Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  He jumped to his feet and started to run when the first police officer hit him with a flying tackle on his left side. The cop was young and thick in the shoulders and chest. The impact was brutal and Majoqui slammed into the ground hard, losing his breath and seeing spots dance behind his eyes. Majoqui grabbed the young officer by his testicles and squeezed as hard as he could. He jammed his thumb into the officer's eye, then punched down at the young man's nose. There was a snap and a crunch and he was free of the man's grip. Majoqui grabbed for the officer's gun, but the young cop held it locked in its holster with both hands. Majoqui wished he had worn the sword-belt. He could have split the man in two with it, but he'd left it with Tamera, wanting to stay light and flexible.

  An arm snaked around Majoqui's throat and hands seemed to grip him from every direction. The cold metal of a gun barrel dug into the flesh of his forehead and he heard someone say, "Do it, please do it!" Majoqui released his grip on the cop's gun. He was pulled away from the young officer and shoved roughly to the grass. Someone's knee ground into his neck. His arms were dragged behind his back and handcuffs snapped painfully tight around his wrists. Someone kicked him hard in the side and he tried to see who it was so that he would be able to repay him sometime in the future, but a fist struck him on the jaw, breaking his still damaged bones and momentarily blanking his vision. Next he was hauled to his feet and half carried, half drug to a patrol car and shoved into the backseat.

  Majoqui felt a trickle of blood make its way down his chin from his mouth, the flesh hot and swollen. But that was okay, a small price to pay. He was captured, but he had been captured before, and by men far more brutal and dangerous than American police. They would not hold him. He would escape. Of this he was certain.

  Majoqui had given the witch woman an extra hundred dollars to ensure it.

  28

  They were doing things to my body. I knew this because my field of vision would jerk this way and that. I couldn't move my eyes, couldn't close them. They stared up at the bright lights, faces darting in and out of their view. I couldn't feel what they were doing, but I understood I was in a hospital, that they were trying to save my life. But I didn't care about my life, I only cared about Jolene and Marla. They were all that mattered.

  I tried to speak, tried to move. I could hear, but everything was muffled and warped and confused. Doctors and nurses continued to slide in and out of my sight; their movements seemed urgent, harried, but it was like they were working on someone else's body. I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to sleep forever. I reached out to God. Please… Please.

  Please what? I wasn't sure. I knew there was something… something horrible… something I needed help with. Help that only God could give. But the weirdness of the sounds and actions going on around and above me made it so hard to think, to remember.

  An instant of pain, there and gone. That surreal feeling of weightlessness as the van flipped and rolled. Marla's cry; the blood in Jolene's hair. And the high whine of the motorcycle as it came for them. And something… something else… something my mind didn’t want to face.

  No, God… Lord God no.

  My head was marginally moved back. I knew this only because of the effect on my line of sight and a tube that snaked past my vision and into my mouth. Again there was no feeling, only the vague knowledge that I was being intubated.

  "Blood pressure's dropping fast," I heard someone say to my right. "We're losing him."

  I didn't care, just let me sleep, let me forget.

  Forget?

  I saw the reflection, up high on the bridge for the Light Rail. Such a small thing, hardly noticeable, only I did notice, I did. And I should have reacted — or did I react? Did I? I moved — I tried to move — only it was too late. And I felt… pressure, a sting, so small, just a touch and then… nothing. And I saw the hole in the windshield. I saw the hole and a part of my brain knew exactly what that hole was. I tried to turn — I tried, but nothing… there was nothing. And then the flipping, the rolling. Marla's sippy-cup and the pen and CDs and sunglasses. The sounds, the smells, the world spinning, tumbling. Lying there, awake, seeing, hearing. And he came and I knew who he was and realized how I had failed them. How I should have known, how I should have put it together. How it was staring me in the face all that time. He knelt down in front of me, staring in my eyes. I saw it, and he saw that I saw, and I knew that he knew that I knew. And that was enough. He took out the gun, cocked his head as if considering, then pointed it at my face. I heard my sweet Marla's baby cry from inside the van. Jolene's voice telling him to leave me alone.

  No, Jolene, no stay quiet, stay hidden, please, baby, please.

  And then he stood. He stood.

  "Flat line!" I heard the words, as though from outside of time, but I still saw what I saw. He stood.

  And he turned.

  There was a flash and I saw the paddles, slick with a clear jelly, as they moved out of my sight.

  "He's back," said the same voice. "Steady rhythm. Pressure's increasing."

  Please God.

  "Put him out," said another voice. "We may have to open him up."

  Yes, put me out! Put me out before… he turned… no, no put me out. Put me out… and he walked toward them… no no no… he walked to Jolene, the gun bouncing along the seem of his jeans. The van was on its side, on Jolene's side. She was still strapped in, but the windshield was gone. I could see her… her beautiful face… she was awake… staring at him.

  “I love you, Gil. I love you Marla,” she said.

  He pointed the gun.

  PUT ME OUT!

  I heard Marla cry a final time. The medicine was starting to work, but it was too slow — too slow — I heard — I saw.

