Wyrd Gere

by Steve Curry

  He took a long drink then gave me perhaps the single most sincere look I’d seen in him. “The mercs are bad but not the worst thing the boss can do. He has at least a couple dozen of these guys. Real weirdos. Throwbacks to bygone days or something. They all get the tattoos and talk Nahuatl instead of Spanish, act like real Aztecas you know? Sneer at the white or blonde Mexicans. Look down their hooked noses at anyone not as brown as them, not as dark-haired or dark-eyed. Got real hard-ons for taking back “the empire”. Crazy bastards ya know? Got no morals. Sell drugs, guns, women it don’t matter. They don’t just tolerate killing and hurting. Those bastards get off on it.”

  He shook his head and drank some more. “Anyway...these bastards go looking for Mr. Gary and he disappears. Nobody talks about it. Don’t know if they got him and hid him somewhere or he lit out. The boss was mad enough about the mercs that nobody wanted to ask him. Nobody asks. Nobody talks. Nobody mentions Mr. Gary’s name no more. And the sister, nobody seen her in a while either.”

  Neither of us had much to say for the next little while. He seemed unaccustomed to feelings of remorse, or sadness or maybe it was worry. I was busy processing information. A little voice inside me was clamoring to move onto the topic of my estranged lady love. That part got shoved back into a dark corner of my thoughts while I worked on staying alive for now.

  After all, why worry about the girl if I wasn’t going to be alive long enough to do anything about it anyway. From the information I’d just received, an angry ex-girlfriend was the last thing I needed to be concentrating on. Mercs were bad enough. I’d spent some time with them overseas while I got my feet under me after Vietnam.

  Getting your feet under you when you wake up in a field hospital surrounded by people from another time and place can be...trying. The language barrier wasn’t that difficult. Even before Kara found me I’d had a gift for languages. Maybe that was one of the reasons they left my noggin more intact than some of my brethren.

  They also had a tendency to give us speaking primers to help us pass for normals in some assignments. So my English wasn’t great but it was understandable beneath the accent. After “Nam” the folks I worked and fought with didn’t seem to notice anything odd about my speech. They did notice what they called my “primal brutality man, just brutal”.

  That didn’t mean I was nastier or more vicious than the others. There were some trophies that I found disgusting. Ears seemed a favorite. What they meant was, I had no problem going hand-to-hand with a variety of weapons as opposed to their clear preference for firearms and explosives. The mercenaries I traveled with though, weren’t exactly lightweights in the martial arts. Some of them were good, very good.

  If these fanatical cartel guys were supposed to be better than the professional soldiers of fortune then I needed to be very careful. Maybe in this instance, my old mercenary comrades were right. A sniper rifle and some hand grenades might be a better choice than an ancient tomahawk and a revolver. “Okay Pedro, if that’s all true then we’re going to have to get hold of some better gear. I’m not backing out. I made a deal and if I don’t follow through then maybe nobody trusts me again. More importantly, I wouldn’t trust me anymore.”

  “Buddy, we got worse problems than your trust issues.” Pedro had gone from his introspective quiet to something much more tense while I was lost in my own thoughts. He pointed into the rearview mirror and then behind us. “Shoulda done something about their phones I guess.”

  When my head snapped around it took less than a few seconds to notice the large black helicopter coming down the road just fifty or sixty feet above the broken roadway. I didn’t see any markings from our angle. “Cops maybe?”

  Pedro barely managed to give me a scornful look of disbelief. “Even if it was the policia, half of them work for the Cartels. No that’s our friends from the truck stop. And they’re mad. Maybe I should have left the cars alone eh?”

  For once he didn’t bother smirking. Instead, he hunched over the wheel of the dilapidated old truck and stepped on the gas. I wasn’t exactly surprised by the engine power in the beast. Okay, maybe a little surprised. The engine sputtered once or twice but then it gave a throaty growl and surged ahead. The speed seemed a little superfluous. There weren’t many cars around that were going to outrun a helicopter, especially in broken desert terrain where they could go in a straight line and keep an eye on us from above.

