Mike Maden - Drone

“I’ll get you some beer, hermano . Leave it to me,” Eleazar said.

Victor’s eyes narrowed.

“No. It’s too dangerous. You might get killed.”

“I’d rather die trying to steal a cold beer than wait for a hot rocket to fly up my ass,” Eleazar answered cheerfully. Everybody in the room laughed, including Victor.

“Okay, then. Get me some beer. We’ll keep our asses locked up tight until you get back.”

The other men howled with delight and stared at Victor hopefully. He laughed again, reading their minds. “Get enough for them, too!”

Eleazar threw a sloppy salute and scrambled away with a grin plastered across his face. Moments later, he leaped on an ancient moped and gunned the lawn-mower-size engine, scrambling out of the walled compound and onto the dirt path that wound through the jungle back toward Peto. Eleazar hoped his cell phone still carried a charge.

Three hours passed. The heat of the day rose like a tide from hell, wrapping the compound in a shroud of suffocating humidity. The sentry stood underneath the stone portico of the abandoned mission. It kept the sentry out of the sun, but it didn’t help him cool off. He wished he was inside the sanctuary where it was cooler. Bravo and the others were enjoying their afternoon siesta, snoring in hammocks slung between the columns.

The sentry checked his canteen. Empty. He’d drained it an hour ago. But if he came off the wall to refill it, he’d be shot for abandoning his post. He’d just have to tough it out a few more hours and then he could get a drink of water and even get some shut-eye, too.

The sentry heard the whine of a truck engine approaching through the trees. He needed to check it out, but he was under strict orders to stay under cover if at all possible, just in case there was overhead surveillance. He stayed underneath the roof line and raised his binoculars. What he saw made him laugh.

That pendejo Eleazar.

A big beer delivery truck came lumbering out of the trees, rolling slowly over the deeply rutted dirt road. The logo on the side of the beer truck was a giant Mayan head, drawn in the traditional style, tilted back and chugging down a cold bottle of Sol . A local pop radio station blared inside the cab.

The sentry raced down the wooden ladder and ran across the compound to unlock the front gate. He could already taste the cold beer splashing in the back of his throat.

The truck stopped on the other side of the locked gate. Eleazar grinned inside the air-conditioned cab. He was gesturing Hurry up! through the cold windshield that was fogging up against the warm, damp air outside.

The young sentry unbolted the iron gate and swung it open on its rusty hinges. He jumped up on the truck’s running board on the driver’s side as Eleazar pulled in.

The sentry tapped on the cool glass. Eleazar rolled the window down. The truck’s refrigeration unit roared overhead.

“Where did you steal this from, hermano ?”

“Back in Peto. It was at the Super Willy’s across from the zócalo . I don’t think they’ll miss it, do you?” Eleazar beamed with pride.

“If they do, too bad for them!”

Eleazar stopped the truck in the middle of the compound, several feet from the church. He leaned on the horn.

“What are you doing?” the sentry asked.

“Waking those lazy asses up. Time to drink some beer.”

“Let them sleep! More beer for us.”

“Don’t be such a greedy pig. We’re socialists now, remember?” Eleazar leaned on the horn again. A few bleary-eyed comrades stumbled out into the bright light. Their faces lit up when they saw the truck.

“Let me in the back,” the sentry begged.

“Not yet.”

“Give me the key or I’ll bust it open.”

“Just wait. Trust me.” Eleazar finally saw Victor emerge into the shadow of the front portico. He stood there, smiling, clasping his hands together and shaking them like a rattle by his head, the universal sign of approval.

“Fuck you, Eleazar. I want some beer,” the sentry said.

“Just wait a minute, will you?”

Victor ambled out into the harsh sunlight, making his way toward the truck.

The sentry dropped down onto the ground and headed for the back of the truck.

The first Bravo out of the church was just a few feet away from the truck now, licking his lips. But Victor was still too far away.

The thirsty sentry swung the back door open. He saw the muzzle flash from the suppressed end of a pistol. The hollow-point slug punched a small hole into his forehead, but the subsequent intracranial shock wave blew out the back of his skull and all of its contents while he was still on his feet. His corpse was knocked to the ground by the first soldier out of the truck.

Eleazar felt more than heard the squad of Marinas scramble out of his vehicle. Seconds later, they fanned out around the compound. Eleazar remained locked in the truck as ordered.

An eight-bladed Draganflyer X8 surveillance rotocopter zoomed over the compound. The drone was flown by another squad of Marinas that had followed Eleazar’s truck from Peto a half mile back.

The Marinas had told Eleazar to stay in the truck no matter what, out of concern for his safety, but as he watched Victor Bravo race unnoticed back into the church, Eleazar feared Victor would get to the escape tunnel and seal the entrance before the Marinas could reach him.

Eleazar couldn’t let the Devil get away. How else could he pay his debt to God?

Eleazar grabbed his pistol out of the glove box, leaped from the cab, and tore after him. An AK-47 opened up. Bullets clawed him from his groin to his belly.

Eleazar clutched his stomach. His hands were full of intestines, pink and wet with blood, like an offering.

Eleazar’s wobbly legs gave way. His eyes dimmed.

He felt himself falling into the darkness, afraid that God wouldn’t catch him.

Los Pinos, Mexico D.F.

Victor Bravo was dead.

Hernán drained his third glass of whiskey. He was worried.

Without cartel muscle behind them, the fragile web of Barraza alliances—strung together by fear and corruption—would quickly melt away. And then the mice would come out to play with their machetes, seeking revenge.

Hernán could run. He had a chalet in Switzerland, a flat in Paris, and a fat bankroll stashed in Paraguay. Life could be good.

His other option was to answer the damn phone. The one flashing Victor Bravo’s number, even though Victor was dead. Answer it, even if it was a mouse calling him.

“Yes?”

“Señor Barraza, I know you were a friend of Victor’s.”

“What do you want?”

“He was a friend of mine, too. My name is Ali Abdi. We need to talk.”

Ali understood Hernán’s situation perfectly. Offered the use of his trained men, fiercely loyal to him. “You know what they’re capable of doing.”

“Houston?”

“Of course.”

Hernán was intrigued. “Your services in exchange for what?”

Ali explained. The terms were acceptable. More than acceptable. Hernán agreed. They worked out a plan.

No need to leave Mexico after all.

Hernán smiled.

Poured himself another whiskey. Time to call in favors from his friends in Caracas and Havana. Start the plan rolling ahora .

He drained his glass.

Fuck the mice.

Two days later, one of the big media conglomerates began running a Victor Bravo memorial piece, extolling his virtues as an advocate for the poor, his charitable work among the campesinos , and the vast array of clinics, orphanages, and education centers he’d built around the country over the last two decades. The show featured glowing interviews with grateful farmers, Indians, admiring telenovela stars, and several staged “man-on-the-street” encounters, and all of it was scored with popular folk music that had been written about him over the years. The media conglomerate—a big supporter of the Barraza campaign during the last election—had already put it together even before the death of Victor Bravo. With orders from Hernán, they released it to any television station or cable satellite programmer that wanted to run it free of charge.