by Joseph Flynn
Coming from her, that worked for Beebs, too.
He ran through the house and out the back door.
Within two minutes, Marlene and Freddie had also left Tesla.
Mateo Trujillo’s first thought upon seeing Tesla through the windshield of the Navigator was: This’d be a cool place to hide out. Mountains always made the best refuges. He knew there were those who preferred jungles or remote islands, but jungles were breeding grounds for gruesome diseases and the humidity alone was enough to make you wish you were dead. An island, if it had its own freshwater supply, might be bearable for a while, but you’d have to import all your other needs, and that would be a giveaway to anyone hunting you.
The only problem he saw with Tesla was its road; the pavement didn’t dead-end at the town. It continued on to somewhere else. That meant drive-through traffic. No hideout of his could have that. You’d never be able to tell if your enemies had found you or innocent passersby were just rubbernecking as they went past.
But a place similar to this one with a sign, maybe two miles outside its limits, saying “Road Ends,” would be perfect. Put up a private property sign a mile out with a couple of armed men to enforce your privacy and no one would ever know you were there. Well, they could snoop on you with aircraft or drones, but you could harass aircraft or shoot down drones with your own UAVs.
Mateo wasn’t just daydreaming. His imminent betrayal of Fausto Zara would likely result in either el jefe’s death or his lifelong incarceration in an American super-max prison. That wouldn’t mean Mateo was safe, though. Even the boss’s enemies would want to kill Mateo, just to make an example of him. Show their men what happened to traitors.
Zara’s own men, the ones who were loyal and aspired to rebuild el jefe’s empire would also be looking for him. Their idea of vengeance would be especially bloodthirsty. No simple bullet to the head for him. His death at their hands would be a drawn-out exercise in sadism, each moment more excruciating than the preceding one.
His only hope was to evade the vengeful long enough that imprisonment or the need to run from their own pursuers would make them focus on more important matters. That and the legalization of drugs in El Norte cutting their revenue to the vanishing point.
Marijuana was already on its way to widespread acceptance.
Cocaine would be next.
Hard drugs would be dispensed in medical settings, just like in Portugal.
After that, drug cartels would become as obsolete as oil cartels once renewable energy technology made its inevitable breakthroughs. The bosses south of the Rio Grande could try to muscle their way into local production and distribution within los estados unidos — that’s what Julián Fortuna was attempting in the nearby forest, with spotty results — but once the big yanqui corporations got involved in selling recreational drugs, illegal competition from any quarter would be crushed.
Mateo, with his access to intelligence reports and his position within Fausto Zara’s organization, had no trouble seeing all these things coming. He’d been planning his exit — his escape — for the last five years. What he hadn’t anticipated, but should have, he supposed, was the idea that Zara and the other bosses, no doubt, would attempt military insurrection. Take over the government in Mexico and rule the country openly, not just exert influence from the shadows.
If Zara was able to get his hands on a squadron of A-10s and find the pilots to fly them, the bloodshed would be horrific and the foundation of Mexico’s society would be destroyed. The Americans would never stand for the presence of an openly autocratic, violent and unpredictable government on their southern border. For all they knew, Mexico might try to reclaim all of the southwestern United States.
Reconquista? Bullshit.
Mexico would be crushed and Washington would exert direct rule all the way down to the Panama Canal, and God help South America if it got testy about things. Mateo Trujillo wanted none of that to happen. So he would betray Fausto Zara, put an end to his coup d’état madness, and retire with a great deal of money to some beautiful mountain setting like this one.
But first he had to put an end to Julián Fortuna’s foolish experiment.
Kill whoever needed killing, pick up the few million dollars in bribe money Julián had lying around, and make contact with his friends in the CIA.
Freddie Strait Arrow’s head was still spinning as he sat leaning against a tree just outside of Tesla. It seemed like only seconds ago he’d been tucked in bed having the most wonderful of dreams. Unlike most people, Freddie almost always dreamed in black and white. That was fine by him because he didn’t dream of old girlfriends — he didn’t have any — or embarrassing schoolroom scenes where he showed up not wearing pants or having left the assigned work undone — neither of those things had ever happened.
No, Freddie’s dreams, especially the best ones, were always the same. He stood at a board, an old fashioned blackboard, with a stick of white chalk in hand. At a speed he could never match while conscious, he would whip out the most amazing formulas expressing mathematical relationships that nobody had ever thought of much less seen before. Diagrams of molecules arranged to form new compounds and undreamed of materials also appeared on the board as if produced by a magic wand.
The best thing about this subconscious conjuring was Freddie could remember every detail perfectly when he awoke. Put it all down on paper. Add it to a computer, one not linked to any external network. A machine password protected by a 52-symbol sequence that a super-computer couldn’t crack, but Freddie could remember off the top of his head.
Because he never forgot anything.
Until that morning, anyway. Freddie had forgotten almost everything about the dream he was having when Marlene had yanked him out of bed. He hadn’t been ready to wake up. No, no, no. He could still feel the pain of his newest and best insight into the workings of the universe slip away from him. He felt as if he’d had part of his mind severed from his body.