  But maybe I underestimated the little smuggler. He took off for the more rugged terrain in the foothills nearby. We left the road just a minute or two after he spotted the chopper. Once more, it didn’t seem like a great option. Even if they lost sight of us they could follow the dust trail.

  He thought of that too. Instead of going in a straight line Pedro pulled the wheel in a wide circle. The dry flat dust we were on clouded above us and came in through the windows thick enough to choke. He circled a dozen times in increasing arcs of travel before sliding to a halt.

  I heard his door open, I worked my own seatbelt and abruptly jerked the door handle away in my hand. I was still choking while he scrambled away. Finally, I gave up on my broken door and shoved across the seat to wrench his door back open. I was half falling and scrambling from the car when I heard him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell which direction it came from when he yelled “This way.”

  When in doubt, rush headlong into folly. That seems to have been my policy for a while now. I ducked back and got my bag of mayhem then headed into what looked like a wash or dried creek bed under the cloud of dust. He’d kicked up enough of the surface desert that it might hang between us and the aerial recon for a half hour. Or it might blow away in the next few minutes.

  I slung the duffel and stuffed the revolver into my belt. It felt nice in my hand but I might need hands free for climbing or slapping branches out of my way as they appeared out of the dust. That was a real consideration as I started running into the crevice between two low ridges. My feet dug into the sand rippled from water flowing long ago. Now it was dry as old bones and just about as fun to walk on. It didn’t snap underfoot but it certainly turned ankles and caught toes.

  I was still looking at my toes when a series of holes appeared ahead of them accompanied by more puffs of dirt and rock. One particularly evil fragment of rock decided to embed itself in my shin as I stumbled to a halt. The pain was almost enough to make me ignore other things. Like the sound of automatic weapons fire that explained the holes in the dirt.

  I spun around with the big revolver rising from where I’d snatched it out of my belt. That big-bore round would do terrible things to a helicopter. Rotors, tails, engines or even a good shot at the cockpit should deter the pilot or even bring the thing down. My hand was extended skyward while I searched with my ears for the incoming aircraft.

  I should have been looking lower. At least three of them came out of the dust aimed right at me. The first one was stocky but shorter even than my own disappointing height. Instinctively I clubbed at him with the revolver.

  It caught him coming in fast. His sturdy little legs were driving him forward like a little puffing steam engine when the butt of the revolver struck with a hollow-sounding thunk right above his eyes. Those same dark eyes rolled back in his head while he slammed into me. I half turned with the impact and saw another short silhouette holding some kind of carbine or machine-pistol. That one was lining up on me and yelling something in Spanish when my flailing arm brought the revolver sights across his chest.

  The noise was horrendous. It hurt like hell in my unprepared wrist and forearm but the silhouette simply dropped like crumpled cloth. No time to worry about broken wrist bones though. I heard the third one coming in from behind me now. That was how far the first guy had spun me I guess. This one came in fast but once more my instinct kicked in.

  Maybe I’d caught a glimpse of him or heard his breath coming out above me. Whatever the reason, I knew this one was a full head taller than me or either of his buddies. Instead of swinging, I ducked lower and drove ba
ck while turning my shoulder into his rush. I felt the impact of his thighs against my chest while his belt line hit me across the shoulder.

  That made it seem like a dandy idea to toss him over my shoulder. So I did. From my bent position, it was easy to wrap a hand around his legs and straighten myself with his own momentum helping. I’d seen a move from some football player on the television back at the bar. He had a guy just like I held this one, and he just spun and held on while the other guy slammed into the turf.

  This was no turf, and my guy wasn’t wearing pads or a helmet. He got a kick into my ribs on the way down. If I’d been healthy it would have been laughable. Having recently had my ribcage kicked out of shape by bikers made it less humorous. I felt an ominous creaking and just maybe a snap down low on the left side of those ribs. It caught my breath I’ll have to admit. I probably even winced a little. I know I winced when I heard the nasty sound of my wrestling buddy hitting the dry washboard dirt headfirst.

