“Yes Ma’am,” Mann said. “Got two boys myself.”
“And you, back seat rider?” she asked Stop.
“I have a little girl,” Mr. Stop said, going all soft around the mouth.
“Seems like Blakemore picked the right three for this job,” Lizzie said. “He knew there were going to be kids involved and nothing becomes more important to a man than protecting children, especially when he has one at home he loves.”
“Why are you here?” Mann wanted to know. “A figure like that hasn’t borne any kids.”
“Aww, thank you for noticing,” Lizzie said pushing up her boobs in the tight black tee. “I’m here to make sure you guys don’t fuck this up. We’re here.”
The car slowed down. Mr. Yield found a spot a bit out of the way in the shadows. He gave the command to gear up, and the team slipped out of the car into the night. They had to get to the ship, locate Yuńior, and get on board.
Crouched low, Lizzie, Stop, and Mann followed behind Mr. Yield as he led them towards the ship. The shadows hid their movement as the game of follow the leader played out. Yield’s hand went up, a signal from the leader that made the three followers drop to one knee. Yield pointed at the mid-sized boat. He checked his phone, searching for the red dot which was moving at a clip.
“What?” he said, looking at the red dot in comparison to where he waited and it appeared as if the red dot was on top of him. “This isn’t right.”
A flash of wind came at his words as Yuńior Delgado swung from the bow of the boat on a rope, landing in the middle of the group. Mann, gulped. Lizzie grinned at the resemblance to the kid’s father and Stop’s eyes were wide.
“What the fuck?” Mr. Stop asked. “We came to rescue this mufuck...”
Mr. Yield gave him the I told you so face and placed his fingers to his lips for Mr. Stop to be quiet.
“This way,” Yuńior said. He waved his arm infantry style, starting a slow trot around the back of the ship. The four followed on the young man’s heels, leading them all down a dark passageway, toward the stern of the ship, and stopping once they reached the rear gangplank. He turned suddenly, asking the three additional team members, “Did Saxton the Blakemore get my requests for the special items?”
“I guess you mean these?” Mr. Stop said, handing him the two mail bags filled with Grandma Patsy’s chili.
“Bueno,” Yuńior said, looking at Mr. Yield. “This is your team, eh? You vouch for these men...and the woman?”
Mr. Yield didn’t like being put on the spot. He couldn’t vouch for any of them other than by reputation. Mr. Stop didn’t kill him a few months ago, but he did shoot Yield in the leg, so there was that. Lizzie, or Mrs. Hump, had a proven track record of always getting her man, which left The Mann himself.
“Blakemore hired them,” Yield said, taking note that the Central American accent the young man had earlier was gone. The voice he used now was laced with a Houston drawl and sounded extremely American.
Yuńior moved closer to Mr. Yield, standing toe to toe, the tips of their boots touching. The dark eyes stared Brody down, taking in the deep recesses of the cut on his face. Mr. Yield didn’t balk or take a step back.
“That is not what I asked you, Señor,” Yuńior whispered. “Should shit get sticky inside of this ship, would you place your life in the hands of these people? If there is a choice between allowing you to die or taking a bullet in the shoulder so that a member of this group may live to return home to your family, would these people be willing to do that...do they care about you enough to stand behind this task in a crisis, to save your life?”
Mr. Yield looked at each face. Lizzie, Mann and Stop; the team of bonafide killers. A blind date for hitmen that was about to go sideways. At the end of the night, someone was getting fucked, and if he could help it, he planned to make sure it wasn’t him.
“Yes, I vouch for this team,” Mr. Yield. “If I had to make a personal choice to enter a war zone, I would take a bullet for them as well if it meant we all got to home at the end of the night.”
“I shall hold you to that,” Yuńior said, turning to them. “Como te llamas?”
“Mr. Stop,” Cotter Wihlborg said when Yuńior pointed at him.
“Mr. Yield,” Brody Johnson replied to the finger pointed at him.
The next finger went to the woman. “Mrs. Hump,” Lizzie said.
The last finger pointed at Nathaniel, who kindly whispered, “I’m The Mann.”
