by D. J. Molles
Lee’s stomach plummeted.
“When I asked Hermanco about it, he told me they were in a white pickup truck.” Joaquin’s lips twitched. “Same make and model as the one you arrived in.”
Lee had to say something. He felt the guards tensing up behind him. They were getting ready to execute him, and Lee knew he was on a razor’s edge—all Joaquin had to do was nod, and Lee would be snuffed out.
Lee frowned at the man across from him. “La Casa has a half dozen of those pickups.”
It wouldn’t be enough, and Lee knew it.
He forced himself to relax. His demeanor shifting.
As he relaxed back into his chair, he placed the heels of his palms against the edge of the table, and he placed his foot against one of the table legs.
“Besides,” Lee said, his tone changed from nervous to confident, hoping it would be enough to capture Joaquin’s curiosity. He didn’t need to convince Joaquin—only to keep him talking for another minute. “At this point, I have the strong suspicion that I’m the only person that knows who in Triprock has been leaking information to your enemies.”
Joaquin’s eyes were half-lidded with lack of concern. “If I’m curious, I’ll just have Hermanco tell me.”
“Hermanco is an idiot,” Lee said. “You and I both know that.”
“Ahhh,” Joaquin sighed. “So now you lay your cards on the table. You are an ambitious man, then.”
Lee didn’t respond.
Joaquin leaned forward. “And if you betray Hermanco to me, do you think that I will be impressed with you, or do you think I will believe you have a lack of loyalty?”
“I’m not betraying Hermanco,” Lee said. “Hermanco is loyal to you. I’m just stating the obvious. He doesn’t see the problems that are right in front of him. I’m not looking to take his position, Señor Leyva. Consider my offer one of good faith, as I can tell that you suspect me.”
“Why don’t I just get on the phone with Hermanco right now and confirm whether he sent you?”
“Yes,” Lee nodded. “Please do.”
It was a gamble.
Obviously, Hermanco wouldn’t back up Lee’s story. But if Joaquin decided to call him, it would take time. Precious time. Maybe just enough.
Joaquin considered Lee for a moment longer, his lips pursed.
Lee took the moment to throw even more confusion into the mix. He glanced sideways at the short, dark-skinned man, then back at Joaquin. Quirked his eyebrow. Then repeated the very obvious gesture.
Joaquin followed Lee’s look.
The short man stood to the side of the kitchen. He became abruptly aware that Joaquin was looking at him.
Joaquin tilted his head. “Arturo, you would never betray me, would you?”
Arturo came upright off the counter. “Of course not!” Then Arturo uttered something in Spanish that Lee took to be some sort of oath or swear.
Joaquin pointed the smoking stub of his cheroot at Lee. “Because this gringo is saying that you are betraying me.”
“Let me kill him.”
Joaquin looked at Lee. “That is what you were implying by your eyes, no?”
Come on, Abe! Lee pled. Then, aloud: “Of course not. Arturo would never betray you.”
Joaquin frowned, now not sure what the gringo across from him was actually trying to say.
Arturo took a step towards Lee, issuing a rapid and vehement string of Spanish.
Lee smiled. Not because he felt any joy or confidence, but simply because he thought it might confuse Joaquin further. “Señor Leyva. You know what I’m saying.”
Joaquin let out a small chuff of breath. Then shook his head. “I know that you are playing games with me. Arturo—”
Lee rocked forward and spoke over Joaquin: “Eric and Catalina Robledo! They’re working against you! Surely you’ve noticed? They’ve been secretly passing intelligence to Nadie y Ninguno. And they’ve been receiving weapons and ordnance in return. They’re planning to overthrow you!”
Joaquin’s lips grew thin. “You speak too much nonsense.”
“Bring them in. See if they don’t admit to it.”
“I think you are just trying to confuse me.”
“You’re already confused!”
“Enough!” Joaquin snapped, and snatched his pistol from his waistband.
Outside, thunder crashed.
A detonation of high explosives.
