Standoff

Thirteen

“Is it the hat?” It had to be the hat. I removed the I ♥ MEXICO ball hat and flicked it into the river. One of the bodyguards cocked his Steyr machine pistol, and came toward me. Maybe it wasn’t the hat, but I was done with it anyway. “Your shipments to the US are getting nailed,” I said, doing my best to keep the fear out of my voice. “I can help you get them through. I know the El Paso police procedures, the Sheriff’s Office procedures, I’ve worked with the Texas Rangers, US Army Special Forces, the Air Force …”

The guy with the Steyr kept coming. It might have all ended there, except for Marco, Eduardo and their two FARC buddies who pulled weapons on the bodyguards and everyone suddenly got a little more thoughtful.

“You need me,” I said into the quiet. “The Saint needs me.”

No one breathed for too many seconds. And then Perez laughed. No sound came from him, but there were creases in the corners of his eyes, the side of his mouth lifted and this gut twitched a few times so I figured that’s what he was doing. He shooed the girls off, tucked himself in and closed his fly, and then gestured to his men to take a step back. I indicated to Marco and the others to likewise stand down.

Perez’s eyes were polished black pebbles — hard, cold and inscrutable. Damned if I could read anything in them.

“You came prepared,” Perez said in English, that harsh, dry voice of his reminding me of a throat cancer survivor. “That is good. Continuar …” Continue.

I tried to get my heart rate under control. “Your cartel sends cargo across the border in aircraft. That’s what I’m trained for — controlling air traffic in war zones. I can get you in and out of the US, thread your aircraft through Texas airspace. I’ll get you in deeper, safer, closer to your markets. Your last big shipment was a bust, and so was the one before that. You’ve lost how many millions?”

Perez shifted in his seat and I saw a scabbard on his belt, a mother-of-pearl handle protruding from it. Was that the knife used on Ms Sorwick? Perez motioned for the page of newsprint. “What do you want for this service?” he asked as the bodyguard handed it to him.

“Same as everyone — a big house, a Ferrari, women I currently can’t afford. Maybe a little revenge.”

“Revenge?”

That got him interested. I slowly unbuttoned my shirt and took it off. “Yeah, for a total lack of appreciation. I’ve given whatever was asked for the fight for freedom,” I said as I turned around. “I’ve got nothing to show for it except for what you see here. I’m 34 years of age, got maybe twenty more years if I’m lucky before the wheels fall off the wagon. I figure it’s time to put what I’ve learned to use for an employer with a better benefits plan.”

“So you’re a killer,” said Perez, holding the front page away from his face, those hard flinty eyes of his showing signs of frailty. “You like to kill?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s a hobby.” It wasn’t the answer Perez wanted to hear. I hardened the fuck up and rephrased. “If it needs to be done, it gets done.”

“How many you kill here?” He nodded at the newsprint.

“Read it,” I said.

“You tell me.”

“Two, maybe four.”

“Was it two, or four?”

“It was a gun battle,” I replied. “People might have been killed in the crossfire.”

“What happened to the cocaine?”

“It was found.”

“Who found it?”

“A Sheriff’s deputy who died at the scene.”

“The deputy you killed?”

I put my shirt back on. “It says so right there in the newspaper, don’t it?”

He snorted, ridiculing the notion. “When you own the newspaper,” said Perez, “the news is a toy to play with.”

I never would’ve figured Perez for a philosopher.

“Why were you at this airport taking part in a gun battle?”

“Aircraft delivered the drugs. The Sheriff’s Office wanted to know how they did that undetected. I just happened to be there.” I shrugged. “Luck …”

“Luck.” Perez nodded almost imperceptibly. “If you want to work for me, you must first serve …” He looked for the right word. “Un aprendizaje.”

“An apprenticeship?”

“Si.”

“What sort of apprenticeship?”

“You hand over your gun and come with us.”

“That kind,” I said. My throat moved involuntarily, swallowing a big lump of fear, the way I had felt when I was back playing Russian roulette. The fact that I had a Sig keeping my spine company was reassuring. I wasn’t happy about giving it up.

Perez stood. He might have been taller than a garden gnome, but it’d be close. He took the pearl-handled blade from out of its scabbard, the blade long and thin and hand beaten so that it appeared to be crawling with tiny worms — Damascus steel. He twisted it in the air so that the blade’s edge caught the light. I had no doubt that it could split a hair. “Dile a tus amigos … Si siguen primero te mato, y luego matarlos.” Tell your friends if they follow, first I kill you and then I kill them.

From the look on the faces of Eduardo, Marco and the others, who had all been keenly following proceedings, I knew it was something I didn’t have to repeat.

The bodyguard with the Steyr patted me down, took the Sig and the spare mags. He tried to take the DEET. “Hey!” I said, attempting to snatch it back. Perez gestured for the bottle, holding out his hand. The bodyguard gave it to him and the boss took a sniff. He squeezed some into his hands and rubbed it on his neck, then indicated to the bodyguard to return it to me. If I was going to be taken hostage, I wasn’t gonna do it scratching bites and slapping at insects.

Perez led the way through the bar, the place falling silent, and picked up his men working the front door. We then went down the side of the bar, onto the jetty. The boat’s motors were fired up before we got there. My FARC buddies stayed on the veranda, Marco, Eduardo, nor any of the others making any gestures of farewell. I’d seen faces like theirs before, gazing down on a coffin as the dirt was shoveled onto the lid. As far as they were concerned, I was already dead.