Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  The monster raged inside me.

  The whole Bible says how much He loves us, how much He loves me, but when I needed Him, when Jolene needed Him… needed me… when Marla… Oh Lord… Marla… when Marla needed Him… needed me… He… I… we… we failed her… failed them… failed US!

  Pilgrim pawed at my shoulder and I turned on him… the monster turned on him… turned so fast and furious, the monster’s hand leaving the steering wheel to swing at him, to hit him, to smack Pilgrim…

  I stopped myself… stopped the monster… still breathing hard, looking into his eyes… Pilgrim’s eyes. And suddenly the monster was gone. I grabbed both sides of his face and pulled him close and cried into his fur. He licked away the tears and soon I calmed, feeling tired and weak and foolish.

  The hate though, the hate was still there. I didn’t have to feel for it, I never had to do that, it burned bright and strong and hot and filled with promise.

  The monster still lived… buried just below the surface.

  I turned to the front, and as I did, I saw the car pull out of the park. A small red Honda. Nothing unusual, except that it was filled with four MS13 bangers.

  The banger I’d shot in the face hadn’t lied. Majoqui was here.

  54

  James Arthur Washington Jr., known to all his men and peers as Thirty-Eight, watched the white cop through a pair of high end binoculars. Fifteen members of the Crips sat impatiently in a string of seven cars along a dirt road nearly a mile away.

  Shifting his view he took in the trailer park. From his vantage point he saw five Mara guards walking around a series of three trailers. They carried themselves with a certain look that bespoke discipline and maturity. He wished he could say the same about his men. Most of his best had been killed in the last few skirmishes with the 13s and he had to take what was left. They were mostly young; two were fourteen and the oldest under twenty. Still, they sported fully automatic weapons and they had the element of surprise on their side; surprise, and hopefully, numbers.

  Scanning, he saw no sign of other cops. He’d watched the raid from across the street and had to admit his admiration for the professionalism and ability of the SWAT team as they came under ambush. He knew his own men would have been cut to pieces. He had no intention of coming up against that kind of firepower and tactics. If a squad of SWAT vans or police moved in, he and his men would stay put. But that was not his intention at all. He fully intended to end Mara’s attempt to take over Colorado, today, once and for all.

  Moving back to the cop, he considered his options. James Arthur Washington Jr. didn’t like the idea of betraying his word, but Thirty-Eight always did whatever proved best for both himself and his gang; lying, stealing, killing, betrayal, anything. The question that bounced around inside his mind now was, who exactly was he today? More and more he saw himself not as an OG, but as a man that might still make something of himself. Might one day soon take a wife and raise children. As a younger man, he never thought he’d live long enough to even contemplate such things. He lived for the day and the money and the excitement. But somehow he’d survived, and now he found himself thinking more and more about a life away from the Crips. He had never allowed himself to really care for anyone else because he didn’t believe he would be around long enough to develop that kind of a relationship. Of course the Crips, like most major gangs, had neither a retirement program or an early out clause in their contract. Still, there were ways. And even in their most brutal days, long since passed, they were never as serious in enforcing the ‘once in only death out’ motto as Mara.

  Some movement caught his attention and he brought his focus back to the trailers. Four men got into a red car and drove slowly toward the main road out of the park. That meant four less in the fight. Time to strike. But what about the cop? The phone rested in his pocket, burning like a lump of guilt… guilt at his betrayal of the Crips and betrayal of his word to this man. He could call him, tell him to leave, that he would make certain The Crow would fly no more, kill no more, forever. But something about the man made him think this a bad move. That maybe the cop had his own personal issues and that nothing would stop him from exacting his own punishment on The Crow.

  If he called, what would the cop do? Either leave, call in reinforcements, or go in right away. He thought the last the most likely, even though such a move would be suicide.

  Of course that was the cop’s business, his death meant nothing, only his betrayal meant anything. But if the cop went in for a fight, it would ruin his element of surprise and that he could not risk.