As Joaquin brought his pistol up and over the table to point at Lee’s head—and probably to plow a hole through it—Joaquin flinched at the thump of the explosion and his eyes jagged up to see the flash of light outside.
Abe had come, not a second too soon.
Lee snatched the muzzle of the pistol with both hands, pressing it away from his face as it fired, sending a round blasting off into the house. His right foot against the table leg, Lee shoved with everything he had, and twisted the pistol out of Joaquin’s grip.
The table struck Joaquin in the midsection. The two of them separated. The pistol went with Lee.
At the same time, Lee flew backward in his chair.
The two guards stared in shock as Lee arced between them, and as he fell, he racked the spent shell casing from the chamber of the pistol…
He hit the ground on his back. The chair cracked. The breath exploded out of his lungs.
He punched out so fast that the guards barely even registered the motion before he put two 9mm projectiles through the face of the guard to his left, and then pivoted—
—the guard to the right had more warning, and he brought his AK up—
—Lee fired without aiming, four rounds that clattered across the AK, and then into the man’s torso.
The bodies were still dropping, rifles still clattering to the kitchen floor.
Arturo, still clawing his pistol out of his waistband.
Lee pumped rounds into him, hammering him backwards into the kitchen sink, until Lee’s pistol locked back on an empty magazine.
Joaquin tried to pull himself upright.
Lee hurled the empty pistol at him.
It smacked Joaquin dead in the face, causing him to yelp and stagger, and giving Lee an additional second.
Lee rolled off the broken chair. Into one of the fallen bodies. He seized the AK.
The front of the ranch house erupted in automatic fire—both incoming and outgoing.
The rounds moaned and warbled, so close over Lee’s head he swore he felt them splitting his hairs.
He flattened himself to the ground.
Joaquin must have realized that this was the healthiest option. He dropped and curled into a ball, his teeth bared, hands up near his face like they might ward off bullets.
The air was filled with violence. The crashing gunfire, the smack of projectiles. Men screamed. White drywall dust floated thickly in the air.
Ten feet from him, Joaquin stared at Lee, and Lee stared back.
The only thing keeping them from going for each other’s throats was the deluge of lead, inches above them.
They watched each other, their bodies like greyhounds in the slips, waiting for the cessation of gunfire. Each planning an immediate action without knowing what the other was going to do—their actions were simply going to ram into each other, and the faster one would win.
But Lee had an edge.
He knew when the gunfire would stop.
Blow up the machine gun nest, he and Abe had agreed. Then soak the front of the ranch house with gunfire for ten seconds.
And Lee had been counting.
Three.
Two.
One.
Lee moved on faith, even before his numb ears detected the stop in the gunfire. He lurched off the ground, and then threw himself, feet first, towards the overturned kitchen table.
Joaquin saw him coming. Tried to get to his feet.
Lee’s feet hit the top of the overturned table, and he kicked as hard as he could manage. The table shot towards Joaquin, ramming the man in the face and chest with a cracking nois
e and a yelp of pain.
Lee hit the ground again. Rolled.
Two guards, stumbling through the kitchen doorway, coughing through air that was thick with dust and smoke.
It seemed they thought the kitchen might be a refuge.
They were wrong.
Lee fired two bursts.
The first guard spun in a little circle.
The other simply slumped where he stood.
Lee rolled again, this time pulling his feet under him.
Joaquin pushed the table away from him with a roar and then shoved it at Lee, aiming to use it as a ram just like Lee had. Lee saw it coming and raised his shin, just in time to catch the edge of the table. Pain spiked through his leg, but the table shoved off, deflected.
Joaquin dove for Arturo’s dead body—and the pistol still in his waistband.
Lee took two quick steps and punted Joaquin right in the face.
Joaquin hit the ground on top of Arturo’s dead body, twitching and moaning.
Gunfire burst into the kitchen, directed at Lee.
Despite the fact that Lee’s body was criss-crossed and pockmarked with the scars from old bullet wounds, he’d never got over his aversion to them.
