by Howard Upton
“Unless we plan on having sex later tonight, let’s dispense with the walk down memory lane and talk a little business. I’m getting up there in years and don’t really give a shit for your mouth today,” Buddy curtly replied.
Dugan kept his face neutral having grown accustomed to the crassness of unsophisticated men just like him. The old warrior’s callous demeanor didn’t faze him, however. In fact, it made the meeting a little easier for him.
“I see,” Dugan said. “It’s unfortunate two old friends can’t have a drink and talk about life’s simpler times.” Dugan’s eyes shot around the bar to assure no one could hear him, “You know, like killing sand niggers, jungle spics and those African tree monkeys. Those were the simple times. Good food in some of those places too, wouldn’t you agree?”
Buddy stared at the old man as he fought the urge to reach across the table and rip his throat out. His stomach lurched just sitting down with him, and he was sure his posture revealed his uneasiness. He ran his tongue across his teeth then sucked in, trying to give off an air of indifference. Whether or not Dugan bought his disinterested look was another story altogether.
“Yes, I recall a time or two when you, in a drunken rage, stuck a knife in a young Guatemalan’s neck because he told you to ‘go fuck a goat.’ As his corpse lay by the campfire we had built, you dined on some dried fish we had packed the night before. Do you remember that night, Mr. Smith? That little bastard was our trail guide. We all sat around drinking and joking and he only wanted to join in the game. You are really no different than I, sir, so let’s not pretend for a moment that your tenure with various government agencies entitles you to be sanctimonious,” Dugan mocked him.
The bartender stepped from behind the bar and approached the table. “Señores, what can I get for you?” he asked. He looked at Dugan and asked, “Another Lochnager for you, Señor?”
“Yes, and get one for my friend. He appreciates a nice Highland single malt, as I recall. He and I go way back you understand. We haven’t seen each other for several years. It’s like a reunion of sorts,” Dugan’s sarcasm reeked in reply.
Buddy nodded his approval of the single-malt to the bartender then turned his attention back to Dugan. His eyes locked on the man he hadn’t seen in a couple of decades but had tracked for the last seven or eight years. Still, his face remained blank while his guts churned with disdain. It was atypical for Buddy to have a maelstrom of emotions, but this one person seemed to bring out the worst in him.
A few moments passed before the bartender brought the drinks to the table. Dugan instructed him to put them on his tab. With that, the bartender walked back to the bar, grabbed a damp rag and began wiping his work space.
Dugan began speaking again, “So, here we are, two old men together again down in Old Mexico. How fitting. We’ve eaten together, we’ve shit together and we’ve killed together. I think there’s enough history between us to allow for a modicum of civility. Besides that, we’ve entered into a business partnership and both have a vested interest in seeing this job carried out.”
Buddy wanted to cringe and deny it, but Dugan was right. They were partners in crime so to speak, which made him just as culpable as the asshole sitting on the other side of the table. As many shady dealings he found himself involved in over the years, he had never felt as greasy and dirty as he did when dealing with the cold-blooded murderer with whom he now shared a table.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Buddy began, “a measure of civility is called for in this case.” His thick southern drawl fell heavily upon ‘civility.’ Despite his uneasiness, his diction was even and metered. “And, you are correct; we have a common goal here, Mr. Dugan. Perhaps it’s time we discuss the business at hand.”
“That’s much better, Mr. Smith. I always operate at a higher level when all parties are at ease with one another. With that, allow me to brief you on where we are regarding the acquisition of the talisman.
We now have my personal agent here in Monterrey holding the jewel until tomorrow morning. You and I will meet in the hotel lobby at 10:00 a.m. then proceed to the pick-up point. My team is confident that we can reverse the spell and give you your army. As we discussed previously, before the artifact is given over to you and that rogue government you serve, the money we negotiated will magically appear in my account.
