Don Winslow - The Power of the Dog

“We got it covered,” Raul says.

Callan’s not so sure because rifle barrels poke out of the windows of the two black Suburbans like muskets out of wagons in one of them old Westerns, and Callan figures if the cavalry don’t ride in soon there ain’t gonna be much to bury here out on the old prairie.

Fuckin’ Mexico.

Guero lowers the right back window, rests his AK on the sill, flicks the lever to “bush rake” and gets ready to hose Raul.

The Baja state cop driver rolls down his window and asks, “Is there a problem?”

Yeah, apparently there is because the comandante federale spots Raul from the corner of his eye and starts to pull the trigger on his M-16.

Callan shoots from his lap.

The two rounds smack the comandante in the forehead.

The M-16 hits the pavement a moment before he does.

The two Baja state cops in the front seat shoot right through their own windshield. Raul sits in the back, zinging bullets past the ears of his two boys in the front and he’s yelling and shooting because if this is the last Arriba, he’s going out in style. He’s going out in a way that the narcocorridos will be singing about for years.

Except he ain’t going out.

Guero had spotted the bright red Suburban, but he didn’t see the nondescript Ford Aerostar and the Volkswagen Jetta that were trailing it from a block behind, and now those two stolen vehicles roar in and trap the federales.

Fabian jumps out of the Aerostar and rakes a federale across the chest with an AK burst. The wounded federale tries to crawl for cover underneath the black Suburban, but one of his own boys sees how outgunned they are and makes a bid for survival by switching sides on the spot. He raises his own M-16 and as the man pleads for his life delivers the coup de grace through his partner’s upraised arms and into his face, then looks to Fabian for acceptance.

Fabian puts two rounds into his head.

Who needs a coward like that?

Callan pulls Raul down onto the seat and shouts, “We have to get you the fuck outta here!”

Callan opens the car door and rolls out onto the sidewalk. He shoots from underneath the car at anything that has black pants on as Raul climbs out over the top of them and then they start shooting their way out, backing down the street toward the main boulevard.

It’s a major goat fuck, Callan thinks.

Cops are roaring in from all compass points, in cars, on motorcycles and on foot. Federal cops, state cops, Tijuana city cops, and they’re not sure who’s who-it is just a fucking free-for-all.

Everyone’s trying to figure out who to shoot at the same time they’re trying to work out how not to get shot. Fabian’s shooters at least know who they’re shooting at, though, as they methodically gun down the federales who pulled them over. But those guys are tough, they’re shooting back, and there are bullets flying every which way and you have some moron across the street standing there with his Sony 8mm trying to videotape the whole goddamn mess, and through that grace given to idiots and drunks he lives through the whole ten-minute gun battle, but a lot of people don’t.

Three federales are dead and three others wounded. Two Barrera sicarios-including one Baja state policeman-have checked out and two others are pretty badly shot up, as are the seven bystanders who are down with gunshot wounds. And in one of those surreal moments that seem to occur only in Mexico, you have the bishop of Tijuana, who just happened to be in the neighborhood, going from body to body giving last rites to the dead and spiritual comfort to the living. You got ambulances coming in, and cop cars and television trucks. You got everything except twenty midgets tumbling out of a little car.

The clown ain’t laughing anymore.

The smile has literally been blasted off his face, his red nose is pockmarked with bullets and there are fresh holes drilled in the bottom inside corner of each pupil, so he’s looking down at the scene cross-eyed.

Guero’s done a walkaway-he spent most of the firefight lying on the floor of his Suburban and then he slid across to the opposite door and slunk away without anyone seeing him.

A lot of people see Raul, though. He and Callan are backing down the street, shoulder to shoulder, Raul just blasting away with his AK, Callan firing precise two-shot groupings with his. 22.

Callan sees Fabian jump in the Aerostar and back it down the street even though the tires have been shot out. He’s driving it on its rims-sparks are shooting out-and he pulls up alongside Callan and Raul and yells, “Get in!”

Okay with me, Callan thinks. He’s just in the fucking door when Fabian hits the gas again and they are flying backwards down the street and then crashing into another fucking Suburban that has blocked the intersection. The car is filled with plainclothes detectives, their M-16s leveled and ready.

Callan’s relieved when Raul drops his AK, puts his hands up and smiles.

Meanwhile, Ramos and his boys get there ready to kick ass, except most of the ass either is already bleeding on the pavement or is long gone. The whole street is buzzing like insects in Ramos’ ear as he hears the rumor that the police have arrested one of the Barreras.

It was Adan.

No, it was Raul.

Whichever the fuck Barrera, Ramos thinks, which cops arrested him, and where did they take him?! It matters, right, because if it was the federales they probably took him to the dump to shoot him, and if it was the Baja state boys they probably took him to a safe house and if it was the city police Ramos might still have a shot at bagging a Barrera brother.

Would be nice if it was Adan.

A close second if it’s Raul.

Ramos is grabbing one eyewitness after another until a uniformed city officer comes up to him and tells him that city homicide-squad detectives collared one of the Barreras and two other guys and drove off with them.

Ramos races back to the precinct house.

Cigar clamped in his mouth, Esposa at his hip, he storms into the homicide-squad room just in time to see the back of Raul’s head disappearing out the back door. Ramos raises his gun to put a bullet in the back of that head, but a homicide guy grabs the barrel.

“Take it easy,” the detective says.

“Who the fuck was that?” Ramos asks.

“Who the fuck was who?”

“That guy who just gunned down a bunch of cops,” Ramos says. “Or don’t you care about that?”

Apparently not, because the homicide guys sort of bunch up in the doorway to let Raul, Fabian and Callan get away clean, and if they’re ashamed of themselves, Ramos can’t see it in their faces.

Adan watches it on television.

The Sinaloa Swap Meet is all over the news.

He hears reporters breathlessly report that he’s been arrested. Or his brother has, depending on which station he has on. But all the channels are commenting that for a second time in a few weeks innocent citizens have been caught in the cross fire between rival drug gangs right in the heart of a major city. And that something must be done to put an end to the violence between the rival Baja cartels.

Well, something will soon, Adan thinks. We were lucky to have survived the last two attacks, but how long before our luck runs out?

The bottom line is, we’re finished.

And when I’m dead, Guero will hunt down Lucia and Gloria and slaughter them. Unless I can find-and stop-the source of Guero’s newfound power.

Where is it coming from?

Ramos and his troops are ripping up a warehouse near the border, just on the Mexican side. The tip that led them there was a good one, and they’re finding stacks of vacuum-wrapped cocaine. About a dozen of Guero Mendez’s workers are tied up, and Ramos notices that they’re all sneaking glances at a forklift parked in one corner.