Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  I sat up again, sweat beading my forehead. The clocked blinked 11:59. I could still smell blood — taste it in the back of my throat.

  I was still sitting there when Jolene came into the room.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I looked at her, feeling my hands start to shake. “Maybe not,” I said.

  She came to bed, gently pushed me back and laid down next to me.

  “I put Marla down for a nap.”

  “Those poor kids,” I said. “I should have killed him. I should have…”

  She pulled my face to her chest, stroking the back of my head and whispering softly. “You did what you could. Now you rest — rest and remember we love you. Marla and I love you.”

  I tried to be strong, to hold back the tears, but then I remembered Billy Mac had a wife and three young children — children like the little boy and girl on the landing — children like my Marla — and then I wasn’t strong — I wasn’t strong at all. And she held me and rocked me and loved me and finally I did sleep. I slept and I didn’t dream at all.

  12

  Majoqui Cabrera met with three members of MS-13 in the diner where Tamera Sun worked. All three were tatted and packing and looked like trouble just waiting to happen. And all three paid total respect to this, a most honored member of Mara. Each listened intently to his instructions. Each memorized the details of what was required of him. None of them spoke out of turn, waiting for him to address them before offering any insight or information or asking qualifying questions.

  Majoqui made sure they understood the importance of his instructions. They were Mara, but they were not from El Salvador, they were from California, the land of Hollywood and movie stars. Majoqui wanted to impress upon them that Mara’s reputation was at stake and that no deviation would be tolerated.

  He looked at the television screen, seeing the face of his nemesis. The man with the monster dog; the police officer Majoqui had missed with his bullets and his machete, a thing he would not have believed possible. Because of this man he had failed to deliver the message that was to be sent in the way it was meant to be sent. The children had survived. And that could be construed as weakness. Mara must never be allowed to be thought of as weak.

  A blurry picture of Majoqui appeared on the screen, taken from hospital security cameras. It was followed by an artist’s rendition of how he would look with his eye sewn shut. Majoqui was not worried about being recognized. He had died his hair blond and spiked it with gel. He had removed the stitches gluing his eye to his cheek. His vision was badly blurred through that eye, but he felt confidant it was only temporary. He wore garish eye liner and black eye shadow on his lids, and under his eyes, and had looped a ring through a set of the holes left on his cheek from the stitches. He wore a long sleeved shirt, buttoned to the collar to hide both his injuries and his tattoos.

  To the first man he said, “The rifle must be able to be assembled quickly. It must be lightweight and the scope must be accurate.”

  To the second man he said, “The motorcycle must be fast, but not too loud, I do not want to draw attention.”

  To the third man he said, “The witch must be powerful. She will be expensive and should require a blood sacrifice. I will meet with her myself to receive the blessing. She is to have the blade for at least thirteen hours, to pray over and chant and mark.”

  He looked each in the eye, piercing to the soul so as to make certain they truly understood the importance of their tasks. Americans had mostly forgotten the power of the old religion, but Majoqui knew better. He needed only to touch his chest or his leg to be reminded of the Virgin’s blessing and protection.

  The TV flashed to a video feed of the banker’s house, the trees and light posts circled by bright, yellow police tape. The house looked different in the daylight, but Majoqui could just make out the bullet holes in the front door if he squinted his bad eye closed.

  Looking back at the men, he asked if they had any questions. They didn’t. They seemed like good, dependable men. They had brought him money, disposable cell-phones and a new identity, driving all night from California to Colorado non-stop. Still, they were from Hollywood, the land of corruption and laziness; could they be trusted? Strange, he felt less certain of them, his brothers, than he did of Tamera Sun. He decided to wait to see how they carried out his orders. If they did well, then good. If not — not.

  After dismissing them, he finished his coffee and walked back to Tamera’s apartment, careful that no one was following him. Outside her door, he waited, listening. Inside, he heard a male voice. The police? No, not the police. He opened the door, stepped inside and closed it quietly behind him. They were in the bedroom.

  Majoqui opened the door and saw the man standing over Tamera. He was tall, a mulatto, with grayish skin and striking, blue eyes. Tamera was cowering on the bed, a red handprint flaming her pale, freckle-dotted cheek. Tears ran down her face.

  “Who are you?” asked the man, turning and squaring his shoulders, making himself look even bigger than his already impressive size.

  Majoqui said nothing. He simply reached down and snapped the antenna off the radio from the end table. Casually, he popped off the rounded ball of metal at the end, leaving a jagged point, and stretched it to its full length, about three feet.

  “Oh really?” said the man. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a butterfly knife. With a flip of his wrist the handles slapped back and the blade appeared.

  “Dashon, don’t, please,” cried Tamera from the bed.

  “You wanna turn around and walk right outta here, little man,” said Dashon.

  The antenna flashed and Dashon was no longer holding the knife. He grabbed his wrist as blood welled around his fingers and streamed to the floor.

  Rage flooded the big man’s face. He took a half step forward, but stopped as the antenna flashed again, opening his cheek under his left eye.

