The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set

by Ernest Dempsey

  Mendoza's lower lip lifted slightly, as if impressed, but Luis knew that wasn't what the man felt. He was impatient, always wanting results yesterday. Luis understood. The life of a cartel boss didn't exactly have a long expectancy unless, of course, they could make enough money to eventually drop off the radar. Luis could count on one hand how many had been able to pull off that trick, and he'd still have a finger or two left.

  The leader took a deep, dramatic breath through his nostrils and rubbed his nose. The gesture put Luis on edge. Even as good as he was, there was no way he could take out the other four men in the room, along with Mendoza, if the man ordered his execution.

  Luis had a plan in mind for such an event, as that sort of thing was common in the sinister world of drug lords and minions. He'd draw his weapon and shoot Mendoza, knowing that while the other men in the room cut him down, at least he took out the leader.

  It was a zero-sum game that Luis knew Mendoza didn't want to play, and one the boss knew his security general wasn't afraid of using.

  "Our enemies plot against us," Mendoza said with another flair of the dramatic. "With every passing second, they grow, their operations expand. We should be outrunning them, overrunning them, and yet you speak of preparations and phases as if we're some kind of corporation looking at businesses to buy."

  Luis suppressed his anger and offered a smirk. "Absolutely."

  Mendoza's eyebrows dropped, in both confusion and disbelief. "We're wasting time," his voice thundered. He slapped his hand on the long, glossy wooden table to emphasize the point.

  One of the guards to the man's right startled.

  Luis never flinched.

  "We are being strategic, sir. It's important that we select the best locations for your venture. We can't exactly walk in, call the lawyers of a shipping company, and make them an offer."

  Mendoza stewed, so Luis kept going. "You're a smart businessman, Gio. You are on the cusp of doing something than no cartel leader has ever done before. Something that big takes time."

  "We're out of time," Mendoza spat. "You," he pointed a thick finger at Luis, "are out of time. You are my general. This expansion idea will crush the Guerreros and make us the biggest player in all of Mexico. Pick a company on both sides, and send them a message."

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, the anger that overshadowed him seeming to slide off like a sheet of melting ice.

  "You…want me to pick the locations?" Luis allowed the man to see and hear his confusion.

  "Of course," Mendoza said, unfolding his arms to flash his hands in front of him. "You're my right hand, Luis. Or did you forget?"

  Luis shook his head. "No, sir. I didn't."

  "Good, then. Make the decision and move forward with the plan. I expect to have two properties on the coast in the next seventy-two hours."

  Seventy-two hours? The man wanted the impossible, or, at the very least, the improbable.

  Luis knew which two properties were probably the best suited for their needs, but they were both owned by long-time family businesses. It would take something drastic to get them to sell. He couldn't simply take the properties by force, though he knew Mendoza would be fine with that. Such action would bring suspicion, investigation, and more trouble than any of them needed. He was going to have to hurry things along, and Luis hated to rush. Careful planning was his MO.

  "Seventy-two hours," he said, confirming Mendoza's order.

  The boss gave a single nod, stood, and walked out of the room with his four guards in tow. Luis stood alone in the room for nearly a minute before Marco entered from just outside.

  "What are we going to do?" Marco asked.

  Luis didn't want to say it, but he knew it was the only way. This gig grew more nauseating by the minute and it sickened him to think of what he'd become, what he'd done, what he was going to do to keep his family safe. But how long would that truly last? There was no way of knowing.

  He stared at the table, ignoring the question until Marco pressed him by saying, "Luis?"

  Luis raised his eyes and met the man's questioning gaze. "We're going to have to blow up some boats."

  Ten

  Uruapan

  Dak hunched over the bar at the Caballo Oscuro Cantina, his fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of tequila. When in Rome, he thought. His normal drink of choice, a neat whiskey from Kentucky or Tennessee, was his preference, but he figured he should probably do everything he could to fit in.

