by John O'Brien
I was hoping to find a radio of some sort, but no luck in that department. Lynn would be monitoring all channels, so if I switched frequencies to prevent any listeners nearby, it would have been easy to get into contact and have her triangulate the signal. But, not having found a genie lamp on any of the dead men, that thought is dropped in the wish bucket where it begins its long, slow fall into oblivion.
Listening intently for the sound of running feet or the opening of a door, I decide to take the time to remedy my lack of gear space. I remove the shoulder rig from the door guard and place the handgun in it. It has two mag pouches built in, already filled with two .45 mags. Placing the sling of the SMG over one shoulder, I crouch by the door and listen.
It’s all quiet with the exception of the usual low hum of building systems. The air, although stifling warm in the hallway, is still cooler than standing outside in the middle of the day. I have no idea what time it is, having wakened in the room and passed out once from the beatings. I could have been here anywhere from a few hours to days. I’m guessing it’s more than likely leaning of the former as I haven’t soiled myself.
Keeping low, I peer around the corner. To my left is a short hallway ending at a series of steps leading up to a door. Several fluorescent lights are mounted to the walls, their harsh radiance filling the corridor. The entire passageway is thickly padded with some form of insulation, the white plastic bowing inward from where it’s attached. Another door, like the one I’m at, stands open closer to the stairs. To my right is a dead end. It’s fairly obvious that I’m in a basement, but the question lies in what’s above.
It’s also pretty apparent that there isn’t some kind of surveillance system in place or there would be people waiting for me. Either that or the dead men in the room are the only ones around. I can only hope that’s true and the way to freedom lies clear.
“Okay, Jack, it’s time for slow and easy,” I mutter.
The time of chaos and confusion is over; I’ll have to ease through whatever is ahead. I have to remind myself of this at times—it’s too easy to rush ahead when the light shows at the end of the tunnel. I inch forward into the hall, my weapon and attention alternately focusing between the door at the top of the stairs and the open one a few feet away.
I wonder if the upper door is locked from the outside and requires a signal like the one in my room. I don’t recall hearing question man pound on another door, but my ears were ringing at that point. Plus, sound isn’t traveling much with all of the padding. However, there is a handle on my side, so it’s likely that I won’t have to tap out some convoluted gang sign.
Inching up to the open room, I quickly peer into the room to find it empty; only a bare bulb and a chair. I’m not sure if the men were on a time schedule and will be missed if they don’t appear topside soon, but I’m not really feeling like heading into a potential battle in my swim trunks and sandals. Backtracking, I opt for a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt from one of the guards. The shirt is a little messy with blood stains on the shoulder and collar. There are a couple of drying chunks, but it cleans up fairly well with a quick shake.
With my quick spa-day concluded, I again head up the hallway, every muscle in my body sore from Jorge’s gentle persuasions. With the thick padding on the walls and ceiling, I’m not overly concerned about the stairs creaking, but I still test each board out of habit. With a firm hold on the SMG, I grip the door handle and slowly lower it.
Easing the door open, I peek through the crack. Gleaming white tile flooring stretches away to a large kitchen island. A sink on the far side of the room sits under a glass-paneled window, the entire room bathed in a sunny glow that radiates from outside. Cooler air flows past my cheeks, streaming into the basement as it seeks to banish the heat. The smell is clean with a hint of lemon, which is far different than the musty smell downstairs.
Opening the door wider and quickly peeking in, I see that the kitchen is huge but thankfully empty. A large pitcher of lemonade sits on the island, condensation formed on the glass. Ice cubes bob in a sea of yellow, crystal glasses arranged around it, all nestled on a silver tray. Whoever prepped it won’t be long in returning. The sound of children playing filters into the room, coming from beyond the glass panes over the sink.
Well, that’s going to complicate things a touch.
I won’t be able to extricate myself with guns blazing. Of course, with the limited ammo I have, I’d more than likely be running into some kind of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid ending. I crouch by the door, deliberating whether I should emerge now or wait for the lemonade to be picked up.
The decision is taken away at the sound of a door opening. Splashes and squeals of play momentarily grow louder and then fade again into the background. Closing the basement door, I rise and brace against the jamb, my weapon held ready to use. I’d like to have kept the door cracked to observe whoever entered, but the opening would have been noticed and investigated. At this point, I’m not sure of what I may be facing; to engage too early will only trap me in the confines of the basement.
With the padded walls, I don’t hear anything from the kitchen area. I’d have liked to have sound clues, such as the tinkle of ice against the glass and fading footsteps to let me know when it’s clear. The only thing I can do is to count to five minutes, using the pulse of my swollen eye as a measure of time.
From my brief view of the kitchen, it appears that I’m once again in a mansion in Mexico. I’m not sure what’s up with that, but it could make my escape a little more difficult. This is more than likely the home of someone higher up in the cartel, so security will be present. That probably means at least a couple out back with the family, a couple in front, either at a gate or front door, and perhaps one or two roaming. I’m not sure why this couldn’t be easier, like why couldn’t I emerge into some smaller house with only a guard or two topside, take care of them, and walk out the front door. But no, the universe won’t give me a break and instead plays cards that test me at every corner.
