Operation Zulu: Dos Page 10

“You were screaming like a little girl.” Ricky chuckled as he dug through the dead woman's purse.

  “Shut the fuck up, Ricky.” Leeland glared as he gingerly extricated himself from the strippers grip. “Thank you, Tanya baby.” He rubbed the back of his head where he’d struck it on the car's undercarriage. “Bitch was crazy.”

  “Maybe the accident screwed her up.” Baylie glanced down at the body. “She’s got fucked up skin and all kinds of weird looking things going on.” She knelt down next to the corpse and quickly covered her own nose. “Smells real bad. Looks like something tore a chunk out of her arm.”

  “Rabies,”—Tanya shook her head—“maybe she had rabies and that’s why she went ape-shit on you, baby.”

  “Maybe she just wanted a piece of old Tommy boy.” Ricky chuckled. “She needed a douche and some makeup, but I’ve seen you with worse.”

  “Remember that girl back in Bakersfield?” Baylie said, kicking at the corpse. “Same smell.”

  “Face doesn’t matter when you’re looking at the back of the head,” Leeland said, disinterested. “We better split before anyone gets nosey. Anything in that purse?”

  “Couple hundred bucks.” Ricky shoved the bills in his pants pocket and waved some folded up papers in the air. “Name’s Robin McKean, she’s from California.” He tossed the papers onto the ground. “Court papers. Looks like she was running from child endangerment charges or some shit. Real winner.” He tossed the purse to Tanya who deftly caught it. “For you, luv. I think it’s a Gucci.”

  “No.” Tanya quickly rifled through the purse then tossed it carelessly to the ground. “Cheap knock off.”

  “Figures.” Ricky wiped some sweat off his face. “Nothing worth a shite in that car.”

  “Split the cash.” Leeland said sternly as he stuck out a beefy hand.

  “Bloody hell.” The Brit dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of twenties. He walked over to Leeland and slapped the cash into his open palm. “Satisfied?”

  “Always.” The big man smiled as he counted the bills. “Let’s get out of here and grab some breakfast. I’m so hungry I could eat the red off a baboon’s ass.”

  “I’m not that hungry,” Bailey said, “but breakfast does sound real good.”

  “How about a shower?” Tanya asked.

  “Shower.” Baylie nodded.

  “Yeah, we’re all getting a bit ripe.”

  “Okay, okay,”—Leeland finished counting the bills—“breakfast then a cheap, cheap, motel for showers.”

  “By the hour motel is fine.” Baylie looked down once more at the woman’s prone body. “That was weird, Leeland, really weird.”

  “I know. Come on; let’s get the hell out of here. My stomach's’ growling.” He looked back at the rotting corpse and said under his breath, “I have had worse.”

  BALLS DEEP IN SOMETHING

  CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  “This place is huge.” Nero said, a little awestruck as he looked around the busy compound courtyard. The ex-soldier stood staring at a huge water fountain in the middle of the cobblestone-covered area. The fixture had three ornately carved figures in it; one was an overly muscled likeness off Camacho holding what appeared to be the world high above his head, while two nude beauties wrapped themselves around his bulging granite thighs. “I didn’t know Señor Camacho was such a big man.”

  “He is a legend in his own mind,” Domingo said smugly. “Señor Camacho lives big but he doesn’t like to share the wealth so much.”

  “I thought this paid well.” Nero watched several men patrolling the thick adobe walls, AK-47’s slung loosely over their shoulders.

  “It does, Nero, but we could always make more. Rumor has it the boss has a deal with the American in the black suit. I guess it’s big.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  “Señor Camacho may not always be in power.” He grinned through yellowing teeth. “I am just telling you this because you are new here. As you know from being a soldado, this is a very dangerous lifestyle. Watch my back, I watch yours. It is good to have friends, si?”

  “Si.” Nero could feel the weight of the new Glock he’d acquired against his waistband.

  “Just remember, amigo,”—Domingo patted the bigger man on the shoulder—“keep your head when things kick off and you will go far here. That means more dinero.”

  Nero frowned and nodded quickly.