I suspect the routing number I gave has been turned over to the appropriate party? And just so you are aware, there’s a series of bank re-routes making my true account virtually untraceable. Should your folks attempt to track down the payment, or me for that matter, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands. The money shall be deposited no later than 9:30 tomorrow morning so I can confirm its presence before we leave.
Next, we will depart Monterrey in a chartered jet headed to Xi’an. There will be a couple of stops along the way for refueling purposes. Once there, the spell will be reversed and you will be given the cartouche, or as I fondly call it...the warrior’s key.”
“You’ve told me that this warrior’s key controls the Terracotta Army, Dugan, but you haven’t told me how you know this to be true. How can Uncle Sam be assured that by controlling the cartouche, he will control the army? There’s a lot of money at stake here and I’ve been questioned a few times about the validity of your claim,” said Buddy.
Dugan laughed and replied, “Oh ye of little faith, Mr. Smith. I have paid a research team a lot of money to confirm the existence of the magic held in that little jewel. Our own government has confirmed the ability to harness the power of the human mind to predict future events, sir. In the Alaskan tundra a group of soldiers were used in experimental forecasting in what became known as ‘remote viewing.’ Essentially, each soldier was told to sit quietly with his eyes closed and given a name or place and told to report back what he saw in his mind. If several people reported seeing the same person, object or event, the potential was there that they had just seen a snapshot of the future.
“The United States government, the former Soviet Union, Nazis and the Chinese government, have all dabbled in the arena of magic. Make no mistake, Mr. Smith, the CIA has within its ranks priestesses and magicians who have cast death spells on foreign leaders resulting in their untimely death. Is it so far-fetched then, to believe a spell is contained inside a gem that would give the owner the ability to control an army of eight thousand living, breathing stone soldiers?
“One hitch that kept resurfacing in our research, however, is that only a blood relative can reverse the spell. We have located a couple of candidates in the United States who will meet us in Taiwan. These individuals are Native Americans and fully vested in Earth worship and the belief in spiritual magic. We believe one or both of them will be able to figure out how the spell can be mutated to fit our needs.
“But, I do offer my assurances that this is real and that should it fail I will most certainly pay back any money fronted to me by the United States government. I can’t imagine that you and your suitors would find that unsatisfactory,” he finished.
Buddy listened intently to Dugan’s speech. The plan was simple enough. Too simple as plans go, but this was the information he was sharing at the moment, so Buddy would be forced to go along with it. There was no doubt that Dugan had spent copious amounts of time confirming the cartouche’s magic could be used to control the army. Still, he had another pressing concern – Evers.
“What about my asset here? Where is he and what have you done with him?” Buddy demanded.
A wicked smile spread across Dugan’s face. “Yes, the ever persistent, Mr. Evers. Rest assured he is in relatively good health for the time being, Mr. Smith. But I’m afraid he has become quite the liability. He was our safety net in the event our jewel thief had second thoughts and decided to make a run with the key. As luck would have it, he didn’t run, and unfortunately for William Evers, his time is almost at hand. It didn’t take me long to realize the man doesn’t see the bigger picture and that he would interfere with our plans.”
Buddy’s forehead creased, “That doesn’t make any sense, Dugan. He was following orders and I’m going to need him to help me lead those warriors out of China. I seriously doubt the Chi-coms are going to just let us waltz out of their country with eight thousand of their most prized cultural treasures without a fight. I think your paranoia is catching up with you.”
Dugan laughed then replied, “You and I don’t live as long as we have in our professional field without a little dose of paranoia, Mr. Smith. But my mistrust of most things notwithstanding, how do you think he would react when he finds out you and I have been working together the entire time? Have you considered the outcome? Don’t you honestly think he would attempt to kill us both?”
“Of course I’ve thought about it,” Buddy responded. “And there’s a distinct possibility he would kill me given the chance, but he’s a good man and doesn’t deserve to die like some kind of rogue cur.”
