Retribution

by Brent Towns

  “I was going to arrest him for assault,” Cleaver told him.

  “Just do as I told you. I don’t want these clowns coming back after we’re gone.”

  The sheriff waited until they had left before he turned his attention back to Kane. “Right, what’s your name?”

  “Kane.”

  “Kane what?”

  “Just Kane.”

  The sheriff eyed him cautiously. “I’m Sheriff Walt Smythe. Retribution is my town.”

  He turned to his female deputy and motioned her to come forward. “This is Cara. She’s my right hand.”

  Kane nodded. “Ma’am.”

  She looked at him and nodded, her broad smile showing even white teeth. “My son says you rescued him from Bolt Miller and his crew a while ago.”

  “He was kind of outnumbered.”

  “Thanks. They tried the same thing a while back, and I happened by in time to save him.”

  “Dangerous town.”

  Cara nodded.

  Smythe interrupted. “Now that’s over, tell me if you’re staying or passing through.”

  “Haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “If I was you, I’d seriously think about leaving. Barrett Miller ain’t one to trifle with.”

  “Yet he’s still walking around free.”

  “He may look dumb, but let me tell you, he’s as smart as they come.”

  Kane said, “I’ll remember that.”

  Smythe gave him a skeptical look and said, “All right. I’m going back to the office. If you get the time, you might want to thank Chester. If it weren’t for him, you’d be dead by now.”

  The sheriff departed leaving Kane and Cara alone. The deputy waved to the boy in the car, and he climbed out. He sauntered over to them, and Cara said, “You got something to say, Jimmy?”

  The kid nodded. “Thanks, mister.”

  “It’s OK,” Kane said to him and held out his hand. “You might want to try running faster next time.”

  Jimmy grinned, took the hand, and shook. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  Cara said, “Go hop in the vehicle, Jimmy, I’ll be there in a moment.”

  The kid turned and walked off, and Cara stared at Kane. “Been a while, Reaper.”

  “Philippines, ’09,” Kane allowed, rubbing his chest. “Never thought you’d wind up in a place like this, Cara.”

  “Long story.”

  “I got time.”

  “I don’t. How about I meet you later for something to eat. You OK with that?”

  “Sure. Where and when?”

  “Sally’s Diner. Know it?” She shook her head. “Of course, you don’t. Ask Chester; he’ll give you directions. Maybe around eight.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  “Yeah.”

  Cara turned away and walked back to the Tahoe. She was about to climb in when she called back to him. “It’s good to see you, Reaper.”

  “You too, Cara.”

  Chapter 4

  The sheriff’s office wasn’t big by any stretch of the imagination. It didn’t need to be to accommodate the three of them. Although, Smythe did have his own office area with a large glass window that provided him a full view of the rest of their workspace.

  That consisted of two desks, multiple filing cabinets, a large counter for walk-ins, plus countless cupboards for all the other crap that they needed. The twin cells were out the back, and a large, reinforced, steel gunroom had been added which formed their armory. That was Cara’s job. She was the one to maintain all the weapons.

  Deputy Cara Billings had come to Retribution straight out of the Corps. Her and Jimmy both. Her husband had been killed by a street gang in Phoenix which left no one to care for the boy while she was deployed. She needed employment a little closer to home and had ended up in Retribution.

  The sheriff leaned back in his office chair and stared at the map on the left wall. Saguaro County. Miles and miles of desert with four towns, of which, Retribution was the insignificant county seat. And there were only he and his two deputies to patrol it.

  But, not for much longer. Twelve months from now, the county was to be amalgamated with Pima County; everything would fall under the jurisdiction of the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. Then Retribution would be their headache, and he and his wife, Maureen, could get the hell out of Dodge.

  With all the drugs, the violence, Barrett and his gang of no-goods, Smythe had sent countless pleas for assistance to the governor, the Marshals, DEA, and FBI. Hell, he’d even tried the ATF. All had been ignored. No one wanted to know about Shitsburg, Arizona. Or even cared.

