Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  Realization hit Black and he sucked it up, ran down the stairs, and turned to the door directly beneath their target. He kicked the door, splintering the frame and ran inside just as Gil Mason entered the building.

  The chatter of automatic gunfire assaulted my ears as I ran into the building. Bullets and splinters of wood and chunks of plaster and tile were zinging about like shrapnel from an IED. Smoke filled the hallway and I saw Jim kick in a door and start shooting. I followed right behind, but two boys lay on the floor, blood dripping down their tatted bare chests, AK’s lying close.

  Together we waited until the all clear came from the apartment above. It would be sad to start strolling through the room only to have SWAT guys upstairs send a few dozen rounds through the tops of our heads. Once it came, we cleared the rest of the apartment. SWAT finished mopping up the two other rooms. Total bad guy count came in at five dead and two critically wounded. Three SWAT agents were taken to the hospital for gunshot wounds, two serious. Another three guys had been hit in their armor, but were fine.

  Majoqui Cabrera was not there. Looking at the carnage I turned to Jim.

  “What happened? You were supposed to wait for me. And what’s with SWAT?”

  Jim shook his head. “They found a hacked-up Crip just down the street and a witness said the cutter ran into this apartment. SWAT planed the whole thing without me. I was just lucky to get the word as they headed out and tagged along to look for your boy.”

  “Well, he’s not here,” I said. “Again.”

  We both put our guns away.

  “Look, you need to not be here,” said Jim. “I’ll take care of the investigation, but if the brass finds out you had anything to do with this we will both get hung out to dry. So beat it.”

  He made sense. I hadn’t shot anyone so no reason to stay and answer questions.

  “All right,” I said. “We’ll meet up later.”

  Walking back to my car, I noticed drywall dust on my shirt and a thin, quarter inch, jagged ‘S’ shaped chunk of copper in my shirt pocket. Hmm, wonder where that came from? Kind of made me think about how close we had all come to being shot back there. A pretty well set trap, not good enough against elite SWAT agents, but it would have worked just fine against say, a bunch of hotheaded Crips looking for revenge for their hacked up buddy.

  The whole set up had Majoqui Cabrera written all over it. And once again, he’d vanished before we showed up. The man was practically a ghost.

  My teeth clenched. No… not yet… but once I found him.

  The morning blossomed now, the sun bright and starting to put out some real heat. People walked past as I got into my car, rubbernecking the crime scene to see if they could catch a peek. Not that shootings and killings weren’t commonplace in the City of Gunwood, because they pretty much were. Still, a shootout is a shootout and who isn’t curious about that?

  I started the engine. I had a place to stake out in Byers.

  Majoqui Cabrera held the door open for Tamera and led the way to the trailer just off Front Street in Byers. The South American and Hispanic population had increased in the small town over the last ten or so years, but still; three car loads might raise a few eyebrows. Majoqui didn’t really care. They were far enough removed from the big cities that he highly doubted word would get back to their law enforcement agencies. Besides, he’d established these five trailers nearly three months ago and made certain that nothing illegal, noisy, or disruptive took place so as to establish a very low profile with the local residents.

  He learned right away of a smalltime meth lab in a trailer on the other side of the park and had a few of his men take out the cook, well away from their location. The last thing he wanted was to have cops or the DEA lurking around because of some cheap tweakers ratting to save their skins.

  Outside, the trailer looked pretty much like all the rest, but inside it was beautiful. A seventy-two inch flat screen decorated an entire wall, fronted by a lush leather couch and love seat. A top of the line Bose sound system wrapped the listener in majestic waves of resonance while the small kitchen came equipped with all the modern conveniences of a state of the art, high-end restaurant. The bathroom was ornate and the two bedrooms had been converted into one master suite with a king sized bed and hand carved wooden headboard. The carpet flowed from one end of the trailer to the other in a tight weave of thick light tan.

  The expression on Tamera’s face told Majoqui all he needed to know. She deserved this. Of all his servants, she was his most loyal. The women he had known throughout his life, starting with his mother, were nothing but whores in one form or another. But not Tamera. She only wanted him, only cared about him. And she asked for nothing more. Not his money, his undivided attention, not even his time. She understood his responsibilities and respected his power. She trusted him completely.

  And so he had this trailer outfitted expressly for her. He’d even had her stuffed bear and many of her baubles — silly things like a snow globe with a dragon inside and a lamp that cast stars on the ceiling — brought over and placed in the bedroom just to surprise her. When she saw them, tears welled in her big eyes and she hugged him around the neck. Exactly the response he’d expected and hoped for. Yes, Majoqui knew her, knew all of her, down to her exact thoughts, and this was why he could trust her completely. The first person in his life who had ever made him feel this way.

  She needed to be protected. His enterprises had moved far beyond mere narcotics. Now Mara had established Pollo-Houses — Chicken Houses — where kidnapped illegals were kept until their families were bled dry through extorted ransom. Once the payments stopped, the victim would be killed and the body disposed of. Majoqui located an excellent area in Elbert County, where mass-graves could be dug and buried over, far from prying eyes.