He wanted to scream in agony, but Marlene overrode the impulse with the scariest look he’d ever seen from anyone or anything.
“Men are coming,” she said. “They might mean to kill or kidnap you.”
Freddie was still trying to register the shock of that notion when Marlene pulled him from bed as if his body was made of balsa. His clothes appeared on his body as magically as his equations did on the blackboard. Then he was moving as if being swept along by his own personal windstorm. Not quite a tornado, but something approaching that sensation.
Within the space of what seemed to be a heartbeat, he was rushed out of the house, the world a blur around him. Moments later, he was in the woods, a quarter-mile away by his usually accurate sense of distance. Only he didn’t know which of his faculties he could trust anymore, what with his memory of the breakthrough concept he’d been putting on his blackboard completely gone.
He’d never had a personal failure like that before … but he’d never been yanked out of bed so urgently either. It wasn’t unreasonable to think the rude interruption of his subconscious mind had proved his undoing. Only Marlene had said she was saving his life or at least his freedom.
He had to wonder about that. He’d been warned by his parents that his sudden accumulation of great wealth would make him a target for both con artists and gangsters. Some of whom might well be girls or women. He hadn’t worried about the grifters; he doubted there was anyone in the world who could out-think him. As for the criminals with guns, well, they were the stuff of TV, movies and video games weren’t they?
Maybe not. After all, he’d never have suspected anyone like Marlene existed. She’d simply walked right up to him and made her pitch. He’d found it compelling, slept with her and now he had to admit he found her company, especially in bed, all but addictive.
Then there were the things she could do that seemed supernatural.
Maybe she’d figured out formulas even he couldn’t imagine.
That was another part of her appeal for him.
Marlene was the only person he’d ever dreamed of in color.
Vivid colors.
For all that, he wasn’t sure he’d trade what she’d brought into his life for what he might lose. He’d be heartbroken if he couldn’t recover the breakthrough he’d experienced that morning. Problem was, he’d never had a recurring dream, had never needed one.
Then, Jesus, an even scarier thought popped into his head: What if he’d lost his blackboard permanently? Would never have any more breakthrough concepts.
That horrifying idea might have made Freddie weep.
Only a more immediate and mortal terror appeared.
Looking up, Freddie saw an enormous brown bear eyeing him from thirty feet away.
The beast pulled back it lips, revealing great daggers of teeth and began to growl.
And took its first step toward Freddie.
Mateo and the four Canadian mercenaries got out of the Navigator in front of the biggest house in Tesla. The assault rifle each of them carried seemed harshly at odds with the row of gingerbread Victorian homes and shops. Barbarians were crashing the tea party.
The niceties would not be observed.
Able posted Charlie to watch the road through town, keep any traffic from stopping.
“Rules of engagement?” Charlie asked.
“Yell, first. Brandish your weapon, second. Fire a round in the air, third.”
The fourth step wasn’t necessary to verbalize.
“If a cop stops?” Charlie asked.
“Smoke him.” Turning to Mateo, he added. “Killing a cop or two will cost you extra.”
Mateo said, “Just don’t let them call for help. I’m not paying for a war.”
Able looked at Charlie. “Understood?”
Charlie smiled and nodded. He was good with his parameters.
Able told Dog, “Check the rear entrances of all these structures. We don’t want anyone slipping out the back door or firing on us from an outhouse.”
“What if I see a lady hanging clothes out to dry?”
“Leave the clothes, corral the lady. Any civilians you find, round them up.”
“And then?” Dog asked.
Able turned back to Mateo. “Your call, life or death. Each fatality over the first ten will cost extra. Double for women and kids.”
Sarcasm in his voice, Mateo said, “You’ll throw in pets for free?”
Able laughed. “Cats, sure. Guard dogs, too. Anything else we can negotiate.”
Mateo said, “In the interests of decency and sound budgeting, don’t kill anyone who isn’t an immediate threat to your lives or mine.”
He also didn’t want to stick the CIA with too big a mess to clean up.
Able looked at his men. If there were going to be witnesses left behind, he and his men couldn’t let their faces be seen. They pulled the stocking caps on their heads down over their faces. There were openings for their eyes, noses and mouths. Now, they looked like bank-robbers or terrorists. All to the good for purposes of intimidation.
You hid your face, you dehumanized yourself.
You became a monster capable of inflicting any kind of brutality.
Only problem was, Able had the feeling this move, hiding their features, should have been discussed before they had exited the Navigator. If Able got the feeling somebody might have gotten a look at him and his men before they pulled their caps down, he was going to kill them.
He could argue money for the extra kills with the greaser afterward.
Able was sure Mateo would see things his way.
Charlie stayed out front; Dog ran to the back of the big house they would enter first. Baker kicked in the front door, and Able ran inside, his weapon at the ready. Mateo lingered behind on the front porch. No sense in risking his life, he thought, when he was paying someone else to do his dirty work.
Beebs Bandi, ever the ace photographer, had set himself up in an attic of a house down the street at a curve in the road with an angle on just about every other structure in town. He’d seen the Navigator arrive. Saw the men exit the SUV. Could have killed them all, if he’d had the right firearm and disposition.
Massacres weren’t his thing, though.