  Smythe looked through the window of his office and saw Cleaver at his desk. “Asshole,” he muttered.

  Of the three of them, Cleaver was the only one who would retain his job. Oddly enough, he would be based in Retribution. Maybe someone would shoot him in the ass.

  There was movement at the front entrance, and Cara came in. He waved to her, and she changed direction and walked towards his office.

  “Close the door and take a seat,” he told her as she entered.

  “What’s up?”

  “Is Jimmy OK?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Missy’s.”

  Smythe nodded. Missy was Cara’s neighbor. “What do you make of our friend?”

  “He’s OK.”

  He stared at her for a drawn-out moment. “You know him, don’t you?”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  “Let’s just say I know the signs.”

  “I knew Kane in another world, Walt. I’ll guarantee he’s a good man.”

  “You sound positive.”

  “He took a bullet in the Philippines when Abu Sayyaf decided they wanted an American Ambassador to play with and attacked the embassy. I was in charge of the Embassy Guard,” Cara explained. “He and his team were in-country doing some covert work when it happened.”

  “How long since you’ve seen him?”

  “I haven’t seen him since it happened in ’09.”

  Smythe sighed. “I’ll have to take your word for it. But he’s been here five minutes and already pissed off the biggest crook in town. And Cleaver. Not that I give two shits about that.”

  “I’ll find out more tonight. He and I are having dinner.”

  “All right then.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Cleaver entered.

  “What is it?” Smythe asked in a terse voice.

  “I’m taking the spare SUV out on patrol.”

  “Where?” Smythe demanded.

  “Taking a run down to the border and then cutting back through Grissom’s place. He’s been complaining about someone using the old road that runs through his place again. Thought I’d take another look.”

  Smythe looked at his watch. Four o’clock. He rose from his seat and said, “You stay and mind the office. I’ll go. I’m sick of being cooped up in here anyway.”

  A fleeting look of alarm crossed Cleaver’s face. “Hell, Walt, I’ll do it. It’s my job.”

  “Nope. Stay here.”

  “But I know the area.”

  Smythe grew impatient. “And I don’t?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then shut up and get back to your desk.”

  Cleaver bit back a retort and closed the door. Smythe looked at Cara. “What was all that about?”

  Sonora

  Ten minutes later in Sonora, a cell phone rang.

  Montoya picked up. “Yes?”

  “You have a problem.”

  “Why is it when you call, it is always I who has the problem?”

  “It’s your shipment.”

  Silence, and then, “I’m listening.”

  The cartel boss waited while the information was relayed to him. His face grew darker with every word that he heard. When the man on the other end was finished, he said, “You told me the road was good. That the gringo wouldn’t be a problem. Yet, here he is, being a
problem.”

  “I’m doing the best that I can.”

  “Obviously it is not good enough. I will take care of it.”

  The line went dead, and Montoya stood before a massive plate-glass window that gave him a view over the cactus and rock-strewn, copper-colored landscape from where his villa stood.

  He wasn’t a tall man at five-nine, however, he threw a large shadow, and the mention of his name brought fear to those in Sonora who heard it. His black hair and neatly-trimmed goatee were in stark contrast to the white suit that fitted his slim frame perfectly. And so it should; the damn thing cost him five thousand dollars. Like the other twenty. Montoya’s shoes matched his suit.

  The cartel boss stared down at the crystal-clear pool, surrounded by white marble tiles. Three large umbrellas were securely anchored around it to keep the harsh Sonoran sun at bay. On the banana lounges situated in the shade were three bikini-clad women. All were slender, deeply-tanned, and had long black hair. One of them was his wife, Carmella. The other two were her sisters, Rosa, and Juanita.

  “There is a problem, Jefe?”