  So, the only true question of any importance came down to who actually stood in his shoes today… and perhaps from here on to the end of his life; James Arthur Washington Jr. or Thirty-Eight?

  Sighing, he brought down the binoculars and pulled out his favorite gun. He snapped out the cylinder and watched as the brass casings spun about like a carousel. Popping it closed, he looked up with eyes that felt dead.

  Thirty-Eight prepared his mind for battle.

  55

  Jim Black hit the accelerator and swerved around an eighteen wheeler. Mile marker 321 swept past. He barely had time to catch it — nine miles out. At this time of day, I-70 carried mostly big rigs and out of staters either coming or going to or from vacations, not too crowded, but not exactly deserted either.

  Jim left before finishing his reports or talking to the shrink, a departmental mandate after being involved in a duty related shooting. But something in his conversation with Gil made him pack up and leave. It might have been Gil’s shortness or his vagueness, possibly even his tone or inflection; he couldn’t say for sure. But something pushed him to get up and leave, and in his years as a detective, he’d learned to trust his gut in matters like this.

  Talking to the shrink might be a good idea though. He’d never shot anyone before, and killing two men, no matter how necessary or how much they may have deserved it, was taking a strange toll on him. He’d read of the psychological effect of killing people and the five stages of grief and all that stuff. He’d also thought of it as more or less a load of crap, but now, now he thought better of it.

  The scene kept looping in his mind.

  …the SWAT commander’s fist pumping down, giving the go signal, the breach, the bangs, the gunfire, bullets ripping through the walls and ceiling and floor. Blood and screams and confusion. The jar as his foot splintered the door frame and then seeing the two men, their rifles pointing straight up and casings flying out of their breaches in a continuous stream. He pointed his weapon as his finger pulled without him even ordering it to and red mist erupted from the closest man’s chest leaving gaping black holes standing as the mist dissipated. And then the other guy came into his sights, slightly blurry in the sight picture, partially due to the dimness of the room, but mostly because of his concentration on the three green dots that decorated the small black posts. The recoil of the shots shivering through his wrists, forearms and biceps. His body rocked marginally as his stance supported weight absorbed the concussive impact. The man started to turn, his eyes going wide, registering danger where there had been none an instant before, and then the missiles hit, eviscerating the strange beauty of the tattoos that looped and twined in gothic letters across his hairless chest, cratering the skin and shoving him back a half step before the life left his eyes and he fell. Dead. That fast. All he ever was or would ever be. Gone. Forever…

  A sheen of sweat slicked his forehead and his eyes stung. He blinked several times quickly. Cleared his throat and tried to concentrate on the road. The scene looped again.

  He shook his head roughly. “Knock it off!” he said out loud and his voice sounded weak to his own ears.

  Gil, he should be thinking about Gil and what he was sitting on. Had he found Majoqui Cabrera hiding out in Byers? Would he be too late to stop Gil from killing him or maybe even getting himself killed?

  …the AK47 barked and coughed out fire as the ceiling disintegrated and then the mist and
holes — like black holes in a space darker than the darkest night — opened up right where his heart hid a few inches below the skin and the second man turned, his eyes going…

  Jim slammed the steering wheel with one hand. Stop it!

  It hadn’t bothered him at first, but as the minutes turned into hours, it began to wear on him, like when someone sings Old McDonald and it gets stuck in your head — not the whole song — no — no that wouldn’t be so bad — it’s always just a small part of the song replaying over and over and over — until you feel like your head is going to explode. It was like that. He’d have a few seconds of relief and not be thinking about it at all and then — BAM — it would start all over again. Maddening.

  Jim knew he should probably call in some backup. There was only one County car this far out east and who knew where he was or if he might not be tied up on another call. Adams County bisected the small town north of I-70. They usually kept a couple cars in the area, but again, it was a lot of territory to cover and no way to know what their call load might be. If he and Gil ended up needing help, it might take a while to get there.