  Being a gringo in most Mexican towns wasn't so bad. Few people paid any notice, especially since he dressed like an ex-pat who'd been there for years on a meager salary. Those who moved to Mexico and dressed extravagantly drove expensive cars, they were the people who made easy targets and drew too much attention, the wrong kind of attention.

  Ironically, attention was exactly what Dak wanted at this bar. And he was after the worst kind.

  The bartender stood at the edge of the counter in the corner, leaning on one elbow as he watched a soccer game on a television behind the bar. Leon and Club America were fighting it out in a 2-2 thriller with twenty minutes to play.

  Most of the people in the bar were likewise glued to the match, including the one female at a booth with two other men.

  Four guys at the bar sat together, watching with keen interest. With every foul, every near-miss, their emotions rose like a tidal wave and crashed onto the rocky shore of disappointment.

  Dak knew immediately they were part of the organization he sought, along with the bartender. The other three at the booth, he wasn't sure.

  One of the players in a white, green, and yellow Leon uniform fired a shot into the top right corner of the goal, sending the occupants of the bar into a frenzy. The four men down the counter from Dak leaped out of their seats, slapped each other on the back, and chanted songs. They high-fived the bartender who joined in the jubilation with his own brand of celebration, pumping both fists over his shoulders.

  The man was older than the rest of the people in the cantina by at least twenty years. A thin ring of black hair clung to his scalp, just above the ears, and his head gleamed from the overhead lights. A dense mustache stretched out over his lips and draped down past the corners of his mouth until they nearly reached his jaw. His potbelly betrayed a sedentary life, probably much like the one Dak currently witnessed.

  The raucous celebration died down as the ball was returned to midfield and play resumed.

  The tension, however, was even higher than before, reaching to Himalayan heights at the thought of their team pulling off an upset that, no doubt, also involved some pretty heavy wagers.

  "Could I get another tequila?" Dak asked, keeping his eyes on the counter.

  The bartender didn't budge. His eyes remained fixed on the flatscreen.

  Dak nodded at the poor service and dumped the last bit of Reposado tequila down his throat. He slammed the glass down on the counter loud enough that it startled the bartender and the four men at the bar. He didn't bother to look back at the group sitting around the booth.

  "I said, can I get another tequila," Dak repeated, this time with feigned irritation.

  The bartender fired him an irritated glare, then reluctantly walked over to the shelves behind the cash register, grabbed the bottle he'd poured from before, and spilled another shot into Dak's glass.

  The barkeep locked eyes with the American, glowering at him until the glass was full. "Drink that and don't bother me again until the game is over."

  He set the bottle next to the glass and turned back toward the television. He was about to amble back to his standing spot in the corner when Dak stopped him.

  "That's not good business," he said. "Pretty sure your boss wouldn't appreciate you giving away free drinks."

  The bartender froze in mid-stride and turned slowly. "What did you say?"

  The four men at the counter also perked up, each spinning around to see who dared mention the bartender's boss.

  It was one of those moments that Dak
had seen in the movies, where the music stops and everyone freezes, time slows down, and then all eyes shift to the offending party.

  He raised the glass and took a sip. The warm liquid washed over this tongue and eased down his throat with a slow burn.

  "Although, with tequila like this, I can see why you'd give it away. Who made this anyway?"

  Dak saw the four men to his right ease out of their seats and plant their feet on the ground. He already knew they were armed, each carrying a pistol on their right hip, tucked into the back of their jeans. Their untucked button-up shirts did almost nothing to hide the weapons from plain sight. But when you worked for the Guerreros, you weren't worried about petty laws.

  It was easy to assume the bartender was armed too, probably with a shotgun hanging from a couple of hooks under the counter. If Dak had to guess, it would be positioned directly under the cash register.

  Carina had informed Dak that this place was one of the fronts the Guerreros ran. A bar was an excellent choice when it came to moving both money and product. Enough cash changed hands to avoid raising any red flags, and bars all over the world were frequently used as transaction stations for moving small and sometimes medium amounts of drugs from cocaine to heroin.

