Diablo

by James Kent

  Swann refocused on the job in hand: eliminating Diablo and the rest of his crew before they got wind of what was really going on then pack up and hightail it ’outta Dodge. He decided he’d ring Silva on Pedro’s mobile just to buzz him and wind him up, but he would leave it until he was within sight of the property to minimize any potential warning that might come from it, and so that he could observe the ensuing panic. He also didn’t want them scattering into the unknown where they’d just have to be found and rounded up again. There may be limited cell phone coverage way out in the barren desert country, but he figured there must be a decent enough signal closer to the target since they’d been able to track Eddie’s communications easily enough from Silva’s ranch. Swann had also been able to rattle Silva from Kingman when he’d rung him from the Taco Bell restaurant.

  He could see a small group of hills up ahead, towards the west, that marked the northern reaches of the Cerbat mountain range where there would hopefully be a good spotting location and a hide to fire the big fifty from, the powerful fifty caliber heavy-hitting rifle. He had already checked online for all the roads and tracks leading into the surrounding countryside, so he would make the call from his chosen position and sow some confusion at the Devil’s refuge before sending lead rounds crashing through the walls. There were some promising sniping sites that he’d seen and noted with the help of an online map, some less than a mile from the ranch and some a bit further; all would be challenging with the steady wind conditions.

  And then he saw it, way in the distance. A dark spot on the horizon. The only significant habitation for miles in any direction other than a few disused industrial-looking facilities and workshops, which is probably why there was cell coverage out there in the first place. But Diablo’s hideout was obvious from its size and shape. Clearly a ranch of some sort. He slowed the Raptor and pulled over to the left-hand side of the road, facing the wrong way, against the traffic flow. Not that there was any in this nowhere kind of place. Nothing for miles in any direction; no vehicles, no sounds. Just the hot, still desert. Just snakes and varmints and insects and the hot sweltering sun. He switched off the engine and reached for the binoculars again. The engine made ticking noises as it cooled. The sun still blazed into the cab as he glassed the road up ahead and the distant speck of Diablo’s property, marking the location of the vehicles that he could just make out against the main building. The distant shimmer in the desert air distorted the image, making it appear to move and dance. He moved the binoculars to focus on the other buildings nearby to see if there were any other vehicles parked near them. Nothing. Storage facilities and abandoned workshops by the look of things.

  Swann restarted the engine, put the Raptor into gear and pulled away from the side of the road. He drove slowly on until he found a gravel track that wound its way off into the low-lying hills on the left. He’d noted the track earlier when he loaded the topographical maps of the area back at the motel. Then he turned onto the track and drove on towards the hills, gradually rising in elevation, continued for another twenty minutes looking for a good place to stop.

  He pulled up at the base of a small hill that lay between him and Diablo’s ranch further to the north, parked the vehicle in a sheltered alcove of rocky outcrops and scrub where it couldn’t be seen from the main road. Even though it was unlikely from that distance, there was still a chance that someone might catch a glint of sunshine off its windscreen and decide to investigate. That would not end well.

  Swann switched the engine off and climbed out. He reached back into the cab, grabbed his personal mobile off the seat and dropped it into his pants pocket, then he took the binoculars and his pack from the front passenger seat, making sure Pedro’s phone was inside it. The pack also contained his sniper’s mat, laser range finder, snack and energy bars, water, first-aid kit, insect repellant, tools and other items. After shrugging the pack onto his back and slinging the binoculars - in their case - around his neck, he unlocked and opened the secured, armored weapons bay in the back of the Raptor and retrieved the two rifle cases that contained the Accuracy International L115 and the fifty caliber AX50, along with their respective ammunition. One case in each hand, and the pack on his back. He checked that the vehicle was secure and well hidden, then he turned and started climbing the hill. The sun was still high in the sky, heating him up and making him sweat.