Yuńior pointed at himself, “El Bocaracá,” he said, waving them into a tight huddle and telling them the plan. It was the wildest idea they’d ever heard in their lives and dumb enough to work. That is, if they lived long enough to tell anyone about it.
Chapter Seven – The Team’s All Here
3:30 AM, AUGUST 8, 2019
“Damnit, Cookie, we’re starving. There has to be something to eat on this fucking boat other than fruit and cheese,” the guard from earlier said. “I’m starving, and it’s going to be hours before breakfast. You got any soup or stuff to make a sandwich?”
“No, we’re running light on this one,” Chef said. “We’re taking the boat down to Mazatlán, then offloading the cargo to a Pan Asian line before heading to Acapulco where we get more supplies. Right now, we have to make do.”
Yuńior had made it to the kitchen before the Chef had returned. The large pots simmered with hearty helpings of Ms. Patsy’s chili. He stirred the pots, sampling just a tad in his mouth and wondering why the old woman made the stuff, since it wasn’t fit for human consumption. Tonight, he’d weaponized the pots of beans and meat, to take down half of a ship to prevent it from sailing.
“Lo siento, Jeffe,” Yuńior said, bobbing his head up and down. The lower-class Mexican accent, sprinkled with broken English, poured on thick to match the image the Chef would understand and find non-threatening. “The men, complains. Comida. Neccessita comida. I make for you. My Abuelita’s chili con carne. So good. Good for you. Venga. Venga. I prepare lots.”
He took a clean spoon and stuck it in the pot, picking up a loaded spoonful and shoving it in his mouth. Chewing happily, his mouth on fire, as he grinned at the Chef and guard. “Es muy bueno y spicy. You try. You like. Es bueno,” Yuñior said encouraging the Chef to come forward. “Tell the men, comida...no one sails on an empty belly. We feast!”
“Who the hell are you and why are you in my kitchen?” the Chef asked.
“Manuel sent me,” Yuńior lied. “The men, all complain. Comida. Neccesito comida. Manuel, he says to me, you cook. You—va via- make the Abuelita’s chili for the men. I make chili. Men eat. Everyone happy.”
“I didn’t see you make this chili,” the Chef said.
“No Señor, you... on the wharf with the woman,” Yuñior added. “I not disturb. You left the post. I cook for the men. Ayudate. I help you. Men comida. Men eat. Call men, eat. I no tell you no make.”
“Hell, I’m hungry,” the guard said, grabbing a disposable bowl. He scooped a large helping into the paper container, shoving a spoon in and throwing it into his mouth. “Whooo-whoo, that is spicy and good.”
“See Jeffe, it is good chili. Mi Abuelita, so proud when she makes it for our family,” Yuńior said with truth in his voice. He thought of his brother Andres downing the bowl of Grandma Patsy’s chili with pride. An hour later he thought he would die from a ruptured bowel. The warmth of the expression from the memory on Yuńior’s face sold the chef.
“Your Grandma, heh?” The Chef asked.
“Sí, she loves to make the chili. Every holiday, every visit, Abuelita makes a pot,” he said laughing. “My Grandma Patsy. Very famous for this recipe.”
“Let me try it,” the Chef said, making himself a large bowl.
The guard accepted another, getting on the radio and calling to the last of the crew who loaded onto the ship. Those men, Yuńior noticed from the guard’s radio, were on a different channel than the others. He served up large helpings, grinning as he took count of the number of men. Twe
nty men ate the chili.
Three he’d killed.
One should be writhing in his bunk in a cold sweat from the nick Yuńior provided to the man’s neck. Now was the time to move the children. However, Yuńior paused as a burly man came through the door, his dark skin highlighted by a patch of blond hair at the front of his head along with the trademark artificial red eye behind the sunglasses he wore even at night was a terror to all who came across this path. A man whom children and women throughout the Caribbean knew provided endless nightmares even in their waking hours had arrived in the kitchen. He was the captain of the ship, a man Yuńior recognized and he prayed didn’t recognize him − Tito Montoya.
