by Glenn Trust
“I can make you a better deal than he can,” Garza said quietly, doubting that the Cent Killers leader would be swayed but figuring it was worth a try. As he expected, the gang leader shook his head.
“Already have a deal. Besides, I owe him.”
“Then you will die with him,” Garza said and shrugged. “So what do we do now?”
“Have them put the vests on,” Carlos answered and repeated the instructions he had rehearsed with Sole word by word. “He is watching. When he sees that they are wearing the vests, and they are safely away, he will show himself. If you try to stop them, he will detonate the vests and you will never find him or be able to use the hostages against him in the future. He said to say, he will hunt you down and kill everyone and everything you care about.”
“I see, but I doubt that he has the capacity for that. Still, it is an interesting proposition. I have a question, though.”
“What?” Carlos watched the cartel man closely, expecting some attempt to thwart their plans. There wasn’t any though, only a simple question.
“Does he honestly expect me to believe that he would kill his friends in this manner?” Garza shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Carlos was ready for that question.
“He said to tell you he knows you will kill them anyway. This way they may die, but they have at least a chance to survive. He also said to remind you that you said their chance of survival was fifty-fifty. Now he figures it is sixty-forty. These are acceptable odds to him. If you want him, this is how you get him.”
Garza had to admit the American was clever. He correctly deduced that his friends would be killed in any event and devised a plan that gave them at least a chance of survival. Let them leave safely, or he uses the bomb vests to kill them with his own hands, and the war between them continues.
But would he really do it? It was clever, but it was also a desperate proposal. Garza could not repress a smile. It didn’t matter. Despite all of John Sole’s planning and precautions, Garza knew the end would be the same
“One more question,” he called out. “How do I know he will reveal himself and come forward?”
Carlos turned and lifted a hand. A half-mile away, a form rose and stood on a boulder at the mouth of the canyon.
“He says you will be able to identify him, and he is close enough for you to follow and catch him if he tries to get away.”
Garza lifted the binoculars and studied the face he recognized from the newspaper stories. It was true. At that distance, he could not escape Garza’s men, but it would also have been almost impossible for them to get off an aimed shot before he disappeared behind the boulder. Once again, the former detective had demonstrated his cunning, choosing a position that would not afford a clear field of vision into the canyon’s mouth for any of the snipers Garza had positioned along the adjacent cliffs.
It didn’t matter. Garza had also planned and was just as cunning. More importantly, in his mind, he was ruthless.
“Alright.” Garza lowered the binoculars. “Signal him that we will comply.”
Carlos raised his right arm and gave a circular wave toward the canyon mouth, then stepped back to the SUV and got behind the wheel.
Garza turned and nodded to one of the vans that had accompanied him. The side door slid open, and a terrified Luis Acero tumbled out, falling to his knees. Isabella and Billy followed, equally terrified but managing to remain on their feet.
“Each of you put one of those on.”
The three hostages froze, eying the explosive vests from a distance of several feet. Billy Siever knew immediately what they were.
“If you are going to kill us, just do it,” he snapped at the tall man standing in front of the circle of cartel vehicles.
“Not me.” Garza shook his head and smiled. “Your friend. He said he would rather kill you himself than let me do it. He seems very stubborn on this point.” He motioned to the vests on the ground. “Put them on if you want a chance to survive.”
Without a word, Isabella stepped forward and picked up the nearest vest, held it up, inspecting it for a moment and then threw it over her shoulders and slid her arms in like she was donning a sweater on a chilly day. Billy watched and followed suit.
One of Garza’s guards prodded Luis Acero forward with the muzzle of an AK-47. Hands trembling so badly that Isabella had to help him get his arms into the vest, Luis looked like he might pass out at any moment.
Watching from the canyon mouth, Sole climbed back up on the boulder, waving them forward and exposing himself to the cartel’s men. He saw the man motion to the others to lower their weapons.
Isabella, Billy, and Luis shuffled to the Cent Killers’ van and disappeared inside. Carlos gunned the SUV’s engine and made a fishtailing circle, leading them away from the cartel vehicles and back into the canyon. The van followed.
Sole waited until they passed him at the canyon’s mouth, then climbed down from the boulder and stepped into the open. He had given them a chance to survive. Now, he had to increase their odds of survival.
It was Enough
A half-mile up the canyon, Carlos slid the SUV to a stop. The van halted behind them in a cloud of dust.
Sandy, followed by Sam, ran to the van, and helped the hostages out. They stood under the canyon walls, bewildered and confused.
“What are …” Isabella began, then sobbed and threw her arms around Sandy and Sam. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
Billy took a deep breath and offered a teary-eyed prayer of thanks. Luis’ wobbly legs were unable to support him any longer, and he toppled to the ground, sobbing, the dust coating his wet face.
“There’s no time for this shit!” Carlos and two Cent Killers ran up and began pulling the explosive vests from the hostages. He yelled at Sam and Sandy, “You know what to do! Do it!”
“Right.” Sam nodded. “Come with us.”