Easing the door open a crack, I don’t hear anything in the near vicinity. A look out of the doorway shows the room clear at the moment. It’s time to move or sit here forever playing “open and close the door.” The pitcher of lemonade is gone and I hope that satisfies everyone for the time being. Closing the basement door, I scoot over to the kitchen window, peeking out through a lower corner.
Two younger kids are playing in a kidney-shaped pool, one splashing the other’s face and then diving away. A swimsuit-clad woman is lounging under a shaded veranda, the silver tray of lemonade sitting on a table by her side. I can’t tell her age due to the large sunglasses resting on the bridge of her nose, but by the near flawless skin and how the bathing suit is filled, she seems in her twenties or early thirties. She’s paying no heed to her surroundings, her attention focused on an iPad cradled in her hands.
There are others who are paying more attention to their environment, though. In my line of sight, two guards are also standing in the shade near the house with two others on the far side of the pool. All are holding M-4s slung from their shoulders, along with shoulder harnesses housing sidearms. Dark glasses hide their eyes, but it’s easy to tell from the angles of their heads that they’re occasionally glancing at the barely clad woman.
Two other men move into my line of sight, walking across a carefully manicured lawn to join the two at the far side of the pool. They chat for a moment before moving on, circling around the yard’s perimeter. Dense flowering bushes adorn the outer edges of the lawn. Yellows and purples mix against a backdrop of deep green, blocking any further view. Beyond them, I assume there’s a walled fence. If that weren’t the case, there would be more guards posted on the perimeter.
So far, four guards in the back with two on a roving patrol.
I glance at the pitiful SMG in my hand, imagining a firefight with it against those men with their more accurate M-4s. I wouldn’t stand a chance. I wish I had my normal gear for this, but I’m stuck wit
h what I have and there’s no use lamenting that.
One option is to hide out until night and escape in the dark. That will make things a bit easier. The problem with that idea is currently lying on a cold floor in the basement. The others may not be missed, but question man will be for sure. Their discovery will start a full search of the premises with guards on full alert, possibly calling in more men and maybe dogs. No, that’s not going to work. Whatever I come up with will have to happen soon.
I watch for a while, waiting for the roaming guards to reappear. When they do, I see that they’re the same ones as before, which is good news.
Only one set of rovers.
I keep periodically glancing at the kitchen entrances, worried that a guard may be posted inside or that a maid might appear. My ears are tuned to the sound of footsteps or rustle of clothing. The tiled and wooden floors should give me plenty of warning should anyone approach.
I look again to the woman lying in the shade. She and the kids are obviously being guarded, which makes her a high-profile target and not expendable…at least that’s my hope. The plan forming in my mind is banking on that assumption. If that turns out to not be true, then I’m screwed. Taking her hostage could be my easiest way out.
Now there’s just the matter of any guards out front. Leaving the window, I creep out of the kitchen and into an adjacent room. The long dining room table gleams brightly from the sun’s rays coming through a large picture window, the tabletop looking slick enough to slide completely down its length on like a slip-and-slide.
A huge array of fresh flowers stands in a tall crystal vase, the myriad of bright colors drawing the eye. The golden chandelier over the table sparkles with flashing glints of light, small rainbows forming from shards of crystal hanging from delicate chains. Tall gold-framed picturesque scenes cover the walls, catching moments in time with the brush strokes.
I move quietly from room to room, listening and peeking around corners. Any misstep could bring a crash of guards pouring into the house. I force my breathing into a steady rhythm, although the pounding of my heart betrays my anxiety. Even in the coolness of the air-conditioned house, a bead of sweat trickles down my temple. I eventually find a window looking out to the front.
A long entrance road appears from the dense foliage surrounding the front area and winds between a row of blossoming trees, splitting to a circular driveway surrounding a tall white fountain spewing water high into the air. Off to one side is an extension of pavement where several vehicles are parked. The rest of the front is composed of manicured lawn with an assortment of bushes and a walk-through garden.
Two guards are posted near the front doors, standing on each side at the top of marble steps leading to the entrance. Two others are lounging near parked vehicles, all loosely holding carbines. I imagine there might be more guards posted at what I have to assume is a gated entrance somewhere out of sight.
That makes ten guards that I’ve identified, all spaced far enough apart but within sight of each other. I won’t be able to do much in the way of stealthily taking them out during the day. The whole area is too open to traverse without being noticed. I might try a side yard, waiting until the roving guards are on the other side. Then, I could work my way through the bushes, and if I can’t scale the outer wall, then make my way to the gate. There, I could dispatch the guards and hopefully slip away.
Movement catches my eye. Angling to get a better look, I see four additional guards, two to each side, back against the bushes near the corners of the front yard. Both have good views down the side of the mansion.
Well, there goes that idea. Back to Plan A.
