by Glenn Trust
“They’re on time,” He said, focusing on the trucks now. “The priest and that weakling, Acosta, have done their work.” He smiled and nodded to his sons, gathered behind him. “Go to your stations. Have your men ready. Remember, they all die. No prisoners and no mercy. We send a message today. This is our country and our business.”
“And the priest and Acosta?” his oldest son looked at his father.
“Everyone,” Diaz said firmly.
His sons nodded their understanding and moved off to gather the men and prepare the ambush. Diaz watched the trucks, approaching closer. In another ten minutes, they would be at the bend in the road selected for the attack.
***
Pepe Lopez watched the road ahead, comparing the terrain to the map in his lap. He didn’t have the faith that Father Alonso pretended to have, but he offered a silent prayer that Diaz had not changed the ambush site at the last minute. It went something like, Dear God, please make sure everything stays the same so we can kill the motherfuckers.
“There.” He pointed, and the driver slowed. “Up ahead. That is the spot. They’ll be just around that bend in the road.”
The driver brought the lead truck to a stop, and the others followed suit. In the rear, the doors popped open, and the K and Z assault teams jumped out. Stu Pearce led his team up the slopes on the right. Shorts Culper led his men to the left. The third team from the middle truck would follow along the road and wait for the attack to begin then come in from behind and provide the final crushing blow to Diaz’s hijackers.
When the assault teams were concealed on the slopes and moving forward, the trucks on the road began easing their way around the bend. Everyone knew what to expect, but that didn’t make it easier to sit in the truck like a target.
There wasn’t much else they could do. Their plan relied on the speed and marksmanship of the shooters to take out the Diaz attackers before they were able to pour fire into the trucks.
They were almost at the turn now. Pepe Lopez looked up the slopes to make sure the K and Z men were moving forward and ready. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to offer another, slightly modified prayer. Dear God, make sure these gringos can shoot straight and kill these motherfuckers.
In the center truck’s cab, Father Alfonso had been praying out loud since they turned off the main highway. This greatly concerned his police driver. Priests weren’t supposed to be afraid to die, were they?
Mario Acosta, bringing up the rear fought to control his bladder. His bowels, on the other hand, were well under control. His sphincter had tightened to the point that you couldn’t drive a nail up his asshole with a sledgehammer.
The lead truck came around the bend, followed by the others. Pepe Lopez braced himself. Ahead, a van was pulled across the road, and armed men formed a line to each side. Behind the rear truck, another group of Diaz men rushed from concealment in the ditches and behind boulders.
Pepe Lopez was ready, his hand on the door handle. His police driver was already pushing his door open.
“Wait,” Lopez ordered. “Wait for our men take out the lead shooters.”
It was too much for the driver, and he jumped to the ground, his pistol in his hand. Diaz’s men in front shot him down and took aim on Lopez still in the truck.
***
From his vantage point high above, Benito Diaz saw the trucks stop and the armed men exit from the rear. He knew instantly what was happening. Instead of falling into the trap he had set so carefully for them, the gringos had set a trap of their own.
“¡Mierda!” he screamed and waved frantically to his sons and their men already taking up positions on the road below.
The distance was too great for them to hear. His youngest son looked up and saw his father waving from the summit above.
He laughed and called to his brothers, “Papa is wishing us good success.”
They all waved back and then made themselves ready to murder the gringos.
***
Gunfire cracked and thundered from the slopes. Diaz’s men began falling one by one.
Taken completely by surprise and unsure where the fire came from, they milled about, crouched in the middle of the road, fired wildly up the slopes. Some stood up straight, searching for their attackers.
They made themselves easy targets for Pearce, Culper, and their men. The third team advanced along the road around the bend. They moved from body to body methodically putting a bullet in each head.
When it was done, Diaz’s sons and twenty of their men lay dead in the dirt. In addition to the dead policía in Lopez’s truck, the K and Z assault teams had suffered only three minor wounds from the wild shots Diaz’s men fired up the slopes.
It was an enormous victory. They gathered in the road congratulating each other and slapping backs. Someone began chanting, “USA, USA, USA,” as if the ambush had been a sporting event.
“Where’s Lopez?” Stu Pearce looked at Alfonso.
The priest shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since the shooting began.”
“You?” Pearce swiveled his head toward Mario Acosta.
“I saw him jump into the ditch when the first shots were fired. After that …” He shrugged. “He must have run away like a little coward,” he added with bluster, hoping no one would notice the wet stain on the crotch of his blue jeans.
On the summit above, Benito Diaz wept for his sons, murdered by the fucking gringos. His grief was short-lived, followed by another emotion.
A helicopter rose over an adjacent hill. The side door was open, and a man sat there. Surprise replaced his grief for a moment, and Diaz squinted at him wondering who would fly a helicopter into this remote valley.
His final emotion was fear. The man had a rifle. Diaz lifted the Tec-9 machine pistol he carried to swagger about with in front of his men. It would have been useless at this range against the helicopter, but it didn’t matter.
Before he could squeeze the trigger, a .30-06 round plowed through his chest, and he sank to the ground. A second round shattered his skull for good measure.