  Please Lord.

  Only it was too late.

  And then I went to sleep. And I didn't wake up for a very long time.

  29

  Tamera Sun sat down on the stainless steel stool. She picked up the phone and held her hand up, palm touching the inch thick bulletproof glass, fingers splayed. On the other side Majoqui pressed his hand opposite hers.

  He looked good to Tamera. His bruises had healed, as had his droopy eye. His jaw was wired shut, but he’d written her that the wires would be coming off soon. Tamera thought it was cute the way he had to talk through his teeth. He sounded funny.

  "I've missed you," she said.

  Majoqui smiled at her, showing two rows of silver bands. "I've missed you too," only it sounded like I've misshed you too.

  So cute.

  "How are they treating you?" she asked.

  "Fine," said Majoqui. "American jails are very easy."

  Tamera thought how much more handsome he looked now that his eye didn't droop anymore. He'd put on a few pounds as well, all muscle. He was still thin, but lean and wiry. She saw that some of the inmates rolled up the sleeves of their shirts to show off their arms, but not Majoqui. He was too modest for that. But you could still see the definition in his forearms and at the top of his chest. He was easily the most beautiful man she'd ever known. And he loved her.

  "I talked with my aunt last night," she said, knowing that he liked to get right to the point.

  "And what did she say," he asked.

  They were speaking in code of course. Just like secret agents. It gave Tamera a squiggle of fear to talk with him like this. They were planning his escape right here in front of the guards and they had no idea.

  "She said she would be ready in five weeks." Tamera knew they were listening, Majoqui had told her so and he knew about these things. But it didn't matter. The code would fool them. Any number she said he would subtract two from, so five weeks really meant three.

  Less than a month and they would be together again. And that sent another squiggle through her, only this one wasn't fear.

  "What time?" he asked.

  Tamera was so excited she almost blurted out the real time, but caught herself. "One in the morning," she said. Which of course mean
t eleven at night.

  Majoqui nodded his head. "Very good."

  "Did you get my letter?" she asked. She wrote him every day, sometimes twice or even three times a day.

  He smiled, showing the bands again. "Yes (yesh). It was lovely."

  He looked at her intently. "You will be ready."

  It was not a question and this time the squiggle was a mixture of both fear and excitement. "I will."

  Majoqui nodded. "And what of the police man?"

  "According to the news reports he's still in a coma. They don't know if he'll ever wake up."

  She saw the briefest of smiles flit across his lips before he nodded again. "Very good. He sleeps with the knowledge of his failure."

  Tamera knew the lies that the media was spreading about Majoqui. They said the most awful things; accusing him of horrible crimes. But he had told her the truth, about how they were trying to frame him. It was the government, just like her old boyfriend had told her. They were so bad.

  "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked. "I can put money on your account."

  He shook his head. "No. I have everything I need. But it is so good to see your beautiful face. The guards here are not so… pretty."

  She laughed at that. He was always so funny. Tamera had heard how men in jail would often use women to bring them money and things like that. But not Majoqui. In fact, he had money sent to her. He had told her just how much she needed to save for when he got out, and the rest he told her to use anyway she liked. Every week or so there would be a knock on her door, somehow they always knew when she was home, and there would be a member of Mara, often covered in many of the same types of tattoos that Majoqui wore. They always treated her with respect and they gave her packages. Sometimes there was money inside, sometimes marijuana and twice there were guns. She'd also received a wallet with credit cards and a Colorado license with Majoqui's picture on it, but somebody else's name. It was like being in a movie and it was very exciting.

  "I love you," she said.

  Majoqui stared into her eyes. "I know. I love you."

  30

  The sound of the gunshot woke me up. It didn't open my eyes, because my eyes were already open, but it dragged me out from that strange timeless world of coma back into reality. I would have screamed if I could, but even my vocal cords were paralyzed.

  A nurse came into the room, leaned over me and dripped some saline into my eyes. I couldn't feel her thumb on my eyelids. I couldn't feel the drops as they splashed into my eyes. I couldn't feel the tissue she wiped my cheek with.

  My body was dead.

  Maybe I was dead and this was Hell. An eternity stuck inside a lifeless body.

  I didn't care. It didn't matter. Nothing in all the universe mattered anymore except one thing. Hate.

  I hated… everything. Life… beauty… the present… the future. I hated the man I knew as Stitch, but most of all… most of all I hated God.

  He had failed me. When I needed Him most, when I cried out to Him, when I begged Him with all my mind, with all my heart, with all my strength, He had turned a blind eye to me and let what happened, happen.

  I felt the rage inside me. Felt it burn with the ice that was now my soul. I heard the gunshots, both of them. And I made myself listen… made myself watch… over and over again as my love and my life were murdered before me. And the rage grew. I listened to Jolene's voice, to Marla's cry, so filled with fear. I smelled the burning gas and rubber, saw the shattered glass and twisted steal. Watched as his boots grated and clicked, coming closer. Saw his face — that face that I should have known. And I let the guilt feed the fire; let it stoke it like an out of control boiler that was fast approaching its bursting point.

