Rick Mofina - In Desperation

“Shut the fuck up and dig,” the gunman said.

Gannon started digging.

Odd, he was not afraid. He was at peace. If this was how it was going to be, then this was how it would be. But he would not go down without a fight. He considered charging the gunman with the shovel, swinging that blade at his throat, but no doubt the others were armed, too. They were standing too far apart. At best, he’d get a shot at two of them, he figured as the sweat dripped from his face, making blotches in the sand.

Gannon was down a little over two feet deep when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dust cloud. He heard the crunch of tires, then saw an approaching vehicle. Another SUV.

The gunman took the shovel from Gannon.

“Get on your knees and face the hole.”

Squinting against the sun, Gannon saw doors open. A man in a white suit got out of the vehicle and approached the group. His dark glasses were locked on Gannon as he took Gannon’s wallet from one of the men. He went through it quickly and nodded to the gunman, who then pressed the barrel hard against Gannon’s head.

The new man removed his dark glasses.

Vic Lomax.

His face seemed as if it had been broken; his eyes were asymmetrical, as if one had migrated down and the other was sunken. His upturned shark’s mouth twisted into a sneer and Gannon’s head snapped when the back of Lomax’s hand flew across his face.

“Who sent you, Gannon?”

“Nobody sent me.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Nobody sent me.”

“You go to my home. You threaten my family. You know, I scrape shit like you off my shoe. Did that old skank of a sister send you?”

“No.”

“Some shit-for-brains cop?”

“No.”

“Why come to me about this kidnapping shit that’s all over the news?”

“To beg for your help to find my niece.”

Still breathing hard, Lomax’s nostrils flared as he glared at Gannon.

“I only know what’s in the news and it looks like a lost cause.”

“I’m begging you, please.”

“Your stupid bitch sister never learned. She’s at it again. You ask her why she got herself tied up with this Galviera asshole, who seems to have pissed off the wrong people.”

“Just help me. A name, advice, anything, and I’ll go away, I swear.”

“I can make you go away-” Lomax snapped his fingers “-like that.”

The gun bored into Gannon’s skull.

“Please, she’s eleven years old.”

“I got nothing to do with this. Bet you didn’t know that your bitch sister got into trouble with a cartel a long time ago. Ask her if it’s got anything to do with this kidnapping shit.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The worst kind.” Lomax gave it a few seconds to sink in. “You ask her what she and Donnie Cargo did in San Francisco all those years ago. When I first heard about it, I told them to hide, stay out of the mix. I told her this would follow her all of her life. Well, now it’s caught up to her. So you talk to your sister, asshole, because I’m thinking that if your niece is not dead yet, she will be. And the only person Cora can blame for that is Cora.”

Lago de Rosas, Mexico

The old woman was dying.

At her son’s request, Father Francisco Ortero’s weekly visits had become a daily ritual, now that she was so close to death.

She lived with her family at the hamlet’s edge in a shack built of wood salvaged from pallets discarded by the fruit warehouse in the next town. The priest always declined the family’s invitation to supper, not wanting to further strain their meager means.

He always arrived when the woman’s daughter-in-law was washing her battered pots and pans, or taking dried linen down from the line. The little house was well kept and the corner of it where the old woman was confined to a narrow bed smelled of fresh flowers.

She always took Holy Communion from the priest, who would talk with her into the evening, telling her that she would be with her husband soon, for it was his job to prepare her to meet God. His words comforted her and she smiled.

When Father Ortero left, the moon was rising, washing the dirt road in blue as he walked back to the rectory. Finding peace in the evening, he looked back on his day. His foremost thought was the sicario who’d entered the confessional. While he had always expected some repercussion for the outspoken stand he had taken in Juarez against the narcotraficantes, the encounter was unexpected.

A cartel assassin had come to him-not for blood, but to confess.

The priest wondered if he had done enough to guide the killer back to God. Should he somehow alert police investigating the double murder south of Juarez? Wouldn’t that break the seal of the confession, violate his vow? Perhaps he should talk to his bishop. His questions fell into the silence that cracked with the long, wild cry of a coyote, reminding him that primitive forces were near.

No one else was on the road tonight.

It was a lonely walk, his only company being his thoughts and the mournful wail of the predator in the darkness. This one was likely hunting mice or lizards. While coyotes were common here, they did not attack humans. He was not concerned. He’d walked this road many times and was often serenaded by coyotes.

Thud!

A stone hit the ground and rolled behind him. Instinctively, the priest stopped and turned.

Nothing was there.

When he turned back, a figure was standing before him, a few feet away, blocking his path. He was slender, taller than the priest, who stood five feet eight inches. A young man, judging by his build and his posture.

A bandanna covered his face, allowing the priest to see only his eyes and short hair. He wore jeans, a T-shirt and a shoulder holster that cradled a semiautomatic handgun.

“Father Ortero.”

Immediately, he recognized the voice.

“Do you remember me?”

“Yes.”

“I asked for you in the town. They told me I would find you here tonight. Don’t be afraid.”

“As I recall, you are the frightened one.”

“You insult me. I have killed men for less.”

The priest extended his arms, opened his palms.

“Go ahead. Guarantee your seat in hell.”

The moon was ablaze in the sicario’s eyes.

“I have given more thought to my situation, my offer to the church and what you said.”

“You wish to confess here, now, and surrender to police?”

“I need to understand redemption and salvation. If I am truly repentant and I make my generous donation, will I receive absolution?”

“How old are you?”

“I am twenty.”

“You are naive to think you can manipulate favor with God.”

“I am sorry for my sins and I am willing to give the church more money than it will see in a thousand years.”

“You murder two hundred people and you expect to buy eternal salvation with blood money?” The sicario fell to his knees.

“My nightmares torment me and a rival gang wants to kill me. I must be absolved. I now know that Santa Muerte is a false saint. I leave my calling card now for effect only, to impress police. But I know she cannot protect me. I must make things right with God. I have given more thought to what you said.”

“You will confess and surrender?”

“In a few more days, I will finish my next job, the one that pays large. Then I want you to arrange for me to tell my story to a trusted journalist, so police cannot twist it. Then I will surrender if I can work a deal with police.”

“What sort of deal?”

“I want to go into witness protection in the U.S. or in Canada, in exchange for information I will give them about cartels, very important information that could end a lot of bloodshed.”