The roar of the rifle shots startled the K and Z men. Their celebration came to a halt as they watched the helicopter swoop down into the valley. Several lifted their rifles. Others gave a shout of triumph.
“It’s Krieg and Zabala!”
“Fuck, yeah! They came to finish off that old bandit Diaz.”
“Leave it to them to come in like the fucking cavalry.”
The rifles lowered. All eyes were focused on the chopper. Most expected it to land and for the bosses to step out and congratulate each of them. There might even be another bonus.
The helicopter moved slowly toward the men in the road. At a distance of two hundred yards, it hovered. They felt the rotor wash in their face as they gazed up at it.
Slowly, it rotated on its axis to reveal the open side door.
“What the fuck.” Stu Pearce lifted his rifle, and the others did the same.
It was too late. Firing at a rate of five thousand rounds a minute, the M134 minigun clamped to the chopper’s door frame buzz-sawed through the compact body of men showering the surrounding ground with blood and bone fragments.
Within a minute, every man who had exited the trucks to spring their trap on Diaz was dead or dying. The minigun’s electric motor ceased its deadly whirring, and the six barrels stopped spinning.
The helicopter settled onto the road, the engine idling so that rotor continued to spin overhead. The blades cast a blurred circular shadow on the road and surrounding hillsides.
Alejandro Garza stepped out holding the rifle he had used to kill Benito Diaz. His two guards who had manned the minigun followed, each armed with an AK-47. Bebé Elizondo made sure that the Los Salvajes cartel was never short of firepower.
Garza’s men began searching for survivors. There were only two.
Father Alfonso and Mario Acosta had crouched behind the others just as the firing began. Both were severely wounded but breathing.
Garza’s men
dragged them away from the rest of the bodies. Alfonso moaned. Mario stared wide-eyed at the hard-eyed men standing over him, too weak to beg for mercy. Both received a bullet through the brain.
“It went as planned, did it not?” Pepe Lopez scrambled, smiling down the hillside where he had hidden during the killing.
“We’ll see.” Garza turned to his security men. “Find him.”
One by one, they pulled the bodies out of the heap and laid them out on the road. As they worked, Sargento Garcia and his policías returned to the scene. They stood meekly by the side of the road, ignored by Garza.
“All is well, no?” Garcia said to Lopez.
“Shut up.” The more they prowled through the bodies, the more Lopez’s nerves tensed.
Surely he was there, the norteamericano. They would drag his bloody corpse out, and the trouble would be over.
Lopez watched, and each time a body was rolled over, and Garza shook his head, the knot in his stomach grew. He had been with Garza the night before, driven him through the village to Juan Galdo’s home where he showed the picture of the American. Galdo had been adamant that it, it was him, and that he was the one who killed his cousin Bernardo.
Lopez had arranged the trap, emphasizing to Krieg and Zabala the number and ferocity of Diaz’s fighters. As expected, they were more than willing to send all their men to the fight.
The rest was simple. The K and Z men would ambush Diaz’s unsuspecting fighters. Then Garza would show up and kill the K and Z men just as they were flushed with their victory. The one Garza hunted, John Sole who had been working with Stu Pearce, would be killed as well. Except, there was a problem.
“He is not here.” Garza walked to Lopez.
“But …”
“He is not here,” Garza repeated.
“But he should be … he must be … they would have sent everyone to take out Diaz. They would not take chances on not having enough men.”
“He is not there.” Garza’s voice was controlled, indifferent almost as if they were discussing the weather. “We had a business arrangement. You provide the American, and we eliminate the others so that you control their business.” He shook his head. “We fulfilled our agreement. You did not.”
Lopez’s mind was reeling. The penalty for failing in an agreement with Los Salvajes was well known.
How many seconds would Garza wait before having his men put a bullet in his head? Or, he might choose to do it himself. Behind him, Garcia and his policías stepped away, making sure they were not in the line of fire.
“I … I think I know where he may be.” Pepe spoke rapidly, rushing as many words as possible through his mouth before the bullet tore through his brain.
“Do not trifle with me.” Garza’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “What is to happen will only be worse for you.”
“I swear,” Lopez pleaded. “I am not trifling. I do know where he might be … a small town across the border.”
“And how can I believe you?”
“Do you think I would have brought you here if I had known he would not be in the trucks?” Lopez shook his head, adamantly. “No! I knew what would happen if the plan failed. I believed he would be here. I would not try to deceive you. If the gringo is not here, it is because he did not act as expected, but I know where he must be.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because they told me.” He motioned at the dead K and Z men lined up on the ground. “They told me. You must believe me.”
Garza was silent for several seconds. There was some truth in Lopez’s words. He was far too great a coward to attempt to deceive Los Salvajes.
He nodded. “Alright. Have your police sergeant take you to Monterrey. Meet tonight at my hotel and we will make one more plan.” Garza shook his head. “The last one.”
Lopez exhaled a slow breath, thankful that he had not been ordered to get into the helicopter. He had no illusions about Gustavo’s fate the night before.
Garza added a word of warning. “Come to the hotel. Do not try to run away. If you do, your end will be much worse than a bullet in the head.”
