David ed. - Face Off (2014) Anthology

“Shade,” Trona said. “A little goes a long way.”

Meanwhile, the captain had cut the motor and now Trona grabbed his rod and stepped up, taking the more precarious position on the bow. “Showtime,” he said, playing line out at his feet. At his place in the middle of the panga, Hunt stood and started doing the same as Israel threw a couple pieces of the bait out into the water around them.

Nothing.

They waited. There was no swell and after a minute or so the light chop of the other pangas had dissipated as well and it was dead-still. Hunt, tensed for action, dared a look around at the other four parties who’d killed their own engines and fallen into a semicircle behind them. Suddenly, though, Israel leaned forward and slapped a heavy palm on Hunt’s shoulder. “Hey, hey!” Pointing into the well of the boat at Hunt’s feet.

Hunt turned back, looked down, saw nothing. “What?” he asked. Then, over to Trona, “What’s he want?”

Trona risked a quick glance over. “You’re standing on your line,” he said. Hunt backed up off it. Israel leaned over and tossed a five-gallon plastic bucket up to Hunt’s spot. “Put your line in that,” Trona said. “Keeps it out of the way. Don’t let it wrap around your leg, or your hand for that matter, and especially your fingers. Hundred-pound tuna hits and your finger’s wrapped with eighty-pound, it’ll amputate right then.”

Hunt got himself squared away. Israel threw another couple sardines out into the clear, blue, still water. Trona scanned the horizon in a wide arc.

Then, a sudden swirl at the surface out in front of Hunt, and Israel came alive. “Dorado! Dorado!”

Hunt got his rod up, pumped, cast, fed line, back cast, waiting what seemed interminably for the rod to load as he’d been taught, then let it rip again. This time the instant that his fly landed, one of the big fish struck.

He’d never really imagined anything like this kind of acceleration in any fishing context. Suddenly, just about immediately, all the line that he’d so carefully dropped into his plastic bucket—fifty or sixty feet of it—was gone and now he was on to his reel, already nearly to the backing, holding on for all he was worth with one hand as the reel spun beneath his other palm and the running fish ran off yard upon yard and then, sixty or seventy yards out, jumped once, twice, a third time.

Unable to stop himself, or even aware of it, he let out a scream. “Heee-ya!”

“You got him,” Trona said. “Let him run. Stay cool. You got him.”

AFTER THE FISHING AND A brief siesta back at the hotel, Joe borrowed Baja Joe’s van and drove to Los Planes to see the baseball game. Over the years he’d become a fan. The boat captains were all good players, and Israel’s tiny village of Aqua Amarga was pitted against mighty La Paz. Hunt rode along. As soon as the sun went down and the heat dropped slightly, the game started under sparse lights, before a big and boisterous crowd. Israel was on the mound, carefully picking his way through La Paz’s heavy hitters.

Trona and Hunt drank Pacíficos and ate spicy peanuts, compared California’s new austerity to the poverty they saw here. Hunt noted that either one could produce fine baseball. Joe waved to Israel’s sister, Angelica, sitting just a few rows down with three of Israel’s four children. No sign of Israel’s wife or oldest son. Joe felt the burn on the back of his neck, something no amount of sunscreen could prevent here in Baja. But it was a good feeling and he felt his heart downshift.

Halfway through the third, a fleet of four black SUVs came tearing across the flat dusty desert from far away, hopping over the creosote bushes and dunes, converging from all the outfield directions. The field they were playing on here had no home run fence, and so nothing stood between these intruders and the players. Murmurs rose, then tense voices rippled through the crowd and some of the spectators clambered down the bleachers heading for where they had haphazardly parked.

Israel stood in an alert posture on the mound, watching. Trona saw no emblems or roof lights or radio antennae on the SUVs.

“I don’t think they’re fans,” said Hunt.

“Oh, they’re not.”

“I left my bazooka at home.”

Joe felt for the .45 that was not on his hip, the .40 that was not on his ankle, then finally the .44 derringer that was not in his pant pocket and thought: Mexican law is Mexican law—gringo law enforcement or not. The SUVs slid to dusty stops one by one and disgorged cumbersome, heavily armed men. Trona saw the Zetas patches on their shoulders and his heart went cold. He and Hunt had joined the crowd surging down the stands then ducked under one of the bleacher benches and like monkeys lowered themselves to the ground.

Joe peered through the scaffolding and saw Israel still on the mound, waiting for four Zetas who strode toward him from center field. Their M-16s shone dully in the lights and the outfielders stood frozen, watching them with what might have been resignation or terror. Everywhere Joe looked he saw another fire squad of Zetas closing in, nine men in all, a baseball team’s worth of armed men.

Fans hustled through the dust of the parking area, children scampering out ahead, car doors opening and slamming shut. At the mound the four Zetas surrounded Israel. One of them motioned with his gun and Joe could see that Israel and the man were talking and that Israel was nodding his head in agreement. The other five Zetas came trotting in from across left field, straight in Joe’s direction. He had been in a situation like this before, many years ago, and he had killed several men but failed to protect the man he had pledged his life to protect.

Something touched the back of his arm and he reeled to find Angelica and Israel’s three small children behind him.

“That man is Hector,” said Angelica. “He left Aqua Amarga five years ago to be a Zeta. He wants to be known for his cruelty. Now Hector has come for him.”

“For Israel?”

She shook her head no. “For his son. Joaquin,” she said. “Joaquin comes to the games but not to this one.”

The five Zetas were nearly to second base now and still coming directly toward Trona and Hunt and Angelica and Israel’s children. “Joe,” said Hunt. “Time to move it.”

“When they don’t find Joaquin here, they go to Aqua Amarga. They know.”

Joe took Angelica’s hand and crouched and led her and the children away from home plate and the refreshment stand and the parking lot. Wyatt brought up the rear. Where the grandstands ended they stopped and huddled, half hidden from the stadium lights in the scaffolding.

Automatic gunfire burped from the parking lot and screams rose in the sudden silence. Some of the parking lights burst and smoked. Laughter. Then more shots, and more lights exploded.

Trona saw Israel on the mound, still and tensed, searching the bleachers for his sister and children. Three of the gunmen, the ones who’d been with Hector at the mound, had taken up positions at second base, shortstop, and first, but hadn’t let go of their guns. Hector strode dramatically to home plate and set his machine gun in the on-deck circle. He lifted the bat that the last La Paz hitter had left behind and took a couple of check swings, then walked to the plate and stepped into the batter’s box.

By now the five oncoming narcotrafficantes were methodically searching the grandstands where Angelica and the children had been sitting just moments ago.

· · ·

Israel wound up and slung a slow-ball and Hector drove it into left center for a single. Hector dropped the bat and raised his hands over his head as if he’d just homered. Israel backpedaled toward the chaos, his glove and free hand raised to the Zetas in supplication. The leader yelled to his men, waving the bat at them, and Trona saw Israel disappear around the dugout.