Prologue: La Frontera de La guerra
May 19, 2001
10:48 P.m.
Bagdad Beach, Matamoros, Mexico
The times were an odd beast, especially to the man who dared defy them. The idea of an uncontrollable, unmovable string of nothingness that had no physical manifestation yet controlled so much was almost the best argument of his own existence. You cannot say definitively there is a God… but you can’t argue against the fact that history answered to no man yet always found a way to correct and control itself. No matter what happened, the times would always find a way to restore nature and the world to its proper order; wealthy countries would become poor, the weak would someday have the chance to be strong, and the prideful would always be humbled before the passing of too many generations.
The cause of such changes? Many, but a main reason was the man sitting on the beach with his dog.
His name was Jack Wallace. To those taking part in our series for the first time, that name doesn’t mean much to you. That name simply belongs to a man, currently clad in body armor, with a bushy brown beard and a short cropped set of hair. Like a lumberjack or a fisherman, he had a hard face wizened by age and experience; it was one that, even at rest, did not seem to be particularly happy; the long scar that stretched over his right glass eye, the original having been partially blown out and later removed completely, did little to make him seem kind.
The man was though. Jack was a kind man, a gentle one, capable of much goodness and charity though he may not have looked the part. The only evidence I can present to you right now is his dog, Max. A mutt of mangy colors, he wasn’t particularly big or strong. Part German Shepherd, Blue Heeler, and whatever else belongs to the wild canines that was the culmination of generations of house dogs meeting in the night, Max had no more prestige or inherent good looks than his master. Still, they got along alright, finding friends in each other as they watched the crowd of people preparing for their departure.
Their race, so often looked down upon, like these two were.
“Eh. Gringo. You alright?”
The middle aged man turned his head completely just to get a good look at the man dressed in back, matching the dark hue of the night. Almost all of the civilians were dressed like this man, their blackest clothing to blend into the night. Better to remain unseen, even if they ran into each other every now and then.
“Yeah… just enjoying the peace while I can.” Jack replied, failing to move or stand as the Mexican came close. Senor Carlos Alberto was tall, lanky, and clearly making the sort of money a man of his dangerous position warranted these days. With an assault rifle on his back and tactical gear straight out of the days of the gulf war, he would certainly be armed well enough to make his escape should things turn violent, taking a few blasted United States troopers with him before he left this life.
Of course, Jack would make sure that didn’t happen. He never failed a job yet.
“I don’t get you, Gringo.” Carlos began, motioning the dog over with his hand. The mutt, cautious to those his master didn’t see on a daily basis, approached slowly until he sniffed the treat that the man had hid in a pocket. Waiting patiently on the sand, the Mexican laughed and dug out his secret with a quick slight of the hand, tossing it to the mid-sized dog who ate it silently. “You’ve seen Vietnam, the Middle East, all sorts of hell that would last most men lifetimes. You want peace, but you sign up to do this every three months. Por qué, gringo?”
“Different types of peace, mi hijo… some peace comes from staying away from battle… some comes only by finding righteous conflict.”
“That why you don’t take mi dinero? Don’t want to taint your righteous cause?”
“Why the interest, Senor Carlos? We’ve been doing this for four years now… never asked me about this before.” Jack pointedly asked, raising an eyebrow in suggestion.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Gringo. Eh, mire ese hombre.”
Even in the dark of the night, it was easy to tell what had the border hopper so spooked. A rowdy man, one with a thick mustache and long, greasy hair was making a ruckus even as the rest of the group was terrified. The man couldn’t help rocking the raft he was in with his small gang. A few booze bottles floated around their dark inflatable boat, the men reeking even from the shoreline. Not a good group to be around.
“Is he drinking because he’s nervous… or because he doesn’t care?”
“Drinking ‘cause he’s a punta. Se llama Rodrigo Morales. El Salvador.”
“El Salvador?” Jack repeated, a common thinking tick of his. “Long ways… with so many friends, surprised he hired you.”