  “Ow!” he said.

  Another flash and this time a section of his upper lip flapped loosely, as though no longer supported. More blood flowed.

  Majoqui moved with liquid smoothness, coming under and in so that he was behind the big man before he could react, the jagged point of the antenna piercing an eighth inch into his throat.

  “If you move,” said Majoqui, “I will kill you. Do you understand?”

  Dashon started to nod, thought better of it. “Yeah, yeah, man. I got you.”

  “This woman is no longer yours. She is mine. You will leave and you will not come back. If you come back, you will die.”

  “Okay, man,” said Dashon, “okay. She ain’t worth it. I’m gone. Just let me go. Cool?” A fine mist of blood sprayed from his lip as he spoke.

  Majoqui stepped away, the slender rod of steel resting along the seam of his pant leg. He had no fear of the bigger man. If he did not leave, Majoqui would kill him.

  Dashon raised his hands, showing surrender, and edged around him. When he got to the door, he looked back as if to say something, but instead gripped his bleeding wrist and quietly left the apartment.

  Majoqui put a finger to the red mark on Tamera’s face. “He will not come back.”

  “I didn’t invite him,” she said, the words catching in little hiccups as she spoke. “I swear I didn’t. He just came in and said I was going to work for him and that I just had to accept it.”

  “I know,” said Majoqui, “I believe you.” He looked at the end table with its broken radio. “I am sorry about your radio. I will buy you a new one.” He collapsed the antenna and slipped it into his pocket.

  13

  Ziggy was his monicker and it suited him perfectly, the way most street names do. He was a major doper… user that is… not a dealer… heroin being his drug of choice, and couldn't stay still for more than a nano-second. Usually heroin mellows people out… slows them down… not Ziggy.

  I took a sip of my coffee and pushed his closer to him. He slurped it noisily and set it back on the table, his head jerked about on his
long, skinny, black neck as though he thought someone was going to pounce on him at any second. Maybe someone was.

  I wasn't in uniform, just jeans and a tan, short-sleeve t-shirt. In the movies, cops in uniform meet with snitches all the time. In real life, that would cause a sharp decline in snitches.

  "This dude is bad, Ziggy. He killed cops, women, he even broke a little girl's arm."

  Ziggy held up a hand, his fingers shaking like he had palsy. "I don't like nobody messing with kids," he said. "But I don't know nobody with an eye stitched to his cheek. Man, somebody like that would stand out big time."

  "Okay then, what about MS 13 activity?"

  His head bobbed up and down like a bobble-head toy. "Heard say a tre of Mara's boys zipped down from the land of fruits and nuts real fast like. Heard say they was showing tats and colors like they was real proud. Heard say they was fronted by a couple of brothers, Crips, just outside of Sin City and that they messed the brothers up real bad like. Everybody knows Mara's boys. They don't play good with others."

  "Any word on why they're making the trip?"

  Ziggy poured more sugar into his coffee, which was already roughly the consistency of syrup. "Heard say they was helping one of their own, but that's all I heard say on that." He finished his coffee and started the bird-like twitching of his head again.

  I pulled out a twenty and laid it on the table. "Thanks, Ziggy. You hear anything else on these Mara's boys, or on stitch cheek, you give me a call."

  He nodded, or at a least I think he did, it might have been a twitch, and held up the trembling finger again. "Ziggy'll be listening, that he will, yes sir."

  I left the coffee shop and drove to the banker's house. There was crime scene tape stretched from tree to tree all around the place and Denver detectives and crime lab techs were moving in and out and about the house. I sat in my car for a few minutes, trying to recreate the events of last night in my mind; the knock, the bullet holes appearing as if by magic through the door, the gun battle inside the house, the chase, the track, the second gun battle — this one with the burglars — and finally, the culmination of the track.

  I swung around to the next block, roughly following the course Pilgrim had taken me on, until I arrived at where we lost the track.

  After backup took the living burglars away and rescue hauled off the dead man, I had continued the track with two new SWAT guys and we ended up here. Last night, in the dark, I could only see so much, even with powerful flashlights.

  It's amazing how the sun can shed new light on a situation. I knelt down by the bush where Pilgrim had tracked to and searched the grass and dirt beneath and behind it. Obvious signs that someone had laid here were evident. I even found some dried blood on the grass. It wouldn't help in catching Stitch, but once we did catch him, it would certainly help convict him. I was hoping for more, maybe a note with his current address and phone number and a picture ID, but there was nothing.

  The flattened down grass and disturbed dirt showed that he'd been bedded down for a while, but where'd he go after that? Pilgrim tracked from the bushes to the street, but here the track ended. Usually that would mean a car picked him up, but the area had been swarming with police, and besides, MS 13 just wasn't that active here in Colorado. It didn't seem likely he'd have a ride set up in advance. Then I remembered his little phone game at the hospital and with the cab.

