Target Down

by Glenn Trust

  “We go in together.” Slice turned for the door.

  Cheech and Poco followed, pushing Joey in front.

  Edgar looked up from his newspaper as they entered. The usual smile for his customers vanished.

  “What do you want,” he said without any preliminaries.

  “We want your boy.” Slice walked up to the counter and leaned across until his face was inches from Edgar’s.

  “My boy is dead,” Edgar said without flinching.

  “He means, Benny,” Joey said from behind. “They just want to talk to him, Mr. Dupart.”

  It was a lie, and they both knew it.

  “I know who he means, Joey.” Edgar looked at the trembling boy standing between the other gangbangers. “You shouldn’t be with these people.”

  “He is with us,” Slice said. “And we want your boy. Don’t fuck with me, old man. You know who I mean. And we want that big white dude too.”

  “My grandson is not here.” Edgar shook his head. “And as for some big white dude, I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “We gonna find him. You can’t stop it, old man. Best thing for you is to tell us where he is.”

  “I don’t know,” Edgar repeated. “Now leave my store.”

  “You got a girl here, don’t you?” Slice grinned. “The boy’s mama, right? I seen her. She’s one sweet piece of ass for an older bitch. I bet we talk to her, spend some time with her, you be tellin’ us whatever we want to hear.”

  “You lay on a hand on her or my grandson and I will kill you.” Edgar’s usual mild expression turned to ice. “I said, leave.”

  “You talk big for an old man.” Slice lifted his shirt to reveal the pistol tucked in his waistband. “I think we gonna stay … look around some … check that place you live upstairs. That where that piece of ass is hiding … and the boy?”

  “He said leave. Do it now.”

  John Sole stood in the doorway leading to the apartment stairs. The Colt was in his hand, pointed at Slice’s head. The men standing beside Joey reflexively moved their hands to the pistols concealed under their shirts. Sole shook his head, the warning in his eyes plain. Their arms dropped to their sides.

  “You.” Slice whirled to face the Colt and the man holding it.

  “Me.” Sole nodded. “Now leave.”

  “You spilled blood ... DM blood.” Slice shook his head. “This ain’t over. It’s a war now, between you and us.”

  “I’ve been to war before.” Sole smiled. “Now walk out or you’ll leave here in a body bag.” He motioned with the Colt. “All of you.”

  “We’ll be back,” Slice said with a defiant sneer. “You got the gun in our face now, but there ain’t no place you can go that we can’t find you.”

  Slice backed away from the counter and turned for the door. Cheech and Poco, with Joey between them, followed.

  As the Chevy pulled away from the curb outside, Sole turned for the back alley door.

  “Where are you going?” Edgar asked. “You need to stay away from those boys. They’ll hurt you.”

  “Maybe,” Sole said. “You heard him. This isn’t over.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “End it.”

  Edgar nodded. “Alright, but I have a question.”

  Sole stopped and looked at him. “Ask it.”

  “Did you spill blood, like he said? Did you kill?”

  Words were unnecessary. Edgar saw the truth in his eyes. Sole turned and left through the alley door.

  War

  “Where we headed?” Joey squirmed in the seat, his head swiveling nervously back and forth between Cheech and Poco. “Hey, really, where we goin’? This isn’t the way to …”

  Slice’s cold eyes moved from the road to stare at him in the rearview mirror and then back to the road. Joey trembled now, scared shitless.

  The newest blooded member of the Demonios de la Muerte knew the penalty for failing his gang brothers. It had all sounded so good, felt so good, to be one of them, to have respect, to be feared by others because he was a DM.

  Cheech elbowed him in the chest. “Stop jerkin’ around.”

  “Sorry,” Joey whispered. “I just …”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Cheech snarled and elbowed him again, but Joey could not stop trembling.

  Slice wheeled the Chevy off the main road. They crossed the railroad tracks headed south out of the city. A minute later, they were coming out of the surrounding brush and into the clearing beside the Rio Grande.