  It was a heavy load to climb a hill with, but it was easily doable for someone with his fitness and military training. Swann was well used to carrying heavy loads. It’s part and parcel of being a trained sniper: you often have to walk long distances carrying all your gear to set up for a shot. It’s always heavy and awkward and uncomfortable, but in the military that’s just the way it is. If it was too easy, you’d be doing something else more challenging like making sandwiches for a lost cause. So, you just have to “suck it up and stop ya bitchin!” as his old instructor used to say when Swann was learning the ropes way back in the day. Ancient history. But Swann thought, as he climbed the hill, that if he was still in the army with his spotter, they’d be trying to out-psyche each other by making it appear as though the climb was nothing more strenuous than a walk along the beach. You show no signs of stress or fatigue or discomfort. You smile and chat like you’re having a good time, like you’re out for a stroll; you try your best to get under the other guy’s skin. That can crash the will of a weaker individual. But no one dares show it. No one dares give up or show weakness. Instead, you look across at your companion and smile. You wink at him and say, “How’s it goin’? ” Fortunately, the hill was not unduly steep so it took only twenty minutes or so for Swann to reach the top.

  Wild grasses and large boulders provided good concealment at the top where Swann could lie prone, concealed in between them, and observe the ranch nearly a mile away to the northeast. He found the ideal spot to roll out his sniper’s mat. He listened to the sounds of the desert . . . nothing but the breeze in the grasses, the chirruping of birds, the high-pitched buzz of insects. He placed the two rifle cases and his pack on the ground, opened up the AX50 and lifted out the rifle carefully, folded out its front bipod and rested it on the ground ready, making sure the barrel was in the hot sun in order to minimize the temperature difference between the first “cold” shot and the subsequent hot ones. The large rifle lay angled upwards slightly as it rested on its front bipod. He did the same with its ammunition by leaving the fat, brass rounds in the sun before inserting them one at a time into the box magazine and snapping it into position beneath the rifle. It was now ready to fire. He readied another box magazine the same way, in case he needed more than five rounds. Then he repeated the process with the L115, leaving its barrel and ammunition to warm in the sun to minimize barrel shock. He made sure he also filled the small five-round strip stuck to the side of the rifle’s stock for when he had depleted a magazine and required a few extra rounds to chamber individually.

  Swann rolled out the mat and lay down onto it to get the feel of the earth beneath, rocking himself into a comfortable position, into a small depression in the dirt, as much as practicable. Then he took the Nikon binoculars, rested up on his elbows and glassed the entire area surrounding Silva’s ranch for fully half an hour, observing all the potential routes in and out, getting the lie of the land, the feel for the terrain, all the obstructions, fences and potential hiding places. Then he focused in on the ranch itself. A wide roller-door occupied the east wing, obviously providing garaging and internal access. He had no idea whether any vehicles were parked inside.

  He scanned left and saw the main entrance to the place, a wide wooden door; then on to the huge plate glass panoramic windows of a main lounge area. An air-conditioning unit sat near a pair of tall propane gas cylinders which were attached to the side of the house, on the western wall. He could punch a hole in the nearer tank and set the place alight if needed. But he’d leave that till later.

  Five of Diablo’s hitmen were wandering around the perimeter as sentries. They were murderers w
ith no one to murder. They had rifles, which looked like AR15s from what Swann could make out at that distance. It was a distinctive shape. Ubiquitous and easy to find, no matter which side of the law you were on. Almost as common as the famous AK47 favored by Middle Eastern terrorists.

  There was a guy in a hammock out on the verandah, on the side facing Swann. Another AR15 leant up against the wall nearby. The guy in the hammock was clearly enjoying some downtime. Six guys in view. Maybe more elsewhere that he couldn’t see, but it tallied with what Eddie had told him. Swann moved the binoculars and studied all the vehicles, the other buildings and structures in the vicinity, the old tin shed with a rusting hulk nearby; the dilapidated vehicle looked like an ancient Plymouth. Maybe it had been parked there back in the Dust Bowl days by some gangster on the run and then left to the weather gods to do their worst to it. They’d obviously succeeded. Swann studied which way everything was facing, the shadows, the wind direction, the discarded junk, the dust devils. Amongst the discarded junk, he could see an old piece of painted sheeting iron waving slightly in the wind; it gave a good indication of wind strength and direction which he would need to compensate for, before taking a shot.