  Majoqui had also established shakedowns of various businesses in his territory, as well as illegal gambling, although since Colorado had three different parts of the state that allowed gambling, it made it more difficult. Governments hated competition for their tax dollars. Still, he’d learned over his years that even when vices were legalized, there would always be an element that wanted something darker — deeper — more dangerous — and so back-alley gambling houses thrived. Majoqui sent tendrils of inquiry into the shadow worlds of prostitution, strip clubs, and escort services. He’d even started ventures into underground anything-goes-bare-knuckle-fighting — like MMA, but the fights could go to the death. These were still in the infant stages, but he was gaining ground and felt confident that soon Colorado would be his.

  Of course, moving into others’ territory had its difficulties, its dangers. The old rulers never wanted to give up and leave quietly. Examples needed to be made, new boundaries set; battles and skirmishes and wars. But these were the things Majoqui teethed on as a boy and grew to know so well as an adult. Now a conquering general, he would assume his rightful place in this land flowing with such riches.

  The Crips and the Bloods were but the beginning of his adversaries, and he understood this only too well. The Italian Mafia still held little pockets of power in Colorado, as did the Russians, the Asians, and the white biker gangs. Each with their own little piece of the pie. A pie that Mara would completely consume. Their time had come and passed, they just didn’t understand this yet. But Majoqui would show them. He would make them understand. Bloodshed was inevitable, but that too was as it should be. The saints and the demons had to be appeased and this required blood. God always requires blood for blood. In the end, it is the only thing that truly matters. This, Majoqui understood, perhaps better than anyone else, and he would not shy from his obligation to produce the sacrificial blood that would baptize and thereby justify his endeavors. He was and would always be the Virgins’ servant, Maras’ servant. And he would offer them up an ocean of blood.

  Majoqui wrapped his arms around Tamera Sun and held her as she cried tears of joy into his chest. He would have to take her to the witch woman soon. Being his most prized possession, he w
anted her protected. An amulet perhaps, or a charm, blessed and sprinkled and spoken over. Majoqui held her tighter and smiled.

  51

  Jim Black basked in the glow of the praise he received from everyone. Even the Sheriff stopped in to tell him what a great job he’d done in discovering this nest of MS-13 hidden in the very heart of the city of Gunwood. The Chief of Police of Gunwood was probably none too happy to have the County step in, showing them up, but since the county had jurisdiction over their city there was nothing he could really say about it.

  Breathing a sigh of relief that no one seemed to have noticed Gil Mason at the scene, he sat at his desk. Having already gone over the story about a dozen times; first for his immediate boss, then for Internal Affairs, then the Sheriff, the Shoot Team and for several of his partners in the bureau, he felt exhausted. And he still had a lot to do.

  He opened an email from a detective friend in Aurora asking him to give him a call. Jim considered waiting till things quieted down, but something made him go ahead and call. The friend asked him if he’d heard about the killings in the old Stapleton area, and when he said he hadn’t, he told him a whole slew of MS-13’s had been shot up and that a bunch of illegals had been rescued from a hostage house. The friend thought Jim would want to know because of the Mara connection. Jim asked if the Mara boys had been cut up and his buddy said no, and that they had been taken out with some really nice precision shooting. He promised to email the crime scene pictures and copies of the reports once they were uploaded. Jim thanked him and hung up.

  Precision shooting — MS-13 — anonymous call — hostages left alive. Hmm.

  Quickly finishing his report, he slipped into the bathroom, made certain no one else was in there, and called Gil Mason. He answered on the second ring.

  “Where are you?” asked Jim.

  “Got a possible line on a Mara safe house out in Byers,” said Gill.

  “Really. How’d you get this line?”

  A pause.

  “From a friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “Yeah,” said Gil. “Why?”

  “Might this friend have been located somewhere in the Stapleton redevelopment area?”

  Another pause.

  “No,” said Gil.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes,” said Gil.

  It was Jim’s turn to pause.

  “You need any backup out there?” asked Jim.

  “Not now. Strictly surveillance.”

  “You sure?”

  “If you mean do I need a SWAT team to help start a war, the answer is no,” said Gil and his voice sounded hard.

  “I explained that,” said Jim. “They were already on their way. I just tagged along.”

  “Coincidence,” said Gil.

  “They do happen,” said Jim. “We need to trust each other, Gil. I didn’t try and take Cabrera without you. Things just happened and there was no time to clue you in. That’s all.”

  Another pause, this time a long one, Jim waited him out.

  Finally Gil spoke.

  “Okay, fine. Don’t let it happen again. You let me know if you get anything — anything — I expect at least a call.”

  “Of course,” said Jim. “Do you need me to fill you in on the dead men at Stapleton?”

  There was that pause again.

  “No,” said Gil. “I heard about it.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Jim. “Just so we’re clear, I expect to be kept informed too… about everything.”

  “Some things it might be best if you don’t know,” said Gil.

