Don Winslow - The Power of the Dog

He hears footsteps, then sees one of the compound’s private security guards headed toward him, casually flashing a light along the wall, looking for any lurking burglars. Art slowly scrunches his body closer to the wall.

The flashlight beam hits him square in the eyes.

The guard reaches for his holstered pistol, then a cloth garrote slips around his neck and Ramos is lifting him off the ground. The guard’s eyes bulge and his tongue comes out of his mouth, and then Ramos eases the unconscious man to the ground.

“He’ll be okay,” Ramos says.

Thank God, Art thinks, because a dead civilian would screw up the whole delicate deal. He looks at his watch as it hits five, and the commandos must be a crack unit because at that precise second Art hears a dull whomp as an explosive charge blows the gate of the wall.

Ramos looks at Art. “Your gun.”

“What?”

“Better to have your gun in your hand.”

Art had forgotten he even had the damn thing. He pulls it from his shoulder holster and now he’s running behind Ramos, through the blown gate and into the garden. Past the servants’ quarters, where the frightened workers lie on the ground, a commando pointing an M-16 at them. As Art runs toward the main house he tries to remember the diagram, but as the adrenaline flows in, his memory flows out, and then he thinks, Screw it, and just follows Ramos, who trots at a quick but easy pace in front of him, Esposa swinging on his hip.

Art glances up at the wall, where black-clad commando snipers perch like crows, their rifles trained on the compound’s grounds, ready to mow down anyone who tries to run out. Then, suddenly, he’s at the front of the main house and Ramos grabs him and shoves him down as there’s another bass thump, and the sound of wood splintering as the front door flies off.

Ramos looses half a clip into the empty space.

Then he steps in.

Art enters behind him.

Trying to remember-the bedroom, where is the bedroom?

Pilar sits up and shouts as they come through the door.

Pulls the sheet up over her breasts and screams again.

Tio-and Art can’t quite believe this, it’s all too surreal-is actually hiding under the covers. He’s pulled the sheets up over his head like a small child who thinks, If I can’t see them they can’t see me, but Art can most definitely see him. Art is all adrenaline-he yanks off the sheet, grabs Tio by the back of the neck, jerks him up like a barbell and then slams him face-first onto the parquet wood floor.

Tio isn’t bare-assed, but wearing black silk boxer shorts, which Art can feel slide along his leg as he plants his knee into the small of Tio’s back, grabs his chin and lifts his head back far enough so that his neck threatens to snap, then jams the pistol barrel into his right temple.

“Don’t hurt him!” Pilar screams. “I didn’t want you to hurt him!”

Tio wrenches his chin from Art’s hold and cranes his neck to stare at the girl. Pure hatred as he pronounces a single word: “Chocho.”

Cunt.

The girl turns pale and looks terrified.

Art pushes Tio’s face to the floor. Blood from Tio’s broken nose flows across the polished wood.

Ramos says, “Come on, we have to hurry.”

Art starts to pull the handcuffs from his belt.

“Don’t cuff him,” Ramos says with undisguised irritation.

Art blinks.

Then he gets it-you don’t shoot a man who’s trying to escape if the man is handcuffed.

Ramos asks, “Do you want to do him in here or out there?”

That’s what he expects me to do, Art thinks, shoot Barrera. That’s why he thinks I insisted on coming along on the raid, so I could do just that. His head whirls as he realizes that maybe everybody expects him to do that. All the DEA guys, Shag-especially Shag-expect him to enforce the old code that you don’t bring a cop killer back to the house, that a cop killer always dies trying to escape.

Christ, do they expect that?

Tio sure does. Says smoothly, calmly, tauntingly, “Me maravilla que todavia estoy vivo.”

I’m amazed I’m still alive.

Well, don’t be too amazed, Art thinks as he pulls the hammer back.

“Date prisa,” Ramos says.

Hurry up.

Art looks up at him-Ramos is lighting a cigar. Two commandos are looking down at him, waiting impatiently, wondering why the soft gringo hasn’t already done what should be done.

So the whole plan to bring Tio back to the embassy was a sham, Art thinks. A charade to satisfy the diplomats. I can pull the trigger and everyone will swear that Barrera resisted arrest. He was pulling a gun. I had to shoot him. And nobody’s going to look too closely at the forensics, either.

“Date prisa.”

Except this time, it’s Tio saying it, and he sounds annoyed, almost bored.

“Date prisa, sobrino.”

Hurry up, nephew.

Art grabs him by the hair and yanks his head up.

Art remembers Ernie’s mutilated body lying in the ditch bearing the marks of his torture.

He lowers his mouth to Tio’s ear and whispers, “Vete al demonio, Tio.”

Go to hell, Uncle.

“I’ll meet you there,” Tio answers. “It was supposed to have been you, Arturo. But I talked them into taking Hidalgo instead, for old times’ sake. Unlike you, I honor relationships. Ernie Hidalgo died for you. Now do it. Be a man.”

Art squeezes the trigger. It’s hard, it takes more pressure than he remembers.

Tio grins at him.

Art feels the presence of pure evil.

The power of the dog.

He jerks Tio to his feet.

Barrera smiles at him with utter contempt.

“What are you doing?” Ramos asks.

“What we planned.” He holsters his pistol, then cuffs Tio’s hands behind his back. “Let’s get going.”

“I’ll do it,” Ramos says. “If you’re squeamish.”

“I’m not,” Art says. “Vamonos.”

One of the commandos starts to slip a black hood over Tio’s head. Art stops him, then gets into Tio’s face and says, “Lethal injection or the gas chamber, Tio. Be thinking about it.”

Tio just smiles at him.

Smiles at him.

“Hood him,” Art orders.

The commando pulls the black hood over Tio’s head and ties it at the bottom. Art grabs his pinioned arms and marches him outside.

Through the perfumed garden.

Where, Art thinks, the jacarandas have never smelled so sweet. Sweet and sickly, Art thinks to himself, like the incense he remembers from church as a kid. The first scent of it was pleasant; the next would make him feel a little sick.

That’s how he feels now as he frog-marches Tio through the compound toward the van waiting in the street, except the van isn’t waiting anymore, and about twenty rifle barrels are pointed at him.

Not at Tio.

At Art Keller.

They’re Salvadoran regular army troops, and, with them, a Yanqui in civilian clothes and shiny black shoes.

Sal Scachi.

“Keller, I told you the next time I’d just shoot.”

Art looks around and sees snipers perched on the walls.

“There was a little difference of opinion within the Salvadoran government,” Scachi says. “We got it worked out. Sorry, kid, but we can’t let you have him.”

As Art wonders who “we” are, Scachi nods and two Salvadoran soldiers take the hood off Tio’s head. No wonder he was fucking smiling, Art thinks. He knew the cavalry couldn’t be far off.

Some other soldiers bring Pilar out. She wears a negligee now, but it accents more than it hides and the soldiers gape at her openly. As they walk her past Tio, she sobs, “I’m sorry!”

Tio spits in her face. The soldiers have her hands behind her back and she can’t wipe it off, so the saliva runs down her cheek.

“I won’t forget this,” Tio says.