  The ranch shimmered and danced in the heat haze from the desert scrublands. The guy in the hammock must be asleep, he thought, because he hadn’t moved. He looked forward to waking him up. Swann felt the hot sun on the back of his neck, and the sweat on his brow. All his years of training returned and compacted into that one moment and into that one scene that he could see through the binoculars. He picked out the first targets and settled on the order of approach. Right to left. All that’s left to do now is wait!

  But it was time to send another type of message before the lead starts flying. Swann reached for Pedro’s mobile phone. He booted it up and waited for it to load all its apps. There were seven missed calls and five messages. ‘Popular guy!’ he muttered to himself. He checked the battery life. Forty percent. Good enough, he thought. He checked there was a signal. It was weak, just a single bar on the signal strength indicator that disappeared briefly, flickered, then came back. He must be right at the limit of the nearest cell tower’s reach, but it was enough. Besides, he didn’t intend to have a long conversation discussing niceties or making plans for Christmas. A minute would do. Enough to put the breeze up him.

  Swann dialed Silva’s number from the list of contacts. It was listed under “Boss”. Predictable! he thought. He put it on speaker and placed it on the ground beside the rifle so that he could continue observing the property.

  With a slight grin on his face, he listened to it ringing at the other end and anticipated the coming fury down the line as he rested again on his elbows, watching the distant property through the powerful binoculars. The tinny sound coming through the small speaker seemed out of place in this peaceful environment, even offensive, jarring the senses. Swann preferred the chirruping birds.

  36

  Diablo’s ranch.

  The phone rang.

  Or more correctly, it buzzed and vibrated, and moved slightly across the coffee table, rotating as it did so. Silva stared at it for a second, frowning, then he picked it up and looked at the screen. Pedro! he thought. ‘About damn time, goddamit!’ he whispered to himself. He put the phone up to his ear and repeated his thoughts out loud, a fulmination of invective and rage.

  ‘About time you called, you slack piece of crap! I’ve been trying to get hold of you! I told Cricket to locate your damn phone because you wouldn’t answer my calls, but he said you must’ve had it switched off or it’s flat or something! Why was it off? I’ve left a million messages telling you to call me back, you useless goddam turd! Why haven’t you called me back? I’ve been sitting around here waiting to hear what’s been happening. I’m completely confused! Where’s Eddie at? Is he dead? Is he strung up, hanging from a tree? Is he with you or is he someplace else, in some other flea-bitten dump of a town playing stupid games? He seems to be all over the damn place according to Cricket. He’s here and then he’s there and then he’s in two places at once. I can’t keep up! I’m gonna fire Cricket’s ass too! And who the fuck is this other asshole that he’s been going on about? Some cop-type friend of Eddie’s. Is he the same creep his girlfriend was hanging out with, seen sitting in his cruiser before we busted her ass for it? Cricket says you told him he has Eddie, and that you’ve all been drinking in some shitty little bar somewhere . . . drinking with this other creep, whoever the hell he is! Why are you drinking with a cop? And all on my dime too you selfish, arrogant sonofabitch! What the hell is going on?’ He stopped shouting finally, caught his breath and listened, but there was no reply, yet he could hear sounds. He could hear birds chirping or something. Birds? What the hell? he wondered. He could hear breathing, or rustling or something. Someone was there. He looked at the phone, then he put it to his ear again. ‘Pedro?’ he asked again, now getting concerned. ‘Is that you? Speak to me goddamit!’

  ‘Shut up, you fat fuck!’ said the deep, gravelly voice on the other end. ‘You’ve got completely the wrong end of the stick you moron! Pedro’s full of holes and the other asshole’s in a box or a cage or maybe a body bag somewhere being eaten by bugs and maggots. The Ferret’s with me. You want him? Come and get him!’ Swann picked up the phone and snapped it shut before Silva could reply.

  He waited a minute then he redialed. It rang again, but this time there was no answer. Swann let it ring a few more times to make sure, then he snapped it shut again and tossed it aside. He imagined the panic stations and the frantic orders being given as Silva galvanized his crew into action, ready to deal with the new threat. The problem was that they had no idea what the threat was or where it was coming from.