Still, he did nail all five of them with his telephoto lens.
Got sharp, clean shots of each man’s face before they pulled down their masks. Photographed the truck, too. Made sure he framed the numbers on the license plate so all of them were in frame. Even the date on the tiny registration sticker was legible.
For the first time since he’d climbed the tree to shoot the young movie stars making love, Beebs felt a sense of redemption. He was going to use his gift for photography to put some bad guys behind bars, and the bastards wouldn’t know until it was too late that Bruno “Beebs” Bandi had brought them to justice.
His sense of confidence flagged when the bad guys started making their moves. Yeah, one of them stayed out on the road, but another ran off behind the house where he, Freddie and Marlene had stayed last night. Then three more of them broke into Freddie’s house.
Jesus, what if Freddie and Marlene hadn’t gotten out yet?
Freddie had still been in bed a few minutes ago and —
Beebs heard the loudest, most awful scream of his life.
He was sure someone had just died.
Able was the first man through Freddie’s door. He was the team leader because he was the best of the bunch. Top marksman, top edged-weapon fighter, top at hand-to-hand combat. He saw the danger while the other guys were still looking for the threat. He reacted faster. He exploited vulnerabilities while the others searched for a point of attack.
Baker, Charlie and Dog followed Able willingly because they knew their chances of staying alive and unhurt were far better with him at the point of the spear.
None of that mattered once the team leader crossed the threshold of Freddie Strait Arrow’s house and the monster leapt out of the shadows. Able turned his head in time to see a pair of fiery eyes and an enormous mouthful of teeth flying at him. He didn’t have a chance to do anything but scream. Baker, seeing the mangled, fallen Able, couldn’t help but recoil.
Able felt, ever so briefly, the agony of his throat being pierced and his cervical spine being crushed. His training never had anticipated an enemy like this one. He was dead before his mangled body hit the floor.
Responding purely by dint of reflex and being cold-blooded killers themselves, Baker, in front, and Dog, at the back of the house, managed to disenthrall themselves and open fire. But the monster that had seemed so huge only a moment before suddenly became too small to draw a bead on, and it moved with blinding speed. The best they could do was fire on full automatic and empty their magazines.
They came closer to killing each other than shooting … whatever the hell it was.
Still, each of them yelled, “You hit it?”
They both answered angrily, “No, goddamnit.”
Charlie ran into the house and with his two comrades looked down at the shredded remains of their late leader. Nobody needed to ask if Able was dead. A moment later, Mateo found the courage to enter the house and see what had happened.
He thought he was going to have to raise the fee the surviving mercenaries would get to continue the job, but he knew this wasn’t the time to talk about money. At the moment, these men needed nothing so much as someone to kill. Mateo didn’t want it to be him.
As it was, Baker, stepping into the leadership role, relieved Mateo of the necessity to talk business. With Charlie and Dog’s unspoken consent, he told Mateo, “The rest of this job is on us. Whatever that thing was, we’re going to find it and kill it.”
The bear had just broken into a run, charging Freddie Strait Arrow, mouth agape, teeth bared, the picture of an imminent and savage death, when sounds of automatic weapons fire filled the air. The shots didn’t sound immediately proximate but were easily heard and held the prospect of drawing nearer and being repeated.
Freddie prayed someone was shooting at the
bear, would kill it before —
The beast dug its paws into the ground and skidded to a stop, mere feet away from its intended victim. Animal behavior was not one of Freddie’s fields of study, but as he watched the bear swing its head back and forth he thought he saw fear in the ursine eyes. He also saw a trough in the fur on one of the animal’s front legs. The exposed skin looked raw and red.
Had the animal been shot, Freddie wondered.
Did it understand the danger of gunfire?
Was that why the fusillade had spooked it so badly?
Freddie renewed his silent supplication for more shooting, but it didn’t come. The silence allowed the bear to regain its focus. The animal turned its gaze back to Freddie, looking as if it was deciding which part of him to eat first. While it had the chance.
Possessing the casual agnosticism of a scientist, Freddie nonetheless whimpered, “Oh, Jesus.”
The bear took a single step toward him, and then it stopped, raised its head to gaze at something behind Freddie. The bear seemed confused or at least distracted. It wasn’t used to confronting a creature larger than itself.
Freddie saw the beast look up and asked himself: What the hell was bigger than a bear?
Whatever it was, the growl it produced made Freddie’s hair stand on end and the bear to look for more easily had pickings. It turned away from Freddie and fled, crashing through the underbrush. Leaving its formerly intended prey alone with some new, even more fearsome predator coming up from behind.
That was more than Freddie’s mind could cope with; his consciousness began to slip away. A much better way to go, he thought. Unaware of the end as it occurred. A pang of regret accompanied his descent into darkness, though. He could have done so much more if he’d been given the time.
Freddie didn’t know how long he’d been blacked out, but as the light returned to his eyes he was surprised that he felt no pain. All his limbs seemed intact and responsive. He could detect no source of bleeding. To the contrary, his head seemed to be resting on someone’s lap, soft and comforting. His cheek was being gently stroked.
The blissful comfort was almost enough to lull him back into unconsciousness.