  My mother and father came into the room. They stood, one on each side, and each picked up a hand. I couldn't feel them, but I felt the hate. The all consuming hate. I even hated them. My own parents, because they were alive while my wife and child were not.

  And in that instant I went to war with God. I would never forgive Him. Never. Never.

  And the rage exploded inside me, so powerful I thought it would kill me. But it didn't kill me. It did something else.

  My eyes blinked.

  I saw the shock and disbelief on their faces.

  I blinked again.

  I heard my mother say it was a miracle.

  It was no miracle. It was hate. And I would use it. Use it as the weapon it was.

  I would kill Stitch. And I would hate God forever.

  31

  Majoqui stared up at the cement ceiling of his cell. Court had gone well today. His lawyer had been granted another continuance. The American court system was ridiculous. If he could stretch this out long enough, Gil Mason might die of his injuries and there would be no eye witness to accuse him. Of course there was much circumstantial evidence — the rifle, the motorcycle, his proximity to the shooting — but his lawyers, the best money could buy, had assured him these obstacles were not insurmountable.

  In the meantime, the food was good, the bed fairly soft, and the entertainment — television, movies, card games, chess, checkers, dominos — made the days go by quickly. There were even weight machines to help him keep in shape. He'd actually put on a few pounds since getting out of the medical ward.

  The medical ward.

  He touched his head where it had struck the pavement. If not for the helmet he would be dead. The helmet and his charms.

  The memory drifted over him like an old friend. He closed his eyes and let his mind go back to that night.

  The shot had been perfect, it was the twice cursed man himself that had kept it from being instantly fatal. At the exact instant Majoqui’s finger pulled the trigger, the man had looked directly up and into his scope, and in that thousandth of a second it had taken the bullet to travel the hundred or so yards, the man moved. He jerked and started a turn, his hands twisting the steering wheel. It was so slight, just a fraction of length, but it was enough. The bullet, meant to strike him at the tip of his nose, instead clipped his chin on its downward trajectory and tunneled into his throat. Before Majoqui could re-sight and get off another round, the van sped up, swerved into the curb, flipped several times and crashed into a light pole, nearly shredding the vehicle.

  Majoqui slung the rifle over his shoulder and mounted the Ninja. By the time he reached the crash site, there were several small fires and debris spread over a large area. The driver's front seat had detached and both it and the driver had been catapulted through the windshield, landing twenty or so yards from the light pole. The seat was on its side, the man facing the destroyed vehicle.

  His eyes were open.

  The woman was alive, trapped inside the van, blood dribbling down her face from a head wound. Majoqui had seen much worse and guessed that under ordinary circumstances she would have survived the injury. The back of the van had been nearly sheared in half just behind the baby seat. Suddenly Majoqui heard the little girl start crying. Truly the saints must be strong with this man for all of them to have survived such an event.

  Majoqui walked up to the police officer, knelt down and looked into his motionless eyes. Was he dead? The pupils dilated slightly then squeezed down to pin-pricks.

  "You are alive," breathed out Majoqui. The idea that this Gil Mason could be so protected gave Majoqui an instant of fear. So much so that he considered getting back on his bike and leaving and never confronting this man again. But then another thought struck him. They had not survived because they were blessed or protected, but rather as a gift from the Virgin and the saints and the demons to Majoqui himself.

  Majoqui saw the puddle of blood pooling under Gil Mason's head and spreading out from him in a lopsided circle. He was alive, but he could not move. He was helpless. He was alive, but not for long. Just long enough for him to watch. To watch and to know. To experience Majoqui's ultimate victory.

  He would have liked to take his time, but sirens sounded in the distance. So he ended them with a sing
le shot for each. A part of him thought he should finish the man as well, but the widening pool of blood told Majoqui that Gil Mason had very little time anyway, and he wanted him to have those few minutes to contemplate on his failure — on Majoqui's success.

  And so he had gotten on the Ninja, a smile spreading across his lips, seeing his enemy's horror in those staring eyes, and gunned the engine. He goosed the powerful bike, popping a slight wheelie, and then screeched across the asphalt. The wind swept his face and hair and he was off. He'd made it to Garrison before the late nineties model Ford pickup truck almost smashed into him. He'd managed to avoid it, but in the process caught the attention of a police car. After that was the chase and the stop sticks and then the fight and capture.

  He learned that Gil Mason was alive, but in a coma and paralyzed. He considered having some of his brothers go to the hospital and kill him, but the thought of him being trapped in a perpetual nightmare, where he had to helplessly witness his wife and daughter being slaughtered, over and over and over, was too sweet a revenge.

  The witch woman’s magic had been strong. He would have his men reward her greatly. And she would bless more charms. Because Majoqui was not yet done in this place. Majoqui would stay here in the American jail for a time. He would eat their food, sleep in their beds, take their medicine. He would grow strong, and from where he was, he would coordinate the infiltration of Mara to this state. And when it was time, he would leave the jail. Fat from their food, healed by their doctors, and ready to take control of the empire he had planned and was bringing to pass.