“Fuck,” Yuńior said, as he lowered his head and served up a bowl of the chili to the man who took up where Mateo Rentería had left off. Montoya was sly snake of a man who also was a bastard of seismic proportions and evil all the way down to his toes. Even Eduardo Delgado didn’t fuck with Tito, not because he was afraid of the man. Tito was nuts. He only sold women and children to make more money to buy more ships, boats, and planes to kidnap and sell more women and children.
And now that Yuńior had opened the whole slithering box of adders, there was going to be hell to pay.
YIELD LED STOP AND Lizzie through the bowels of the ship, taking them to exactly where the children were being held. Confident hands gripped the door handles, sliding back the large chunk of metal and allowing the odiferous intentions of bad men to eke out of the closed in space. Although he’d been expecting the smell, the scent didn’t get any better on the second go round.
“Oh God, I’m going to hurl,” Stop said, putting his hand under his nose.
“Cowboy up, Big Boy,” Lizzie said, skirting around him. Her voice, in fluent Spanish, spoke in a soft tone to the kids, issuing instructions to the older of the children. Luckily, the younger Delgado had already sorted the kids into smaller, more manageable groups to move through the ship. Families were together, and children who’d been disconnected from their parents or siblings were in a separate group.
“Lizzie, take them down and out the side door to the back ramp,” Yield said. “The buses should be coming in where I left the car. Take the first batch out, and the older kids will bring up the rear.”
Lizzie paused, looking back at the man she’d spent many nights under, on top of, and everything in between. Brody Johnson was just as sexy as she remembered and guaranteed to give a girl a night of pleasure filled moans. She missed that part about him, but the rest of it left a bad taste in her mouth, which rivaled the smell in the cargo hold.
“You get off telling me what to do, don’t you?” she said, looking over her shoulder.
“No, I value my life,” he threw back. “My job was to get the golden boy out of here, and now I’m rescuing chil’ren, working alongside your crazy ass, and thinking of ways to repay Mr. Stop for shooting me in the leg.”
“Feels good to be alive, doesn’t it,” she said with a wink.
“Yeah, let’s see if we can make it last,” Yield replied. “I need to check on the kid. Leaving him alone makes me kinda nervous.”
“Relax, old man. Being a Dad is sucking all the fun out of you,” Lizzie said. “I remember a time when a good sucking...”
“Stop it,” Yield replied. “That kid is up there by himself in a room full of cutthroats, serving up chili, for God’s sake. I need to be at his side.”
“Go ahead. I got this,” Lizzie said to the back of Mr, Yield’s head. He was already on the move looking for the galley, hoping and praying that Yuńior Delgado wasn’t getting his ass kicked.
THE CHILI HAD COMMENCED this slow cha-cha dance in most of the men’s colons, working its way up to a fevered pitch. Yuñior wasn’t sure what Ms. Patsy put inside her pot of poop producer, but he was for certain grateful. It didn’t take long for the pot of death to work its magic on the empty bellies and by the time Mr. Yield reached the galley, most of the kids were off the ship and the men were all evacuating the kitchen for the bathroom.
“Hey, I heard there was grub up here,” Yield said to Yuńior, looking about the room. Ten men remained at the tables who hadn’t eaten the chili or had yet to be impacted by its punch.
Yuńior provided a coy smile, using the same broken English he had earlier with the chef, “Lo siento Señor. Chili. All gone. Mi Abuelita would be very proud,” he said with a smile.
“Aww man, I heard it was good and spicy, just like I like it,” Yield said, looking about the kitchen. “Anything else in here to eat? I’m starving.”
“Tome asiento. Sit. Sit. I make meal for you,” Yuńior said to Yield, his eyes going to the table nearly filled by the mass known as Tito.
Mr. Yield didn’t know who the big fella was, nor did he care. His job was to get Yuńior off the ship. The kids were off. Mr. Stop was at the buses, and Mr. Mann was sitting on point to cover the retreat. In an ideal world, the plan would have worked. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was where things were going to get sticky with the arrival of a short dude, in cut off pants and a hunter’s vest, who was, by all calculations, too damned worked up to be delivering good news.
“Tito! Tito! Los ninos. Los niños!” a man called as Tito jumped to his feet, listening to the words that made his blood boil tomato soup red. “The children are all gone, Tito.”
