Silver Lead and Dead (Evan Hernandez series Book 1)

by James Garmisch

  “Why is he so close to my objective?”

  Walmart

  Evan got one final fix on the cell phone belonging to Paco before it went dead. He assumed the battery was dead since he could not activate it. The kidnappers were ecstatic about their money and had spoken briefly about how to spend it. Evan became worried that they may just kill Armando.

  “We can put the old man on the bus now, Paco. We can’t drive around all night with him in the trunk. He is old!”

  “Juan, you are too attached to the old fuck! We dump him and move on!”

  “That was not the plan!”

  Evan’s heart raced when he lost contact, but fortunately, he was able to turn on Juan’s phone. Smartphones were the greatest gift to snooping government agencies. GPS enabled, video, e-mail; you could hack it all, given enough time.

  “I don’t think that is right. We should take him to the bus stop.”

  Evan heard a third kidnapper’s voice in the car. The background noise made the voice sound muffled, but he could make it out.

  “Drop the fucker off now!”

  “Fine!”

  Evan plotted the transmission and realized it had moved back to Rancho El Becerro. They are going back to the store? Evan mused.

  The kidnappers seemed to answer Evan’s question as he thought it.

  “We can drop him off as soon as I get a case of beer and my charger,” Paco said.

  “Then we free him,” Juan said. “We cannot stay long at the store. Gerard, he may come soon!”

  “Frenchman, Frenchman—shut up, Juan! Won’t take long.”

  “Free the man—split the money.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  Evan’s mouth felt dry, and his heart rate picked up. Something was wrong; he could hear it in Paco’s voice. Paco seemed like a lone-wolf type who did not like his fellow kidnappers. While he seemed ruthless, they seemed weak. Whatever was about to go down at the store, Evan could tell at least one of the kidnappers was worried.

  “Who is Gerard?” Evan asked himself.

  Evan started his Bronco, took off his earphones, and closed the laptop. He had to act fast; if his hunch was right, this was the end. His adrenalin shot up to his ears, and he felt sick.

  “People’s Market!” Evan blurted.

  Evan eyeballed the traffic and scanned the streets for cops. Rush hour was in full swing. He bent down to put his computer on the floor and his black backpack on the seat. He stared at his backpack. He had spare magazines, zip ties, and pieces of duct tape neatly torn in strips stuck to the outside of the bag. It was impossible to go into combat without duct tape. This was just a fact. Evan felt for the round-canister flash-bangs and smoke grenades.

  “Blind assault, no plan, no backup, and why am I doing this?” he whispered to himself as he drew his Smith & Wesson M&P .40 from his ankle holster. Evan liked to have all of his toys in reach. He wished he had eight arms.The shotgun was on the backseat in a black canvas guitar case.

  He had moments to drive less than a mile through traffic.

  Then the unexpected happened.

  “Excuse me, señor, can we speak?”

  The voice was in English. Evan thought cop before he even looked up.

  Several things happened at once, and as Evan pieced them together in his mind, he realized that two men had just got the drop on him. They could have shot him but did not.

  Evan kept his cool close and his weapon closer and smiled. He glanced at a handsome man in his midfifties who was placing his hand on the passenger-side door. They moved like two cops, crouching and approaching him in his blind spot. Cartel members would not have wasted that much effort. Evan saw the hint of a concealed holster on the one who had spoken.

  “My name is Francisco, señor. Can we talk?”

  The second man walked up to the driver’s side. He moved in a way that made Evan insecure. This man was younger, and Evan instantly recognized him from the hotel. This guy was watching me this morning!

  “Are you two cops?” Evan slid the safety off his weapon. He always kept one in the chamber. What was the point of having a gun and not being ready to use it.

  “No, señor.” The older one spoke in English and smiled not unlike a salesman.

  Evan’s heart rate picked up. If there was one thing Evan hated more than politicians and lawyers, it was salesmen—except firearm dealers—they were OK in his book.

  “Are you two going to give me Armando?”