“I will be there. You have my word.”
“Your word?” Garza’s cold eyes almost twinkled with mirth. “The word of a man who has betrayed everyone who trusted him? You almost make me laugh.”
Garza turned, motioned to his men, and boarded the helicopter. A moment later, it lifted, following the road as it gained altitude until it disappeared over the hills. Pepe Lopez could breathe again. The blood surged back into his face. He would live, at least for a few more hours.
“It seems your partner is not very pleased with you.” Sargento Miguel Garcia’s fleshy face spread into a taunting grin. “You should know, Pepe, that a man like that always settles his scores.”
“You think I don’t know that.” Lopez turned from staring after the departing helicopter to face Garcia. “Saco inútil de mierda.” You useless sack of shit.
Garcia’s face flushed, but he remained silent. He might be the Sargento and have the power of command, but Lopez had the money. Garcia had no illusions about which would hold his men’s loyalty if he challenged Lopez.
“Get out of my sight,” Lopez said.
Garcia nodded without speaking and withdrew to his police vehicle. Pepe Lopez stared into the sky where the helicopter had disappeared over the summit and prayed yet again. The multitude of prayers he had flung to the heavens that day were his personal best record for devotion.
Dear God, Don’t let that asshole motherfucker Garza kill me.
71.
Justice
It seemed the drive back to Salvia County would never end. Isabella’s thoughts were knotted with contradictions. She desperately wanted to find Sandy and Jacinta safe and bring them home. At the same time she fervently prayed that they had not been intercepted by Tom Krieg. But then, if he didn’t have them, as John pointed out, they could be anywhere, and they might never find them.
Five miles out from the Krieg ranch, Sole took a dirt road and headed out into the prairie. Reggie followed. When they were well off the main county road and out of sight, he pulled over. They needed a plan.
“We need a back way in,” he said as Isabella and Reggie gathered close. “If we find them, we’ll want the vehicles nearby so we can load up and get away quickly. That means we have to find an access point near the ranch where we can, conceal the vehicles, and move forward on foot. Stealth and speed are our friends. Any suggestions?”
“Stealth and speed.” Reggie had suspected as much. “You were a cop and military too, right?”
“Marine Corps.”
“Action?”
“Desert Storm. You?”
“Army. Afghanistan …three deployments.”
“That’s some shit,” Sole said. “Hooah, Army.”
“Oorah, Marine.” Reggie managed a smile, something he hadn’t done since finding Sherm on his porch. “I think I have an answer to our tactical need for stealth and speed.”
“I’m all ears.”
Isabella watched the exchange, wondering what else there was to know about this man. A cop … a Marine … what else? It didn’t matter. For now, she just wanted her son back.
They talked over their plan, and Reggie led the way, following the side road for several more miles. Then he pulled off and headed out through the scrub brush and grass with Sole following.
They stayed below the rises, weaving their way through the washes and valleys toward the Krieg ranch. Finally, Reggie stopped and got out.
“Should be about here,” He said and started up a small hill, just high enough to conceal their vehicles.
Sole and Isabella crouched and followed.
At the top, Reggie lay prone in the grass peering down the slope. Below them, not more than two hundred yards away, sat the Krieg ranch estate. The main house was to their right, the guest house across from it to the left. Farther on was the barn and beyond it the corrals and livestock pens.
“That
’s some damn fine navigating,” Sole said, admiringly.
“Wish I could get us closer, but this is the best I can do,” Reggie said. “If I had a map, there might be a better spot, but …” he shrugged.
“This’ll do just fine,” Sole said sizing things up. “Wish it was dark, though.”
“Yeah, the night is our friend,” Reggie said. “A nice moonless one would be good.”
“And some NVGs,” Sole added, referring to standard military helmet-mounted night vision goggles.
“We’re not waiting for the night are we?” Isabella was concerned. If Sandy was down there, she wanted him out now.
“No.” Sole shook his head and looked at Reggie, who nodded agreement. “If Krieg has them, waiting until dark is not an option. If he doesn’t …” He shrugged. “Won’t much matter. They might lock us up for trespassing.”
“Or shoot us on sight,” Reggie muttered.
“True enough, but I don’t see that we have any other options.”
“Agreed.”
Sole rolled on his side and pulled the .45 from his waistband. “What are you carrying?”
There was no question that Reggie was armed. Sole had noted the bulge under his shirt while he was sitting on Sherm’s porch the night before.
“Glock 19,” Reggie said, taking the pistol from his belt behind his back.
“Okay. The way I see it, we move fast down the hill. You take the rear of the main house, I’ll take the front. Check windows for anyone inside. There might be an alarm system, so stay away from doors for now.”
“Roger that.”
“If you spot them inside, wait for me, and we’ll figure out how to get them out.” Sole looked at Isabella. “You wait here.”
“Not fucking likely,” she snarled, causing him to recoil for an instant. “I’m going with you. If no one’s there, it won’t matter. If someone is, they might hesitate shooting you if there’s a woman around … maybe.”
Sole looked at Reggie. “You’ve known her a lot longer than me. Talk some sense into her.”
