FaceOff

by Lee Child

  Angelica pointed out a shortcut to Aqua Amarga and Joe slowed and steered the van off the highway and onto a narrow dirt road.

  “Two of us and a few village men can’t keep Hector from taking the gold,” said Joe.

  “I just got an idea,” said Hunt. “Maybe not a full idea. Part of one.”

  “I did, too,” said Trona.

  LIKE ALL OF HIS NEIGHBORS’ homes, Israel’s was one-story white-washed stucco. Strands of rebar poked up from the roofline, announcing to the government that construction was not complete. Therefore, the house was not finished. Therefore, it couldn’t yet be taxed.

  The house squatted by itself at the end of a dirt road just at the edge of Aqua Amarga. Behind it a vast wasteland of cactus and shrub, laced with half a dozen or more dry arroyos, stretched to a low range of foothills off in the distance, the shape of the range clearly visible now in the light of the full moon. The house itself seemed to sit in a pale glow from the bare bulb over the front door.

  The four SUVs skidded to their own ostentatious stops in front of the house, dust billowing up around them. Before much of that dust had settled, the passenger’s door on the lead car opened and a man emerged, cradling a machine gun. When he pulled open the back door behind him, a body in a baseball uniform got pushed from inside and fell into the road.

  Israel.

  The Zeta kicked out once and the body rolled away, hands coming up over the head for protection. Israel rolled over a second time and suddenly was on his feet, facing his assailant, turning halfway to face the other Zeta just coming out of the car. But the other car doors were opening all around, other men spilling out; headlights from each of the vehicles stayed on, illuminating the scene.

  Israel was surrounded with nowhere to turn when the front door of the SUV he’d come in opened and Hector got out. “Basta!” the leader called out, and all around the men stiffened to something like attention as he came around the front of his SUV. In Spanish, Hector continued. “Israel and I will talk. He is a reasonable man.”

  Israel spit at the ground.

  Hector got alongside the Zeta who’d kicked at their captive and now made a command gesture. Without a word, the Zeta handed his machine gun to Hector, who paused for an instant and then fired off a quick burst of three shots into the spot near Israel’s feet where he’d spit.

  Israel jumped backward at the same moment as a woman’s scream rent the air. The front door opened and the screen slammed up against the house and Angelica was suddenly standing under the light, holding her hands up against her chest in panic.

  Hector turned around slowly, unfazed by the woman’s presence or her reaction. He nodded nonchalantly at Angelica, then came back to Israel. “Where is Joaquin?” he asked in a gentle voice.

  “He is inside. The gold is a lie. It is a tale told by a child. There is no gold!”

  “Why don’t you invite me in and we can talk? Where is your hospitality?”

  “No,” said Angelica.

  “He will come in anyway,” said Israel. “Let Joaquin tell him that the gold is a lie.”

  TRONA AND HUNT WATCHED FROM the place they’d chosen to hide—behind the abandoned chassis of an old American car that someone had dumped on the side of the road and left on Israel’s street about 150 feet from the front door of his home. Their shortcut across the desert in Baja Joe’s van had given them a ten- or twelve-minute edge over the Zetas who’d driven the long way around on the regular highway. It was all the time they were going to have to get the details of their plan worked out, but it was going to have to be enough.

  There weren’t, as it turned out, too many details to consider. There was one gun—a Colt .45 six-shooter with bullets that might or might not fire—that Israel kept hidden in a cut-out floorboard under the bed. A thirty-four-inch Louisville Slugger that one of Israel’s screwballs had long ago, when he’d been a teenager, broken off in the hands of Fernando Valenzuela. A bottle of Herradura.

  Now, when Hector and his #1 bodyguard disappeared into the house behind Angelica and Israel, Hunt whispered, “So far, so good.”

  One by one, in short order the Zetas killed their engines and their headlights, until the only light on the street, beyond the moon’s, was the one above Israel’s door. The seven remaining Zetas broke off into their respective cars—three, two, and two. A couple of them lit up cigarettes. All of them put their weapons down on their car seats.