  Evan figured he had pegged them as part of the kidnapper racket. Maybe these two were cops on the take. They certainly were more sophisticated than the idiots he had been listening to.

  Their reaction surprised and then confused Evan. “Who?”

  He now knew he was in trouble, and wasting time.

  “We do not know Armando. Sir, please. You are holding a gun, and we are not threatening you. We just want to talk.”

  The younger man tried to grab Evan’s steering wheel as Evan fired up the Bronco.

  “Please, sir, do not drive away!”

  “Wrong move!” Evan said flatly. Evan raised his weapon slightly and stomped on the accelerator.

  Both men backed off.

  Tires squealed, horns honked, and people screamed.

  Evan bounced the Bronco across the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians. He plowed through the intersection as the light turned green and cut off half a dozen cars in two different directions. Evan felt the rear end of his Bronco fishtail as a Mercedes smashed into his bumper. He floored it. The bumper came off. He bounced across the median, knocked a guy off a motor scooter, and accelerated down the less crowded side street marked Rancho El Becerro.

  Evan was going about forty miles an hour when he hit the brakes. The Bronco squealed to a stop with two wheels on the sidewalk at the corner of a building. The engine began to smoke and rattle. Evan smelled rubber. He pulled a black ski mask down partly over his face as if it were a hat. He cut the engine and checked the mirrors. No one was following him, yet.

  A few locals stared at him and then turned to walk in the opposite direction.

  Evan put on his backpack, slung his guitar case, and moved quickly toward the corner of the building and then paused. He looked around. No one seemed to pay him any attention. He spotted several vehicles—vans, pickups, and delivery trucks—parked on the street. A group of teenagers were smoking next to a 1980s Datsun pickup, and an old man was locking his bike up to a light post.

  Evan frowned. He tried not to think about the two men he had just fled from or how they fit into the big picture. He would sort out the details later.

  “I am a sitting duck out here; I gotta move.”

  Evan scanned the street one last time and rounded the corner. His Smith &Wesson was reholstered. He suddenly wished he had his assault rifle. The shotgun put limits on his range and accuracy.

  Surveillance Team Three sat uncomfortably cramped in the back of a stuffy black van. The sound of a soccer game had lost its appeal when the stranger arrived.

  “You see that?”

  “Sí.”

  “Que esta pasando?”

  The three members of Team Three were already on edge, and this new twist complicated things. The team had been watching the People’s Market for hours, and they had witnessed kidnappers stuff an old man in a trunk, drive off, and then bring him back a few hours later. Now a large man with a guitar, a tactical black backpack, and an attitude was loitering around the building.

  “This man, he is not a Scorpion.”

  “Is he here to settle a score? What should we do?”

  The men spoke quickly among themselves. The van grew very quiet before the leader spoke up.

  “If the assault team does not make it before Gerard, he will waste this fool. Only problem is, we have no element of surprise. I am calling Nathan. We have to cancel the operation.”

  The assault team that was supposed to have been there hours ago to set up and snatch Gerard was now stuck in traffic less than a block away.

&n
bsp; “I am calling Nathan. We have to be ready.”

  Evan rounded the corner and spotted an older-model Cadillac with Texas plates, an Obama sticker, and a Coexist sticker on the chrome bumper. The trunk was open, and the engine was running.

  “Someone in Austin must be missing a Cadi.” Evan laughed to himself and spat on the sidewalk.

  The sound of gunfire cracked from inside the convenience store and then stopped. He counted about eight quick pops.

  “It’s now or never,” Evan said to himself. He felt a wave of anxiety and fear and then a hint of foolishness as one particular thought took hold in his brain: Killed in Mexico, in a convenience store. What the hell?

  Evan checked the street again. The people where leaving, vanishing into shadows or doorways. Evan watched the teenagers, who had all been happily talking, drop their cigarettes and mota at the same time on the sidewalk, grind them into dust without a word, and walk away.

  Evan pushed open the door of the People’s Market and quickly moved inside. The door was heavy glass with bars and was covered with stickers.

  He had two very simple objectives: one, kill the kidnappers, and two, find Armando and escape.

