Don Winslow - The Power of the Dog

Great, Callan thinks. If we’re trying to convince Guero Mendez that we’re sitting ducks, we’re doing a damn fine job of it.

What you got out there is a bunch of kids with stacks of luggage and shopping bags on the sidewalk outside the terminal, and Raul is trying to establish some kind of order, and Adan has just pulled up with a few of his people and it looks like nothing more than a high school field trip headed home on that last chaotic day. And the boys are laughing and hollering at each other, and Raul is trying to figure out with the attendant at the outside counter whether they should check the bags at the curb or bring them inside, and Dreamer goes to find a couple of luggage carts and tells Flaco to come with him to help and Flaco’s yelling at Poptop, “How could you lose your fucking ticket, pendejo?” and Poptop looks like he’s going to puke again, but what comes out of his mouth isn’t puke, it’s blood, and then he crumples onto the curb.

Callan’s already flat on the sidewalk, tracking a green Buick with gun barrels sticking out the side windows. He pulls out his. 22 and fires two shots at the Buick. Then he rolls behind another parked car just as a burst from an AK blasts the sidewalk in front of where he just was, sending bullets bouncing off the concrete and into the terminal wall.

Stupid fucking Scooby Doo is standing there sucking on his Slurpee straw, watching like it’s some video game with really radical graphics. He’s trying to remember if they ever left the mall and exactly which game this is but it must have cost a ton of tokens because it’s so lifelike. Callan dashes out from behind the relative safety of the van, grabs Scooby and throws him to the concrete, and the Slurpee spills all over the pavement and it’s a raspberry Slurpee so it’s hard to tell it from Poptop’s blood, which is also spreading across the concrete.

Raul, Fabian and Adan drop black equipment bags to the ground and pull AKs out of them, then lift the rifles to their shoulders and start shooting at the Buick.

The bullets bounce off the car-even the windshield-so Callan figures that the car is armored, but he squeezes off two shots, then drops down and can just see the opposite doors of the Buick opening and Guero and two other guys with rifles getting out, and then they lean against the car and rest their AKs on top and let loose.

Callan goes into that zone where he can’t hear anything-it is just perfect silence in his head as he sees Guero, takes careful aim at his head and is about to squeeze him out of the world-when a white car pulls right into the line of fire. The driver seems oblivious to what’s going on, like he’s happened upon some on-location movie and is pissed off and determined to get to the airport anyway, so the car pulls past the Buick and over to the curb about twenty feet in front of it.

Which really seems to get Fabian going.

He spots the white Marquis and makes for it, running sideways past the Buick, blasting at it as he does, and Callan figures that Fabian has the white car lamped for a new carload of Guero’s sicarios, and Fabian is fighting his way toward it so Callan tries to lay down some cover fire but the white car is in the line of fire and he doesn’t want to shoot just in case these are civilians and not more of Guero’s boys.

But now there are bullets hitting the Buick from the other side, and out of the corner of his eye Callan can make out some of the fake Jalisco cops training fire onto the car, which forces Guero and his hitters to squat down behind it, so Fabian survives his charge toward the white Marquis.

Parada doesn’t even see him coming. He’s too focused on the scene of bloodshed playing out in front of him. Bodies are splayed all over the sidewalk, some lying motionless, others crawling on their stomachs, dragging their legs behind them, and Parada can’t tell if they’re wounded or dead or just trying to take cover from the bullets that are flying everywhere. Then he looks out the window and sees a young man lying on his back with bubbles of blood gurgling out of his mouth and his eyes open in pain and terror, and Parada knows this young man is dying, so he starts to get out of the car to give him the last rites.

Pablo, his driver, tries to grab him and hold him back, but he’s a small man and Parada easily shrugs him off and yells, “Get out of here!” But Pablo won’t leave him there, so he huddles as far as he can under the steering wheel and puts his hands over his ears as Parada opens the door and gets out, just as Fabian gets there and points his gun into the priest’s chest.

Callan sees him.

You dumb fuck, he thinks, that’s the wrong guy. He watches as Parada squeezes his large body out of the car, straightens up and starts toward Poptop, and he watches as Fabian steps in the way and raises his AK. Callan stands straight up and yells, “No!”

Leaps over the hood of the car and races toward Fabian, yelling, “Fabian, no! That's not him!”

Fabian glances over at Callan, and as he does Parada grabs the rifle and manages to turn the barrel down toward the ground, and now Fabian tries to lift it again and squeezes the trigger and the first shot hits Parada in the ankle and the next one in the knee but the adrenaline is coursing through Parada and he doesn’t even feel it, never mind let go of the gun.

Because he wants to live. Feels it now more strongly, more urgently than ever in his life. Feels that life is good, the air is sweet and there is so much he still has to do, wants to do. Wants to get to that dying young man and soothe his soul before he goes. Wants to listen to more jazz. Wants to see Nora smile. Wants another cigarette, another good meal. Wants to kneel in sweet, soft prayer to his Lord. But not walk with Him, not yet, too much to do, so he fights. Holds on to the gun barrel with his whole life.

Fabian lowers his head and lifts his foot and plants it right on the crucifix on Parada’s chest and kicks, sending the priest sprawling back against the car, and then Fabian lifts the gun’s barrel again and sends fifteen bullets smashing into Parada’s chest.

Parada feels his life draining out of him as his body slides down the side of the car.

Callan kneels down by the dying priest.

The man looks up at him and mumbles something Callan can’t make out.

“What?” Callan asks. “What did you say?”

“I forgive you,” Parada murmurs.

“What?”

“God forgives you.”

The priest starts to make the sign of the cross, then his hand drops and his body jerks and he’s gone.

Callan kneels there, looking down at the dead priest, as Fabian raises his rifle, aims and deliberately puts two more shots into the side of Parada’s head.

Blood sprays onto the white paint of the car.

And hunks of Parada’s white hair.

Callan turns around and says, “He was already dead.”

Fabian ignores him, reaches into the front seat of the car, pulls out a briefcase and walks away with it. Callan sits down and cradles Parada’s shattered head in his arms and, crying like a baby, asks over and over again, “What did you say? What did you say?”

He’s oblivious to the battle going on around him.

Doesn’t care.

Adan does.

He doesn’t see Parada get killed; he’s a little busy completing the execution of Guero Mendez, who’s ducked behind the Buick, just realizing that he has fucked up. Two of his guys are already down and the car, even though it’s armored, is vibrating with the number of bullets hitting it and isn’t going to hold up much longer. A lot of the glass has finally shattered and the tires are shot out and it’s only a matter of time before the gas tank explodes. He’s badly outnumbered by the Barrera hit squad disguised as Jalisco cops, and this whole kiddie brigade bullshit was just that-bullshit. And now they’ve got him on three sides and if they can make it around to the fourth-behind the Buick-it’s over. He’s dead. And while he’d be perfectly happy to go if he could take Adan and Raul with him, it’s pretty clear now that isn’t going to happen, so the thing is to boogie the fuck out of there and try again another time.