“You really are quite taken with Mr. Evers aren’t you?” Dugan glibly remarked. “There’s something else you need to know about Mr. Evers. He’s tainted. The mark of death haunts him, and that makes him unstable and unpredictable. I’ve been informed by my team here in Mexico that he screams in his sleep. Emotional connection to those lives he’s taken creates a much larger problem with him, you see. No, Mr. Smith, tomorrow William Evers will be forever removed from this world.”
Monterrey, Mexico
General Mariano Escobedo
International Airport
July 22, 2013 9:10 A.M.
Pain from the shackles attached to his wrists and ankles was the first thing Roper felt when his eyes fluttered open. His back ached from the hard concrete floor he felt beneath him, as well as where the taser had bitten into his spinal column. His brain vaguely registered the fact that he had no clothing. He could smell fuel and oil, but struggled to determine where he was.
He rolled to his side, the heavy manacles and chains connecting wrists to ankles. A streak of pain coursed from his ribs as he held his breath and grimaced. He looked at his side and saw the gigantic black bruises that covered the majority of his ribcage. His face and head ached and felt as though he had been hit with a sledge hammer a dozen different times. He eased his head back to the floor and took a few shallow breaths, each one subsequently causing as much pain as its predecessor.
His eyes took in his surroundings. Daylight poured through large windows forty feet in the air. Corrugate metal walls and weight bearing beams formed the huge structure. The concrete floor extended from the front to the rear approximately a hundred yards, and half that from side-to-side. There were dark, oily stains in various spots on the smooth concrete. Toward the front of the building sat the red Camaro. Finally, it dawned on him that he was in an airplane hangar, and the nearby roar of a plane taking off confirmed his theory.
Despite his splitting headache, Roper’s mind raced to remember the events leading up to his waking in the strange building. He closed his eyes trying to recall everything... anything. Thankfully, his eyelids blocked some of the sunlight, giving his aching head a minor reprieve. Memories flooded into his brain – the drive to Monterrey, the walk from the internet café, his phone call with Buddy, the red Camaro and the four thugs. He remembered most of the damage he’d delved out and the second tank top wearing man begging him not to hit him. Finally, he remembered the pain he’d felt between his shoulder blades. Everything beyond that was a complete and total blank.
Lying on his side proved more painful than being on his back. While the chain connecting his handcuffs and ankle cuffs forced his body into the fetal position, he could at least lie on his back with his knees bent. Mercifully, the pressure on his bruised ribcage eased just a little when he rolled to his back. He wondered if some of his ribs were broken. Even his legs hurt, and he was sure there were bruises on them too. A sticky iron taste had formed on the back of his tongue and he knew it was the sickening taste of his own blood. His tongue circled his mouth and did a quick inventory of his teeth. All of them were in place, but he could feel a large gash on the inside of his cheek. He turned his head and spat blood out of his mouth.
A few feet from him he heard someone laugh. He craned his neck in an attempt to see who else was there. The sound of shuffling feet came closer until he could see who it was. Fancy Shirt towered over him, a nasty, evil grin spreading across his face. His hands held a Russian issued AK-47. He presumed the magazine wasn’t empty.
Roper, not recognizing him at first, looked him over from head to toe. “Who the fuck are you?” he winced. “What do you want with me?” He was certain he knew the answer to his second question, but any information he could glean was beneficial, but not as important as buying time from a man with a fully automatic weapon of war. “And where are my fucking clothes?” he finished.
The guy didn’t say anything for a moment. He simply stood there looking down at the battered man. At last he said in thick accented English, “Who the fuck I am is not important, gringo. What I want with you is nothing but the money I’m going to make for turning you over to someone who is really interested in you. And fuck your clothes, ese. A man with no clothes is less likely to try anything stupid, you know?”
Roper roared with laughter despite the pain shooting through his innards. “Less likely to do anything stupid you say? I think these shackles would make a man less inclined to try anything stupid than taking his clothes off him, but that’s just how my mind works. Of course, you may just like looking at naked men, who knows,” he taunted.
