. Right now, all of them were itching for some action to kill the boredom, but they would wait for the head cheese’s cue before they kicked their adrenaline into high gear.
Small men. Small town. If they had any standing in MS-13, they’d be deployed in the city, not exiled out here in no-man’s-land, swatting mosquitoes, sweating in the jungle heat, and bored out of their gnat-sized brains. No, the real threat was Beef Boy, and only then because he needed to keep up appearances for his soldiers’ sake.
Wyatt focused his attention on him, honed in on his deep set eyes, decided that the sweat dripping off his forehead wasn’t caused entirely by his obese frame and the insufferable heat and humidity. The bastard talked tough, but Wyatt could tell that he wasn’t as cocksure as he wanted Wyatt and his wormy army to think he was. All of that was going to work to Wyatt’s advantage.
“Okay,” Wyatt said on a conciliatory sigh. “I’m thinking that what we’ve got here is a communication problem. So let’s clear that up, all right? First off, the lady is tight with me. She doesn’t need any more friends. Second, y’all don’t really want to kill me for this little bit of cash—not when I can get you a lot more if you help me out.”
The big guy smiled, revealing stained and rotted teeth and not even the slightest hint of humor. “Me, I figure talk’s cheap. ’Specially from a man who knows he’s gonna die. You say you got more money?” He lifted a thick shoulder. “Maybe yes. Maybe no. I’ll bet on a sure thing and take what I can see. That includes the cash and the woman.”
He moved a step closer. Close enough that Wyatt could smell the rotgut he’d been swilling. Close enough that he’d just made a huge mistake. His second one in as many minutes. Mistake number one: not checking Wyatt for weapons. Mistake number two: moving within striking distance.
“The money, gringo,” the fat man repeated.
Mistake number three: underestimating his opponent.
Wyatt made a gesture of submission, reached for the money pouch on his belt, and, whoops, came up with his H&K. At the same time, he yelled “Duck!” at Sophie, and slammed his booted foot into the side of Beef Boy’s knee. The stomp kick broke at least two bones on contact.
Beside him, the bartender had lifted his pistol, but before the big guy could even scream in pain and crumple to the floor, Wyatt pumped a round into the bartender’s face and blew him back into the wall. The impact sent half the bottles lined up behind the bar flying and the bartender to a special spot in hell reserved for MS-13 scum.
Wyatt didn’t wait to see if anyone got up. He dove for the floor and for Sophie. Together, they rolled and skittered behind the bar, using it for cover as bullets from ten guns flew in as many different directions and Beef Boy’s screams of pain and gasped obscenities ripped through the air like a storm siren.
“Now what?” Sophie asked as she huddled beside him on her haunches, covering her head to protect herself from flying glass.
“Now we get the fuck out of here.”
18
“Hang on to my belt.” Wyatt wanted Sophie staying close.
Holding the H&K in front of him and satisfied that she was right behind him, he crab-walked behind the bar, stepping over broken glass and cheap booze. The dead bartender was st
ill twitching and bleeding on the floor. Wyatt stepped over the body, then continued until they reached the far end of the bar, which was four very long feet from the door.
“Hold fire!” Beef Boy yelled above the barrage. “Hold your fucking fire!” he screamed as more bar glasses shattered, wood splintered, and another row of whiskey bottles came crashing down behind them. “I want to kill that motherfucker myself!”
A few more stray rounds popped off before the shooting stopped. Then the only sound in the cantina was that of dripping liquor, heavy breathing, grunts of pain, and the ringing in Wyatt’s ears.
“You hear me, you sack of shit? I’m going to kill you, asshole! You broke my fucking knee! Help me up!” he roared, and the sound of scraping chair legs and scrambling boots competed with the swearing and the grunting and the strangling pain.
“I’ll cut your fucking heart out!” he bellowed like a wounded bull. “Then I’m going to feed it to your whore while I fuck her, you hear me? Do you hear me!” The words surged out on a pain-wracked roar as his big body connected with a chair that his minions had dragged around for him.