  …plaster and dust and wood and metal traveling at incredible velocities filled the air with deadly intent and his heart beat fast and sound hit his ears like needles so loud, far louder than their design parameters, and the door gave so easily and there they were, right in front of him, in front of his gun, the same gun he’d had for over a decade, the gun he practiced with every week for just such a situation, and now it was here and it kicked and bucked and fire flashed from the barrel in slow motion and ultra-fast at the same time, sending death and those holes — those magic black holes and the blood mist and…

  His chest heaved and he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Stop it! He commanded his mind… and it did… for a moment anyway.

  The whole thing struck him as curios. Annoying, bothersome, but still… interesting. That it could actually affect him this way. He never would have believed it. Still, he could control it, he knew that. He knew that for certain. He’d always prided himself on his willpower and mindset. For now he needed to put his full attention on the matter at hand. And that was exactly what he would do.

  …eyes so wide, as though they couldn’t really comprehend how the game had just changed, as though he saw the face of death sweeping toward him even as the bullets punched him center mass…

  Jim jerked the wheel hard to the right, over corrected, almost fishtailing into the minivan he’d just barely managed to stop from rear ending.

  Yes, he could handle it… he would handle it! Still, he thought it might not be a bad idea to at least talk to the shrink when he got back.

  56

  The red car got onto the interstate and headed west. Four men. That had to be a sizable portion of Majoqui Cabrera’s entourage, or at least I thought so. I scanned the area, still not much traffic, either foot or vehicles. The sun stood a little shy of midpoint overhead. I basically had two options; wait till night and go in to scout around or do it now. Dark was usually better of course, but the idea of waiting all day in the car while Majoqui sat in there drinking cervezas and eating chips didn’t exactly appeal to me. Not to mention the fact that Byers didn’t lend itself to strangers, making it highly unlikely I could stay here for any length of time without someone getting curious and calling the police or maybe tipping off one of Mara’s lookouts, wherever they might be. After all, I had no way of knowing how long they had been in the town or how well set up their little empire here had come to be.

  Add to all this that I just didn’t have a lot of patience right now.

  I decided on plan number two. But how to approach? The park entrance would have someone watching it, I was sure. I drove around to the far north side of the small gas station that sat to the east of the trailer park. I put ten sets of flex cuffs in my back pocket and got out. The building hid my car from view from the park and the main road that ran north and south. Pilgrim settled quietly at my side as I made my way around to the North West.

  Would there be guards posted on the outer perimeter? That didn’t seem like the kind of work young thugs would care for, so maybe not. On the other hand, when did it really matter what soldier’s in any battle liked or didn’t like? No, it would depend on the command staff as to whether or not guards would be posted. So what kind of general did I think Majoqui Cabrera was?

  I decided there would be guards and so proceeded with that mindset.

  I spotted the first sentry about two minutes in and seventy yards or so from my vehicle. Young, couldn’t be more than fifteen, wearing a plaid shirt and loose, sagging jeans that looked like they had been handed down through nine generations. Who knows, maybe they had. Close cropped hair and beat up sneakers. He smoked a hand rolled cigarette and kept reaching into his pocket and pulling his hand out while squinting up at the sun and clouds and then searching the horizon. All in all not doing a bad job as a lookout for a fifteen year old on the most boring duty in the creation of warfare.

  It was about to get a bit more exciting for him.

  I figured the pocket grabbing to be a pistol of some sort, guards usually had weapons, otherwise they were pretty useless as guards. Still, I couldn’t very well just shoot him dead. He was only a youngster… besides… the noise would give me away.