The Mexican limped over to Roper, obviously still hurting from the kick he took to the inside of his thigh, and stomped a cowboy boot into his ribs. Roper screamed as pain shot through his entire core. He was on the verge of passing out but somehow managed to remain conscious. Deep breaths were an impossibility for him, but Roper tried to force as much air as he could into his lungs.
“That’s who I am, vato. I’m the guy who shot you with a taser and dropped you to the ground. I’m the guy who listened to you cry like a bitch while you were asleep, and I’m the guy who just stomped your white ass,” said the angry man.
Recognition appeared on Roper’s face. “Oh yeah,” he spat as blood trickled down his chin, “now I remember. You’re that pussy who got dropped with one kick. I bet that hurt, didn’t it?” he mocked.
The Mexican’s eyes narrowed to slits and his face burned red with rage. Roper thought about not taunting him, but couldn’t resist the urge. “Where are your other buddies?” he asked, his head swiveling in search of them. At the entrance of the hangar he saw one man sitting in a chair, his arm in a sling, another was standing holding a dark red rag to his face. The cloth dripped with blood from the man’s face. On the floor he saw one man lying motionless.
“Ha! There they are. You dumb bastards struggled to capture one American. I figured you Mexican fellas would be a little tougher than that,” Roper provoked. “Looks like one of your friends will have to learn to wipe his ass with his left hand, and another will be buying some cheap-ass sunglasses to cover that eye, huh? And your last little amigo on the floor there...doesn’t look like he’ll be knocking back cervezas with you again, now does it?”
His captor’s face scrunched into a venomous frown. He lifted his rifle and pointed the business end of it at Roper’s head. Roper’s eyes grew wide and a terrified look crossed his face. As quickly as the fear touched him it was gone. A toothy grin appeared on his face further infuriating Fancy Shirt.
The Mexican opened his mouth to allow a rage filled scream to fill the hangar. It sounded feral to Roper, like a wildcat cornered and poised to attack. He lunged at Roper and kicked again but this time Roper rolled over and entangled the man’s kicking leg in the chain of his shackles. Ropers shackled legs moved hard and fast toward his opponent’s leg not wrapped in the chain. The man let out a startled gasp as his supporting leg was swept out from under him and his back slammed to the concrete floor forcing the air from his lungs.
The rifle hit t
he floor with a thud and discharged a round into the ceiling. He could hear scrambling coming from behind him and knew only remaining friend still capable of walking was coming his way. One of Fancy Shirt’s legs was resting on Roper’s chest giving him an opportunity to inflict a little more pain. He scooped the leg with his cuffed hands and forced the leg to his mouth. An instant later his teeth were sinking into the Mexican’s leg and a blood curdling scream bounced off the metal walls.
The familiar double click of ammunition being chambered into a pistol echoed directly above him. Roper released the leg and tilted his head upward finding himself staring directly into the barrel of a really large pistol.
“Do some shit like that again amigo and I’ll kill you before the boss gets here. Comprende?” Tank Top growled.
He relaxed his body and took shallow breaths as the pain rushed back into his torso. Thoughts raced through his mind as he fought to catch his breath from the scuffle and the previous beatings he had taken. To his left he could hear speaking and cursing in Spanish and Roper felt pretty sure that he was the subject of the discussion.
One valuable piece of information he realized after the latest ass kicking he had gotten was that his captors weren’t going to kill him. At least they weren’t going to kill him right now, which meant whoever the boss was he had a plan for him. Unfortunately, he was more than certain that plan involved his death.
Dugan fired up his personal laptop and waited while it finished loading. He rarely got excited about the prospect of completing a mission; the mission was just his job and he enjoyed doing his job well, but there was no emotional attachment. In his mind a completed contract was the direct result of perfect planning and execution. This one, however, was altogether different.
Everything about this job had begun after a chance meeting while in Xi’an with a professor from a local university. The vividness with which he remembered that day still perplexed him, yet the power and energy he felt as he had stared at the statue of Captain Li was embedded in his memory banks.