“I’m surprised he paid for them all. That little gang of his? He covered each of them, full protection and food. Don’t you gringos have a phrase about being stocked or something?”
“Loaded?”
The Mexican smiled, laughing as he gave the dog another treat for it. “That’s it! Senor Morales is very loaded...” The man paused, his smile turning to a frown. “Which is why I’m nervous. Trabajamos por los pobres. We aren’t first class travel; if he has money, why use us?”
“Because he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s going into the United States?” Jack suggested, shrugging. “Maybe he has enemies that would kill him if he tried?”
“Posible.” Carlos replied, checking his watch. Finding it to be nearly eleven, he patted his human friend on the back as he motioned him to stand, kicking Jack’s helmet in the sand as he did. “Whatever it is, he paid good. Helped me cover some of those who couldn’t. Now make their investment a good one, Gringo.”
“You know it’s Jack… right?”
“Yeah, but can’t let mis hermanos know we’re friends, perezoso.”
The mercenary shrugged at that, saluting his compatriot as he yawned and stood to a full height, just as limber without the slightest need to stretch. Taking the half buried mask from the ground, he pulled it over his head as the sound of a breathing mask filled the area, the figure in dark glowing like a Reaper from the giant red lens that were part of his gas mask, his bullet proof helmet glinting a similar crimson from the sliver of moonlight that could pick up the dried blood. Whatever pretense of friendship and relaxation were over; they were business partners now, one with a very important task.
The smuggling of Humans into the so called better world. Bagdad beach was right on the Gulf of Mexico near the border of Texas; a wall was even constructed through the city and along the sands, an arbitrary man made structure to separate the two lands that were once one. Here was one of the most common infiltration points between the two countries, perhaps one of the easiest if not most dangerous.
Besides the walls, constant border police comprised of both Caucasian and Latino forces patrolled the area, day and night. While they were normally at least respectful if not duty bound in their treatment, other circumstances have had them on edge lately; the economy was beginning to weaken, with many finding their usual paychecks going a little shorter and shorter with every trip to the supermarket and gas station. Coupled with alarming radicalization in the Middle East, the worst since the Gulf War ten years prior, and the growing pains of a new President… it meant that Americans were living a sort of uneasiness that threatened to boil over once the melting pot couldn’t handle the stress being put upon it.
Not that they were the worst concerns. Border crossing wasn’t a last ditch effort by starving Latinos looking for a new life anymore; now it was a business, an even more lucrative one than simple drugs and prostitution. It was one thing to pay for a vice; it was another to pay for opportunity. Cartels were more than happy to provide their services in the past, but in recent years they’ve gone from making it a bonus to a requirement. Border taxes were now being invoked, and without tipping the right hands you’ll find your boats filled quicker with bullet holes than a VIP target in an actual war.
Yes, this was a different kind of war; gone were the simple days of the Cold War, w
here counter communism was the priority of first world countries. Now it was counter terrorism; fighting against those who ruled the streets through intimidation and violence. This was no longer a question of ideology but instead a war of methods, of invoking your philosophy through unsavory means. Taliban, Cartel, Gang, Mafia, all words for a greater problem that was becoming the target of twenty first century military efforts. The war on Terror.
Well, Jack wasn’t a conventional soldier. He understood this; he knew the weapons and the tactics of these foes. He also knew when it was worth a fight… and this wasn’t one. Carlos was a local member of the cartel that just so happened to be invoking the taxes in Matamoros, though he was more proactive in gaining business. Taking a flight down to the southernmost tip of the Americas every few months, he’d work his way up and offer transport and a way to the Holy Land of the West Hemisphere for a price, gaining a menagerie of children and adults all dreaming of a better world. By the time he made it to the border, he’d have several hundred people all ready to move out.
Once they paid, of course. Those who couldn’t were left there to work their debt off until they could pay the blood price… often resorting to selling that very liquid to do so. Prostitution and Drug production become easy when you have slaves doing anything they can to cross the border; what’s risking your life in a lab or selling your body for a few months when you can literally see the new world from across a bay?
