“What do you think is in ’em?” Private Tango asked.
“They look like coffins to me,” Private Zulu answered.
“Hell, no.” The General kicked one of the dirt-encrusted boxes. “Too short and too skinny for coffins.” He got down on his knee and began to rub the dirt from the side of one. “It’s got something painted on it.” The General spit on the top corner of the crate and rubbed furiously at the dried soil. “New…New Haven…New Haven, Connecticut. Private, get me that smashing iron from the bus.” Private Zulu returned promptly with a claw hammer. The General took the tool and pried back one of the corners of the crate. The men of STRAC-BOM aimed their flashlights into the crate as the General lifted the lid. Even Ziggy looked on in anticipation. Nancy ignored them. “Great day in the morning,” the General said as he gazed upon the contents of the crate.
“What are they, General?” Fire Team Leader Bravo asked. Tears welled up in the General’s eyes as he lifted up something long and heavy.
“Henries, boys. I’ll be goddamned, but we found Henries.” The General lifted up the mint-condition Henry repeating rifle to show his troops. “You could load this salty bastard on Monday and shoot until Sunday. It’s… it’s… beautiful. It’s perfect.” The General wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
“They worth much?” asked Private Zulu.
“Perfectly preserved like this?” The General brought the never-before-fired weapon to his shoulder and sighted down the long barrel of the lever-action rifle. “Thousands, maybe tens of thousands apiece.”
“So,” Private Zulu said. “We got ten crates, at six rifles a crate, times thousands…tens of thousands…” The scrawny private stuck out his tongue as he attempted to do the math.
“Like, did we find the hip bone, man?” Ziggy interrupted.
“Quiet,” Private Zulu said. “I’m ciphering. Carry the…”
“It’s a lot of money, boys.” The General turned and shook the hands of his Fire Team Leaders. They saluted in return. All of a sudden, Nancy hissed. The big iguana’s head bobbed up and down violently. From the desert, sets of glowing eyes moved back and forth in the dark.
“Battle stations!” the General ordered. “Fire at will!” The men began to unload their weapons into the night. Like ghosts, the sets of eyes vanished from view and then reappeared in another place. “Keep firing, men!” The General squeezed off rounds from his pearl-handled revolvers into the dark.
“Behind you!” Fire Team Leader Alpha yelled as he let off a blast from his shotgun. Private Foxtrot turned around and aimed his single-shot twenty-two at nothing in particular and fired.
“I’ve only got two more shells,” the private said as he fumbled to reload his rifle.
“I’ve only three more,” said Fire Team Leader Bravo.
“I’m out!” yelled Private Zulu. Ziggy picked up Nancy and crawled into the pit.
“Ohmmm, ohmmm,” Ziggy chanted as the gunfire rattled his delicate nature. “Like, peace, man.” He was terrified, and even meditation wasn’t helping.
“Keep up the fire, boys.” The General shot from the hip as he aimed at glowing sets of eyes. The growling coming from the pitch black beyond their flashlight beams became louder and louder. The General’s pistols clicked empty.
“I’m out!” Fire Team Leader Charlie yelled. The sound of gunfire stopped.
“Into the hole!” the General ordered. “Fall back! Fall back!” The men piled in on top of one another. Seven civilian militia, a hippy, and one exceptionally large iguana made for a rather tight fit. “Men, when they come for us, remember, no surrender, no retreat.” The evil growling became ever louder. The glowing eyes steadily advanced on their position.
“I just want to, like, go home.” Ziggy kissed Nancy. Nancy bit him.
Inside the Padre’s building, Avery followed the trail of dead cartel gunmen down a long hallway. As he took cover in doorways, every advance he made was preceded by a violent lashing of his improvised fighting sticks.
“Cover, cover… move, move, move,” Avery muttered as he launched himself at another doorway. Eventually he reached the last door before the stairwell. “Advancing, advancing… cover, cover, hold.” Avery looked down the stairs and suddenly got a very bad feeling.
Cesar and his men knelt poised in the freight elevator, their weapons at the ready. Cesar looked at his men.