  The Guerreros cartel boss, Carlito Esparanza, was known to frequent the place, and they carried a special tequila that few other bars in the state could get. It just so happened, Dak was drinking that very tequila. He knew, of course, about Esparanza's affection for the drink, which was why he'd added on that last little dash of venom to his comments.

  The first of the four men at the bar drew his weapon and held it at his side. The other three soon followed suit.

  The bartender stuck to only flinging daggers from his eyes as he spoke. "You should leave, gringo. It's not polite to insult a barkeeper's tequila in Mexico."

  Dak nodded, gave a sniff at the liquor, then took another sip. He swallowed, somewhat enjoying the sip, but not giving the bartender the satisfaction. He scowled at the drink and set it back down.

  "You know what, I'm sorry I asked for another one." His words came out in a slur. "It's one of those things like when you taste something you know is probably good, but it isn't, and you think maybe it's because you just brushed your teeth. You know what I mean?"

  "Callate!" the bartender blurted.

  "He's right, gringo," the nearest man to Dak said. He hovered dangerously close. Dak kept up the drunken charade. "But it's too late for that. You should have shut up."

  "He should have gone to another bar," another one said in Spanish.

  "Yeah," the first agreed.

  "I didn't like the other bars," Dak muttered.

  "Doesn't sound like you like this one either, ese."

  The four men surrounded Dak. The bartender crossed his arms as if he'd seen this play out a hundred times.

  Dak looked at the first guy who took up a spot to his left. The gun hung loosely at the man's side. He was probably in his early twenties, maybe a year or two older. The others looked to be about the same.

  "Is that a gun?" Dak asked. "It's so shiny." He did his best to sound completely hammered.

  "Yeah. It is. And I think we're going to take you out back and use it on you."

  The referee blew the whistle on the screen and issued a yellow card to one of the players for Club America.

  "But then you'd miss the game," Dak groused.

  He reached for the tequila glass again.

  "We'll catch the highlights."

  The man to his left reached out to grab Dak by the arm. That was a mistake.

  Dak abruptly snatched the man's wrist, jerked him forward, and drove his elbow into the guy's throat. Still holding the tequila tumbler, he whirled around, ready for the attacker behind him to make his move.

  The man didn't disappoint. He raised his weapon, but Dak spun and shattered the glass against the guy's skull.

  A gash opened over the man's right eye and he staggered backward. Dak jerked the gun out of his hand, released the magazines, and ejected the round in the chamber within a second, then tossed the pistol to the other end of the room. The next two were slower, though still armed. Dak rushed them both as they pulled their pistols and readied to fire. He lunged at them, dropped to the ground, and slid between them, driving his fists into their groins like twin hammers.

  The two men doubled over, groaning.

  Dak popped up off the floor, grabbed each by the collar, and jumped down to the floor again, driving the back of the men's skulls into the hardened tile. They instantly lost consciousness and went limp, their weapons falling just as lifelessly at their sides.

  Dak stood up straight as the first attacker continued to struggle to breathe. The other dabbed at the bleeding wound on the side of his head.

  The bartender looked conflicted, his eyes darting from the cash register to Dak and back again.

  Meanwhile, the three patrons at the booth merely sat in abject silence, as if watching a movie.

  "You thinking about going for the shotgun under the register?" Dak asked.

  The man licked his lips.

  "Don't," Dak advised. "I'm not here for you. I'm not here for them, either. In fact, your tequila isn't all that bad. But I had to make sure I was in the right place."

  The bartender seethed, breath coming out of his nostrils like an angry horse. "Right place?"

  Dak nodded. "I'm looking for Carlito Esperanza. I have something he wants."

  "And what would a vagabond American like you have to offer Carlito Esperanza?"

  The voice came from behind him, at the booth.