  “Uh-uh,” said Jim. “We are doing this legal, all the way. I’m already taking a chance on losing my job here, but I will not take a chance on going to prison. Do you understand that? Am I clear, Gil?”

  “Yes,” said Gil and he sounded as sincere as he had when he denied any knowledge of the dead men at Stapleton.

  The line went dead.

  52

  Majoqui received the news of his dead men with his usual calm. He’d known what the outcome would be the moment he saw the police cars. Still, the loss of some of his best men would hurt them, both operationally and organizationally. The gang business was becoming more and more exactly that, a business. And in business, organization became vitally important. A fact that had been making itself abundantly clear to Majoqui in the last few months. Lately he’d found himself thinking more like a businessman than a gangster assassin; necessary, but also dangerous. He could ill afford to lose his edge, he had too many enemies.

  A certain feeling of pride accompanied his killing of Dashon. He actually felt grateful for the opportunity to prove himself still as capable as before his dealings with Gil Mason. The man had proven a true challenge. Majoqui had thought to let Mason live so that he could spend the rest of his life locked in a dead body. One that could only remember his failure and guilt and see Majoqui’s face over and over and over. Which was perfect and right. But then the man had awakened. He had gained the ability to move and walk, and who knew what else now?

  Majoqui understood power, determination and will, and he knew this Gil Mason to have great reservoirs of these qualities. Not only that, but he had some kind of protection, a protection that could not be seen, only felt. Majoqui had felt it. He felt it the night he shot at him and threw his great machete, the night the dog-monster attacked him. He’d felt it again at the Bank President’s House and once again at the nightclub. He thought he’d stolen his power the night he killed Mason and his family, only Mason hadn’t died as completely as he should have and somehow still he kept that power.

  Majoqui suddenly wondered if maybe it was not this man who was still causing him problems, and as soon as the thought struck him, it became a certainty.

  Yes — yes — of course. He sat next to Tamera. She smoked the end of a marijuana cigarette and watched some movie on the giant-sized screen. Majoqui paid no attention to the movie, but kept his eyes on the screen and on Tamera while his mind raced with the new knowledge.

  A strange feeling crept over him. A feeling he hadn’t felt in a while. He was being hunted. Gil Mason was hunting him. That explained many things; the killing of his men at the pollo-house, the news said they were dead when the police arrived and no one knew of these operations, not the Crips or the Bloods, no one. Besides, none of the black gangs dealt in kidnapping and ransom. In fact, the only human trafficking they were involved with was pimping prostitutes. It also explained the police raid at Tamera’s apartment. The protected man was hunting him. And he was stronger than before, yes, stronger because he had a new power. Something that made him far more dangerous. Something that Majoqui himself had given to him.

  He had hate.

  Majoqui’s eyes still stared at the screen, but his lips slowly curved to a smile.

  53

  I parked across the street from the trailer park around seven-thirty in the morning. The problem with doing surveillance in a small town like Byers or Strasburg or Deer Trail is twofold, first; there’s almost no place to hide, and second; everyone knows everyone so newcomers stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. However, that being said, it almost made it hard for new bad guys to be able to hide.

  I couldn’t actually see trailer 23 from my location, but with only one entrance it made it easy for me to see anyone coming or going. I reclined the seat and sat back and low. Pilgrim sniffed my ear and I petted his huge head and under his chin. I turned on the radio to an FM station playing pop-rock, not for me, for Pilgrim. I was past music. Past talk radio. Both things I loved in my old life, back when I had a life and a wife and a child. Now there existed only hate and the endless blackness of a life with no meaning save one.

  Justice.

  Others would call it revenge, and they might be right, but that in no way negated the fact that it was justice. If the God of all creation refused to do what was right, then I would, and He better not try and stop me. Nothing… nothing would stop me.

  I felt a pain in m
y jaw and realized I was grinding my molars. I made myself relax. I breathed deeply, in out, in out, in out.

  On the radio Imagine Dragons new song, Monster, played quietly. The lyrics rang true to me. Speaking of what I was… what I had become… what God had made me.

  A monster.

  How could He do this to me? I’d asked that question a thousand, thousand times while paralyzed in the hospital and countless more times struggling and sweating and fighting to make my numb useless limbs move and pump and pull, until I came to the understanding that He would never answer me. He did what He wanted to do, mindless of the horror and pain and tears of His children so far below. Like the myths of Zeus using humans as nothing more than pawns in some silly game of the gods. Only there was only one God and He was no myth.

  My hands turned into near fists around the steering wheel and the leather covering creaked beneath the pressure.

  He could have saved them… saved me. It wouldn’t have taken a lightning bolt from heaven or a parting of the sea of asphalt… just a push… a touch… an instant of clarity one second before I saw that flash, that reflection, and maybe I could have done the rest on my own. Maybe I could have swerved or stopped or sped up, anything… ANYTHING!

  Pilgrim whined behind me and my jaw was aching again. The steering wheel creaked and groaned. I was breathing fast and hard. Lights and sparkles flashed somewhere behind my eyes and sweat ran down my face.