with their pistols stretched.
From the back of the room the deputy held out his pistol and said, “That’ll be enough.”
Nick didn’t care. The adrenalin was just beginning to peak. He stepped on Doug’s throat and watched blood bubble out the side of his mouth and down his face.
“I said, that’s enough,” the deputy shouted now, closer along with three or more friends gaining strength from the numbers. Nick was drawing them out, making sure they were all in the open.
The bartender placed the butt of the shotgun against his shoulder and aimed it at Nick, who ignored every instinct and stepped even harder on the bar owner’s face.
That’s when the gunshots rang out in rapid succession. Five, six, seven, eight. The burst of shots rang out through the bar with a high-pitched squeal. When the gunfire had stopped, a handful of men were on the floor, clutching their arms or legs. The bartender had dropped behind the bar and gave out a painful wail.
Nick was the only person in the room left standing. Untouched.
From one of the side tables, sitting by himself, was a man in a cowboy hat, twirling a government-issued 9mm pistol with professional dexterity.
Matt McColm.
He pushed up on his cowboy hat with the tip of his gun and scanned the room as if to say, “Anyone else?”
“I think I have your attention,” Nick said. There were still three or four tables of customers who looked panic-stricken and held up their hands like they were being robbed.
Without looking at his partner, Nick said, “He can shoot a dime out of midair from fifty yards, so be grateful he didn’t choose headshots.”
There was a movement to Nick’s right, followed by a gunshot. The bartender had reappeared with the shotgun only to have Matt clip him in the opposite shoulder from his first shot. The guy stumbled backward, unable to grasp at his wound because both shoulders were now damaged.
“You really don’t learn, do you?” Nick said, watching the guy slide down, about to go into shock.
Matt was standing, taking it all in, anxious to be challenged. The tension seemed to evaporate from his face like steam from a boiling teapot. Nick felt it was cathartic for him to get the rage out of his system.
“Now listen to me,” Nick said, above the country music. He made a face, then gave his partner a look. Matt fired one shot at the radio behind the bar and the music stopped. The silence allowed for the sobs and heavy breathing to fill in the space.
Nick held up his shield. “My name is Nick Bracco. I’m an FBI agent. All I want is Sonny Chizek,” he said, making eye contact with everyone in the room. “The rest of you goons are useless to me. However, my partner and I will be back every couple of hours to rip this town apart. The visits will not stop until we get what we want.”
“You can’t just shoot people for no reason,” the deputy said from the floor, grabbing his wounded shoulder.
“I’m not sure you’re paying enough attention,” Nick said. “Now, tell Chizek I want to meet with him and the shooting spree will stop.” Nick straddled Doug’s bloody face and looked straight down at him. “I’d buy a larger first aid kit if I were you, Dougie.”
Matt stepped around the table, his back to the wall, his gun twirling one way, then back. He joined Nick by the entrance and opened the front door.
Nick said, “Tell Chizek we’re staying at the Denton Motel, room number eight. We’ll be expecting him.”
They took one step out the door and heard the deputy say, “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”
Nick stopped and looked back. “Maybe not,” he said, then gestured toward Matt. “But I have him on my side. . and you don’t.”
Once outside, Matt put his arm around Nick. “Thanks, partner. I needed that.”
“I know you did, buddy,” Nick said, flexing his right hand. “We both did.”
Chapter 26
Garza sat in the basement and squeezed his phone while getting the news about the FBI agents’ actions in Denton. The government employees acting like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. And Garza happily remembering how that movie ended.
“Where is Chizek?” Garza asked the man. The guy was practically the only one who wasn’t shot during the incident because he claimed he’d been too startled by the whole thing.
“He does what he always does,” the man said. “He barks out orders, then runs and hides.”
Garza knew the agents were trying to shake him up, maybe force him to delay his transfer, or try to bait him into crossing the border. Garza was too smart for that tactic. The agents were obviously working alone, probably ignoring their superior’s orders and looking for revenge, otherwise the entire town would be flooded with law enforcement. Instead, Garza’s lookouts had assured him no one else had entered Denton and the only ones leaving were on their way to the hospital in Rio Rico.
“What orders did he give?” Garza asked.
“He told us to kill them,” the man said.
“Okay then,” Garza said. “What are you waiting for?”
“Yes, Jefe.”
Garza shook his head and dropped the phone on the side table next to him. He sat on the couch and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was almost eight o’clock. Almost time to get the shipments going. He stared at the bomb sitting on the cart in front of him. He wondered how dangerous it really was.
Garza got up and went behind the bar to pour himself another shot of mescal. He threw the warm, spicy liquid down his throat, then slammed the glass down on the bar. It settled him for a moment. He picked up the remote and turned on his large-screen TV and switched the channel to CNN. There was a news program showing the two podiums where the presidential debate would take place in Mexico City, while a journalist spoke about the monumental event. They showed footage of an earlier meeting between the two candidates and the United States Secretary of State, Samuel Fisk. The large man shook hands and posed for photos with President Salcido. The two men seemed stiff and formal, but when Fisk met with Francisco Rodriguez they spoke and laughed like old friends. An odd twosome.
Garza muted the TV, then opened the briefcase sitting on top of the bar and stared at the money for the third time in the past fifteen minutes. He had to put it away before it drove him mad with greed. As he shut the briefcase, he heard the basement door open and a pair of footsteps creak down the staircase.
Victor appeared and came over while Garza slapped a shot glass on the bar and filled it with mescal. Victor took the glass and downed it with one swig.
“Thanks,” Victor said.
Garza pointed to the TV. “You see that?”
The two candidates had just shaken hands and were heading toward their separate podiums. There was no sound, but Garza didn’t need to hear a word to know who would come out on top. Francisco Rodriguez was a masterful orator with a dynamic public persona.
“Politics.” Victor made a face. “It does not go well with mescal.”
“You don’t like it, eh?”
“No,” Victor said, pouring himself another shot. “It’s a waste of time anyway. Everyone knows Rodriguez will be the next president.”
Garza nodded, then turned and pressed on a wall-mounted display of knives from the Mexican Revolution. One side of the display opened like a door on hinges and exposed a wall safe. Next to the safe was a keypad, where Garza pressed a sequence of numbers and watched the safe pop open. As he placed the briefcase in the safe, he thought of something.
“You probably know the code to get in this thing, don’t you?” he asked, without turning.
Victor shook his head in mock disgust. “You use the same numbers for every password, Jefe. How many times do I tell you to change them?”
Garza smiled. “I know. I have too many things to remember already. I guess I am getting lazy.”