Jack hated it all; he hated the fact that America had these barriers in the first place, that Latinos had to pay others to make the journey, that they had to pay a tax to cross and had to force themselves into servitude when they could not. The whole thing stunk of Human Greed and Pride, those two interconnected sins that were rightly called part of the Deadly Seven.
Now was not the time he could break the wheel; now, all he could do was make the last part of their journey as safe as he could, at least until he had the manpower and the strength to tear the system down. So with a salute and a prayer in his heart, watching as a few dozen rafts began to drift away slowly across the bay, he took off running away from the beach and towards a restaurant that catered to such immigrants in the day. While food may be upon your mind at the suggestion, that wasn’t the purpose of his rush as his feet went from sand to concrete.
It was the trash. Finding the great big green dumpster adorned with various tags and remarks from the local deviants, he opened the lock with a key he had copied from the owner secretly two years ago and threw it open, finding his care package safe and sound as he pulled it from the trash.
A custom sawed off shotgun bought off from some SWAT member in LA a few years ago, outfitted with bean bag rounds. Small, compact, but packing quite the punch; when an assailant was too far to punch but too close to effectively dodge and sneak around, the Big Boomer would do its owner just fine and take out his foes nonlethally.
Which isn’t to say it couldn’t kill; Jack had more than a dozen lethal rounds to switch to when need be, though that was rare and far between. Right now he’d settle for this nonlethal tactic, especially since none of his opponents deserved to even get hurt for doing their job. This was simply the sad reality of war; no reason to make it worst when he could avoid it.
Taking the gun, he began to load its small five round capacity as his dog whined. Flicking his wrist and ensuring his shotgun was locked in place, he retrieved the other item and took out a stun stick. An advanced cattle prod meant for incapacitating escaping criminals (and torturing them overseas), it took quite a lot of effort to train the mutt to use it effectively. Still, Jack trusted his life to it now as he knelt and gave Max the tool, scratching him behind the ears as he said
“Smell gas, run. Smell gas, run.”
The dog barked in acknowledgement.
“Find Fred. Fred. Fred.”
“Wroof!”
“Good boy.” Jack repeated, giving him another treat. No worries about the mutt getting fat; he was active enough on nights like these to burn a weeks’ worth of food in an hour. Constant nourishment is the only thing that kept him going.
All that remained was the third and final weapon; attached to a package of C4 shaped as a cross was a note, written in proper cursive as Jack read it aloud for the partnership.
“I’ll be waiting for you in the V8, Boss. Daines and I have gone for milkshakes at the best establishment around. Fred.”
Ripping the paper apart, the man took the plastic explosive cross and examined it, finding it primed and ready for detonation. While one may ask about the detonator, that’ll resolve itself soon enough. Instead, Jack checked his watch and found he still had another two minutes to five past the hour. More than enough time remaining began to make the slow walk over form the restaurant to the gate that separated these two people.
The true entrance into Matamoros was actually a ways off; in fact, Bagdad beach wasn’t really a part of the small border town anyway. It was actually a twenty minute drive from the local community, making it only a part of the town in name only. In one way, that made Jack’s job easier; the heavy security at the border was stationed more inland, away from this beach crossing his friend favored for sneaking over.
On the other? It meant that security here was built specifically to keep all immigrants from coming in. A tall black gate that only the nimblest could climb lined the beach and land towards Matamoros, one that allowed a clear view of the small huts and houses that lined the way on the American edge. Even if you did manage to climb the gate, it wouldn’t make it easy to get any further; while protocol was to document and record in a comfortable office building, often the guards simply picked you up and made you climb back, shooting at you in jest and suggestion.
Well, that meant any minor harm that was about to happen was justified. Finding an area with no visible patrolling guards, the man attached the sticky cross to one of the bars of the gate and proceeded to walk back, Max already waiting a safe distance as he buried his head beneath his paws. Used to battle he may have been; it didn’t make it any easier to have to live around explosives that his owner was so frequent to using.
