Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“His name is El Barquero,” came a voice from the back room. “Don’t move, El Barquero. It’s time to pay the Padre.”

“Is that you, Sandro?” El Barquero asked of the man behind him. “The Padre must really want you dead if he sent you after me.”

“It’s the other way around, El Barquero,” Sandro said as he stepped into the headquarters’ main room. “Put the gun on the table and turn around.” El Barquero placed his gun down and slowly turned to face Sandro. The tall Mexican covered in tattoos held a large-caliber chrome-plated revolver pointed at El Barquero in one hand and El Barquero’s silver case in the other. “Back up against the wall, both of you,” Sandro ordered. Avery and El Barquero complied. “Who are you?” Sandro asked Avery.

“No one,” Avery nervously replied. “I really should be on my way. Give you gentlemen some time to catch up.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Sandro said as he walked to the table in the middle of the room and placed the silver case on it. “The Padre will be upset to know you left his money in an unattended car. Very sloppy, El Barquero. But I’m glad you kept it with you. Just follow the money.” He reached into his pocket and removed a phone and tossed it onto the table. A red dot flashed on the phone’s screen. “Finding you was easy.”

“You didn’t check the case for a tracking device?” Avery asked El Barquero. “Jesus, what an amateur. I myself perform a weekly bug sweep. It’s standard operating procedure for any operative worth their salt.”

“Shut up,” snapped El Barquero and Sandro at the same time.

“I’m going to be needing your head, El Barquero,” Sandro said as he reached behind his neck with one hand and removed a long machete from the diagonal sling across his back, the whole time keeping his revolver trained on the muscular giant. “You want me to take it now or once you’re dead?”

“Now, you piece of shit,” El Barquero snarled. Sandro took a step toward the two men. Quick as lighting, El Barquero reached over and grabbed the back of Avery’s tracksuit and threw him toward the advancing Sandro. Sandro pistol-whipped the stumbling Avery across the face, knocking him to the floor.

Immediately, Sandro swung his gun toward El Barquero, who had somersaulted to the floor behind the table, using the table top as cover. Sandro’s pistol roared as the back corner of the table exploded, the bullet just missing El Barquero. In one fluid motion, El Barquero reached underneath his leather coat and grabbed a hand scythe. As he rolled up on one knee, he threw the curved blade at Sandro’s head as hard as he could. Sandro ducked just under the whirling steel weapon as he fired blindly. The bullet’s impact left a fist-sized hole in the cinderblock wall behind El Barquero.

Sandro rose up to draw a bead on El Barquero, but it was too late. The powerful Mexican had launched himself at Sandro as soon as the scythe had left his hand. He closed the gap between the two men in a split second. Before Sandro could aim his pistol, El Barquero was on top of him. The force of El Barquero’s impact knocked both men to the floor. El Barquero was on top of Sandro, locking his pistol hand to the floor. From his back, Sandro swung the machete with his free hand at El Barquero. El Barquero rolled to his right to close the distance to the blade and trap Sandro’s arm and the machete to the floor. Rolling to stop the blade pulled Sandro on top of El Barquero, but El Barquero had his wrist locked in a vise-like grip and wouldn’t allow Sandro to bring the gun barrel down.

“Jesus,” said Avery as he watched the two men’s deadly struggle on the floor. Wiping blood from his face, he got to his feet. Deciding this might be a good time to evacuate the scene and let these two men settle their differences in private, Avery snatched his precious duct-taped bundle from the table. Turning to the front door, he stopped and glanced back at the silver case on the table. Then he looked toward the two men on the floor. Avery grabbed the case and ran to the front of the building. Unlocking the door, he bolted for his car. Fumbling with his keys, he finally managed to unlock the back door. Avery dropped his taped bundle in the back seat. Then, opening the silver briefcase, he dumped the stacks of bills onto the floorboard. Throwing the case on the ground, he slammed the back door shut, climbed into the front, and peeled out backward down the bumpy drive. Slamming on the brakes when he came to the main road, he spun the car around and floored the accelerator. Avery’s hands shook as the car’s engine whined. Wiping the blood from the wound Sandro’s pistol barrel had left on his forehead, he sped down the road and toward the highway.

Back inside, El Barquero’s crushing grip on Sandro’s wrist began to take effect. Slowly the heavy pistol began to wobble in Sandro’s grip. El Barquero stared into Sandro’s panicked eyes and smiled.

“Still want my head?” El Barquero asked darkly. Sandro leaned forward and head-butted the much larger man. El Barquero didn’t even flinch. El Barquero shook Sandro’s weakened wrist and the pistol fell to the floor. El Barquero instantly rolled back to his left and on top of Sandro, this time keeping the machete pinned to the floor with his right hand. Climbing forward, El Barquero used his left knee to pin Sandro’s right arm down. Sounds of bones breaking filled the two men’s ears as El Barquero rained left-handed punches straight down on Sandro’s face like a pile driver. Six, seven blows, and Sandro’s face was a bloody pulp. Sandro, barely conscious, choked on blood and shattered teeth. El Barquero ripped the machete from Sandro’s slack grip and pulled the bloody man to his feet by his leather vest.

“Look at me, Sandro,” El Barquero snarled. Sandro tried to peer through his swollen eyes but only saw blood. “I’m going to be needing your head, Sandro. You want me to take it now, or when you’re dead?”

Sandro mumbled something unintelligible through his pulverized mouth.

“That’s what I thought,” said El Barquero. With one vicious, powerful slash of the sharp machete, Sandro’s head toppled sideways. It landed on the floor with a dull, wet thump. Sandro’s decapitated body hit the floor right after it.

“Shit,” El Barquero said as he turned to the table. The silver case was gone. He grabbed his pistol from the table and raced to the open front door. The green car had vanished. The empty silver case lay next to a set of deep tire tracks in the gravel drive heading to the main road. He scanned up and down the main road, not seeing anything. El Barquero returned to the cinderblock building. He stepped over Sandro’s headless corpse, a wide pool of blood spreading out where his head used to reside. In anger, El Barquero kicked Sandro’s head with his heavy black boot. It flew across the room and bounced off the far wall near his hand scythe. Retrieving the curved blade, he loaded the three burlap bundles into his car parked out back. Returning to the building one more time, he walked to the General’s office. He pressed the “Play” button on the answering machine.

“This is Avery Bartholomew Pendleton of Austin, Texas…”

Back in Austin, Jackie waited impatiently in line in the women’s restroom of a small movie theater. It had been a relatively slow Sunday night for her restaurant, and she’d felt comfortable skipping out before closing to pick Kip up at his house so that the two could catch a movie. Jackie wasn’t much for standing still. She fidgeted in the small two-stall bathroom, waiting for one of the occupied stalls to empty. She checked her watch and rolled her eyes at the woman waiting in line behind her as the two women in the stalls chatted away, oblivious to the other women waiting in line.