“No.”
“Damn,” Cesar swore. “Keep listening.”
“What about your contact?”
“Nothing yet. You keep working.”
Barquero left some money on the nightstand of the hotel room. In bed, a naked prostitute known to associate with the Padre’s men rolled over and went back to sleep. She didn’t know where the Padre was, but she did know someone who did. She didn’t want to die at the hands of the heavily muscled man, so she talked. Then things got interesting. Barquero put on his pants and left the hotel. Outside, he hailed a taxi on the bustling street.
“The financial district,” Barquero said to the driver. The ride passed in silence as Barquero thought about the Padre. Killing El Carnicero had been satisfying, but he couldn’t stop until the Padre shared his adopted son’s fate. Barquero remembered the shocked look on Carnicero’s face as the Padre abandoned him in the desert to save his own life. The cruel bastard had to die. Reaching the financial district, Barquero paid the fare. Looking up, he surveyed the office building in front of him. He took note of the surroundings, including the buildings nearby and the parking entrance. Entering the building, he walked confidently past the security desk. Neither of the two men sitting there said anything to him. An elevator took him to the floor he was looking for. From the elevator lobby, he noticed the stairs next to the last bank of elevators. The name of a law firm was printed on the glass doors that led to a quiet and extravagantly furnished office lobby. The sign indicated the firm specialized in international law. Barquero entered the office.
“Good afternoon,” the smartly dressed woman behind the reception desk said with a smile.
“Good afternoon.” Barquero marched past her and turned down a hallway containing a row of offices.
“Sir, you can’t go back there. Sir!” Barquero ignored the woman and scanned the nameplates on the doors of the windowless offices as his long, fast stride carried him down the hall. Reaching a corner office, he found the name he was looking for. Pushing the door open, he barged into the room. Sitting behind a large desk, a startled- looking man wearing a tan suit was talking on the phone. Barquero took out a pistol while grabbing the man by his collar and pulling him up. The telephone receiver fell to the desk.
“What is this?” the panicked man asked as Barquero led him to the door, the pistol placed firmly in the middle of the man’s back.
“Walk,” Barquero growled. “Don’t make a scene.”
“Mr. Salazar, is everything all right?” the receptionist asked as the two men walked quickly past her. “Should I call security?”
“No,” the visibly shaken attorney said. “Everything is fine.” The two men went to the elevator lobby. Barquero pressed the “down” button. Back at her desk, the receptionist picked up the phone. Barquero watched as she turned her back while dialing. The elevator chimed as the doors opened. Quickly, he pulled his captive to the door leading to the stairs at the end of the line of elevators. When the receptionist turned back around, she saw that the two men were gone and elevator doors were closing.
“Security,” she said into the phone. Barquero dragged the man down two flights of stairs before stopping and pointing the gun’s silencer directly at the man’s forehead. The man’s face was ashen.
“Where is he?” Barquero asked.
“Who?”
Barquero thumbed back the hammer on the pistol. “You know.”
“I…I don’t what you’re talking about.”
Keeping the gun pointed at the man’s head, Barquero punched him hard in the liver. The man’s feet buckled. Barquero held him up against the wall.
“Your client. Your only client, Salazar,” Barquero said. “He’s in town. There’s a meeting. Where is it? Last time I ask, then I kill you and I’ll find your family. Now, where is he?”
“He’ll be at the warehouse late this afternoon.”
“What warehouse?”
“Here. In Monterrey.” The lawyer gave Barquero the building number for the warehouse.
“If you’re lying, I’ll find you.” Barquero’s large hand palmed the man’s entire face. He slammed the back of the man’s head into the concrete wall of the stairwell. Salazar’s body went limp. As he slid to the floor of the stairwell, his head left a long smear of blood on the wall. A few minutes later, Barquero emerged from the parking garage. A confused-looking attendant watched as the big man who had just walked under the parking lot gate disappeared from sight.
Ziggy switched out his DVD and grabbed some salsa. It was good straight out of the bowl. He loved the old versions of the
“There it is, General,” Fire Team Leader Bravo called out. Down a long shoot of canyon, the desert opened up.
“Told you we’d find it,” said Private Foxtrot. The General led his men out of the confusing maze.
“We need to find the bus,” the General said.
“Oh, crap.” Private Zulu looked behind him. “General…”
“Fire Team Leader Charlie, we need to egress to the transportation, stat.”
“General…” Private Zulu said again.
“Private Tango,” the General continued, “you take point.”
“General.”
“What is it, Zulu?” the General asked.
“Them things.”
“What things?” the General asked as he turned around. In the hills behind him, something moved. “What in the hell…” The images came into focus as they wove their way down to the desert floor. All of a sudden, one of them shook its head and howled. The rest of the pack spread out around the big alpha coyote with eyes that glowed with red fire.
“One, two, three, four, five, six…” the General counted. “Oh, crap. Boys…run! The bus is that way!” The men of STRAC-BOM tore across the desert, tripping and falling as they went. “Don’t look back!” the General cried out. The pack of coyotes spread out in a fan-shaped pattern and slowly but deliberately loped after them, tongues hanging out. “Make for the bus!” the General ordered. “Reverse echelon with a defensive wedge formation!”
“A what?” Private Tango asked.
“He means run!” Fire Team Bravo said. Private Zulu slipped and fell.
“Help me!” Zulu cried. His Team Leader stopped and looked back.
“Keep going!” Fire Team Leader Charlie shouted to the rest of the men as he turned back for his trooper. By the time he got to Zulu, the first of the coyotes had arrived. Saliva flew from its white fangs as it snarled and shook its head back and forth over the skinny, fallen private. “Asshole!” Fire Team Leader Charlie said as he kicked the coyote in its ribs with his combat boot. The animal screeched in pain and ran back about ten feet before looking up and snarling. “Give me your hand.” The Team Leader pulled Private Zulu to his feet. The other coyotes arrived and slowly surrounded the two men. The vicious animals’ low growls filled the desert valley. Most were mangy, and all were starving. They drooled, looking at Private Zulu. He was little, weak, and a straggler. That combination set off some long-held primal instinct in their brains, eons old. He was their target. He was dinner. Fire Team Leader Charlie stood between Private Zulu and the growling beasts.
“Come on!” the General yelled back at the two men.
“You want some, come get some!” Fire Team Leader Charlie said. The coyotes advanced on the two men, who were doing their best to form back up with the main group without losing sight of their attackers. One by one, the coyotes made testing runs in on them. Slowly, they became more and more confident, charging in ever closer to the two men as they made their way back to their buddies.
“Keep moving,” the General yelled as Fire Team Leader Charlie and Private Zulu closed with the rest of the men. “Egress to the bus, pronto! Don’t let them split our ranks.” Around them, the stoic beasts circled with their white fangs flashing. The men of STRAC-BOM circled up. Back to back, they closed their ranks and shouted angrily