  “Good. I showed you where the tiger cages are, si? Go get Nacho and go with him to get Dirty Sanchez. He needs to feed the tigers. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be over by the pool. It’s lunchtime and some of the house girls are out swimming.” Domingo smiled lewdly. “If you need anything tell Nacho, don’t bother me. If Santa Muerte has anything to do with it, I should be balls deep in something. Hopefully it’s not one of those talky ones. Blah, blah, I have a life, blah, blah.”

  “Yes.” Nero wanted to reach out and put his thumb through the cartel lieutenant's eye; instead, he smiled and nodded. “I hate when they want to talk.”

  “Right, their mouths should have something else in them besides words.” Domingo snorted and wiped a dribble of snot from his noise. “You may work out well here, Nero. Go find Nacho and I’ll see you this evening.”

  “Si,” Nero said through a clenched jaw. Domingo was a pig. If his daughters ever ran into such a man on the street, Nero would probably be back in El Abismo—if they ever found the body. Nero quickly turned away from Domingo and headed toward the tiger cages.

  MYSTICAL BULLSHIT

  CREECH AFB ARMORY,

  NEVADA

  “Okay… a two dollar Filipino hooker, she hasn’t bathed in a week, and it’s right after the fleet left. Ya gotta go down on her without coming up for air.” Duley ‘Dj’ Johnson ran a cloth over the barrel of a freshly cleaned mini-14. A radio sat on one of the workbenches blaring Top 40 music.

  “Or?” Sergeant Gino ‘Milli’ Vanelli placed a rifle in one of the armory’s lockers then turned back to Johnson.

  “You gotta wear Lamar Odom’s jock strap on your head,”—he held up a finger—“after he wore it all day and played a whole championship game in it and”—Duley raised another finger—“screwed Khloe Kardashian with it on.”

  “She the tall one?”

  “Yep.” Duley handed him the newly cleaned rifle. “Ya gotta dive right in.”

  Vanelli sighed. “The hooker hasn’t bathed in a week?”

  “Yep, and she’s had every swinging dick in the Pacific fleet in her.”

  “Man, there sure are a lot of ‘ands’ to that. I don’t know.” He grabbed up a half empty soda can. “What’s the hooker look like?”

  “You guys are nasty,” Sergeant Redwood said as he stopped his giant frame in the doorway of the armory. “You kiss your mama’s with those mouths?”

  “Your mama don’t seem to mind.” Duley chuckled.

  “Mama never was very picky.” Redwood crossed his big arms. “One of these days I’m going to catch you degenerates doing something really nasty.”

  “Define really nasty.” Duley stood up and tossed the cleaning rag into a barrel.

  “Easy,” Redwood stepped in closer to the junior sergeant. “Your mama.”

  “Fuck.” Vanelli set the soda can down and braced himself to jump in between the two big men.

  “Damn, Redwood, that’s some fucked up shit.” Duley laughed and slapped him on the arm. “True, but fucked up.”

  “Can’t pick your family, Duley. You guys done?” Redwood glanced around the armory.

  “Just finished cleaning the last mini. I hate those rifles.” Vanelli wiped his hands on his BDU pants. “I’d rather have my M4 any day.”

  “I’m not too thrilled with this OP.” Redwood looked at the other two soldiers. “I don’t have a problem with what we are doing; just the whole deep, dark, black bag part rubs me the wrong way. We get stuck out there we’re not getting any help.”

  “Spooky for sure.�
� Duley agreed.

  “Hell, this will be fun.” Vanelli smirked, all bravado. “We get to off some bad guys, make the world a better place, and get paid for it. Maybe we can even pick up some Mexican food to go.”

  “It’s not that, Milli,” the big Native American said quietly. “I’ve been having some bad dreams lately. Things aren’t sitting right in my gut.”

  “Shit.” Duley shook his head and found himself rubbing a phantom pain in his left leg. “Last time you had a bad feeling, I got shot.”

  “Come on, Redwood, you can’t possibly believe in all that mystical bullshit, can you?”

  “Mystical bullshit?” Redwood glanced down at the smaller man and fixed him with a hard, mean stare. “God gave us a gut feeling for a reason, nothing mystical about it.”

  “Hey, Redwood, I’m sorry, man. I—” Vanelli stepped back a little.

  “My gut is never wrong,” Redwood said in a serious tone as he rested a big hand firmly on the wiry sergeant's shoulder.