  Hunt gave Trona a solemn nod and the two men stood up and the solemnity vanished as they lurched drunkenly out into the street. Trona had his arm thrown over Hunt’s shoulder. Hunt let out a laugh. He was using the Slugger for a cane, nearly stumbling with every step, while Trona held the tequila bottle in his free hand and Hunt broke into a slurred version of “Tequila Sunrise.”

  They advanced on the Zetas, a couple of drunk American idiots.

  The seven congealed again out of their cars, but only two of them brought their weapons out with them. Hunt saw that nobody seemed too concerned with this interruption. It was clear to them what was going on, by no means an uncommon occurrence. Cheap tequila and gringos on vacation were a staple of the economy down here. The Zetas had business they were attending to, and these guys were an interruption, but they certainly weren’t anything to worry about.

  One of the Zetas gave some kind of order and the two guys who had pulled out their weapons split away from the group and started moving toward the gringos, shooing their hands in front of themselves as though they were trying to move cattle.

  Shoo away, thought Hunt.

  Happily drunk and oblivious, Hunt and Trona kept coming, singing along, closing to a hundred feet, seventy-five, sixty. The lead Zeta held up his weapon, stopping in the road, and said, “Alto! Ahora, alto!”

  Hunt and Trona, swaying against each other, stopped and blinked at the apparition. Hunt laughed and Trona slurred, “Sorry, dudes. No habla español, por favor.”

  Hunt watched the Zetas turn back to their compadres, no doubt wondering what they were supposed to do with these clowns. A couple more of the narcos who’d stayed back by the cars decided to come on up and help get these pests out of the way, not bothering to bring their weapons.

  In front of them, Hunt pointed at the machine guns, held up a hand as if he suddenly understood. At the same moment, Trona offered a sip from his bottle of tequila, an excuse to get half a step closer, let the advancing guys get within range. “And,” he said, slowly, evenly, dragging it out. “Now!”

  Hunt came up with the baseball bat and drilled the nearest Zeta over the ear. At the same moment, Trona swung with the tequila bottle in one hand, cold-cocking the guy in front of him, drawing the revolver out from his belt with the other, getting the dead drop on the two backup guys. “Don’t move. Hands up! Don’t move!”

  Hunt, never slowing down, had his hands on his guy’s machine gun before he’d even hit the ground, and now charged the remaining three guards down by the SUVs, who barely had had time to get halfway to their feet, scrambling, when they were all looking at a suddenly very serious American commando who was clearly well trained in the use of the M-16 and prepared to use it.

  They raised their hands signaling their surrender as Trona, now armed with his own machine gun and a good handgun, came forward with the other two captives, their arms in the air as well. The gringos’ two victims lay bleeding, quiet, unmoving, both facedown in the street.

  Trona stood guard as Hunt collected the rest of the weapons. Minutes later they had bound and gagged the narcos with duct tape and fifty-pound-test fishing line that they found in the toolbox of the van, line that would cut them deeply if they struggled.

  INSIDE, FOR HECTOR, THE NEGOTIATIONS were not proceeding well. He’d been a villager here all his life, until a few years ago, before accepting the uniform, and the dark soul, of a Zeta. So he knew how stubborn these people could be. How superstitious. Ignorant fishermen!

  Even pointing his gold-plated, Malverde-embossed .45 at Joaquin, it had taken Hector a full ten
minutes to convince Israel of the futility of his—and the town’s—position. If there was gold in Aqua Amarga, then it was Zeta gold, Hector’s gold, verdad? The town was only still in existence because of the forbearance of Hector Salida! Didn’t Israel realize that Hector could kill every man, woman, and child in Aqua Amarga and nothing would happen? Nobody would care. The useless and corrupt government would do nothing. To oppose Hector would be certain death. Did Israel want to see him kill Joaquin right now in front of him, or did he want to bring him the gold? It was really that simple. Hector looked down at Joaquin, a handsome young man, now curled tight on the floor, trembling like a cold dog. Hector swirled the barrel of his fancy gun through Joaquin’s lush black hair.

  Israel looked at his son, then at Hector, then at Angelica.

