Steven Gore - Act of Deceit

“Throw out your weapon.”

Sherwyn grabbed for the gun. Donnally pulled away. Sherwyn fell into him. They crashed against the bar. Sherwyn’s grasping hands swept the bottles and glasses off the mirrored counter. The gun broke free of Donnally’s hand and thunked to the floor next to the built-in bookcase. They both dived for it. Sherwyn grabbed first, but missed and sent it sliding across the floor toward the door ten feet away.

A gunshot shattered the bar mirror.

Donnally looked toward the doorway. Jago stood pointing a revolver at him.

Sherwyn crawled toward Donnally’s gun.

“Freeze,” Jago ordered.

Puzzlement consumed Sherwyn’s face. “What are you…?”

Donnally grasped Jago’s plan, or what should be his plan if he was thinking clearly. Donnally decided to buy some time, even if it meant laying it out for him.

“He’s going to kill you pretending that he was trying to rescue me,” Donnally said, standing up. “He’s leaving no witnesses. That’s the way El Mandamas would want it.” He glanced at Sherwyn. “I suspect that at this point The Man with the Last Word, whoever he is, would conclude that you’re expendable.”

Jago smiled.

“But he’ll need to do some staging first,” Donnally said.

Jago shook his head, then pointed his barrel at Donnally’s waist and jerked it up and down.

Donnally glanced down at Sherwyn. “Apparently he wants to count the weapons first.” He then raised his shirt and jacket to show he was unarmed. Jago made a circling motion, and Donnally showed his back.

Jago nodded.

Sherwyn pushed himself onto all fours, as if testing to see how far Jago would let him rise. His breathing was heavy. His flesh red.

Donnally leaned back against the bookcase.

“What do you say, I’ll stand here?” Donnally said. He extended his hand toward Sherwyn. “And you can be next to me.”

Sherwyn stood and backed toward Donnally.

“Come on Jago,” Sherwyn said. “I’ll protect you. Everybody knows Donnally is crazy.”

Jago shook his head.

Donnally pointed skyward. “He needs a story that matches the video, or at least close enough for the Mexican press. He has to make it look like he rescued Janie from you, then failed in rescuing me. He knows that once I’m dead, Janie will keep her mouth shut to protect Corazon.” Donnally smiled. “But that means I need to be dead first.”

Donnally glanced around the office.

“What do you say we make it look like even more of a fight?” Donnally asked. “Maybe throw some things around?”

He reached behind him and began pulling books off the shelf and spilling them to floor.

“You really are crazy.” Sherwyn’s voice turned desperate. “What are you doing?”

Donnally grabbed Sherwyn by his collar and shoulder and threw him toward Jago, then grabbed the book he’d hollowed out the day before.

He ripped it open and reached inside.

It wasn’t the tape recorder Lalo’s friend had thought he’d smuggled in, but the. 32 cal revolver Donnally had bought from Beto.

Donnally fired once, hitting Jago in the shoulder. Jago fell backward, pulling Sherwyn with him.

The cop’s gun discharged, the explosion muffled by Sherwyn’s body.

Donnally ducked behind the desk. He raised his head in time to see Jago push Sherwyn away, then point his gun not at Donnally’s forehead, but at the thin panel covering the leg space. Donnally dived to the side. Jago’s shots punctured the desk and blew out the window behind it. Donnally rolled, fixed the gun in a double-handed grip, and kept firing until Jago stopped moving.

The helicopter’s motor whined as it spun away.

Only then, in the silence that followed, did Donnally feel his hip joint raging. He clenched his teeth and pushed himself to his feet.

A groan came from Sherwyn.

Donnally limped over and kicked the gun out of Jago’s hand.

Sherwyn looked up, his palm pressed against the wound in his chest. His face was pale, draining of blood.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Donnally lied. “Unless you bleed out.”

Panic twisted Sherwyn’s face.

Donnally poked at Sherwyn’s ribs with his shoe.

“Maybe I’ll keep you conscious for as long as I can so you can watch it happen.”

Sherwyn grimaced, then squeezed out, “What do you want?”

Donnally retrieved the tape recorder from his backpack in the closet.

“I want a confession.” He then pulled out his cell phone, punched in 066, the Mexican version of 911, and showed Sherwyn the screen. “As soon as I’m satisfied, I’ll press ‘send’ and an ambulance will come to take you to the hospital.”

Donnally thought for a moment. He needed a way for Sherwyn’s words to live on in the world he would soon leave behind.

“How about you call it your dying declaration so you can’t retract it later?”

He then kneeled down and switched on the recorder, knowing that the last sound on the tape wouldn’t be the siren of a rescue, but Sherwyn’s death rattle.

“After that, explain who El Mandamas is and how he fits in.”

For the next three minutes, Donnally focused more on his questions than on the content of Sherwyn’s answers, for he’d already played his last card: He’d threatened the absolute.

At the same time, he knew from the terror in Sherwyn’s eyes that he was a man who feared death more than shame, so Donnally knew he’d get at least some of the truth.

The whump-whump of the helicopter increased in volume as it once again approached the hacienda.

Donnally glanced toward the window, then looked back. Sherwyn had fallen silent. Dead. Donnally felt the satisfaction of knowing he’d called it right. Sherwyn wouldn’t have lived long enough for an ambulance to have arrived anyway.

Donnally flicked off the tape recorder, then walked to the window and squinted into the rising sun to try to see into the cockpit.

He realized what was wrong. He’d never seen a CNN helicopter before. They always got their news feeds from local stations.

The machine rotated and the passenger side came into view. The camera operator lowered the video camera. Donnally recognized the flowing white hair before he recognized the face, then felt the thrill of weightless flight, as if the floor beneath his feet had fallen away, leaving him hovering, light-headed.

His father grinned and waved.

It was all an illusion, a substitute for a real world that wouldn’t or couldn’t act.

Donnally smiled back.

For the first time in both their lives, the old man really had shot the dawn.

Janie ran toward Donnally when he arrived at the front gate. He embraced her, then pointed at Corazon crossing the street and held up his palm, telling her to keep the gathering crowd outside the hacienda.

He grabbed Janie’s arm and they raced back up to Sherwyn’s office.

Janie gasped and covered her mouth as she stood in the doorway staring at the bodies, the blood of the dead now intermingled in a dark pool between them.

Donnally retrieved his 9mm from the floor, then wiped off the. 32 and put it into Sherwyn’s hand. It was better to leave a confusing crime scene than one that pointed to Donnally.

He crouched down and rubbed Sherwyn’s gun hand against Jago’s to transfer some powder residue, then flopped it into the blood.

He straightened up and looked around the office.

“Let’s grab whatever we can before the police get here.”

They searched Sherwyn’s desk, filling Donnally’s backpack and a cardboard box he found in the closet with the doctor’s laptop and every piece of paper they could find. Phone records. Bank records. Anything they thought might expose the network of men who sought the services of White Sands.