  “Only problem is how.”

  The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. The remains of what must have been a huge fish tank were scattered on the floor. Evan made sure to avoid the glass, small rocks, and flapping fish. He moved down the slick aisle at a crouch, trying to avoid the carnage of fish, produce, and tortilla chips. He was near the cash register. The windows of the store were covered in posters of half-naked females Evan paused and stepped over the body of what he assumed was one of the kidnappers. Two Glock 19s lay near him. Evan shook his head; he was not a Glock man.

  The idiot must have been trying to shoot it out Hollywood style, with two weapons. “Looks like the only thing you killed was a bunch of fish and some cans of soup,” Evan whispered to the corpse.

  “No, Paco, No! Please,, don’t do it!”

  Evan had a split-second field of fire as he regained his balance. He had not been spotted yet. He peered around the aisle and watched Paco, who was considerably thicker than the other two kidnappers. Evan guessed he probably had a love affair with ’roids. Paco looked unbalanced. He had massive, swollen arms and a barrel chest on top of two tiny legs. He wore his Juárez police shirt unbuttoned to his waist and was pointing a .357 at his fellow kidnapper’s head. Paco was unconcerned.

  Evan stepped into view, his shotgun pressed firmly into his shoulder, ski mask down, dip in his lip, and finger firm on the trigger. “Fiesta ha terminado dónde está Armando?”

  Ramon Miguel Velacruz was the surveillance team commander. He and his men were armed with silenced M-4s and the sidearms of their choice. He himself had bought the weapons in bulk in Texas and had paid a decent price. Right now, he had a critical decision to make. Ramon had three opposing forces meeting in the same spot. If he were Catholic, he would have crossed himself and prayed.

  The ski-masked man had entered the store to deal with the kidnappers; who knew who would come out on top in that disaster? Nathan had told him that under no circumstances was he to kill the large man in the ski mask; he was to bring him in alive.

  The second, more pressing dilemma was that an armored, red Humvee had just pulled up in front of the store and was offloading about ten members of the Scorpions. They were armed with an assortment of AK-47s and handguns. They showed no concern about operational security.

  A white van pulled up behind the Humvee, driven by a man they recognized.

  “Gerard!” Ramon said.

  They watched as Gerard gave orders to his men to stay put, lit up a cigarette, and then disappeared out of their sight around the far side of the store.

  “He is going around the side and down the alley; there is a fire door in the back where he can gain entrance. The guys in the red Humvee must be acting as security,” one of Ramon’s team members commented as he racked a round.

  It was contagious, like a yawn. Everyone locked and loaded and clicked off their safeties.

  “Ramon?”

  Ramon cursed, crossed himself anyway, and reached for the handle of the van’s sliding door.

  “OK, here is the plan,” Ramon said and then paused.

  Everyone stopped breathing for a second and muttered a collective, “Esto no es bueno!”

  A black Chevy Silverado belonging to the assault team pulled up behind Gerard’s white van, blocking it in. At the same time, a green minivan, which was also part of the team, screeched around the corner and stopped next to Ramon’s van. It stopped in the middle of the street, effectively blocking off any escape on the block. Everyone had a look of surprise.

  The Humvee and Gerard’s van were now caught in the middle, and so was Ramon.

  “The assault team is here,” someone said sarcastically.

  Ramon’s blood pressure pounded in his ears. He knew what was inevitable at this point.

  Their eyes met, and Evan recognized the vacant, almost inhuman, look of an empty vessel posing as a human. He had seen hundreds of men just like Paco, from Afghanistan to Somalia. They all had one thing in common: they just did not care.

  Paco kept his finger on the trigger and looked right at Evan.

  Juan was on his knees, pleading.

  “No, amigo mida. I have all the money!”

  Boom! Evan and Paco fired at the same time.

  Evan bit his lower lip. “Oops, too slow,” he muttered.

  Juan’s head exploded and sprayed Evan with brain matter and liquid. Paco took buckshot to the chest and face and collapsed, burnt and riddled with tiny holes.