  I called dispatch and had them patch me through to the lead Denver Detective working the case. I told him who I was and where I was and asked him to send a lab tech over to collect the blood evidence. Then I asked him to check all the bodies for their cell phones. I explained how Stitch had played bait and switch with us and how I suspected he might have done the same thing with either the banker's phone or one of the dead cop's phones. Sure enough, none of the bodies had phones with them. He said he'd send the tech to relieve me and that he'd start a search for the phone numbers so they could begin pinging them to try and get a location.

  After I hung up, a thought struck me. I had Billy Mac's number. I tried to call him last night when I was on my way over, but there'd been no answer, probably because Billy was already dead. I pulled up my recent calls and there it was. I knew I should turn it over to Denver so they could ping it, but I figured Stitch had probably already tossed it. Or maybe he hadn't. I went ahead and called. He picked up on the first ring, almost as if he were waiting for me to call.

  "I have been waiting for you to call," he said.

  I recognized the voice instantly. "Who are you?"

  "I am going to kill you — you and everything you love."

  "Is that why your buddies from California came to visit? Feel like maybe you need a little help?"

  Silence.

  "That's what I thought," I said. "I'm going to catch you."

  "No, you will die. Mara is to be feared and your death will bring that fear to all your brother policemen."

  "I've already beaten you twice. Third time's going to be a charm."

  There was a pause, like maybe he was thinking I might be right.

  "You have strong magic," he said. "I have seen this. But Mara is stronger. Mara and the saints. The next time we meet, you will die."

  I was about to say something else, something clever and witty to show he didn't scare me, but he hung up.

  I called the Denver detective and gave him Billy's number so they could try a ping. I knew it was too late, that I'd blown the chance by making the call, but they'd have to try anyway. I didn't bother telling him about the call, I felt bad enough already.

  After that, I called a buddy of mine from the Marine Corps that worked the streets in Las Vegas named Ron Mobile. Ron was a bomb tech in the war and took some shrapnel from an IED that exploded while he was walking up on it. If he'd been a little closer, he would have been vaporized, bomb suit and all. As it was, he just about died. The pulse wave broke a bunch of bones and they had to dig out over forty pieces of metal and Kevlar from his chest and legs. One piece of shrapnel had severed his ring finger mid-knuckle, even through the glove. I remember when I visited him in the hospital he held his stump up under a nostril and said "I bet you can't get your finger this far up your nose." That's just the kind of guy he is.

  "Gil Mason," he said. "How's sleepy town Colorado doing for you? You about bored enough to come out here where the real action is?"

  "Pilgrim doesn't like the heat out there. What is it today, like a hundred and ninety degrees?"

  He laughed. "Yeah, well let me think, when was the last time I had to scrape ice off my windshield, oh yeah, never." He laughed again. "So what's going down?"

  "We had a bad run in with an MS 13er and a little bird told me you guys had some Crips tangle with some boys that might be related."

  "I don't know about the related part, but we definitely saw some Mara action early this morning. Used a sword or something. Cut one of the Crips so bad he's going to lose an arm, which is a real shame because he has some award winning art tatted on there that will be a loss to all mankind."

  "Got any info on the suspects?"

  "Oh yeah," he said. "This is Vegas baby, we got cameras on the cameras. Got the whole episode from three different angles and in living color."

  "Any chance I could get a copy?

  "Do the words 'Semper Fi' mean anything? I've got a friend up in investigations that's working it. He'll be glad to know about the connection. He should be able to send it right out."

  "Great. Thanks, Ron."

  "Anything for the great and terrible Gil Mason, Marine Corps legend and trainer of soft furry things with big sharp teeth. Try not to fall asleep out there, pal."

  Sleep, I could use some more, but that wasn't going to happen. I looked at my watch, nearly three. My shift started at seven, which left me just enough time for a quick workout, a shower and some dinner with the family. But first I called Jim Black and let him know about the Vegas connection so he could get in contact with them and get the video.

  I am going to kill you
— you and everything you love.

  Too bad he was wearing that Saint Christopher medallion when I shot him.

  14

  Tamera Sun lay in her bed, smiling. He was the most wonderful man in the world. He even liked her cat. She had been so afraid when Dashon showed up, telling her he'd waited long enough and that she was going to start working the streets tonight. She told him no and he slapped her, hard, so hard the room had tilted and she thought she might throw up or pass out or both. And then Majoqui had come into the room and she was afraid all over again, this time for him, because she knew how big and strong Dashon was and she'd heard stories about how he'd messed up guys that got in his way. But Majoqui hadn't been scared at all and he'd moved so fast and smooth, like Jet Li in that old Lethal Weapon movie. He could have killed Dashon, but he didn't, and she loved him all the more for it. Tamera hated violence, although she had to admit, she did feel a thrill at what he had done to Dashon. She'd seen the fear in Dashon's eyes and a part of her, way deep down, was glad that he had to feel a little bit of what he'd made her feel. Maybe he would realize how terrible it was to do that to someone else and become a better person because of it. She hoped so.