Callous

Keegan stared at his two lieutenants who had failed to kill Mitch. They were nervous and looked like someone had kicked the shit out of them.

Named Troy and Danny, they had in the past been ferociously effective. Now they shuffled, made excuses. Keegan snarled,

“Tell me again what happened.”

Troy, who was nursing a broken nose, said,

“It was all set to go down, then this guy appeared out of nowhere, knocked us sideways with a baseball bat.”

Danny, the more nervous of the two, ’fessed,

“Troy let your name slip. He said Keegan wants us to cut his throat.”

Troy rounded on him, asked,

“What did you sell me out for?”

Danny shrugged.

Keegan had been perched on a wooden table. Now he reached back, produced a Glock, said,

“We have a dilemma.”

Both men stared at the gun but said nothing.

Keegan said,

“A fuck-up like this, someone has to pay. A head has to roll and, I mean, how do we decide?”

The men looked at each other and not, it has to be said, with affection.

Danny said,

“I’ve been with you longer, boss.”

Keegan reached back again and this time produced a machete, held the blade up to the light, said,

“I always thought this was an evil looking fucker, yeah?”

No word from the guys.

Keegan reached in his pocket, produced a euro coin, said,

“Call it and whoever wins gets to off the other, else I shoot the two of you.”

The men eyed each other, then Danny rushed,

“Heads.”

Keegan flipped it high and fast; it seemed to hold above them, then landed at Troy’s feet.

Tails.

Keegan stood back, dropped the machete at Troy’s feet, held the Glock on them both, said,

“The blade’s been sharpened, so two full swings should sever the head.”

He glanced at his watch, pushed,

“Let’s go guys. Time is marching on.”

Troy looked down at the blade as if mesmerized, but Danny grabbed it, sunk it in Troy’s face, once, twice, then a third time.

Keegan said,

“Sly but impressive. Congrats. You lost but you win.”

He turned as if to go, then said,

“I always liked Troy. You, not so much.”

And

Shot him twice in the face.

Keegan knew time was seriously running out. Dio was like a maniac, seeing betrayal everywhere. When he heard Mitch was still alive, another botched attempt, he went on a rampage, destroying all around him.

And then...

Then he turned on Keegan, asked,

“When did you actually do something? I mean, besides fuck up everything?

Then Dio’s face took on a more intense look and he moved toward Keegan. Keegan had his Bowie knife in his boot and began to edge his right hand toward it.

But Dio lunged, tore Keegan’s T-shirt from his body, looking for a wire.

It was Keegan’s favorite Guns N’ Roses one.

Had been signed by Axl Rose.

Dio, as he stared at Keegan’s bare chest began to rein in, tried,

“Dude, amigo, hermano, I’m out of line. I just lost it.”

Keegan considered plunging the knife into the bottom of Dio’s stomach, then ripping up to his chin and muttering,

Who’s sorry now?

Dio hated to admit it, but his grand plan of meth conquest was in the toilet.

He had been freaked out when one of the users of his product managed to approach him with the meth mouth, teeth ravaged, the look of total madness on the face. Not that he gave a fiddler’s fuck about their well-being; he just disliked having to see it.

He had told Keegan to start to wrap it up. Keegan asked,

“What about the broad? The wannabe Callas.”

Dio smacked him.

In the mouth.

A highly fraught moment hovered.

   Dio and Keegan inhabited a supercharged world of violence and had

Seen

Witnessed

Initiated

All manner of mayhem.

But to each other?

Never.

A line was now crossed that set a whole new tone to their dealings. For the first time ever, Keegan felt like the hired help.

And Dio?

He felt he’d maybe, just maybe, made a catastrophic mistake.

He had.

Keegan was honing his knife.

The Bowie.

Long

Sharp

Serrated

Lethal.

Back in the day when Dio and Keegan were running coke out through Tijuana, they tried a risky one-off fast-and-dirty grab, trying to fly under the radar of the Gentlemen of Cali.

The deal was going down in a shed on the outskirts of the city when Keegan noticed one of the customers flick his fingers to his phone.

A tip-off.

Translated as,

There are only two gringos, come and waste them.

He said to Dio,

“Hasta la vista.”

Their code for

Incoming.

Shit going down.

But totally nuclear.”

There were five Mexicans, and just Dio and Keegan. There were few things to get Dio hotter than being outnumbered.

These confrontations, rare though they were, got him hot.

He had once told Keegan he saw such confrontations like a chess board, and he and Keegan had the precision down to a fine art.

Keegan moved right into the Mexicans, the last thing they anticipated.

They were two gringos versus five of the most feared cartel. People did not run at them; they ran from them.

In a matter of seconds, Keegan had gut shot three of the Mexicans and Dio had shot the fourth in the face.

The fifth he knocked down, had his foot on the guy’s chest, displaying his hand-tooled boots, and produced a rosary, dangled it over the Mexican’s face, said,

“Pray, muthah fuckah.”

Among the Mexican’s mangled pleas could be heard,

“Madre mia, Christos, del Corazon,” and, in truth, Christos featured most with por favor threaded in the whole pitiful imploring.

Keegan smiled. Begging turned Dio on.

He reached in his pocket, produced a thin cigarillo, lit it with the Zippo he’d gotten from the Zetas in the real

Glory

Gore-ridden

Days.

He leaned into the Mexican’s face, asked,

“Mind if I smoke?”

No objections from the Mex.

On the Mexican’s belt hung a Bowie knife, encased in a leather sling. Dio pulled it free, dropped ash into the Mex’s face, said,

“Now, that is a fucking knife.”

Without even looking he flicked it high and hard to Keegan, who caught it in one smooth move.

These two guys worked together like a slickly oiled machine, honed by years of snaking through the cartels. Dio said,

“Now, my friend, if you ever decide to stab me in the back, remember who gave you the knife.”

That was all too deep for Keegan, who shrugged.

A knife is a knife and all that.

Dio dangled the rosary beads over the Mex, asked,

“You want this cross?”

Then almost languidly, he knelt on the man’s stomach and drove the crucifix into the man’s right eye.

It was messy, gory, and some kind of yellow fluid mixed with brain matter and blood forced Dio step back to protect his pants from stain. He asked Keegan,

“That remind you of eggs over easy?”

Dio and Keegan had been a duo for a long time and knew each other as well as two stone killers can.

Keegan did, however, wonder if Dio got too euphoric about it. To Keegan it was his job, more or less, but definitely more business than pleasure.

Dio seemed to be deep in the getting-his-rocks-off area.

They’d stopped at a diner in El Paso and Keegan settled for coffee, but Dio?

Dio asked the waitress,

“How about a Mexican blend?

Grits

Sausages

Tomatoes.

With lashings of Tabasco sauce and peppers.”

Paused. Then added,

“And eggs, way over easy.”

Keegan doubted he’d ever touch an egg again. Ever.