  Joey recognized the place. It was the spot they had dumped the stolen van the day he played the knockout game for them. A second vehicle waited there, engine running, a gang member behind the wheel.

  “Please, don’t.” Tears flowed over his young cheeks. He blubbered, “I’m one of you. I’m a DM … blooded … un hermano … a brother.”

  But gang brotherhood was a tenuous bond, and for Joey ‘Keet’ Gonzales, it was coming to an end. Slice stopped the Chevy near the river. Cheech dragged him out. He stood, head bowed and hands folded over his groin in a reflexive, self-protective posture.

  His head shook back and forth, the tears falling in cascading arcs to the ground. Joey sputtered, spit and snot flying, catching the sunlight as the droplets flew through the air to plop into the dust.

  “Slice, don’t. I’ll make things right. I’ll find him for you. You won’t have to do a thing. I’ll find him and take care of it. I’ll slit that pussy’s throat … the girl too … I’ll…”

  Joey was talking fast, making the most of the seconds that remained.

  Slice walked around from the driver’s side of the Chevy. He shook his head. “You know the rules.”

  “But it wasn't me. It was Ben … Little Man … he did it … his grandfather too. He must have sent the big white dude. You need me to find them.”

  Slice laughed. “Naw, Keet. We don’t need you for shit.”

  “Please.” Joey shook his head, his eyes closed now. “You can’t.”

  “I can.”

  Slice lifted a hand. The pistol in it barked once. The bullet plowed through flesh, skull, and brain matter. Joey Gonzales crumpled into the dirt.

  “Let’s go.” Slice turned to the waiting car. “We gonna finish this war.”

  They climbed into the waiting car. Before they had traveled half a mile, gunfire erupted from ahead and the brush on one side of the dirt road. Police investigators theorized that it had been planned by someone with military experience. The theory was correct.

  ***

  After leaving Dupart’s, Sole walked to the end of the street where a nondescript van waited. Seven Cent Killers gangbangers crammed into the back. Carlos, Big-C, sat behind the wheel. Sole climbed into the passenger seat.

  “They came here just like you said. I got a man followin’ them in another car. Figured this van might be too easy for them to spot. He’ll let us know where they go.”

  “Good thinking.” Sole nodded.

  Carlos had his phone on speaker as he drove, listening to the directions relayed by the Cent Killer tailing Slice and the DMs.

  “Shit. I been there before. Good spot,” Carlos said when they pulled off the road and across the tracks, in the direction of the river. “I know just where they headed.”

  The van carrying the Cent Killers stopped on the dirt road a half-mile short of the clearing. Sole and the gang members piled out. Carlos’ tail man was standing beside a tricked out low-rider Chevy S-10 pickup, smoking a joint.

  “Let’s do the motherfuckers.” Carlos strode down the center of the road, his pistol in his hand.

  The others clustered around him, moving toward the clearing. Two carried AK-47s. The rest had their pistols out.

  “Wait,” Sole said.

  Carlos stopped. “What?”

  “Let’s do this right. I have some experience in this sort of thing.”

  “What you mean, experience?” Carlos’ eyes narrowed. “You some kinda killer?”

  “Som
e kinda,” Sole replied without flinching under his stare.

  “A killer, huh.” Carlos scowled and then shrugged. “Alright, he saved Juanita. Let’s see what this white boy got planned.

  “Good,” Sole said and began moving at a trot to a bend in the road before it opened out into the clearing. “Do what I say.”

  The other Cent Killers looked at each other, shrugged, and followed Sole’s lead. They covered the distance in a minute. Sole stopped a hundred yards short of the bend in the road and motioned them into position. The two men with the AKs along with two others armed with pistols were set as the blocking force in the road.

  “Stay in the brush along the road. When their car comes around the bend, you let them come. When you fire, you shoot up the road at the vehicle coming toward you and at anyone who gets out on the right side. That’s your firing lane. Don’t shoot anywhere else. Stay quiet and wait. Hold your fire until I fire the first round. Understood?”

  The four men looked at each other, then at Sole, finally at their leader, Big-C.