  “No,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Israel.

  Hector watched Israel rise and motion to his bodyguard to follow. They went down the hallway of the small house. Hector heard a scraping sound, like furniture being moved. He smiled at Angelica. “I miss the village.”

  “The village does not miss you.”

  “I’d rather be a legend than a slave.”

  “You are a slave to greed.”

  The two men were back in a moment, the bodyguard swinging a heavy rice bag onto the table, Israel looking on with a beaten expression. Hector swung his weapon away from Joaquin and ordered him to stand. The boy stood on shaking legs and Hector pointed the barrel of his gun at the bag. Joaquin untied and upended it and the heavy treasure thundered onto the old wooden table. Hector set his gun down and pawed through his bounty—somewhere near thirty kilograms of quartz run through with thick, visible veins of gold. Five, eight, perhaps ten kilograms of the gold itself. A fortune.

  Finally, thought Hector, things are going my way. “Now. Where is the mine? Which mine?”

  Hector saw Joaquin hang his head and cast a look at his father.

  “You have ten seconds to tell me the mine, or I shoot your mother,” said Hector. He pushed the end of the barrel between Angelica’s breasts. “One. Two. Three.”

  “Father?”

  “Four. Five.”

  “Yes, son. Tell him!”

  “Six. Seven. Eight.”

  “Father?”

  “Tell him!”

  “Nine.”

  “Test pit ninety-six!” said Joaquin. “On the way to San Antonio!”

  “That is government property!” bellowed Hector. “How did you steal gold from the government? How?”

  Joaquin looked at his father again, imploringly, and Israel nodded. “I have a friend in the ministry,” said Joaquin. “He knows I steal. We share.”

  “His name?”

  “If I tell you, he will kill me. If I don’t, you will.”

  “I feel such sadness. His name!”

  “Narcisso Rueda,” muttered Joaquin. “God help me.”

  Someone knocked on the front door. Hector and the bodyguard swung their guns toward the sound.

  HUNT STOOD WAY ASIDE FROM the door, flat against the wall, and waited for the bullets to punch through. He mustered his best Spanish accent. “Hector! Policia! Vamos!”

  The door cracked open and the bodyguard peered out. Hunt grabbed his neck and twisted him back inside just as Hector raised his gun and fired. He felt the heavy .45s thudding into the Zeta’s armor, the powerful shock waves transferring from the bodyguard straight into himself. He threw the man to the floor as Israel crashed down on Hector’s arms with a chair—his golden gun skidding across the floor—and Angelica walloped him over the head with a cast-iron tortilla press. Trona burst in from behind them with one of the Zeta’s good semiautomatics held straight at Hector, who was back up on his knees, barely.

  Hunt grabbed the golden gun, then drew his own borrowed handgun from his belt and gave the bodyguard a sharp rap to the head with it. He ordered the family to raise their hands and move back against the wall. “Now!”

  Joe stepped in and herded them. Angelica raised her hands and looked at Trona. “The devil himself. Look at his face.”

  “How nice of you to notice,” said Joe, unfailingly polite. “I’ve heard much worse.”

  “Get out of my house,” said Israel.

  “You gringo pigs leave us alone!” yelled Joaquin.

  “Leave you alone?” asked Hunt. “After all your father’s talk on the boat radio today? All that fast Spanish he thought we couldn’t hear? After his endless bragging about his son finding the gold that was going to bring miracles to Aqua Amarga? Leave you alone?”

  Hunt saw Israel’s pitch-perfect expression of shame. Of foolishness confessed. Of utter defeat.

  “So,” said Trona. “Thanks for the tip, captain. There’s no way we could pass up an opportunity to rob you. But, since this hombre beat us to it, we’ll just rob him. Le gusta? Es bueno?”

  Trona, eyes now on Hector and gun still in hand, swept the gold ore back into the rice bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  “I vow to take back my gold and murder you,” said Hector.

  “We’d have been disappointed if you didn’t,” said Joe.

  “Let’s go, partner,” said Hunt.

  “Let’s tie everybody up first,” Trona said. “Just for the hell of it.”