I work my way back to the kitchen, again peering out of the window. The question is how to get to the woman before being cut down. If I bum rush her, I’ll be downed before I make it two feet. The first step will be to take out the guards near the door. I’ll be able to take out one before they know I’m here, but the second will be trickier. It would be easier if I had my suppressed handgun, but wishes are like a corrupt politician…empty of any useful purpose.
The woman sits up, removes her sunglasses, and turns toward the guards near the door. I see her lips moving and the soft murmur of her voice, but can’t hear the words. Even if I could, I doubt that I’d understand what she was saying. However, it’s obviously a request or order as one of the guards turns immediately and steps toward the back entrance. I keep watching for a moment longer, ensuring that only one of the guards is entering—kind of vital information.
The door to the outside opens with a faint whisper of wind from the pressure differential, causing the curtains to either side of the kitchen window to sway. My choices are to disappear back into the basement or to proceed with my half-assed plan. I’m not really going to get a better chance. Taking a deep breath, I slink away from the window and crouch near the corner cabinets. I ease the SMG off my shoulder to softly lay it on the floor, sliding the .45 from the shoulder holster. I hope errand boy is heading into the kitchen or this is going to be more work.
Heavy footsteps plod on the wooden flooring of the adjacent room, the tremor of the heavy steps felt under my borrowed shoes. A faint shadow grows larger on the tiled floor and then the kitchen dims ever so slightly as the man enters the doorway. I’m as skinny as I can make myself against the lower cabinets, but my mass will be easy to see if I allow the man to fully enter the room.
The toe of a boot appears in my vision, stepping on the white tile. I spring upward, my free arm sweeping downward from top to bottom to clear away his arms and prevent him from bringing his weapon up. At the same time, I bring the handgun up over my sweeping arm and place it barrel down in the crook of his shoulder next to his neck, just behind the clavicle.
His expression registers surprise as he tries backing away, but I quickly pull the trigger with the barrel pressed firmly into the soft tissue. His body absorbs the sound of the gunshot, the click of the slide ratcheting to the rear and back into place as the heavy slug travels through his heart and lower body cavity, slamming into the thick pelvic bone and embedding itself. The ejected shell casing tinkles across the countertop, hits the wall and rolls, rapidly spinning in a circle.
A grunt escapes from his open mouth as he starts stumbling backward. With my free hand, I grab hold of his shirt and pull the dead or dying man forward. It won’t do at all for him to collapse backward into full view of the other guard outside. The thud of his body hitting the floor alone will draw undue attention. I use my body to catch his and ease it to the floor, doing my best to keep his slung carbine from rattling on the hard surface.
I pull the man further into the kitchen, removing his carbine and slinging it over my shoulder. With the longer barrel, it won’t do for what I have planned next, but I want it in case things turn south. Emptying the SMG mags from my pocket, I quickly replace them with spare M-4 mags the man was carrying. Clicking the .45 mag free, I replace it with a fresh one. I’ve used six rounds and will use at least one more. It’s always a good idea to enter any fray with a full weapon.
I don’t have a ton of time before the others outside get curious as to what’s taking the guard so long. I have to move quickly. Once things are set in motion, they take on a momentum of their own and need to be followed.
Through the paned windows of the outer door, I see the other guard with his back to me. The kids are now playing some version of Marco Polo, one with her eyes closed moving through the shallower water with arms outstretched. The boy is lunging away from her attempts to close the distance. The two guards on the other side of the pool are still there, standing with relaxed postures, but their hands resting on their carbines tell me that they can immediately spring into action.
My heart is beating hard, the strong pulse felt in my neck and temple. With a heavy sigh, I swing the door open. Warm air rushes past my cheeks as it invades the cooler interior. Stepping outside and moving quickly behind the guard, who is now beginning to turn his head, I place the barrel in the same place as
with the one in the kitchen. The bullet slams downward, ripping through his heart and glancing off the pelvis. It then races down the inside of the man’s leg, ripping and tearing tissue along its path before it punches through the man’s boot, mushrooming as it hits the hard concrete surface below his foot.
I let him drop in place, running toward the woman lying on her lounge chair. She begins sitting up, responding to the unfamiliar sounds, but I’m behind her before she can sit fully upright or turn, the barrel of the .45 coming against the side of her head. On the other side of the pool, the guards are stirring into surprised action, their lounging postures abandoned as their carbines come up.
“Let’s just relax now,” I say, grabbing the woman by the arm and lifting her into a standing position with my sidearm now moved to the lower right back of her skull and angled upward.
The kids stop their play with one final splash, the droplets hitting the surface like a handful of tossed pebbles. They stare with stunned expressions. The boy glances briefly at the tense men holding their carbines on the other side of the pool before fixing on who I assume is his mother being held at gunpoint.
“Okay, boys, lower your weapons or she dies here and now,” I call, just loud enough for them to hear.
Now is the moment where I find out if the woman is expendable. The men hesitate, their weapons still pointed in my direction, but their postures indicate their uncertainty. I hope to hell that they understand English.
“Guns in the pool now or I pull the trigger and you get to explain the corpse to your boss.”