  “What the hell is going on in here?”

  Evan heard shouts behind him now from out on the street. He took off his backpack and raced to the entrance of the market. He could see forms and shapes through the windows and knew what was about to take place.

  “Now that’s a Mexican standoff!” Evan spat Skoal on the floor and unzipped his backpack. He started tearing duct tape and stretching trip wire. “I need an avenue of escape!”

  Within thirty seconds he had locked the front door, moved a chair in front of it, and set up a trip wire for his flash-bang and smoke grenades. “That might slow someone down, or just catch the whole place on fire and kill all of us!” Evan muttered to himself.

  He picked up his backpack and ran to the back of the store.

  The shooting outside started.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  “What the hell is going on?” Evan looked around the store. He figured either two cartel groups were having a turf war, or perhaps the police were involved somehow. Were the two men at Walmart trying to warn him? Was he caught in the middle of something massive?

  Evan heard men yelling outside and the sound of automatic gunfire. He knew the fog of war all too well and figured if he kept moving, he could use it to his advantage.

  “Help in here!”

  Evan heard multiple pleas from down the hall. Most were female.

  Evan looked down the store’s hallway toward the emergency exit. There was a thick metal door that served as an entrance to a beer cooler. Evan bounded over to it and examined a chain and padlock. There appeared to be a broken dead bolt, so someone had drilled and attached metal rings into the doorframe and door so a chain could be fastened. Evan knew third-world engineering when he saw it and was glad.

  “Armando?”

  “Sí, sí, ayuda estamos aquí!”

  “We?” Evan shot the padlock off the beer cooler with a breach round that he was saving in his breast pocket.

  The breach round was great for these closeup jobs of six inches or so. They did not ricochet. The round’s red plastic case was packed with powdered zinc, which burned hot and fast. He rested the shotgun against the wall so he could use both hands to remove the broken chain and lock.

  At precisely the same time that Evan realized he needed his backup weapon, the fire-exit door burst open with a loud bang. For a split second, Evan and a wi
ry, bare-chested white man looked at each other. Evan noticed the man’s huge, colorful tattoo of a Scorpion covering his lower torso. He wore aviator glasses and stank like booze.

  “Stealin’ my bitches?” The man held a gold-plated .45 by his side and began to raise it with one hand as if he were in some cheesy 1970s movie.

  Only gangbangers and nonshooters shoot with one hand, Evan thought as he sprang forward.

  The flash-bang and smoke grenades suddenly exploded, rocking the front of the store. The building was being breached. Men yelled and cursed, weapons fired, and glass shattered.

  Evan charged like a freight train at the younger man and caught him by such surprise and ferociousness that his eyes almost popped out of his head. Evan slammed his left hand under the man’s chin, rocking his head back and almost lifting him off the ground. Evan grabbed the man’s rising wrist with his right hand and yanked it straight up so that the .45 fired twice into the ceiling. In less than a second, Evan’s leg swept and barreled the man through the emergency exit and into the alley.

  The firefight outside became fiercer, and Evan heard another flash-bang somewhere out on the street.

  The white guy with the Scorpion tattoo was nearly knocked unconscious when he bounced off the pavement. Evan twisted and broke the wrist as he stomped on the man’s face. He accented each stomp with a stream of expletives. The man stopped moving, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Blood, teeth, and drool poured from his face.

  “Put you where you belong, you piece of crap!” Evan squatted down and lifted the limp gangster up to his chest and then over his head and slammed him into a putrid, fly-infested Dumpster.

  Evan kept cursing as he ran back to the beer cooler. He had one clear avenue of escape, but not for long. The shooting had stopped, and he heard a car alarm, loud voices, and dozens of police sirens. The store was filled with smoke, and it began to drift outside.

  Evan ripped open the door of the beer cooler. He now had his own .40 in his hands.

  “Thank you, thank you!” multiple voices chanted in English and Spanish.

  Evan experienced a cold shock as he walked into the beer cooler. The cold air went straight to his aching bones and chilled the sweat on his body. He was in no way prepared for what he saw.