Tito Montoya didn’t believe in coincidences. He didn’t know these two men in his galley. The cook’s assistant who made the chili looked familiar, but the helper hadn’t been hired by him. Half of the ship’s staff had made a hasty retreat to their quarters after enjoying a bowl of the hot chili and Tito didn’t recognize the man with the scar who just walked in to get a serving.
Tito raised his weapon, pointing it at Yuńior Delgado’s back. Mr. Yield took a running start, diving through the air, tackling Yuńior, and falling hard behind boxes of produce. It wasn’t enough to provide sufficient cover or to shield them for an escape. Fumbling with his phone, Yield sent a text to the team.
“Shit just hit the fan. Bring the clean-up tools.”
MR. STOP LOADED THE last haul of kids into the second bus, doubling up smaller kids to four in a row and ensuring the vehicles got moving. Each bus held a “travel mom” that passed out blankets, bottles of water, and snack bags for the children.
“Hey,” he called to Lizzie. “How did Blakemore know to have all this ready?”
“He wasn’t sure. That’s why I’m here,” she said, stepping off the last bus, watching it roll out with no headlights until it reached the main road.
“You work with this group or something?” Mr. Stop asked.
“A few years back, I ran into Blakemore and his wife down in Panama, busting up one of these rings,” she said. “I was contracted to go in and find a man’s children. That’s how I met the Blakemores. From there I started working with the Sisters of Light.”
“Sisters of Light?” He asked.
“Yeah, Louise Blakemore, the sister-in-law, sits on the Board of Directors of the organization,” Lizzie said. “Saxton called me and told me to get a few buses down here just in case. So, we did.”
“I thought the kid called for the buses,” Stop said, feeling for his phone, which vibrated in his upper left pocket.
“He did. Saxton was ahead of him. The kid’s plan is to move them deeper into Mexico to a haven,” she said. “I just needed to get the buses here.”
The quick conversation got interrupted by the buzzing of both their phones.
“Fuck,” Stop said, looking at his phone. “They’re in trouble.”
He held up his phone, the white light from the camera showing bright in the dark of the wee hours of the morning. The snowy light appeared then went away. It appeared again, then went away. It appeared once more before finally dissolving into the black of night.
On a rooftop across the pier, Mr. Mann spotted the light. Once meant the kids were safe and on the way. Two meant it was time to move. Three lights indicated trouble was afoot and he needed
to get inside that ship.
It was go time. He hadn’t planned to kill anyone this month, but if push came to shoving Yuńior Delgado out of that fucking ship, he’d pop a round into any body that stood in his way. Mr. Mann admired what the kid was trying to do, but in his estimation, it was nothing more than a waste of time and resources. The children would get sent to Mexico, and the bad guys would go back and grab another batch to sell like they were freshly hatched chicks painted in vivid Easter colors. All the crabs were in the barrels and until Central America was cleaned up, the problem would persist.
He’d ponder the overall problem later. Mr. Yield and the kid were in trouble. Time to be a hero, if what he did for a living could even qualify as being heroic on any scale. His rifle cradled in his arm, he shimmied down the side of the building, staying in the shadows, running around the back of the ship and pacing his breathing so when he arrived, he wouldn’t be too jacked up on testosterone to be of any use. The gangway remained down, and he saw Lizzie and Stop run up the walkway. He followed close behind, the scope of the rifle to his eye scanning for hostiles as they entered the belly of the ship.
The sound of small arms gunfire drew them to the galley. Sliding through the door on his knees, Mann, provided two clear shots, followed by an oomph and the dropping of two bodies. Stop came through the door next, guns blazing, firing off rounds, and sliding in behind the cartons of vegetables and fruits.
“Just fucking great,” Mr. Yield said. “Now we are all pinned down.”
“Not for long,” Yuńior said, raising his hand behind the cartons. “Tito Montoya, we should talk.”
Tito Montoya wasn’t the talking sort. From his perspective, these people were messing with his money and he didn’t like nor appreciate it. It didn’t matter who sent them. He planned to send back a message that no one, and he meant no one, messed with him or his plans. This action and interruption of his money-making strategies were just downright rude, and someone needed to be taught some fucking manners.
Killers Page 8