“I guess this means we’re not gonna be buddies,” Wyatt drawled, hearing the hysteria in the guy’s voice and working it while he assessed the best avenue of escape. Given that the back door was ten feet to the left of the bar with those same ten feet fully exposed to a shitload of unfriendly fire, and the front door was only four feet away but blocked by the bad guys, there wasn’t a best avenue of escape. Which meant he had to increase the odds in favor of the good guys.
He spotted a bottle of rum and quickly grabbed it. The top had been blown off, but the bottom was still intact and half full.
“Gimme one of those,” he told Sophie, who followed his line of sight and spotted the stack of dry bar rags. “The matches, too. Be careful of the glass,” he warned as she scrambled on all fours, grabbed a rag, and tossed it to him.
Wyatt quickly stuffed the rag into the broken bottle neck, flipped it upside down to soak the trailing ends like a wick, and shoved it toward Sophie.
“On my go, light it and get rid of it,” he whispered just as Beef Boy roared again.
“What are you waiting for? Go get him! Get the fuck behind that bar and get him!”
Wyatt had been expecting this. But he also knew that in the moment after the order was given, there would be hesitation. He took immediate advantage of the fact that bullies don’t know how to deal with someone who was willing to shoot from zero mph to the speed of light on the violence scale in a microsecond. Just as he knew what brutal, sudden, and extraordinary violence did to the human psyche. Even the psyche of a clew of bad asses.
He shot to his feet, leading with his H&K, and popped off two rounds. Both connected. Crimson stains spread across dirty shirts as two more gang members howled in pain and slumped to the floor.
Dropping back to one knee behind the cover of the bar, Wyatt rolled left five feet, knowing they’d expect him to pop up in the same spot.
“Now!” he yelled at Sophie, who was holding the makeshift Molotov cocktail.
She lit the rag, held it until it was fully ignited, then let it fly. The improvised bomb landed on the floor on the other side of the bar and blew like a land mine.
Wyatt waited two beats, just enough time for the thugs to scatter, then popped up again, fired two more shots, and dropped two more men.
Four down. Eight to go, and some of them were screaming in pain and slapping at flames that had jumped from the exploding cocktail onto their clothes. Even though he still had eight rounds left in his magazine, he ejected it and rapid reloaded his extra clip. Twelve rounds trumped eight any day of the week.
“Do you want to make nice yet?” Wyatt asked, aware that Sophie had pulled out her handgun.
Okay. Make that twenty-four rounds. She’d told him she could shoot, assured him that Hugh had taught her how. He didn’t have any reason to question her ability, especially after she expertly pulled back on the slide on the Glock 19 and quickly checked for brass to make certain she had a round chambered.
What he did have reason to doubt was whether she could actually fire at another living, breathing human being. It was a helluva a lot different from pumping lead into paper targets.
But then, given the fact that paper targets didn’t shoot back or threaten rape, he’d lay odds on her coming through, although, God in heaven, he hoped it didn’t come to that.
“You know, no one else has to die here!” he shouted in Spanish, knowing that the moans of their fallen brothers were laying a real psychological trip on the remaining men. “Only one man here has a legitimate beef with me. The rest of you could be tappin’ another bottle down the street. All you’ve gotta do is walk out that door and leave me and Captain Blubber to come to a friendly agreement.”
“You sonsabitches leave me, and I’ll shoot you myself!” Even though the fat man was panting, he managed to put his full weight behind his threat.
“You know what he’s doing, right?” Wyatt asked the room at large, still crouching behind the bar. “He’s asking y’all to take his bullet. Now, I’d understand if I was here to rob you or move in on your turf, but, Christ, all I want is an ID on a picture. You really wanna die for that? You wanna die for that pussy sack of shit?”
His answer was the distinctive snick-click of the safety being taken off an AK-47.
Fuck. His bad. He hadn’t spotted the big gun. And it could just cost them their lives.
He jerked Sophie beneath him and covered her with his body. Then he made like a floor and prayed.