He dropped.
The rounds went over his head.
He hit the ground hard on both knees, dimly aware that his legs were going to be wrecked—if he managed not to die.
He fired a long burst at the swinging kitchen door, and heard a cry, and the tumble of a body hitting the ground.
Lee wheezed a curse, then struggled to his feet, his bruised knees and aching foot making his lower limbs feel like clumsy wooden protrusions.
Gunfire chattered back and forth outside. People screamed commands at each other. They screamed in rage at the people they tried to kill, and in fear of the ones that tried to kill them back.
Was that Sally or Eric or Catalina screaming?
Can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.
Lee turned on his aching legs and evaluated Joaquin.
The man was coming to, his eyes no longer rolled back, but blinking and trying to focus. Insensate hands groping for reality.
Footsteps reverberated through the floors of the ranch house.
There’s still bad guys in here with me.
And their first instinct would be to rally at their boss.
Lee crossed to Joaquin and gave him a buttstock to the temple to put him under for a little longer. Could’ve also caused serious brain damage, but again, broken eggs and omelets and whatnot.
Joaquin went back to twitching.
Lee growled and seized a hold of the table and dragged it to the swinging kitchen door with all the bullet holes in it. He shoved it into the doorway, jamming the door in an open position so it blocked the hall.
He snagged the other guard’s AK on his way back to Joaquin. Grumbling and swearing and limping, Lee seized Joaquin by the collar and heaved him over to the other side of the kitchen where they were less exposed.
Up against the counters, with the bulk of the refrigerator standing between him and the swinging kitchen door. The cased opening that led to the dining room was dead ahead, and the backdoor that led from the kitchen to the outside was directly behind him.
He considered using Joaquin as a bullet shield, but decided that Joaquin was a fighter, and would make trouble for Lee when he regained consciousness. So he put the man on his belly and then knelt on his shoulders.
Shouts in Spanish. Footsteps from the hallway he’d blocked with the table and the swinging door.
Lee leaned out and fired a burst from his AK that clattered through the walls and into the hall on the other side. Then he pulled himself back behind the fridge. He couldn’t tell if he’d hit anybody.
Return fire belched back at him. He felt the impacts of the bullets striking the fridge.
Lee issued a steady stream of invectives.
From somewhere outside, another sizeable explosion rattled windows and shook walls.
That would be the crew house. They were a little late in blowing that one, and Lee wasn’t sure how many cartel had been inside when they’d reduced it to splinters from the ordnance that Catalina Robledo had placed in the crawlspace beneath its floors.
But it made Lee smile.
That would be the last of their ordnance, but it was worth it.
Someone peeked into the kitchen from the dining room.
Lee fired off a three-round burst that smattered across the cased opening, but the shots were too wide.
The person ducked away and started yelling at his comrades.
Hopefully they’d seen that Lee was perched on top of their boss.
Maybe that would make them hesitate, rather than blind-firing a magazine at him.
Lee began firing his AK at a steady rate—one round every second or so. He did it with one hand, and with his support hand, he reached down and stripped the mag out of the other AK, aware that he was going to go empty very soon.
One of the cartel made a brave dive into the room, yelling and firing wildly.
Lee took a half-second to use the iron sights on the rifle and plugged four rounds into him. He collapsed, moaning and struggling for wind, but his hands clutched his chest rather than his rifle.
Lee didn’t finish him.
Let him sit there. His body would serve as a small barricade, and his blood and tears might convince the others that being brave was a bad idea.
Lee fired another two rounds at the edge of the cased opening, further reducing the moulding to splinters.
The AK went empty.
Lee swiped the old mag out and rocked the new one in before the empty one had hit the floor. He slapped the bolt back and let it forward on a new round.
The brave man in the opening went ahead and died, finally.
From the front of the ranch house, someone yelled in English: “Hands up!”