They pulled Isabella and Sam to the pickup while one of the gang members dragged Luis. Isabella recognized it as John Sole’s truck. The three hostages were crammed into the rear crew cab seat. Sam climbed behind the wheel. Sandy sat in the front passenger seat, a rifle over his knees with the muzzle out the window.
Sam revved the engine and raced along the canyon road away from the wash and toward the border.
***
On foot, Sole approached the waiting cartel vehicles. He forced himself not to scan for Monty’s position in the nearby cliffs along the wash.
The tall man who seemed to be in charge gave a nod. Ten men armed with automatic rifles jumped into two of the vans and went roaring across the open space toward the canyon mouth.
Sole held the remote detonator up high for them to see as they passed, but they ignored him and raced into the canyon. He turned toward the tall man, blinking the dust out of his eyes. He had to trust the plan. Everything was in Carlos’ hands now.
He came closer, and for the first time, saw his face clearly. Had his wife and children seen that face before they died? The children were murdered in their sleep, but Shaye had gone into the hallway, no doubt to confront the killer. She was a light sleeper. A small noise, a creak of a floorboard, might have alerted her that there was an intruder in the house. She must have seen that face before.
Teeth clenched, Sole drew nearer, fighting down the rage inside. Uncontrolled emotion would get everyone killed. The next few minutes would be critical. He focused on the tall man.
The face was calm, patrician even, descended from some Spanish conquistador no doubt who had come to the new world seeking his fortune. Sole watched the man’s eyes. The irises were dark brown, almost black and as devoid of feeling as a shark’s.
As he stopped in front of the tall man, another, shorter and rounder, exited one of the vehicles and came to stand beside him.
“So this is the great enemy of Los Salvajes,” the short round man said.
He spoke first, and Sole knew by the deference the tall man exhibited toward him that this round man
was at least an equal to the tall man, perhaps even his boss, or even the boss of cartel bosses.
The round man’s face was smooth and unmarred with worry. He looked more like a barber than a drug lord and murderer. Sole knew that killers, like everyone else, come in all shapes and sizes.
“You have what you wanted,” Sole said. “Give me one thing in return.”
“What?” the tall man asked.
“Your name.” Sole blinked hard and swallowed down the lump of rage in his throat.
The tall man nodded and cast a glance at the short round man at his side. A second passed before he returned the nod, and just like that, they confirmed for Sole who was the boss of bosses.
“Call me Garza,” the tall man said.
“And he is?” Sole stared at the round man at Garza’s side.
“That is not important,” Garza replied. “Enough questions.”
“Alejandro,” Elizondo said, throwing a beaming smile at Sole. “Our adversary should understand who has taken everything from him … his wife, his children, and now his life.” He met Sole’s stare with a coldly curious gaze, a cat examining a mouse he was toying with. “I am Juan Manuel Elizondo. They call me Bebé.”
Finally, he could put faces and names to the phantoms that had haunted him. It was enough.
It was Over
“They cannot escape. Surely, you understand this,” Garza said, gazing at the point where the canyon road opened into the wash. “I admit to a certain respect for the effort you made to save them and to adhere to the code you have chosen.”
“More of your code bullshit.” Sole shook his head in disgust.
“Call it what you will,” Garza said calmly. “But my code, my ruthlessness, has brought you here. Your friends will die in a few moments and you will follow. There was no way for you to prevail.”
“We’ll see.”
The first reports of gunfire drifted over them. All eyes turned toward the canyon.
***
The lead cartel van careened down the canyon in pursuit of the vehicles that had escaped with the hostages. The driver never saw the small dusty hump in the middle of the road, or if he did, he did not recognize it as a threat. The van accelerated, tires spinning in the gravel, the driver intent on overtaking the Cent Killers’ vehicles. Their mission ordered by Garza was simple—kill everyone.
The van entered a bend in the road. Concealed in the rocks along the side, Carlos lifted an arm high in the air and depressed the button on the remote transmitter Sole had provided. Covered with dust and gravel in the road, the three explosive vests worn by the hostages exploded simultaneously as the first van passed over them.
The van and its occupants disintegrated in a fireball that sent a plume of black smoke into the morning sky. The second van slid in the gravel, the driver desperately trying to avoid the debris and crater where the first van disappeared. He managed to veer to the right and slide to a stop against the canyon wall. This only simplified the work for Carlos and his Cent Killers.
Wedged tight against the canyon’s perpendicular rock face, the cartel’s killers could only exit the van on one side. From the rocks on the far side of the road, the Cent Killers took full advantage of their predicament, pouring round after round into and through the cartel van. Only a few wild, desperate shots were fired in return before all movement and life within the van ended.
Carlos left his place of concealment and approached the bullet-riddled hunk of metal and flesh. The five occupants were dead. He raised the Tech-9 machine pistol and put a round through the head of each for good measure then, turned and nodded at the other Cent Killers.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
There was no argument. The SUV and van sped away, following the pickup Sam had driven with Sandy and the hostages.
***
“You are right about one thing. They didn’t escape.” Sole turned to face Garza, a glimmer of victory in his eyes. “Your men are dead.”
The thick column of black smoke boiling over the canyon ridge told the story. A few seconds later, the booming report of the explosion followed by the unmistakable thuds of distant gunfire echoed down the canyon and out into the open.