  I looked up from the ground and saw that none of my three pursuers were moving. It seemed like a good time to vacate the area. Standing up hurt. Those same ribs were catching my breath although I didn’t think they were broken anew. Just too sore from the last break to take the kind of abuse they were getting. So with a hand trying to splint that side of my chest, I stumbled in a random direction until I saw Pedro Perro waving at me from the end of the wash I was following.

  The relief at seeing him was short-lived though. Another shot rang out. This one sounded like a shotgun and the pattern of flying bark and shredded tree to my right agreed with that assessment. An instant later a bullhorn echoed words at me in Spanish followed by what sounded like the same command in English. “This is the Policia. Halt or we shall shoot to kill.”

  I watched as Pedro faded into the shadows and underbrush ahead of me. Apparently, the cop behind me didn’t see my guide. There were no more shots. I also decided that the tree was not collateral damage but a demonstration. They didn’t miss me and shoot it. They were making sure I saw what kind of weapon I was dealing with.

  I decided not to gamble. With hands in the air, I turned to face what looked like half a dozen guys in police uniforms complete with vests and helmets as well as AR rifles in most of their hands.

  The one with the bullhorn was medium height but above medium girth. His face was flushed, probably from the exertion of climbing out of the chopper and following on foot. He looked like the type to enjoy his desk more than a helicopter. On either side of him were two of the cops not carrying rifles. They each had a large bore shotgun trained at approximately the middle of my chest.

  “Senor, lift your hands, and do not move.” His voice was almost petulant between gasping breaths. He probably blamed me for the stroke he seemed about to have. Or maybe he’d seen one of his men with a beer can sized hole where my .454 had exited his back. It seemed imprudent to test either his mood or the aim of his men. I raised my hands.

  One of the closest riflemen approached and relieved me of...what the hel had I done with the revolver? He searched me and found a knife but that was about it. That didn’t stop him from giving me a nice shot to the kidneys with his rifle butt before he returned to the chief cop on site.

  “No ID eh Yankee? Why you gotta keep secrets?” He studied the knife and with a nod slipped into his pocket. Somehow I didn’t think it as going to make it to the evidence lock-up. When he was through examining my fairly meager possessions as well as my distinctly non-Latino face he nodded sharply and gestured with a pudgy hand. “Get him back to the cars. I’ll get the pilot to drop me off at the airport and call a taxi.”

  With that, he turned away and started waddling back to where I assume the helicopter waited. That meant he didn’t see the rifle take me in the kidneys again. Or any of the other assorted rifle butts, boots, flashlights and sundry other objects bounce me along from the scene of the arrest to the back of a fairly nice looking black and white SUV. I bled on the seats as a form of protest.

  7

  If anyone suggests spending some vacation time in Mexico, make sure it’s nowhere near one of their famous correctional facilities. The scenery sucks and service consists of food that even the rats view suspiciously. At that, the rats are better company than the guards. At least where I was concerned.

  In the States, prisoners are allowed some time in a courtyard or other open area for exercise and such. I discovered my exercise regimen consisted of two to four beatings a day. I must say all of that practice had made my guards fairly professional. They could dish out a great deal of pain without permanently disabling or even leaving that many marks on a prisoner.

  Fortunately, they only plied their trade for a few days before I got my first visitor. It was odd because the guard came to pick me up and take me to the infirmary. Apparently, someone had begun to worry about the sundry and assorted damage and wanted to get me well enough to beat some more.

  That sounded like both a very good idea and a very ominous forecast for my future; except we never made it to the infirmary. Instead, the guard took me straight to the visitor's room. He stepped between me and another guard escorting a different prisoner. It looked like a natural adjustment in the narrow corridor but it kept them from seeing me, and vice versa. A few minutes later he looked through a thick window in the middle of a door. With a nod, he ushered me into a room with nothing except a table and three or four chairs, and one Pedro Perro wearing his snazzy leather coat and a smirk along with much more comfortable looking clothes than my own.

