by Glenn Trust
Gordito rushed back through the front door, dragging Pepe Lopez with him. At the side of the house, Gordito located the window that looked in on the room at the end of the hall. The killers had their target between them.
Inside, Sole moved away from the bed to draw fire away from Isabella. Crouching on the floor, his back in a corner, he could see the door and the single window into the room.
No shots had been fired, and he considered sending a round through the door to keep the intruders honest and not assume they could rush the room unscathed. He opted against firing to conserve ammunition.
The .45 held eight rounds including one in the chamber. The nightstand drawer held a spare magazine. He crawled toward it, wishing he’d remembered it before taking up his defensive position.
Gordito stood on his tiptoes but found he could not see into the window. The ground sloped away from the house, and though the front windows were at chest level, this one was over his head.
“Find me something to stand on,” he whispered.
“To stand on?” The whites of Pepe’s wide eyes were visible even in the dim starlight.
“Do it,” Gordito ordered. “Now.”
Lopez scurried toward a shed in the back. A minute later, he came running breathlessly across the yard, a five-gallon bucket in his hand
“Will this do?”
Gordito jerked the bucket from him and turned it upside down under the window. When he stepped on it, Pepe wondered if it would support the big man’s weight. It did, and Gordito slowly lifted his head above the window sill, one hand steadying himself against the side of the house, the other holding the TEC-9 machine pistol, apparently the weapon of choice for close quarters assassinations.
Sole reached the nightstand, slid the drawer open, and retrieved the spare magazine. He was backing toward his corner just as a head appeared, rising slowly on the other side of the glass.
The forehead was broad with a mass of thick black hair above. Two eyes peered down into the room, searching in the darkness for him. Sole knelt and sighted along the Colt’s barrel and waited to make sure the threat was real and not some local drunk or peeping tom.
The man’s hand came up. The weapon was unmistakable.
Sole applied four pounds of pressure to the Colt’s modified trigger, and the pistol bucked and roared in his hand. The head disappeared.
Gordito fell backward, landing with a resounding thud on the hard-packed dirt. Sole had fired from a crouching position near the floor, five feet from the window, and the .45 slug entered Gordito’s head on an angled trajectory that sent it through his forehead and out the top of his skull.
The flash and roar from inside the house were enough to start Pepe Lopez running for his life. But not before gore and brain matter from Gordito’s shattered skull sprayed over him, covering his face and clothes.
Arms flailing, he ran retracing their path through the grassland behind Creosote’s row of dwellings. On reaching their car, he remembered Flaco still at the house in the hallway.
Fuck Flaco, he thought and climbed behind the wheel, reaching for the ignition key. It was gone, taken by Flaco when they left the vehicle.
“¡Mierda! Fuck Flaco!” he shouted this time.
In complete panic, Pepe Lopez was out of the car again and running through the brush. His feet now controlled his destiny, his brain was nothing more than a mass of quivering synapses overcome by terror. Pepe’s only instinct was to run and keep running.
At the sound of the shot, from the bedroom. Flaco decided he had to offer some cover fire for his partner. He gave a quick burst with his TEC-9, spraying bullets through the door.
Crouched in his corner again, Sole watched them stitch holes in the back bedroom wall and continue out into the night. He checked the bed on the far wall, and Isabella put a hand out to indicate she was unharmed.
From the pattern of bullet holes in the door, Sole deduced that the shots had been fired from close to the floor. That meant the intruder was lying prone in the hallway.
He had fifteen rounds left and decided he could afford to put out some suppressive fire of his own. Hell, he might even get lucky and hit the son of a bitch.
He stood, intending to send some rounds on an angled trajectory through the door and down into the hallway floor. He picked three spots on the door, aiming so that a .45 slug should hit the hallway floor about three feet from the door, another six feet, and another at ten feet. It was pure guesswork, but if it caused the intruder to think twice, it might buy them time until he figured out what to do next.
He sighted the Colt, finger on the trigger and took a deep breath. He never fired the shot.
A deep roar thundered at them through the door. A moment later, Sandy called to them.
“Mom, John? Are you in there?” His voice was full of worry.
Sole shook his head to encourage her to remain hidden until he had a chance to check things out, but Isabella began crawling out from under the bed as soon as she heard Sandy’s voice.
“We’re here, son.”
She ran to the door, but Sole stopped her, holding her arm and forcing her to wait. He called through the door.
“Where are you, Sandy?”
“At the end of the hall, by the kitchen.”
“Anyone else there?”
“No, sir. J-just the man I shot.”
He sounded shaken. Sole figured he had a right to be.
“Sandy, we don’t know if there are others. Step back into the kitchen and put your back into the corner where the refrigerator and wall meet. I’m coming out.”
“Okay.”
Sole gave him a few seconds and then pulled the door open, easing his head out to peer into the hall. It was empty except for the man lying face down about ten feet from the door, the TEC-9 still clutched in his hand. The bloody hole in his back indicated that he never heard Sandy approach from behind and made no effort to turn and defend himself.
