Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  Here again, Majoqui had memorized the false birth date. His real age was twenty-three. “I’m twenty-nine,” he lied smoothly.

  “Wait in the car,” said the officer as he backed away. Majoqui strained his eyes as far to the side as he could, watching the man’s retreat. He did not like this. He knew the driver’s license description to be a close match, but was it good enough now that the officer’s suspicions had been raised? Majoqui absently fingered the charm beneath his shirt, mouthing an illegitimate version of “Our Father” as he considered his options. There was the gun, but there was also the machete under his seat. He could drive away. Many American police agencies were not allowed to give chase and he might be able to escape. But the police officer would radio his vehicle’s description and license plate to other police agencies and he would have to play cat and mouse all night. This he could not do. He had a mission to complete. The picture of the bank president and his family rested in his front shirt pocket.

  The officer was taking too long to return; was he waiting for backup to arrive? Majoqui sighed. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and slipped the machete from under the seat. He opened the door and swung his body out, facing the blinding lights. Without hesitation he charged, using the same tactic as the deputy and arcing out away from the spotlight so he could acquire his target. And then he saw him, already out of his vehicle, kneeling behind the door and taking aim with a pistol of his own. There was a flash and a roar and something hit him in the chest. But it didn’t matter, he was protected and he could not fail. He threw the machete and fired the gun, still running at the police officer. The machete shattered the window the officer was hiding behind and holes plunked into the door and roof and Majoqui was almost upon him when something fast and massive flew at him from around the front of the police car. It was dark and frightening and before Majoqui could react, its mouth was open with bright white teeth that covered his face; its hot breath like scalding water. And then the impact, blunt and unstoppable and the pain, as the fangs crushed down on his face like some inescapable trap of metal jaws. He tried to scream, but his words were choked with blood and splintered teeth and all he could do was wish that he’d asked for a blessing from the witch woman that would have protected him from this. But how could he know that he would be attacked by a monster and that he would need to be protected from more than just bullets and knives, but from teeth as well?

  Wet warmth flooded down his chest and then his head and face were being jerked horribly from side to side and someone was screaming and screaming, so loud and filled with pain, that just hearing it hurt his soul. He felt his jaw wrench and then something in his neck popped and there was a pain so bright and sharp that it exploded into a rushing darkness that engulfed him and carried him away from the screams and the pain and the hot and the cold — carried him away from the police and his mission — carried him away from Mara Salvatrucha and his duty — carried him away to a place that was so dark and so isolated that only the Virgin herself could hope to bring him back.

  2

  Pilgrim watched from the back kennel area of the Sheriff’s K9 Patrol SUV as Majoqui exited his car. Pilgrim knew the man was going to attack before the Alpha knew… even before the man himself fully knew. His incredibly keen canine ears picked up the sound of the man’s heart as he considered, the slow even thump — thump — thump changing gear to a thump-thump-thump-thump and then up to a thumpthumpthumpthumpthump as it surged harder and faster. Pilgrim’s motion-sensitive eyes saw the change in posture and the slight hitch to the shoulders as he reached his decision and opened the door. Pilgrim’s nose caught the subtle but exciting shift in pheromones as adrenaline and endorphins pushed scent molecules out through the pores of Majoqui’s skin to mingle and carry on the night wind.

  Pilgrim’s massive jaw rested on the Alpha’s shoulder as he punched data into the computer, his attention diverted. A low, growl grated deep in Pilgrim’s throat, vibrating into the Alpha’s body. The Alpha looked up instantly, seeing the driver turn toward him with a gun in one hand and some kind of sword in the other. The man charged out into the street and then in toward them. But Pilgrim’s warning came just in time. The Alpha pushed his already open door out with his knee and stepped behind it as he simultaneously drew his gun. He hit the rear door popper, snapping the hydraulic gear into action and releasing Pilgrim out the passenger side.

  Pilgrim came around the front of the vehicle as shots exploded into the night. He launched from nine feet away, his one hundred and twenty pounds of muscle and teeth soaring at close to twenty miles an hour. He hit with the concussive force of an exploding torpedo, his two inch canines crushing in and through the flimsy flesh of the man’s face and head.