  “We gonna do it from hidin’ like a bunch of pussies?” One of the Cent Killers smirked.

  “You’re gonna do it and live,” Sole said. “Wait for my shot, then open fire until all of them are down.”

  “Do like he say, and be quiet.” Carlos turned to Sole. “Except one thing. I fire the first shot. That motherfucker Slice was gonna rape my little sister. I do him. No one else.”

  “Alright.” Sole nodded. “Wait until Big-C fires the first round.” He turned to their leader, adding, “And you don’t fire until I say so. We do this right and everyone goes home … except the DMs.”

  Big-C nodded. “Do like he say.”

  Sole took the rest of the Cent Killers and positioned them along the left side of the road. Big-C crouched in the brush beside him. Once the firing began, they would keep shooting until everyone in the car was down, dead or dying.

  It was a classic military-style, L-shaped ambush. If executed according to Sole’s instructions, none of the shooters would be caught in their own crossfire and all of them would be able to pour fire into the DMs.

  They were in position as they heard the sharp crack that sent Slice’s bullet tearing through Joey’s brain. A minute later, they heard the car coming down the dirt road. As it rounded the bend, the Cent Killers tensed. The car carrying the DMs was just passing when Carlos rose from his place of concealment.

  “Shit,” Sole said and rose to stand beside him.

  “You motherfucker!” Carlos shouted and opened fire on Slice in the front passenger seat.

  Trapped, the DM leader reached for the door handle to push it open and confront his attacker, but it was far too late. Carlos kept pouring rounds into Slice’s body from a distance of four feet. He emptied the magazine in his Glock19, inserted another, and emptied it. Slice’s face was unrecognizable when he finished.

  Every Cent Killer weapon opened fire when Carlos shot Slice. It lasted for thirty seconds, more an execution than murder, but a lifetime for the DMs taken by surprise in the car. When the slaughter ended, they were all down.

  Cheech in the rear passenger seat had been the focus of the Cent Killers on the long leg of the L-shaped ambush. Like Slice, his body was riddled with bullets.

  Poco, sitting in the rear beside Cheech, managed to push the door open and fall out onto the dirt. The blocking force of AKs and pistols fired until he stopped moving. The driver, taken out by an AK-47 7.62 millimeter round to the head when Carlos opened fire, never had any idea what was happening.

  Sole walked around the vehicle, making a quick inspection of the bodies. Slice was lying on his back in the dirt where he had fallen from the car. His eyes stared into the sun from his mutilated head.

  The Cent Killers stood, gawking at their handiwork. This was no undisciplined drive-by shooting, no gang free for all with bullets flying in all directions. The one-sided devastation of the attack impressed Carlos and the others.

  “Man we could use you,” he said, giving Sole a nod of approval.

  “No, I’m leaving, but I’ll tell you what to do, how to do it, after that it’s up to you. I just want one thing.

  “Yeah?”

  “Nothing happens to the Dupart’s, their customers, friends, family, the neighborhood. They stay safe, always. You target the DMs and that’s it.”

  “Promised you we gonna look out for them for what you did for my sister.”

  “Good.” Sole nodded, then barked an order to the group. “Move out now. Leave the scene.”

  He turned and trotted back down the road toward the Cent Killer van. The others followed silently.

  ***

  Over the next few weeks, the Cent Killers took their revenge on the Demonios de la Muerte, decimating their ranks. Police were impressed with the military-style precision of the killings. Ambushes, sniper hits, back alley commando-style knifings. There were never witnesses or evidence left behind. It was as if a new killer had come to Albuquerque and set up shop, but strangely, he only seemed to target one gang.

  The surviving DMs understood what was happening. With their leadership dead and no one willing to step forward to take control, they laid low. Those who could left town.

  A few, without the finances or ability to flee, sent word to the Cent Killers that they wanted peace, swearing they had nothing to do with what happened to Juanita. Big-C heard them out and was going to order their execution anyway when a miracle happened.