Lee didn’t know who had spoken it, or whether the person they’d spoken to even understood English, but it didn’t matter. What followed was an explosion of gunfire.
Lee stayed where he was, keeping the doorway covered, and waiting.
Beneath him, Joaquin started to come back to consciousness.
Dammit, Abe, come on!
Lee could only split his attention in so many directions. They were so close now that it would be just typical to get distracted by Joaquin and then have one of his thugs dip into the doorway at the wrong moment while Lee was trying to subdue Joaquin, and then Lee would be dead.
Just goddamned typical.
The backdoor rattled on its hinges, causing Lee to start.
Beneath him, Joaquin began to move with more purpose, and his heavy breaths started to form words in Spanish that sounded a lot to Lee like he was being cursed out.
Lee tucked the buttstock of the AK under his armpit, and with his left hand, seized Joaquin by the back of his neck. “Don’t start! I’ll snap your goddamn neck!”
The backdoor was silent for a few beats of Lee’s thudding pulse.
Then someone on the other side knocked.
“Condor! Condor!” A voice said. “Lee, you okay?”
Relief came over Lee like a warm blanket.
“I’m good,” Lee called back. “You’re clear.”
The door opened, and Abe stood there, eyes wide, beard glistening with sweat. His rifle was up, and he scanned straight through the kitchen to the door into the dining room. “All clear!” he shouted through.
Lee kept his grip on the back of Joaquin’s neck.
Joaquin strained to turn his head and put his eyes on Lee. “You’re dead men. I’ll gut you alive for this. I’m going to pull your intestines out of your asshole and hang you from them.”
Lee considered ramming the muzzle of the AK repeatedly into Joaquin’s skull, until the angled tip of it broke through and started mashing his brains to jelly.
He was a rabid dog that needed to be put down.
Lee needed to put him down…
/> But right when he thought he might just pummel this animal’s skull in, Sally swooped in through the cased opening to the dining room, holding a scoped rifle that Lee recognized—it was one of the guns they had smuggled in to Eric and Catalina.
She looked at Lee, and her expression was one of absolute amazement, and that was the only thing that saved Joaquin’s life in that moment. “Holy shit,” she muttered. “I didn’t actually think you were going to pull it off.”
Joaquin tried to strain his head around to get a look at Sally. “You little bitch. You cunt!”
Abe nudged Lee in the arm, and Lee looked over at him. In Abe’s hand was a long strip of cloth, wound tightly into a roll.
It took some doing, because Joaquin refused to cooperate, but after Abe slammed a fist into his gut, Lee was able to get the rag into his mouth, and then between the two of them they planted the man’s face into the floor so that his nose crunched and cracked and blood began to pool. Lee tied the gag at the back of Joaquin’s head—extra tight.
While Lee and Abe handled the gag, one of the rebellious residents of Triprock used baling twine to bind Joaquin’s wrists together.
Sally stood, glaring down at Joaquin with utter loathing.
“How’s the rest of Triprock?” Lee asked Abe.
Abe nodded, but glanced at Lee. “All good. It’s secure.”
The underlying message of Abe’s look told Lee that not everything was perfect, but he didn’t want to discuss it in front of Joaquin. Lee nodded and gave Abe an understanding look. They would talk about it later. In private.
Lee rolled Joaquin onto his back and looked down at him.
Abe stood over Lee’s shoulder.
Joaquin’s eyes flipped back and forth between the two of them.
Lee and Abe both smiled.
Like starving men might smile at a fat, cornered hen.
“Look,” Abe commented. “He’s putting it together.”
And indeed he was. All the clues connected in Joaquin’s brain.
And for the slimmest moment, through the rage and defiance that clouded Joaquin’s features, Lee saw a glimmer of true, abject fear.
Because he knew who they were. And he knew what came next.
SEVEN
─▬▬▬─
THE VALLEY
It was sometime around sunset, when Joaquin was staring at the ceiling, repeating the same prayer in Spanish, that Lee wished he had found Joaquin’s family.