  The man fought.

  But he had tried to hurt the Alpha.

  Pilgrim loved the Alpha.

  The man stood no chance at all.

  I leaned against the front panel of my lieutenant's SUV, admiring the bullet holes in the door and roof of my patrol car sitting across the street from me. The suspect — the guy that shot at me — was long gone on his way to the hospital. The paramedics said he was still breathing when they left, but I’d put two forty-fives center-mass and my K9, Pilgrim, did a job on his face and head. If he did wake up, he was gonna be hurting.

  A lab tech laid a ruler next to the machete sticking out the side of my driver’s side front seat and started taking pictures. That thing missed me by about an inch; some of the bullets had come closer.

  “You doing okay, Gil?” It was my lieutenant, Mike Braden. He’s a big guy with a barrel chest, close cropped red hair and monkey arms. I think maybe God got a little distracted when he was putting him together.

  “I’m okay, Mike. What’s next?”

  “The shoot team’s on their way. So is the Sheriff. I’ll need your gun and mags, that goes for your spare too.”

  “Already on your dash,” I said, indicating with a head jab toward the inside of his rig. “Any word on the bad guy?”

  “They say he’s going to make it.”

  That surprised me. “Really. Did I miss?”

  Mike grinned. “Were you aiming for his heart?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you didn’t miss.” He double-tapped the center of his chest with a thick finger. “Dead center. Only, one of the bullets hit this.” He dropped an oval silver, charm that hit at the bottom of its beaded chain, swinging back and forth. It was maybe a little bigger than a quarter and creased in the center.

  “A Saint Christopher Medal?”

  “That’s what it is,” said Mike. “The bullet bounced off and angled down into his hip and out his thigh.”

  I shook my head. “A .45 hit that and bounced off?”

  “Hey, it’s St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers. He was traveling when you stopped him, right?”

  I shook my head. “What about the second bullet?”

  “Punched through his sternum and deflected to his left shoulder. Your dog did more damage than you did.”

  “Well… that’s something I guess.” I shook my head again. "I need bigger bullets."

  “Yeah, messed his face, shattered some teeth; made mush of his right cheekbone. He might lose the eye.”

  “We figure out who he is yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Mike. “The lab’s working on prints and we’ll get a DNA sample going as soon as possible, but you know how backed up CBI is. Could take awhile.”

  He held up a plastic bag with a photograph inside. The picture showed a middle aged business man with a family; a wife, two young kids, a boy and a girl. It was a nice looking family. “He had this in his shirt pocket.”

  I took the baggy and turned it around. There was an address on the back. I raised my eyebrows in question.

  “Yeah,” said Mike. “I’ve got dispatch working on it.”

  I nodded. “What about the woman who owns the car?”

  “I had Denver go by and check her house; nobody home.”

  “
So why did he come out shooting like that?”

  Mike shrugged. “Gang bangers. Maybe he was trying to make a rep for himself. MS-13 does that sometimes.”

  I shook my head again. “He was too cool — too calm. He’s an OG somewhere.”

  “Old Gangster?” laughed Mike. “The kid’s barely in his twenties.”

  “He might not be old in years, but in experience — in experience is another matter.”

  “Maybe,” said Mike. He looked down the street. “Here come the detectives.”

  Jim Black and Randy Nolan were walking toward us from outside the crime scene tape. Cherokee County is big, but not so big that I didn’t know most of the cops and detectives. Jim I knew real well, he was on K9 when I first joined the unit, Randy only a little. Both were good guys.

  Jim came right up and stuck out his hand. “You okay, Gil?”

  “Not a scratch,” I said, shaking his hand. “Sorry to make you guys get out of bed.”

  “I’m not,” said Randy, also stretching out his hand. “It’s overtime and I’ve got a vacation coming up.” We shook and he said, “Gil Mason, right? We met last year on the shooting range.”

  “I remember. You had a nice new Sig with a laser sight.”