  “Uh… ” Vanelli swallowed, trying to avoid the glare of the massive man.

  “Relax, Vanelli, there’s always a first time for everything. Hell, maybe it’s indigestion.” The big sergeant smiled, patted him on the shoulder, and turned back toward the front door of the armory. “Top wants us back in the class for more mission planning. Turn off that damn radio before you lock up, Kurtz will have our asses if he comes in here and finds that radio playing anything but country music.”

  “Yeah.” Vanelli took a quick swig of the soda and let out a small burp. “Sarge says there’s only two kinds of music…”

  “Country and western.” both sergeants said in unison.

  “Yep. Country and western,” the big Native American said as he exited the armory.

  “Redwood’s gut has never been wrong,” Duley said to Vanelli as he walked over to the radio.

  “Fuck.” The other soldier shook his head.

  The music stopped abruptly as a newswoman started talking about some major riots in Chicago, San Francisco, and New York. Johnson unwrapped a stick of gum and shoved it in his mouth as he hit the off button with his free hand. “Riots. People always got to fuck shit up.”

  “Thought that was our job?” Vanelli grabbed his BDU shirt off a chair.

  “Naw, it’s our job to fuck up the shit that needs to be fucked up.”

  DIRTY SANCHEZ

  CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  “So Sanchez feeds the tigers?” Nero asked as they walked behind the rear of the compound toward a group of buildings that were just a step above his own home. The former soldier could see the rear wall of Camacho’s was manned by several very bored looking men. Nero hoped he wouldn’t be posted to this area; the guards looked blasé and sloppy—it made it look like a slow death to him.

  “Yes, if you want to call it that.” Nacho pointed to the huge tiger cages that were behind Camacho's’ faux villa. “It’s a very tricky job, Nero.”

  “Tricky?” He glanced down at the smaller cartel member. Nacho reminded him of a mouse. He was barely five feet and wore big round glasses. A huge .357 was strapped to a loose gun belt on his skinny hips. He looked more like a school teacher than a cartel member.

  “Yes, tricky.” He pulled up on his drooping holster. “Just watch, Nero, you’ll see, and you’ll be thankful it is not your job.” He smirked as they stopped in front of one of the buildings. The front door was open just a crack.

  “Sanchez?” Nacho said loudly then turned, frowned at Nero, and shrugged. “Sanchez! It’s feeding time.” There was no sound from inside except for a muffled bleating. Nacho cautiously pushed the door open. “Sanchez!”

  “Crap!” Nero jumped back as what appeared to be a Nubian goat burst through the half-opened doorway and ran off into the compound. Nero squinted as he tried to see if that really had been a blonde wig stuck to the goat's head as it trotted off into the distance.

  “Dios Mio!” Sanchez growled as he stumbled to the door and zipped up his filthy jeans. Nero turned away as a horrible smell wafted out of the room and right into his nostrils. Sanchez wiped his wet hands on his pants and angrily looked both men up and down. “Don’t you knock esé?”

  “I… it’s feeding time, Sanchez,” Nacho stammered.

  “Already?” He looked at his bare left wrist. “Damn. I am always losing my fucking watch. Gotta take it off so I don’t get it messy.” He smiled lewdly and ran a dirty hand through his long greasy black hair. “Who's this?” Sanchez asked Nacho.

  “Nero Duran. He’s a new security man.”

  “Good. Maybe this one will have some respect and knock on my door like a man.” Dirty Sanchez gave Nero a quick nod then looked back down at Nacho. “When I’m done, find Elsa for me.”

  “Elsa?” Nero asked.

  “She’s my best girl and you two let her run off,” Sanchez said unapologetically. Nero’s stomach turned a little from the smell coming from inside the room and from the man himself. The animal feeder was imposing, a few inches shorter than Nero but thickly muscled. Duran didn’t even have to ask why they called the shirtless, vest-clad man ‘Dirty’ Sanchez.

  “Si, si.” Nacho’s head bobbed up and down like it was on a spring.

  “Hmmm.” Sanchez growled again and rubbed his hairless chin. He had a faded tattoo of Jesus Malverde, patron saint of drug smugglers, across his chest. He shut the door behind him and stomped off toward another of the compound’s buildings. Dirty Sanchez angrily knocked on the other building’s door then went inside.