At least he had time to prepare. Jack, checking his simple watch bought at a local flee market, found himself with a minute to go as he awaited the coming breach. What could he think about in that minute?
Roberto Morales. Carlos was right; something about him didn’t sit right with Jack. If he had the time and known about it earlier, he would have accosted him over what he was; even if it was a good cause, the mercenary knew it wasn’t always good people who made use of their services. Kidnaper, murderer, rapist… Roberto could have been any of them. The only question is what?
Well, it wasn’t Jack’s problem anymore. His responsibility was a different matter as he imagined his butler sipping at a shake, counting down the remaining seconds until he activated the remote trigger. Five, four, three, two, one…
Kaboom!
The gate exploded in a hail of burnt and twisted metal, raining everywhere as the shockwave and sound knocked into Max and Jack. While a sane and normal person would have taken that as a sign to run away, it meant the opposite to the duo; with gun and stick in hand and mouth respectively, the two rushed forward and through the hole they made as the multilingual soldier began to shout, changing his accent as he yelled
“Mis amgios! Donde estan, hijos? Estoy aqui; vamanos! Tengo cosas que necesito hacer!”
As it would turn out, he didn’t need to shout to draw their attention at all. Stepping out from between to mess halls, Jack found himself standing in the middle of the road with two stunned guardsman, both of them with bean bag guns of their own in their hands as they found themselves staring at the dog and the man with the gas mask. The question would be who’d get the first shot?
Of course it was our heroes. While Jack took aim at the one furthest away, the mutt ran and leapt onto the closer of the two as he jabbed him in the neck with his stun stick, the man shrieking as he went down while the reaper opened
fire on the other, nailing his adversary in the chest. They were nearly simultaneous in their efforts; the two went down at about the same time, both incapacitated as the mercenary began to hear the sound of an alarm, many men being awakened as doors began to open.
Certainly had their attention. Motioning his dog to follow, they ran away from the beach as a spotlight began to shine on them, a helicopter in the air that was meant for patrolling the waters turning its attention from the mainland the moment Jack blew the gate. The soldier’s goal, though a tad quicker than he had anticipated; the guards were wizening up.
Especially due to the bounty that was on the mysterious distractor.
“All officers to Gate J2! El phantasmo is here! Repeat, all officers report to J2! Lethal force is authorized” The helicopter blared throug a loudspeaker, it’s side door opening as a sniper took position form the open doorway. Jack must have been too hasty and serious in his efforts to allow for the immigration of his Latin friends; it was rare for a border patrol officer to automatically switch to lethal rounds in an engagement, especially against one man. That they even had a sniper made it clear what they thought of the so called ghost.
Well, if that’s who they regarded him as he might as well have kept up the persona. Taking a knee for a moment as the red dot began to come near him, Jack aimed high into the sky in what should have been a next to impossible shot as he shouted in return “Necesita algo mas grande si quiere matarme.”
With a single shot of the trigger, a bean bag exploded from his shotgun and flew high into the air, nailing the sniper in the chest and knocking him out. Another one down, and perhaps the one with the best chance of taking the two out.
Or at least until now. As he pondered whether it was worth it to take out the search light, he saw the quick mutt dash forward and attack a man who thought he could sneak up on them, taking him out with a single jab to the neck. They were even once more as the assassin fell down; two for two, both watching out for another.
There would be no tie breaker, especially as they found out what lethal force really meant. Seems that the border patrol was waiting for this chance; just as the two were beginning to enter the more civilian portion of the city as they left the encampment of the border police behind them, a great roar and the sound of tires began to sound as the two stopped, looking up to see that the police helicopter was beginning to back away and climb higher into the air. What would force a helicopter, manned by the brave men and women of the United States, to back off must have been like goliath in nature.
It was. Jack only had to take one look at the arrival before he holstered his gun, taking off even harder as his dog followed at his side, moving before the man could even yell “Run!”
Times of Peace: Volume 1 of the side adventures to The Mercenary's Salvation Page 2