  He grinned and patted his coat high on the left side. “She’s a sweetheart.” He looked at my empty holster. “And you had…” he pursed his lips, “…a Smith and Wesson 4506.”

  My eyebrows raised. “Very good. I’m surprised you remember.”

  “How could I forget an antique like that?” he laughed. “There’s enough metal in that gun to build a battleship.”

  Jim looked around. “Pilgrim okay? We heard he got a bite.”

  “He’s fine,” I said. “He’s sleeping in back of my car.”

  “Lucky dog,” said Mike. We all laughed.

  “Well,” said Jim, “are you ready for the interview? We can wait till you get your legal counsel if you want.”

  The smart course of action was to have a lawyer present after a shooting, but I’ve always trusted in the department’s legal process. “No, I don’t need a lawyer. I’m ready when you are.”

  Jim nodded. “Okay, we have to read you Garrity.”

  Garrity is a departmental advisement informing the employee that he has to cooperate fully with an investigation. It basically tells you that if you decide your actions might result in criminal charges being leveled against you, that you can opt to assert your Fifth Amendment Constitutional right to remain silent, but that doing so could result in departmental disciplinary actions being taken against you up to and including termination.

  “No problem,” I said.

  “Holy crap!” yelled one of the CSI techs as he stumbled away from the rear end of the suspect’s car. He’d just popped the trunk and it was still standing open. The Lieutenant, me, and both detectives hurried over. Inside was the body of an elderly woman.

  “Emma Cotton,” I said.

  “That’d be my guess,” said Mike.

  The two detectives looked at me.

  Jim said, “Looks like the interview’s going to be a breeze, Gil.”

  “Yeah,” said Randy. “Shootin’ a guy that would murder a little old lady’s likely to earn you a medal.”

  “Too bad you didn’t kill him,” said Jim.

  “Yeah,” said Mike.

  “Yeah,” said Randy.

  I had no idea how right they were.

  3

  Majoqui opened his eye — his right eye. Something was wrong with his left eye, and his whole face hurt. There was pain, but pain was an old companion. His mother was a whore in San Salvador and it had not been uncommon for customers to kick or hit him when he wasn’t fast enough in getting out of their way. Until the day he became a man — the day he joined Mara. He was nine when he was “jumped” into Mara. He’d stood in the circle as the five were called out — the strongest five — and then they had attacked him, punching and kicking as brutally as they could — nothing held back as the leader counted — slowly counted — to thirteen. There was no thought or possibility of fighting back; none of the five were younger than fifteen and two of them were barely shy of twenty. He curled into a ball and absorbed their kicks and punches as best he could, crying out only twice; once when a boot clipped his kidney and again when his nose was crushed into his face. When they finally lifted him to his feet he felt much the same as he did now; like a giant bruise. He’d peed blood for nearly a week and his nose would forever after hitch to the right. He could hardly stand as they pushed and pulled him to a shallow cave dug into the side of a weedy hill where a rival gang member was tied and gagged. They dragged him out and gave Majoqui the choice of a gun or a machete. The man, he was about twenty, stared at Majoqui, breathing hard. He’d been beaten; his nose was smashed flatter than Majoqui’s and his lips were pulped. Both eyes were puffed nearly closed. Majoqui bent toward him and stared into his eyes. The man stared back, his swollen eyes hard and filled with hate. Majoqui reached out and pulled the gag free. The man spit in Majoqui’s face and laughed. He reminded Majoqui of all the men who slept with his mother. He took the machete in both hands and buried it as deep into the man’s head as his nine year old muscles allowed.

  That same night Majoqui was given his first tattoo, a small cross surrounded by the letters ‘MS’ over his heart. That had been pain too, but there was something else — there was pride and a sense of family — something he had never felt from his mother.

  The men of Mara were so impressed with the boy that they gave him a gun. It was a cheap, homemade thing that fired shotgun shells; but no customer of his mother’s ever kicked him after that night. He was given the nickname “The Crow”, because of the calm way he had dispatched the rival gang member. Over the next few years, his reputation grew until he was known as a man to fear; a man not to cross. Majoqui had killed twenty-seven men since that night and was considered Mara’s most deadly assassin.