  *

  After the dude hung up on him, Silva threw the phone against the wall. It left a small dent in the plaster as it ricocheted off and landed on the floor. A minute later, it started ringing again, buzzing and vibrating with each ring, but he ignored it. He felt a chill run down his spine as he realized for the first time that he was no longer in control. Someone else was calling the shots, someone he didn’t even know; someone who appeared out of the blue who was making him dance to his tune. And that infuriated him. Pedro and Randall, eliminated just like that! he thought. They were the two most reliable and experienced enforcers in his crew. They were intelligent and extremely capable, unlike the unfortunate Buck Dolan who was a heavy-hitting moron . . . useful but disposable. Good at throwing concrete blocks at someone’s head. End of story. No loss. A useful idiot. But Pedro and Randall were a whole other matter. He couldn’t afford to lose them. Not really. Silva felt safe with them around, more or less, despite Pedro’s seething temper that flared up every now and again like magnesium, which, truth be known, actually frightened him. That unpredictable nature of his. Pedro was good. That was for damn sure. Ruthlessly efficient, especially when he had that nasty stiletto in his hands; the stiletto matched his nature. He was lethal. So it was especially galling to be told by this other unknown nobody that they suddenly no longer mattered, that they no longer counted for anything. And that scared Diablo like nothing else had before. Another shiver ran down his spine. And yet this other guy seemed totally at ease like it was nothing to him. But how dare he insult me like that! thought Silva.

  ‘Shit! I should have answered it when it rang again! I need to ring him back to find out where he is, where he’s got Eddie! I need to make some kind of a deal with him, whoever he is!’ muttered Silva to himself as he planned ahead. ‘Maybe he could be useful if I could tempt him over with cash! Maybe that’s all he wants . . . cash and a cruisy job as a head banger in exchange for Eddie. I could fetch him a girl! I’ll find him a nice one. One from the flea-bitten slums who look good but come cheap. I’ll have one snatched off the streets somewhere, like last time. That worked real good!’ He nodded at his plan and smiled like it was nothing but a formality. A matter of a few phone calls is all it takes. He picked up the phone again and redialed Pedro’s number. Put it
to his ear and waited, listened to it ringing, but it went to voicemail like before, so he left yet another message. A million and one, in his estimation.

  ‘Yeah it’s me again. Call me back and we can negotiate, make a deal. I’ll make you rich! Think about that! I have money and I have contacts. And good work if you want it. Think about that too! I can get you anything you want! Just name it! So call me back!’ Then he hung up and threw the phone on the sofa, hoping it would ring again in a minute or two. Or less. He couldn’t wait. He stood there staring at it like a demon, willing it to ring. It didn’t. Ring goddamn you! Fucking ring already! He needed to hear back from the guy who said he had Eddie because it was yet another loose end, another unknown, another wrinkle that could destroy him.

  Just then, Cricket walked in and said, ‘Boss, I’ve just picked up Pedro’s phone, nearby, like as in real close! Did he just ring, like a few minutes ago?’

  ‘It wasn’t him! It was that other creep, whoever the hell he is! The crooked cop what you told me about. Apparently, he has Eddie. He’s also got Pedro’s phone somehow. How the hell does he have Pedro’s phone? That makes no sense. Probably got Randall’s too then! He said Pedro’s full of holes and Randall’s in a cage being eaten by bugs or something, whatever the hell that meant! Maybe he’s dead too, the useless pair of assholes! What the hell do I pay them for? Who the hell is that sonofabitch?’

  ‘Jesus!’ replied Cricket. ‘He’s killed Pedro?’

  ‘I just said, didn’t I?! Are you deaf or something? What the hell is wrong with you?’ Silva was red in the face and waving his arms around like someone unhinged. He felt everything was slipping away. And he wasn’t sure why. But then he suddenly had a thought which stopped him in his tracks. He turned to Cricket and asked, somewhat out of the blue, ‘Have you managed to bust into Eddie’s computer yet? His hard drives, or whatever the hell they are?’. The question caught Cricket off guard because it was out of context; it was a sudden shift in the subject of where Pedro and Randall were, and who this other guy was.