  · · ·

  They had an early plane—nine AM—out of La Paz Airport, but both men felt it couldn’t really be too early.

  As they watched and waited for their nearly twin duffel bags to pass through the X-ray machine, Hunt said, “All I want is to get past the security gate. I don’t think they’ll storm the airport.”

  Trona shrugged. “They’re still tied up. Israel not as tight as some, that’s all. And Hector and his boys? Who’s going to cut ’em free? The villagers?”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Trona said, “I’m keeping my eyes open.” He lowered his voice. “I just hope nobody notices we’re not boarding with any gold. Which might make somebody wonder where it could be.”

  “Who’s going to notice? It’s not like Hector’s going to go to the cops. ‘Hey, those two gringos just stole the gold that I just stole.’ I don’t think so. Instead, we just walk on the plane and stay cool. As far as Hector’s concerned, we got clean away, and the gold with us. And he’d never think—he’d never believe—that we put it back in Israel’s panga.”

  “I know. Although he has vowed to take back his gold and kill us, remember?”

  Hunt broke a smile and shook his head. “Not gonna happen. Just like he’s not going to find any gold in test pit ninety-six.”

  · · ·

  With only the ten minutes or so that they’d had to go over their plan with Israel’s sister, they’d had to play things by ear. When they’d arrived at Israel’s home, for example, first thing they’d had to contend with was a very distrustful and hostile Joaquin and his fifteen years’ worth of testosterone. Why should he believe that Hunt and Trona were going to steal the gold from Hector and then return it to Israel and the good people of Agua Amarga? How could Angelica believe or trust these two gringos whom she had just met? Who were they anyway?

  It had been a close thing, Joaquin getting the Colt from its hiding place, only to hold it on Joe and Wyatt for a tense few moments until Angelica could convince him that they really had no other choice. Hector and his narcos would be there within minutes. If Hunt and Trona were in fact planning on stealing the gold and keeping it for themselves, there was nothing Joaquin or anyone else could do about it.

  “We could kill them right now and then kill as many of Hector’s men as we could before they kill us,” Joaquin said.

  “We know that there is more gold in the ground,” Angelica had said. “No one needs to die over the gold we already have.”

  And in the end, only two or three minutes before Hector and his men had arrived, Joaquin had given in.

  And still, there had been one element of the plan that had worried Joe—they had no provision for Hector’s r
eturn to claim the rest of the gold from Joaquin’s secret mine. Everyone knew that Hector would not rest until he knew where Joaquin had found the gold, and even if Hunt and Trona were successful in keeping the town’s gold from him that night, Hector would eventually cause more trouble when he came again.

  “He’s going to need to know where you found it,” Trona had said, “and he will torture you until you tell him. So there is only one thing to do.”

  “What is that?”

  “Tell him the wrong mine,” Joe said, “and sting him.”

  “Sting him how?”

  “That is for you and your father to figure out.”

  FOUR DAYS AFTER HUNT AND Trona had landed safely back in the States, Narcisso Rueda, a longtime angling customer of Israel’s, sat in the bow of the panga about a hundred meters offshore. He was awaiting the long run-up at full power into ever more and more shallow water until Israel with perfect timing lifted the screaming, whining propeller up out of the water and killed the engine as the water became the beach and the panga sheared its way through the sand until it came to rest twenty or thirty feet up onto the strand, high and dry. No matter how many fish they caught, and today Narcisso had landed two dorado and two tuna, the beaching of the pangas always provided an adrenaline rush, a last moment of excitement and pure, simple fun.

  But today, though they were in position to rush the shore, Israel kept the engine in neutral. Narcisso was, in fact, head of security for the government’s gold mining operations near La Paz. He had, of course, never made any kind of gold deal with Israel’s son. In fact, he was widely known as an incorruptible official. Unlike so many of Mexico’s security forces, especially those dealing with the narcotrafficantes, Narcisso had successfully investigated and prosecuted both gold thieves from among the miners and corruption at the corporate level. No fewer than two dozen men now sat in federal prisons because of Narcisso’s efforts.