“They’ll be waiting for us.” Cesar chambered a round in his assault rifle. He took out a grenade and pulled the pin. “I’ll go first.” The elevator came to rest at the bottom floor. Two of Cesar’s men took hold of the bottom of the elevator’s sliding door and lifted it up. Cesar tossed the grenade underneath it. A hail of gunfire exploded from inside the lab, puncturing the door in long streaks of bullet holes. One of Cesar’s men went down. The grenade exploded, and Cesar’s men threw the elevator door all the way up. Cesar dove into the massive lab. Dust and smoke filled the air as he took cover behind some machinery. He fired his weapon at the cartel gunmen as his troops spread out looking for cover. Another of his soldiers fell in a heap to the floor. “Padre! I’ve got you!” Cesar reloaded and began firing again.
“Get me out of here,” the Padre said to his two bodyguards as he tied a rag around his wounded shoulder. The burly Mexicans began to escort him away from the dock. “You three! Come with us. The rest of you stay here. Kill those goddamn government dogs!”
“Bayonets at the ready, men!” General X-Ray ordered. Private Zulu pulled out his rusty Swiss Army knife as the menacing pack approached the open pit in the middle of the desert. The terrified private could smell their foul, reeking breath. His knife blade wouldn’t open. He flipped out the corkscrew instead.
The Padre and his two bodyguards ducked as they ran for the stairs in the back of the lab. The bodies of army soldiers and cartel gunmen surrounded the entrance to the stairwell. The Padre fired his pistol at the one remaining army commando at the stairwell. The soldier went down. His bodyguards grabbed him and helped him to the doorway.
“Not that arm!” the Padre yelled in pain. Around and around the flights of stairs they climbed up.
At the top of the stairs, Avery heard footsteps coming. He backed up over the bodies of two dead cartel soldiers and took a fighting stance in the doorway of the nearest room. Whipping his broom handles in a figure- eight pattern, he steadied himself. He’d been training for this his whole life.
“Deflect… block… strike.” Two men carrying a third emerged from the stairwell. Avery stepped forward. “Be like water…” He whipped his sticks in front of himself and charged. One of the Padre’s bodyguards raised a pistol and aimed directly at Avery. Suddenly, the bodyguard’s chest exploded. From behind the Padre and his men, El Barquero, the Ferryman, shot the other bodyguard in the back of his head. The first guard, his blood splattered over Avery’s tracksuit, already dead on his feet, stood without falling. “Strike, strike!” Avery yelled as he whacked the man twice over the head with his broom handles. The man fell to the floor. The Padre turned and fired into the stairwell. His gun slide locked open. It was empty. He dropped the pistol. From the darkness of the stairwell, Barquero emerged. He stared the Padre directly in the eyes. Barquero’s hate-filled gaze made the Padre freeze. With one hand, Barquero took the Padre by the neck and picked him up. The Padre’s legs shook and twitched above the concrete floor. Barquero squeezed harder. The Padre’s eyes began to bulge. His face turned purple. It was his last few moments on the earth. With them, the Padre thought of his parents. He thought of the priest who did this to him. He thought of Carnicero. A gunshot rang out.
“Let him go!” Cesar yelled. Barquero tightened his grip. “I’ll shoot you in the back, Commander,” Cesar implored. “He’s worth more alive!”
Barquero wavered, and then he dropped the Padre to the cold, hard concrete. The Padre grabbed his throat, choking. Barquero spit on the Padre’s face. Cesar’s men rushed from the stairwell and restrained the man in the priest’s collar.
“He’s mine!” Barquero seethed.
“No, he’s mine,” Cesar said. “He’s mine, and you need to remember that there are as many people after you as there are after him. You get to disappear. That was the deal. I won’t come looking.” Barquero put his pistol back in his waistband. He looked at the Padre. The drug lord, in his immaculate dark suit and polished cowboy boots, wiped the spittle from his face. He looked at Barquero and laughed. Barquero’s eyes were filled with fire.