  “Should I ask?” Nero looked down at Nacho.

  “It is better you don’t.”

  A few minutes later, the door slammed open and Sanchez reappeared dragging a gagged and zip-tied man behind him. The captive struggled to break free from the his binds but it was futile; Dirty Sanchez had an iron grip on the smaller man’s shoulder. The man’s screams were muffled and his eyes were wide open in pure fear. Nero noticed the man had tried to use his feet as an anchor in the ground; only to create small furrows in the dirt as Sanchez dragged him toward the cage.

  “What the fuck is this?” Nero asked the other cartel man.

  “He is from a gang that tried to rip off one of El Jefe’s shipments.” Nacho shrugged. “Just be thankful Sanchez loves his job.” Nacho glanced sideways at Nero. “You want that job hermano?”

  “No.” He shuddered as he watched the tiger feeder open a gate in another area of the cage and then shove the screaming man in. Sanchez stepped inside the grassy caged area and quickly ripped the gag off the rival gang member but he left him in the zip-ties. The man turned to Sanchez and quickly began pleading for his life.

  “Puta!” Dirty Sanchez said as he struck the man hard in the face with a closed fist and knocked him to the ground. The tiger keeper quickly turned and went out the gate, locking it behind him. Sanchez then ambled over to a lever attached to another part of the fence and pulled it down, releasing the two Bengal Tigers into the area where the gang member was frantically trying to get to his feet.

  “Nacho?” Duran said quietly.

  “It is what it is,” Nacho said above the man’s panicked cries and shook his head. “Be happy you are one of us and not one of them.”

  “Si.” He nodded absently. He wanted to turn away, but he knew the two men would be watching him closely.

  “They like it when their prey runs,” Dirty Sanchez yelled over to the two men. The man inside the cage was both screaming and crying at the same time. He frantically tried to kick the gate open, but the tigers were quickly upon him. With huge razor sharp claws, one of the tigers tore off the man’s left arm. The second tiger took a leg as the screaming continued. Nero curled his fists into tight balls. What kind of men were they?

  “Yes!” Dirty Sanchez grunted; clearly aroused as the tigers started to devour the rival cartel member.

  “My God,” Nero said under his breath, horrified at what he had just witnessed. The disgusting tiger feeder approached the two and stopped in front of them.

&n
bsp; “Go find Elsa.” Dirty Sanchez jabbed a thick finger into Nero’s chest. “Hurry.”

  “Si, Sanchez.” Nacho nodded as he grabbed the bigger man by the arm. “Come on, amigo.”

  “Okay, Nacho,” Nero said, thinking it wouldn’t be easy to snap Dirty Sanchez’s neck, but it could be done. This was something he would never be able to tell his daughters about; hell, he didn’t even believe it himself and he was there. Maybe that fence job wasn’t so bad after all. Nero was sure it was better than seeing a man being fed to the tigers or having to track down some nut job’s favorite goat.

  RABIES OR SOMETHING

  PASSADO, MEXICO

  “Another one?” Doctor Cuevas asked Nurse Tomas as he washed his hands in the small clinic’s well-worn sink. The young general practitioner dried his hands on a paper towel and tossed it in an overflowing garbage can.

  “Si.” the nurse said with a worried look on her face. “Señora Alvarez said her son bit her on the leg and ran off.”

  “What the hell is all this craziness?” Cuevas looked past the harried nurse into the small waiting room filled with patients.

  “Maybe rabies or something?”

  “No,”—Cuevas ran a hand through his thinning brown hair—“it’s definitely something else, Rosa. How many is that today?”

  “Six, so far.”

  “I don’t know what this is. Keep giving them antibiotics; it keeps the fever down but…” He sighed. “I may have to call some friends of mine at the Bureau of Health.”

  “We have to do something,” Nurse Tomas said. “We really can’t handle the patients we have now.”

  “Si, have Angela bring the next patient into room three. I’m going to call Doctor Cazeres at the Bureau of Health.” He turned to the phone on his desk. “Will you check on Señor Garcia in room two? Hopefully that sedative has kicked in.”

  “Si.” The nurse stepped back into the hallway.