  Juanita intervened. She was tired of the killing and verified that, while the remaining DMs may have been present in the room, they stood in the background and had nothing to do with her abduction or the threat of rape.

  Like most wars, it ended slowly. Now and then, hostilities would flare up, but gradually, the Cent Killers and their military tactics evolved to the point that no other gang dared challenge them.

  The murders were never solved, the police were relieved when the killings finally abated, ending up in the cold case file until new evidence or suspects were uncovered. Gangs continued to roam the streets, and the neighborhoods saw little change, except for one. The area previously terrorized by the Demonios de la Muerte came under the protection of the Cent Killers and transformed into a haven of calm and relative peace amid the gang occupation of the neighborhoods.

  Dupart’s Market continued to be a gathering place for locals. Edgar maintained his role as the transmitter of the latest neighborhood news.

  Peace

  The van pulled to the curb at the corner where they had picked him up. Sole climbed out and gave a parting nod to Carlos.

  “When you leavin’ town?” The Cent Killer leader asked.

  “Soon.”

  “Alright. Be chill, man. We got this.”

  “Right. You too.”

  Sole turned toward Dupart’s Market. The van pulled away from the curb. The operation to end the threat the DMs posed to the Dupart family was complete. He had done what he could.

  The street was quiet. A lone car, a sixties-era sedan, painted purple with chrome wheels and enormous dragon’s head hood ornament rolled past him. It slowed and the driver and passenger nodded at him as he walked by. Big-C already had his people out patrolling the area, maintaining order, the gang equivalent of a neighborhood watch.

  It was modern-day vigilantism, locals taking upon themselves the right to enforce their own justice. Sole wasn’t naïve. Like all vigilantes, the Cent Killers had an agenda and were driven by self-interest. When those came into conflict with the locals, they would enforce their will in the harshest way.

  He also understood there were no other good alternatives. Understaffed and overwhelmed by the growth of gangs, law enforcement agencies struggled to protect citizens who lived in a war zone. They couldn’t be everywhere at once, while the gangs could be anywhere they wanted, whenever they wanted.

  In the end, the real battle wasn’t between the police and the gangs. It was a fight for the souls of the youth drawn to the gangs from a society that had
seemingly lost its moral compass.

  He had no illusions about the peace that Carlos promised. Eventually, the Cent Killers would be pushed out by another gang, and a new occupying force would take over. The rules would change again. There was no way to prevent that, but for now, it was the best he could do.

  He found the store closed when he arrived at the door and had to use the key Edgar had given him. He turned to give the street a final look, and went inside.

  Edgar and Maggie waited for him in the kitchen upstairs. A pot simmered on the stove, the aroma of chilies, onion, and garlic filling the air. They had waited dinner for him.

  It was a homey setting, just a family having dinner together. Sole sat across from Maggie, and she put a beer in front of him.

  “Here. You look like you could use this.”

  “I could.” He lifted the bottle and took a long sip. “Where’s Ben?”

  “In his room,” Maggie said. “I asked him to wait there for a while. He didn’t seem to mind.” She paused before adding, “He said you told him some things … about gangs … about the Marine Corps.”

  “I did.” Sole nodded and put the bottle on the table. “Sorry, if I was out of line. I didn’t know what to say.”

  “No, it’s fine. It was the sort of conversation I hoped he would have with you at some point. I just didn’t realize it would be on a day like this.” Her eyes were intent, her brow furrowed. “I have a question, though.”

  “Okay. Ask it.”

  “Edgar tells me you killed someone today. Is that true?”

  “It is,” Sole said, without adding that he had participated in ending the lives of several someones.

  “Did Benjamin see it?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “He was outside with the girl, Juanita. I did what I had to do to get them out and to get myself out. That’s all. If that’s a problem for you, I understand. I’ll leave, and you can report it to the police. I understand that too.”

  His morality was not theirs or that of normal society. There was no way to explain it, but if having a killer under their roof offended them, he would respect their feelings and leave immediately. He had no intention of being arrested or of drawing them into his flight from the police.