  Moving further into the trees, I gave Pilgrim the platz command using a hand signal. He went down, watching my every step. I made it to about twenty feet from the boy before my cover ran out. Any further and he would be able to spot me. I raised my hand, index finger pointing straight up. Then I pointed that finger at the boy. Pilgrim swept in like a heat seeking missile. The boy saw him about thirty yards out. His first reaction was one of surprise, then a small smile curved his lips and he started to raise his hand in a wave, then he must have registered this wasn’t a friendly dog — might have something to do with a certain look in Pilgrim’s eyes when he’s about to rip out the spinal column of his prey — and the boy’s mouth morphed into a big oval as he tried to take a step back. He didn’t make it because I was behind him, slipping an arm around his throat, while simultaneously applying opposite pressure on my wrist, shutting off all blood flow from his carotid to his brain and putting him to sleep in under six seconds. Pilgrim stopped at his feet and lay down. I did a quick pat-down and found a cheap .22 in his right front pants pocket. I peeled off his shirt, ripped the sleeves off and zipped him up with his hands behind his back. I stuffed one of the sleeves in his mouth and tied the other sleeve around his mouth to hold it in. I stashed him in the trees and gave Pilgrim a head check. He moved silently forward, sniffing out the next guard and finding him about thirty yards to the west with his back to us. Another teen-angel, maybe seventeen, talking in Spanish on a cell phone. I put him out the same way, used up another set of flex-cuffs and gagged him with his socks. I found two knives and a .380 that looked cheaper than the .22. My pockets were getting heavy with all these guns.

  Pilgrim sniffed out the third guard on the far west side of the park. I saw his nose notch up, testing — testing — testing, then he went into a slink, moving forward like a great cat hunting on the Savana. I’m sure he would have loved to pounce, but he was well disciplined and knew his job. He stopped before we were forced to break cover, which was comprised of a double-wide with a pair of bicycles leaning against the side of the trailer. Being careful to duck below the window, I edged an eye around the corner and saw the guard leaning a hip against a three-foot picket fence surrounding the next trailer. Older than the last two, with a barrel chest and beer belly and a scraggly beard, bushy black hair and a unibrow. Handsome devil. Just then, two girls came busting out of the trailer, saw me and yelled in unison, “Mom somebody’s out here!” Loud.

  Unibrow looked around before I could pull back. No choice now. I rushed him, fast, even as I saw him pull the gun from his pocket. No way I could beat him.

  Pilgrim’s patience was being sorely tested. He’d spotted the first two guards, holding ba
ck until commanded by the Alpha. And both times the Alpha took action without him, leaving Pilgrim to stand by watching. His blood lust unsatiated. But this time the guard saw the Alpha and attacked. Pack mentality took over and Pilgrim instinctively moved to protect the pack leader.

  Pilgrim literally flew at the man, his powerful body moving with the lithe grace of a jungle cat. Each step increased his speed until he was a streamlined missile locked on its target with unerring accuracy. Pilgrim launched from three yards out, covering the nine feet in a blur too fast for the eye to follow. Four scimitar like canines sunk into the man’s throat, piercing his fragile flesh with the ease of a hypodermic needle, slicing in and severing tendons and meat and veins as though they were wet tissue. But Pilgrim’s teeth were only the beginning of the carnage. His massive weight struck an instant behind, jarring the man’s frame and increasing the destruction to his neck and throat exponentially. The impact picked the guard up off the ground and threw him into the air in a tangle of arms, legs, and paws.

  The man was tough. He fought with all his strength. But he had tried to attack the Alpha.

  I saw Pilgrim hit him full on. A hundred and twenty-pounds of muscle and teeth and fury. The teeth crushed down on the guard’s throat while Pilgrim’s body slammed into him at roughly thirty miles an hour. I heard Unibrow grunt as the air left his body and he hit the ground with a meaty thud.

  The two of them rolled and flopped, unibrow ending up on the bottom, clawing and punching. Pilgrim growling, low and deep and crushing with those wolf-like jaws. Making it to them, I gave Pilgrim the ‘out’ command and he instantly disengaged. A lot of blood poured from the ragged flesh of unibrow’s throat and neck. He staggered to one knee, looking completely disoriented. I kicked him under the chin. His eyes rolled up into his skull and he went straight back and out.