  Majoqui tried to reach up to touch his eye, but his wrists were handcuffed to the bed he was lying on. Machines were whirring and beeping around him and the lights were dimmed. His head felt big and soft and tender and he realized his left eye was bandaged. And then it all came back — the police officer and the monster and his mission.

  He turned his neck slowly and again there was pain. Something clicked, hot and bright in his neck at the movement, and he saw the room was empty, that there were no windows and only an open bathroom and one door leading out. He moved his feet and was surprised to find his legs unshackled. In Honduras, or even Mexico, he would have been lashed down from head to foot.

  His chest hurt, but his hip and leg hurt worse, which was strange, because he remembered being shot in the chest. Majoqui concentrated on flexing the muscles of his chest. A dull ache radiated throughout his left side, but it didn’t seem debilitating.

  The door to the room opened, allowing light to spill in as a tall, elderly doctor carrying a folder with pages paper-clipped to it entered, followed by a police officer. He let his muscles relax and closed his eye. The doctor approached the bed, felt for a pulse, laid the folder near his leg and shined a light in his eye.

  “You’re awake,” said the doctor. “How do you feel?”

  “Tired,” said Majoqui through aching, clenched teeth. “Sore.”

  The doctor laughed. “I’d consider that an understatement. You took two bullets in the chest and had a police K9 chomp your face.” He wagged a finger toward Majoqui’s lips. “Your jaw’s cracked. You lost a couple of teeth too. Almost lost the eye, but we were able to save it. It’s going to feel weird for awhile because we had to stitch it closed. You have an orbital fracture, a broken nose, a cracked vertebrae in your neck, a punctured sternum and we had to dig around in your chest a bit to get the other bullet out.” He pulled the sheet down and looked at Majoqui’s leg. “The first bullet ricochet off your Saint Christopher medal, dug into your hip and ripped out your upper thigh here. The damage was superficial, but it’s going to hurt.”
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br />   Majoqui watched the doctor as he pulled a pair of scissors from his white coat pocket and snipped through a section of tape that held the bandage in place on his leg. The police officer stayed out of the light so that he was only a silhouette.

  “Good,” said the doctor. “Very little bleeding.” He taped the bandage back in place and picked up the folder. The pages slipped off the folder and floated to the floor like miniature gliders. The doctor shook his head and scooped up the papers. He looked back at Majoqui. “Get as much rest as you can. I’ll check in on you in a few hours.” He left the room, the police officer following and closing the door behind them.

  Majoqui used his thumbnail to straighten the paperclip and had the handcuff off his right wrist a few seconds later. His chest ached when he reached over to undo the second cuff, but he ignored it, already planning his next move.

  He stuffed the pillow under the sheet and moved the IV stand and monitor as close together as possible on the door side of the bed, so the guard would not be able to see there was no head in the bed when he entered the room. Majoqui found the little catch pins securing the adjustable tray that had held a water pitcher and a Styrofoam cup and separated it from its base. Finally, he pulled out the IV needle in his arm and ripped off the monitoring wires from his chest. Then he waited behind the door, the sturdy tray and shaft of metal clutched in his hands, until it opened and a short, heavy-set nurse bustled into the room, the police officer following closely. Majoqui pushed the door closed behind them and smashed the tray, edge side, against the base of the police officer’s skull. The man went down, but tried to get back up. Majoqui changed his grip and brought the flat side down square on his head. The police officer collapsed, his arms and fingers twitching.

  The heavyset nurse turned, her eyes wide and her mouth opening as she stumbled backwards into the IV and monitor. She tripped and fell; hitting the bed and knocking the IV stand over. Majoqui was on her before she could scream. He stuck his bare foot against her throat and pushed down with all his weight, cutting off her air. The woman fought, but Majoqui stomped down hard, balancing himself on the rails of the bed. He felt bones pop and grind beneath his foot and then there was a snap and the nurse went limp.