  Montoya turned and stared at the man seated on his luxurious white-leather sofa. It matched the rest of the room, the villa really. The walls, the furniture, floor tiles, even his armored Humvee. It looked very sterile.

  Montoya nodded. “I have business for you, Cesar.”

  The cartel boss went on to tell his man what he wanted. When he was finished, Montoya said, “Maybe leave a message when you are done.”

  Cesar Salazar was Montoya’s personal hitman, or as they were known, sicario. They called him El Monstruo, The Monster. A name that chilled the blood of anyone who heard it.

  He was a solidly-built man of medium height, in his early forties, had short black hair, and was clean shaven. Unlike Montoya, Salazar preferred to wear black, the color matching his permanent mood.

  Salazar was once an officer in the Policía Federal Preventiva (Federal Preventive Police), also known as the Federales. He had been good at his job. While the cartels killed Federales at will, Salazar had remained alive. All those sent to deal with him had died violent deaths.

  After a while, death became so ingrained that he was unable to see the line until he’d crossed it. At which point, his bosses turned on him, and he was about to go on trial for doing his job.

  Salazar would have none of it and reached out to Montoya. Now, apart from the cartel boss, he was the most feared man along the border.

  Salazar gave his boss a passive stare and nodded. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll have to leave right away.”

  “Do you know where you are going?”

  The sicario nodded.

  Montoya’s expression changed. “Do not disappoint me.”

  “Do I ever?”

  The Grissom place

  Cyrus Grissom sat on an old sun lounge on the veranda of his timber home and took a sip of his Coors beer. Across his lap was a Browning, 12-gauge, pump-action shotgun.

  Grissom had the white hair, tired eyes, and lined face of a Vietnam Vet. He also had a limp, courtesy of an NVA bullet from his time on Hill 861A.

  He checked his watch. 8.30. It would be fully dark soon, the night bringing some relief from the late summer sun. Grissom wondered if the truck would be back tonight. He knew it was a truck because of the high headlights. That and the fact the old road was only navigable by high-ride vehicles since the previous summer’s storms had washed out the road in places.

  But somehow, they managed to get through. He’d told the county sheriff on more than one occasion. The response was, “We’ll come and check it out.” No one ever came.

  The truck, on the other hand, came at least once a week, sometimes twice. If they were true to form, then the truck would come that night.

  Half an hour later, just as the moon had peeked over the far hills, the truck appeared, but it wasn’t alone. With it was a second vehicle. They bounced over the road. Headlights bobbed wildly as the vehicles hit every hole and rut that they came across.

  Grissom sat in the dark and watched their passage in the distance, the drone of the motors reaching his ears. He gripped the shotgun tighter as they slowed at the Y intersection and stopped. Then the second vehicle turned and started toward the house. The first kept going.

  For the first time since he’d left Vietnam, Grissom was scared.

  Tires crunched on gravel as the vehicle approached the house, its lights blazing a path through the dark. It stopped, and the black SUV’s engine was switched off.

  Silence.

  Grissom waited patiently in the dark. Palms sweaty against the shotgun, his heart beat hard in his chest as it threatened to burst free of its enclosure.

  Come on you son of a bitch, get out. Do something.

  Nothing.

  The tick of the cooling motor reached Grissom’s ears. The low, mournful howl of a coyote drifted across the desert and sent a chill running down the old man’s spine. He gripped the pump-action tighter and contemplated a possible shot at the vehicle.

  But he didn’t have to. The door opened, and a man stepped out into the moonlight. Grissom pointed the shotgun in his direction.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” he snapped as he tried to sound confident.

  The man’s calm, accented voice answered, “I’m but a lost soul trying to find my way this night, señor.”

  “You’re a Mexican,” Grissom said, stating the obvious.

  “Sí, the last time I checked.”

  “You’re a little off your range, ain’t you?”

  “Like I said, I’m lost.”

  The man moved around the door of his SUV and took a step toward the house. The sound of the pump on the shotgun caused him to stop where he was.