Sole moved down the hall. Sandy was in the kitchen as directed, his back against the wall. Isabella followed and ran to her son.
“Mom, stay behind me,” Sandy ordered.
“Where’s Jacinta,” she whispered.
“Safe … I think. We were sitting out in the brush on a blanket and came heading back to be in before daylight when we heard the shots. I grabbed the shotgun from my pickup in the shed and put her inside with the doors locked.
“Let me have the keys to your pickup,” Sole said standing with his back to Sandy and Isabella, watching for any additional threats. Sandy handed them over. “Stay here while I check outside.”
Satisfied that there were no more intruders in the house, Sole moved through the kitchen to the back door. He found one more person, the man with the broad forehead that had made such a good target in the window.
Sole knelt by the body and retrieved the TEC-9, then moved around the yard, circling the house in widening arcs to make sure no else lurked in the dark. When he got to the shed at the back of the yard where they had hidden Sandy’s truck, he used the keys to open the door.
He found Jacinta wide-eyed, but not panicked. A look of relief crossed her face when she recognized him.
“Reynaldo, is he injured?” she asked, starting to run toward the house.
“Wait,” Sole ordered. “Stay beside me.” He patted her shoulder. “He is fine. He saved us.”
“I knew he would,” she said with a nod. “When he makes up his mind, he can do many things.”
“Yes, he can,” Sole agreed.
They moved toward the house. Creosote’s entire population approached, walking down the street toward them. Most were armed with rifles or shotguns.
“Bill,” a voice called to him. “Bill Myers, is that you?”
“It’s me, Ralph.” Sole recognized the old man as one of Isabella’s customers. “Everything’s fine. Sorry to bother you all.”
“Who’s that with you?”
The crowd moved closer, not convinced. Isabella stepped out on the fron
t porch.
“We’re fine. Everyone go back to sleep. Bill was shooting at some coyotes. That’s all.”
There were murmurs among the crowd.
“Didn’t sound like no one shooting at coyotes.”
“Sounded like some kind of machine gun.”
Right … and a shotgun.”
Skeptical, the crowd was still milling around in the road when they reached the house. Sole took Isabella by the arm and pulled her inside.
“We have to go … all of us. Five minutes. Take what you can and then we leave.”
“Wait a minute.” She pulled her arm out of his grasp. “You can’t tell us to do that. We can’t just pack up and leave.” Her eyes narrowed, and she demanded. “Who were those men? Tell us what’s going on, now.”
“There are people who want to kill me. They found me here. I don’t know how, but now they will try to kill you too. I won’t let them.” He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry, Isabella. I’ve put you in danger, all of you. I was overconfident … careless. That’s inexcusable. Now, I have to get you someplace safe … away from here.”
“Who?” Isabella asked. “Who wants to kill you … us?”
“There’s no time to talk!” Sole’s eyes begged her to trust him. “Please, pack some things. Travel light. I have money. We can buy whatever we need, but we must start moving and put distance between them and us before they send others. They won’t stop. When we’re gone … on the road, I’ll explain.”
Isabella’s eyes never left his. Who was this man, she wondered for the thousandth time? She made her decision.
“Alright.” She turned to Sandy and Jacinta. “Pack some things. Do it now. We leave in five minutes.”
82.
Betrayed
It didn’t take a genius to see she was pissed. Her back turned toward him, Isabella stared out the passenger window, her chin resting on her fist, elbow on the armrest. Sandy sat with his arm around Jacinta in the rear crew cab. They rode in silence.
He owed her an explanation. No, he owed her much more than that, and he knew it. Being with Isabella these past few weeks had been like pouring cool water on his feverish head.
Still, it was not enough to stop him from going to Mexico to meet Juan Galdo’s cousin, a meeting that had allowed Los Salvajes to somehow track him to Creosote. If he had only resisted the need to end things his way. If his pride would have allowed him to walk away from it. If the memories did not burn so deeply in his soul.
If … if …. If. The ifs amounted to nothing. His foolishness had endangered those he cared for once again.
Yes, he owed her an explanation, but first, there was a call to make. Sole checked the time on his phone. Just after four AM—a little past six in Georgia.
He punched in the number with his thumb. A voice answered, not asleep, but not completely awake.
“Hello.” The man on the other end yawned, and Sole could hear him sip coffee.
“Semper FI. Do you know who this is?”
There was a pause, and then the man said, “Yes,” whispering it into the phone.
Only John Sole would speak those words to William ‘Billy’ Siever, though Siever had never been a Marine. The Marine Corps motto was among the last words they exchanged after they buried John’s mother decades earlier. Since then, it had become a sign of comradeship between them.
“I need your help, Billy.”
“Tell me, John.”
There weren’t many people in the world John Sole could call on and ask for a favor. In fact, there weren’t any—except Billy Siever.
They had been friends since their childhood back in Cassit Pass, Georgia. A night of joyriding in a local preacher’s car had resulted in John’s arrest, trial, guilty verdict, and subsequent enlistment in the Marine Corps while Billy’s well-connected father managed to keep him out of court with no blemish on his record.