The rattle of the Kalashnikov was deafening. The asshole had set it to full auto and pumped a rapid succession of three-round bursts into the bar. He pressed them tighter to the floor as wood cracked and splintered and bullets skimmed above their heads as the hammer of the rifle rounds strafed the bar in front of them.
His ears rang like bells when the AK fell silent, and he thanked the fool for dumping the entire magazine in about three seconds. An experienced operator can pull off three-round bursts. Amateurs like this guy just dump the magazine, most of it into the ceiling. Not that knowing they were dealing with amateurs meant squat. The bastards still had the superior firepower. And the next words out of the fat man’s mouth proved he wasn’t going to be shy about using it.
“Next rounds go six inches lower,” he growled to the distinct sound of the empty mag hitting the floor and a fresh, full clip slamming into place on the AK. “You’ve got ten seconds to get the fuck out from behind that bar, or you’re both hamburger. Uno … dos …”
Sophie’s fingers dug into Wyatt’s arm. He covered her hand with his, gave her an encouraging nod, and held up five fingers on his right hand and three on his left.
She looked scared to death but kept it together and gave him a determined nod, telling him she understood that he’d go for the five on the right and she was to shoot left.
“We run for the door on eight. Ocho,” he whispered as Fat Bastard jumped cuatro and cinco and cut straight to seis.
Sophie’s eyes were huge and round, and Wyatt could have stopped a train before he could have stopped himself from reaching for her and kissing her hard.
“Ready?” he whispered, pulling away.
She swallowed and nodded.
“Okay,” he said, and gathered himself. “Now!”
They shot to their feet, guns raised in two-handed grips, fingers leaning on the triggers—and gawddamn, the cantina door burst open before they reached it, hitting the poor bastard guarding it in the back of the head and knocking him face-first to the floor.
Then in charged the cavalry, with Green leading the way, an AR-15 assault rifle rammed against his shoulder, his finger jammin’ on the trigger.
Joe dropped to his knee, clearing the path for Mendoza, Jones and Doc to burst in behind him, firing a couple of M-4s and a lone AK.
Jesus! They were a sight.
“Hold fire!” Wyatt yelled as the fat man’s body jerked and jumped, t
hen fell sideways off the chair into a doughy heap on the floor. Four more men had gone down; the remaining four had dropped their weapons and fallen to their knees, covering their heads with their hands.
The BOIs’ rifles immediately fell silent.
Gunsmoke drifted as heavy and thick as the blood running across the floor. The ringing in his ears rivaled the groans of the dying and the cries of those pleading for their lives.
“I ever tell you guys how pretty y’all are?” he asked with a tight grin as the tension started to uncoil from his chest by slow turns.
“Only every time we save your sorry ass.” Rafe’s face was hard, his eyes watchful, as Doc and Green walked among the bodies, kicking weapons out of reach just in case one of the men sprawled on the floor was still alive.
“You okay?” Wyatt turned back to Sophie, who stood wild-eyed and very quiet beside him.
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m … I’m fine.”
The hell she was. She was shaking from the adrenaline rush, her mind recoiling against the blood and the carnage and the very close brush with death she’d just managed to survive. This entire episode hadn’t lasted more than two minutes—maybe three, tops—but to her, it had to have felt like a lifetime.
He wanted to wrap her in his arms and press her face against his chest so she wouldn’t have to see it, wouldn’t have to breathe it. And he would. Later. Right now, they had to strike while fear was still alive in the four survivors.
He walked out from behind the bar while Gabe rounded up those who were mobile and lined them up against a wall, hands on top of their heads, their eyes wide and scared. Wyatt had the numbers now—not to mention an arsenal of state-of-the-art weapons—and the bad boys had given up all pretense of acting tough.
“You know,” he said, walking toward them, “we can just kill the rest of you now and let God sort it out.” He paused for effect as two of the men started praying. “Or you can answer one simple fucking question, which is all I wanted in the first place, and be on your merry way.”