Chico Saludo, standing a few feet from his boss, muttered, “Mierda.” Shit.
In the next instant, his head exploded in a red blossom of blood and skull fragments.
“Target down,” Monty Sole whispered to himself, concealed in his crevice high on the cliff wall. He slid the .30-06’s bolt smoothly back and forward, loading another 165 grain round into the chamber and centered the scope on his next target.
The plan his son had devised was not complicated. The explosion and gunfire down the canyon were his cues.
Monty’s role was to eliminate as many threats as possible at long range while Sole dealt with the cartel leader at close quarters. There were no mothers holding babies here to shield the targets. These were the people responsible for the murders of his daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Monty would see that they paid for that.
He went to work. A squeeze on the trigger and a moment later, another of Garza’s men crumpled to the ground just as he swung his rifle up to search for a target.
“Target down,” Monty repeated as he would have for his platoon leader in the jungles of Vietnam. Another cartel man fell.
Sole had emphasized to his father that he would deal personally with whoever seemed in charge. That appeared to be the tall man facing him. Only if his son went down was Monty to take out the leader.
Until then, he was to focus on the other cartel men and prevent them from interfering. Monty fulfilled his role with methodical efficiency, using skills honed fifty years earlier.
Two cartel men were down in a matter of seconds. With two van loads gone and eliminated down the canyon road, only two armed security men remained alive with the tall man. Another man, short, chubby, and round-faced, had come from one of the vehicles, but he was unarmed and did not seem to be an immediate threat.
The two remaining armed guards fired their AK-47s wildly at the walls of the wash, spraying bullets with no effect. One dropped as he pulled the trigger on his rifle, a dark red stain spreading across the center of his chest.
Roman Madera paused, loaded another magazine into the AK-47, and aimed at a spot he thought might be the source of the gunfire. He sent a spray of .762 rounds into the cliff wall a hundred yards from Monty’s position. He never fired again. Monty sent a round through his skull, and he toppled forward into the dust.
Less than thirty seconds had elapsed. Four cartel men were down.
There was only one target remaining. The short, round-faced man turned and began running toward one of the vehicles. Monty prepared to send one more round downrange, sighting at the center of the man’s back. As he squeezed the trigger, a roar, followed by a spray of dirt that stung his eyes, startled him. It had taken nearly a minute, but the three cartel snipers who had been in hiding as a backup measure finally located him in the crevice on the cliff above.
His bullet struck the round-faced man low and off-target, entering through a kidney and exiting through his lower abdomen. Bebé Elizondo fell to the ground screaming in anguish, hands clutching at his intestines to keep them from spilling out of the fist-sized exit wound.
More explosions from gunfire below forced Monty back into his crevice. They had him zeroed in now. Round after round chattered and skittered around him. One ricocheted off the rock and opened a gash under his left eye. It was only a matter of time before they worked their way up the cliffs to a point where they could get a clear shot at him.
Monty Sole had no intention of waiting for that to happen. His son was engaged in a life and death struggle below. His promise to be there this time rang in his ears and pounded in his heart.
He leaned from his crevice in search of a target. One of the cartel snipers had climbed to a point fifty yards away. Monty sent a quick round through his chest and sank back into the crevice as more shots were fire
d in his direction from the other snipers.
The gunfire subsided. Monty inched around the crevice opening to try and spot his adversaries. Two shots rang out, both fired by the cartel snipers.
Monty fell back into his hiding place. Only one of the bullets found its target, but it was enough, tearing a hole in his neck and cutting the carotid artery. Monty lay back, his hand holding his throat, head resting against the rock wall. His chest rose high in deep breaths at first. Within seconds, they became more shallow, fading until they were just short panting gasps.
The remaining cartel snipers turned their attention to the struggle in the wash below. The two men writhing and wrapped together in the dust were indistinguishable. There was no way to identify a target from that range.
***
With Monty’s first shot, Sole lunged at the tall man who had called himself Garza. They fell to the ground with Sole on top while Monty did his work, taking out the armed men. They fought like animals in the dirt, rolling over, looking for an advantage, gouging at eyes, clawing at exposed flesh.
Surrounded by his men and superior force, Garza’s arrogant confidence and disdain for what he called Sole’s code became his weakness. Sole waited for a chance, and when it came, he took full advantage.
Physically, they were equally matched, both lean, strong, and well-muscled. Garza found that the ruthlessness he believed gave him an edge over Sole’s moral code meant nothing now. Reduced to this final animal struggle in the dirt, Sole was free to act as ruthlessly as Garza, and he did.
They squirmed in the dirt, panting and sweating as Garza’s men went down one by one. Sole heard more shots and knew that Garza’s men were trying to find Monty. He had to end this struggle quickly and help his father.
Rolling onto his back, he seemed about to give up and submit to Garza. Hands clenched at his throat, and Sole sputtered, gasping for air. He relaxed his body as Garza leaned forward, knees pressing into his chest, ignoring everything except his hands around his adversary’s throat.
Sole’s arm was free enough now to reach for the hunting knife in the sheath at his side. Like the Winchester, it had been his father’s.