Since then, Billy, now William Siever, Attorney at Law, had established a successful practice in Dahlonega, Georgia. John had gone into law enforcement in Atlanta. They kept in touch until the day John lost everything and vanished from the face of the globe. That was over a year ago.
Siever’s conscience had always been burdened with guilt. He had gotten off from their escapade without even a slap on the wrist. John Sole had paid the price.
The judge presiding at his trial sternly advised John that he would allow him the option of enlistment in the military or prison. He had an hour to decide. John elected to join the Marine Corps.
Siever offered many times over the years to help his friend if the time came that help was required. That time had come.
Sole explained what he needed and why in as few words as possible. Siever asked some questions for clarification, but the request was straightforward.
“When will you arrive?”
“Three days.”
“I’ll have things ready.”
The call ended. William Siever poured another cup of coffee and checked his calendar. He would have to reschedule a couple of client appointments, but he would tell his staff he was feeling under the weather. In reality, he was worried sick about his friend.
“What have you gotten yourself into, John?” he wondered looking into his backyard.
Outside, the sun was brightening the garden. Two hummingbirds buzzed, bumped, and fought each other for rights to the nectar from his wife’s daylilies.
He had a good life, coasting through it with ease and without care. The call from his friend made him feel guilty about that. What would John Sole do to be able to sit and sip coffee on a pleasant morning while he watched hummingbirds flutter around daylilies?
With a sigh, Billy Siever picked up his phone and began making calls. He had a debt to repay to his friend.
***
Sole tossed his cell phone into the pickup’s console and looked at Isabella. Sandy and Jacinta in the back of the crew cab watched him in the rearview mirror.
“It’s time we talk.”
They covered fifty miles in silence, each lost in their thoughts, trying to come to grips with what had happened and how they came to be in this pickup fleeing from—from what, Isabella wondered.
“Yes, it is, John.” Isabella paused. “Let’s start there. Is that really your name?”
“It is.” He nodded.
“And your last name?”
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s best you don’t know that.”
Isabella sighed, shaking her head. “What the hell have you gotten us into, John-with-no-last-name?”
He began talking. For an hour, he explained about his past as a law enforcement officer, although he left out any reference to the city, people, or other officers involved. They listened, riveted.
When he described the deaths of his wife and children, tears rolled down his face, but his voice did not break. Isabella sobbed as did Jacinta. Sandy’s eyes were wet as he fought back his own tears.
Sole left nothing out. He killed one of the cartel members after leaving the police department. He went underground to find the others responsible. For more than a year, he sank deeper and deeper out of sight. Secure in his anonymity, he became overconfident. He killed another in Monterrey but had no idea how they could track him to Creosote. Krieg’s operation had nothing to do with the cartel.
He wrapped up the explanation with a simple conclusion. “They will kill you. That is why we had to leave. These men, the cartel, will not give up. They found me. I must have been careless.”
He paused to allow them to respond if they wanted. No one spoke.
He looked at Isabella. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. There, in Creosote with you, I thought I was far enough underground that they couldn’t find me. I was wrong.”
“So this is about your vengeance?” She looked into his eyes, trying to finally understand what drove him.
“No.” He shook his head and then added, “Yes maybe, at first, vengeance was part of it. Now it’s something mor
e.” He looked up trying to find the words. “There has to be a balance … a reckoning. My wife, children, all the others that have suffered and died at their hands, there must be some balance to things or nothing makes sense in the world.” He struggled for a way to explain. Finally, he shrugged. “I don’t know how else to say it.”
“You mean justice.”
“Yes, that too.”
“Then stop and we’ll call the authorities. Start with Sheriff Dermott, then the FBI or whoever else works on these things.”
“I thought of that, but they would find out.”
“Who?”
“The cartel … Los Salvajes—the savages they call themselves, and for good reason.”
“I have heard of these people.” Jacinta spoke softly from the back, and her hand tightened on Sandy’s arm. “No one escapes them, and everyone fears them in my home.”
Isabella wasn’t convinced. “Still, they can’t know what we say to the police … to the FBI.”
“They would figure things out when the investigators came knocking. It might take time, but eventually, they would find out who spoke and where they are.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. People talk … everywhere. In prison, on the street, even cops among themselves, but they talk. The cartel has money, more than you can imagine.” He nodded with certainty. “Eventually they would get the information, whatever they had to pay for it, and they would find you.”
“What about protection?” she asked. “Don’t the Feds do that?”
“For witnesses, yes.” Sole nodded. “But what have you witnessed? A home invasion and attempted murder. That is a local matter. Sheriff Dermott will not be able to identify the bodies. The cartel is too careful for that. The dead men back there will go to their graves as John Doe … no names and no ties to the cartel. Besides, Dermott couldn’t protect you, not from Los Salvajes.”
Sole shook his head. “And you wouldn’t get any protection from the Feds because you have nothing to offer to them in exchange. Some bad men broke into your home, for reasons unknown. That is not a federal crime, and despite what you see in the movies, they do not provide permanent bodyguard services.”