  “Hey, gringo! Thanks for inviting me. Love what you’ve done with the place. You lose some weight or the bruises just make it look that way?” He was already sitting at the worn old table and gestured to the chair opposite him.

  I couldn’t help myself. I looked around astonished and maybe even just a little alarmed “Are you crazy man? You should be avoiding me like the plague. They find out we know each other and it just leads to more questions.”

  He caught the glance over my shoulder at the guard who had escorted me. The guard had turned around however and was retreating outside to watch through the little window in the door. Pedro’s voice turned me back around. “Don’t worry. His English is horrible. Barely able to tell you to come with him.”

  He gestured to the seat again and waited until I sat down with my pulse barely slowing from the racing pace it had achieved. “Like I said, don’t worry. I’m not visiting you. I’m on the books as visiting another guy. He’s someone I knew from other umm...jobs. So there’s no record of us talking. The guard that brought you is the only guy I bribed a little. I also got some info that might get him hurt so he won’t tell if I don’t. So sit down and let's get this done quick. We’re good for a little while. Just don’t need to push our luck.”

  If it had been anyone else I might have doubted them. But this little weasel had more tricks and twists than anyone I’d met. That was saying something when you consider that I spent a few centuries with not only some of the brawniest warriors but some of the sneakiest and most conniving divine beings. I sat and leaned across the table. “Hate to admit it but I’m glad you got away.”

  He looked over at me with a deadpan expression and replied. “Don’t go soft and sweet on me Moose. We ain’t got time for foreplay.”

  When I grinned he just chuckled and got down to business. “We gotta get you out of here. I’ve got some ideas but wanted to talk to you first. So whatcha think?”

  I paused for a minute while I thought about the kind of plans this little bundle of chaos might come up with. The problem was my imagination probably wasn’t big enough for some of his solutions. While I don’t cry over unavoidable collateral damage, I do try and limit the chances it might happen. I’m pretty sure Pedro Pero never thought past the “wouldn’t it be cool if” stage of planning.

  “Smuggler I’m damned glad to see you. But we need to do this as discreetly as possible. I don’t want to send out any red flags to our targets. So here’s a number. Call this guy and tell him
you need money. He’s good for whatever it takes. Tell him I’ll owe him one. If it gets me out of here I might even fill in some of those blanks he’s curious about. Tell him that and then get the money and bribe my way out of here. The sooner the better. I can take a few more days at this pace but they might get tired of this pace and up the ante. I imagine they aren’t too happy about a cop-killer.” I scrawled Eachan’s cell number on an index card awkwardly with my hands chained together but it was legible. Pushing the paper across I looked up to see a grim expression replacing his normal jocularity.

  “You didn’t kill a cop, Mr. Moose. If you think back you’ll probably remember that the guys you put down weren’t wearing uniforms. Not like the cops that arrested you. You killed one of the Cartel guys trying to get to us before you got arrested.” For some reason the thought of a criminal dying to my shot was comforting. Not only did it mean I had shot what most people would consider a bad guy. It also meant I hadn’t killed a cop.

  He didn’t give me long to feel that relief. “There’s new players in the game Gringo.” He got up and gestured me to join him at the small window on the outer wall.

  Outside I could see one of the black SUV’s just like those he’d disabled. “One of our old friends is already calling. They’re probably searching your cell right now. They’ll look all over the common areas and if they don’t find you the alarms will go off.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears at first. “Well, thanks for sharing that info as soon as possible. It’s not like that’s something I should be worried about eh?”

  I barely had the words out before the aforementioned alarms started to blare. A PA system overhead burst into excited Spanish. Seconds later we heard boots slapping the concrete as the guards sprang into action. There were yelling and the sound of glass breaking, as well as doors, slamming shut.