Don Winslow - The Power of the Dog

Raul doesn’t answer.

Adan jumps out of his chair. “Raul, did you do something to her?!”

He grabs Raul by the shirt. Raul flicks him off easily and pushes him onto the bed. He says, “What if I did?”

“I want to see her.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You're in charge now?”

“Your obsession with that cunt has fucked up our business.” Meaning, Yes, brother, until you come to your senses, I’m in charge.

“I want to see her!”

“I am not going to let you become another Tio!”

El chocho, Raul thinks, the downfall of Barrera men.

Wasn’t it Tio’s obsession with young pussy that brought about his downfall? First with Pilar and then with that other cunt, whose name I can’t even remember. Miguel Angel Barrera, M-1-the man who built the Federacion, the smartest, toughest, most levelheaded man I’ve ever known, except his brain shut down over some piece of ass and it did him in.

And Adan has inherited the same disease. Hell, Adan could have all the pussy he wants, but he has to have that one. He could have had mistress after mistress as long as he was discreet about it and didn’t embarrass his wife. But not Adan-no, he falls in love with this whore, and is seen everywhere in public with her.

Giving Art Keller the perfect target.

And now look at us.

Adan stares at the floor. “Is she alive?”

Raul doesn’t answer.

“Raul, just tell me if she’s alive.”

A guard bursts through the door.

“Go!” he yells. “Go!”

The animals in the menagerie scream as Ramos and his men come over the wall.

Ramos shoulders the grenade launcher, aims and pulls the trigger. One of the guard towers explodes in a flash of yellow light. He reloads, aims again, and there’s another flash. He looks down and two deer are dashing themselves against the fence, trying to get out. He jumps into the pen and opens the door.

The two animals dash out into the night.

Birds are screeching and squawking, monkeys chattering madly, and Ramos remembers hearing rumors that Raul has a couple of lions out here and then he hears their growls and it sounds just like it does in the movies and then he forgets about that because there’s return fire coming in.

They’d come in by airplane after dark, a risky lights-out landing on an old drug-running strip, then done a night march across the desert and a long crawl for the last thousand yards to avoid the Barreras’ patrol jeeps.

And now we’re in it, Ramos thinks. He nestles his cheek into Esposa’s comfortable old stock, squeezes off two rounds, gets up and moves forward, knowing that his men are laying cover fire for him. Then he drops and lays down cover for the men who leapfrog ahead of him, and this is the way they move forward toward Raul’s house.

One of his men gets hit in front of him. Is moving forward and then jumps like an antelope when he gets hit. Ramos crawls forward to help him, but the man’s face is half blown away and he’s past help. Ramos removes the ammo clips from the man’s belt and rolls away as a burst of bullets stitches after him.

The fire is coming from the roof of a low building, and Ramos comes out of his roll into a kneeling position, flicks the rifle to bush-rake and strings the clip out along the roof line. Then he feels two hard thuds in his chest, realizes he’s been hit in the Kevlar vest, unhooks a grenade from his belt and lofts it onto the roof.

There’s a thud, then a flash and two bodies in the air, and the fire from that building stops.

But not the fire from the house.

Red, telltale muzzle flashes blaze from windows, roofs and doorways. Ramos keeps a close eye on the doors because apparently they’ve caught a few of Raul’s men inside the house and they’ll be trying to get out to outflank their attackers. Sure enough, one of the mercenaries fires a clip from the doorway, then makes his break. Ramos’ two shots take him in the stomach and he tumbles into the dirt and starts to scream. One of his mates comes out to drag him back in but gets hit half a dozen times himself and balls up by his buddy’s feet.

“Get the cars!” Ramos yells.

There are vehicles everywhere-Land Rovers, the narco-favorite Suburban, a few Mercedeses. Ramos doesn’t want any of the narcos-especially Raul-to make it into one of the cars and drive away, and now, after a hail of bullets, none of these vehicles is going anywhere. They’re all sitting on flat tires and shattered glass. Then a gas tank or two goes up and a couple of them are on fire.

Then things get weird.

Because someone has the brilliant idea that it would be a good diversionary tactic to open all the cages, and now there are animals running around all over the place. Running wild in all directions, panicked by the noise and the flames and the bullets whistling through the air, and Ramos blinks as a condenado giraffe runs in front of him, then two zebras, and antelope are zigzagging back and forth across the yard and Ramos thinks about the lions again and decides that this is going to be a very stupid way to die as he picks himself up and moves toward the house and ducks as some huge bird swoops low over his head and now the narcos bust out of the house and it is just the OK Corral out there.

Flickering silver moonlit images of men, animals, weapons-men standing, running, shooting, falling, ducking. It looks like some weird dream, but the bullets and death and pain are real as Ramos stands and snaps a shot here, then moves around some kind of wild donkey that’s braying in terror, and then there’s a narco to his left, then to his right-no, that’s one of his men-and bullets are zipping, gun muzzles blazing, men yelling and animals screaming. Ramos pops off two shots and another narco falls and then Ramos sees-or thinks he sees, anyway-the tall form of Raul running, firing pistols from his hips, and Ramos gets a momentary aim on his legs but Raul disappears. Ramos runs toward where he saw him and then dives for the ground as he sees a narco raise his gun, and Ramos fires from his back and the man flies backward and hits the ground himself, a little cloud of dust poofing up against the moonlight.

The Barreras are gone.

As the firefight dies down-Ramos selects the word dies intentionally, because many of Raul’s mercenaries are dead, or at least down-he goes from corpse to corpse, wounded to wounded, prisoner to prisoner, looking for Raul.

Rancho las Bardas is a mess. The main house looks like a gigantic folk-art colander. Cars are on fire. Rare birds perch in tree limbs, and some of the animals have actually crept back into their cages, where they cower and whimper.

Ramos sees a tall body lying by the fence on a bed of matilija poppies, the white blossoms flecked red with blood. Keeping Esposa trained on the body, Ramos kicks it over onto its back. It’s not Raul. Ramos is furious. We know, he thinks, that Raul was here-we heard him. And I saw him, or thought I did, anyway. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe the cell phone calls were fake, to throw us off the trail, and the brothers are sitting on the beach in Costa Rica or Honduras laughing at us over cold beers. Maybe they weren’t here at all.

Then he spots it.

The trapdoor is covered with dirt and a little brush, but he can make out the rectangular shape on the ground. Looking closer, he can see the footprints.

You can run, Raul, but you can’t fly.

But a tunnel. That’s very good.

He bends over and sees that the trapdoor has been opened recently. There’s a narrow line at its edge where the dirt has fallen through. He tosses the brush aside and feels for the concave handle, digs his hand in and lifts the trapdoor.

He hears the tiny click and sees the explosive charge.

But it’s too late.