  “You’re good about right there,” Grissom snapped.

  “Is this the way you greet lost travelers, señor?” the Mexican asked. “With a loaded gun.”

  “Only those I don’t know.”

  “My name is Cesar, señor. Now you know my name, maybe you can put the gun away.”

  “What are you doing on my land?”

  “I told you. I’m lost,” Salazar repeated.

  “Where you headed?”

  “Retribution.”

  “You know there’s a road from your side of the border that’ll take you right to it?”

  Salazar took a step forward. “I took a wrong turn. You really need to get your road fixed, Señor Grissom.”

  Grissom frowned. “How do you know my name?”

  “Oh, dear. I have said too much.”

  The ice-cold hand of fear touched Grissom and he froze.

  The silenced gun in Salazar’s hand coughed, and the bullet slammed into Grissom’s chest.

  Every scrap of air was driven from his lungs, and his jaw dropped from the shock of the hammer-blow. The shotgun slid from his grasp and clattered onto the uneven boards of the veranda. Both the old man’s hands clawed at his chest. His actions spread blood over his shirt in vertical finger stripes.

  As Grissom sat there, he heard boots on the steps which led onto his veranda. He looked up and saw the outline of the man more clearly than before, although he couldn’t make out his facial features.

  Salazar said in a low voice. “I’m sorry, Señor Grissom, but this has to be.”

  The gun in the sicario’s fist spat three more times, and the old man’s body jerked under each impact. When it was done, Salazar wrinkled his nose. The air was filled with the smell of copper. The job was half done.

  Retribution

  While Grissom breathed his last, Kane had just pushed his plate away from himself and swallowed the last of the fried potatoes which had made up most of the meal. He had to admit, it wasn’t half bad.

  Across from him in the small booth sat Cara and Jimmy. Cara had changed out of her uniform and now wore jeans and a red check shirt.

  “You sure made quick work of that, Reaper,” she noted with a smile.

  “Why does Ma keep calling you R
eaper?” Jimmy inquired.

  “Shush, you,” Cara said to her son.

  Kane smiled. “It’s fine.” He looked at Jimmy. “It was a name I had in the Corps.”

  The boy looked up, surprised. “You were a marine? Were you an officer like Ma?”

  Kane shook his head. “No. I was just a lowly Gunnery Sergeant.”

  “What did you do?” he asked excitedly.

  “Hey,” Cara said. “Go and see if Sally has some choc-chip ice-cream out the back. Tell her I’ll fix it later.”

  Jimmy started to protest, “Ma—”

  She raised her eyebrows and began to push him off the hard bench seat. “Go.”

  Once he was gone, Kane said, “He seems like a good kid.”

  Cara rolled her eyes and smiled. “He’s a boy.”

  “So, what brings you to Retribution, Reaper?”

  “Looking for some work.”

  She snorted. “Shit. No one comes here looking for work.”

  “You obviously did.”

  “Yeah, well, you got me there.”

  “Speaking of which?”

  “What?”

  “How did you end up here? The woman I knew was marine corps all down the line.”

  “You knew I was married when I was in the Philippines? I had Jimmy then too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “While I was deployed to Afghanistan, Jimmy’s father was killed by gangbangers. I was all he had left in the world. So, one thing led to another, and here I am.”

  Kane nodded. “Sorry.”

  Cara smiled. “That’s life. I’m not sorry I ended up here though. It may be the asshole of the world, but I’m with Jimmy, and that is what counts.”

  “From what I saw today, it ain’t too safe.”

  “Yeah. Barrett Miller’s gang of renegades. You might want to keep an eye out. He’s dangerous.”

  “I can take care of myself. What’s their story?”

  “He’s a cog in a chain,” Cara explained. “A middleman for the Montoya Cartel. The drugs come across the border, and he takes possession of them. He cuts the produce, and then it is shipped to parts unknown where it is then distributed on the street.”