David ed. - Face Off (2014) Anthology

Hunt watched the Zetas turn back to their compadres, no doubt wondering what they were supposed to do with these clowns. A couple more of the narcos who’d stayed back by the cars decided to come on up and help get these pests out of the way, not bothering to bring their weapons.

In front of them, Hunt pointed at the machine guns, held up a hand as if he suddenly understood. At the same moment, Trona offered a sip from his bottle of tequila, an excuse to get half a step closer, let the advancing guys get within range. “And,” he said, slowly, evenly, dragging it out. “Now!”

Hunt came up with the baseball bat and drilled the nearest Zeta over the ear. At the same moment, Trona swung with the tequila bottle in one hand, cold-cocking the guy in front of him, drawing the revolver out from his belt with the other, getting the dead drop on the two backup guys. “Don’t move. Hands up! Don’t move!”

Hunt, never slowing down, had his hands on his guy’s machine gun before he’d even hit the ground, and now charged the remaining three guards down by the SUVs, who barely had had time to get halfway to their feet, scrambling, when they were all looking at a suddenly very serious American commando who was clearly well trained in the use of the M-16 and prepared to use it.

They raised their hands signaling their surrender as Trona, now armed with his own machine gun and a good handgun, came forward with the other two captives, their arms in the air as well. The gringos’ two victims lay bleeding, quiet, unmoving, both facedown in the street.

Trona stood guard as Hunt collected the rest of the weapons. Minutes later they had bound and gagged the narcos with duct tape and fifty-pound-test fishing line that they found in the toolbox of the van, line that would cut them deeply if they struggled.

INSIDE, FOR HECTOR, THE NEGOTIATIONS were not proceeding well. He’d been a villager here all his life, until a few years ago, before accepting the uniform, and the dark soul, of a Zeta. So he knew how stubborn these people could be. How superstitious. Ignorant fishermen!

Even pointing his gold-plated, Malverde-embossed .45 at Joaquin, it had taken Hector a full ten minutes to convince Israel of the futility of his—and the town’s—position. If there was gold in Aqua Amarga, then it was Zeta gold, Hector’s gold, verdad ? The town was only still in existence because of the forbearance of Hector Salida! Didn’t Israel realize that Hector could kill every man, woman, and child in Aqua Amarga and nothing would happen? Nobody would care. The useless and corrupt government would do nothing. To oppose Hector would be certain death. Did Israel want to see him kill Joaquin right now in front of him, or did he want to bring him the gold? It was really that simple. Hector looked down at Joaquin, a handsome young man, now curled tight on the floor, trembling like a cold dog. Hector swirled the barrel of his fancy gun through Joaquin’s lush black hair.

Israel looked at his son, then at Hector, then at Angelica.

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” said Israel.

Hector watched Israel rise and motion to his bodyguard to follow. They went down the hallway of the small house. Hector heard a scraping sound, like furniture being moved. He smiled at Angelica. “I miss the village.”

“The village does not miss you.”

“I’d rather be a legend than a slave.”

“You are a slave to greed.”

The two men were back in a moment, the bodyguard swinging a heavy rice bag onto the table, Israel looking on with a beaten expression. Hector swung his weapon away from Joaquin and ordered him to stand. The boy stood on shaking legs and Hector pointed the barrel of his gun at the bag. Joaquin untied and upended it and the heavy treasure thundered onto the old wooden table. Hector set his gun down and pawed through his bounty—somewhere near thirty kilograms of quartz run through with thick, visible veins of gold. Five, eight, perhaps ten kilograms of the gold itself. A fortune.

Finally, thought Hector, things are going my way. “Now. Where is the mine? Which mine?”

Hector saw Joaquin hang his head and cast a look at his father.

“You have ten seconds to tell me the mine, or I shoot your mother,” said Hector. He pushed the end of the barrel between Angelica’s breasts. “One. Two. Three.”

“Father?”

“Four. Five.”

“Yes, son. Tell him!”

“Six. Seven. Eight.”

“Father?”

“Tell him!”

“Nine.”

“Test pit ninety-six!” said Joaquin. “On the way to San Antonio!”

“That is government property!” bellowed Hector. “How did you steal gold from the government? How? ”

Joaquin looked at his father again, imploringly, and Israel nodded. “I have a friend in the ministry,” said Joaquin. “He knows I steal. We share.”

“His name?”

“If I tell you, he will kill me. If I don’t, you will.”

“I feel such sadness. His name !”

“Narcisso Rueda,” muttered Joaquin. “God help me.”

Someone knocked on the front door. Hector and the bodyguard swung their guns toward the sound.

HUNT STOOD WAY ASIDE FROM the door, flat against the wall, and waited for the bullets to punch through. He mustered his best Spanish accent. “Hector! Policia! Vamos!”

The door cracked open and the bodyguard peered out. Hunt grabbed his neck and twisted him back inside just as Hector raised his gun and fired. He felt the heavy .45s thudding into the Zeta’s armor, the powerful shock waves transferring from the bodyguard straight into himself. He threw the man to the floor as Israel crashed down on Hector’s arms with a chair—his golden gun skidding across the floor—and Angelica walloped him over the head with a cast-iron tortilla press. Trona burst in from behind them with one of the Zeta’s good semiautomatics held straight at Hector, who was back up on his knees, barely.

Hunt grabbed the golden gun, then drew his own borrowed handgun from his belt and gave the bodyguard a sharp rap to the head with it. He ordered the family to raise their hands and move back against the wall. “Now!”

Joe stepped in and herded them. Angelica raised her hands and looked at Trona. “The devil himself. Look at his face.”

“How nice of you to notice,” said Joe, unfailingly polite. “I’ve heard much worse.”

“Get out of my house,” said Israel.

“You gringo pigs leave us alone!” yelled Joaquin.

“Leave you alone?” asked Hunt. “After all your father’s talk on the boat radio today? All that fast Spanish he thought we couldn’t hear? After his endless bragging about his son finding the gold that was going to bring miracles to Aqua Amarga? Leave you alone ?”

Hunt saw Israel’s pitch-perfect expression of shame. Of foolishness confessed. Of utter defeat.

“So,” said Trona. “Thanks for the tip, captain. There’s no way we could pass up an opportunity to rob you. But, since this hombre beat us to it, we’ll just rob him. Le gusta? Es bueno? ”

Trona, eyes now on Hector and gun still in hand, swept the gold ore back into the rice bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“I vow to take back my gold and murder you,” said Hector.

“We’d have been disappointed if you didn’t,” said Joe.

“Let’s go, partner,” said Hunt.

“Let’s tie everybody up first,” Trona said. “Just for the hell of it.”

· · ·

They had an early plane—nine AM—out of La Paz Airport, but both men felt it couldn’t really be too early.