  Dak turned slowly and faced two more guns, one held by the woman, and the other by the guy across from her.

  The man who'd issued the question sat with one arm around her shoulders, but he brandished no weapon.

  "A way to get ahead of Dorado Aguilas."

  Eleven

  Uruapan

  The man in the booth stared at Dak. Questions seeped out of his eyes.

  He glanced around at his guards. Three of them were starting to recover. The one who'd been unconscious sat on his rear, eyes glazed over in a fog. The guy Dak punched in the neck had managed to loosen his airway. He breathed in desperate, relieved gasps, finally able to fill his lungs with precious air.

  "You took out four of my men," the man said, "in less than thirty seconds."

  Dak breathed easily as if he'd just walked to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. "To be fair," Dak said, looking around at the guards, "they're not very good."

  The man blinked slowly. "Or perhaps you are better than most."

  "Quisas," Dak said, agreeing in Spanish.

  The man smirked and nodded slowly. "And you speak Spanish." He turned and took a sip of tequila from a glass on the table. He let out an appreciative "mmm" and set the glass back down.

  "So, what is this? You looking for a job? I have to say, you do quite the interview."

  "I'm not looking for a job. I'm looking for a man named Carlito Esperanza."

  "Yes, I heard," the man said. "You also said you had a way to get ahead of the Aguilas. I imagine, with a man like you in my organization, we would definitely have an edge."

  "I'm not looking for a job," Dak repeated, this time more firmly.

  "So you say." His eyes wandered to the weapons the woman and the other guy at the booth aimed at the American. "You know, I could make this simple and tell them to kill you if you don't want to work for me."

  "Then you wouldn't get what you want."

  "Which is?"

  "May I sit?" Dak asked, motioning to the henchman to his right who still held the gun firmly in one hand.

  "I'd prefer you stand."

  "I'd prefer to be on a beach somewhere, sipping your tequila—preferably on the rocks with margarita mix. Yet, here we are."

  The man leaned back, letting his left arm stretch out over the back of the booth, the other still behind the woman's shoulders to his right.

  "So, why are you here?" the
man asked. His left hand flipped up. "I mean, other than your proposal. I know you say you have a way for me to level the playing field against the Aguilas. But why are you really here? There must be some reason you'd be foolish enough to walk into a known hangout of Esperanza and his men."

  "Esperanza and I have a common enemy. I don't think I need to remind you of the old saying about the enemy of my enemy."

  The man analyzed Dak for several seconds before responding. "So, friends, then? I wonder, though, who this enemy is? Giovani Mendoza has many, but I'm curious how he would have drawn the ire of such a dangerous man like you."

  "Mendoza isn't my target. I'm after his new general, Luis Martinez."

  The guy in the booth blinked slowly, then he motioned to the other two. They immediately lowered their weapons. The guy on the right slid out of the booth and patted Dak down. When the guard was certain the American was unarmed, he gave a nod to the man calling the shots.

  "Please," the man said, motioning again with his left hand, this time at the seat across from him and the woman.

  Dak stepped near and then eased into the seat. He folded his hands on the table as a show of good faith.

  "So," the man said, "what is it you have against Mendoza's new pet?"

  "We used to work together," Dak confessed. "He betrayed me. Stabbed me in the back, so to speak."

  "Ah," the man said, wagging a finger. "Now it makes sense. You're out for revenge."

  "I'm out for justice."

  "Funny how those two are often intertwined, isn't it?" He looked to the bartender and raised two fingers. "Two more glasses, please, Pedro."

  The barkeeper hesitated, still looking as if he was trying to decide whether to grab the shotgun and go to town on the intruder, or do as he was told.

  "Yes, sir," he said finally. "Right away."

  The bartender hastily poured two more rounds of tequila, scurried around the end of the bar, and delivered to the table as requested.

  "Thank you, Pedro. Go back to watching the game. Looks like there are still ten minutes left."