Operation Zulu: Dos Page 7

  “Look, Ian, this could be really, really bad.”

  “Not for us.” He smiled grimly. “In fact, have one of those bodies taken to my workroom… the female.” He took a few steps then stopped and turned to face the chemist, who was still staring at the closed door. “Do they feel pain?”

  “No.” Volkov slowly shook his head. “They appear to feel nothing.”

  “Too bad.” Black looked down at his shiny Gucci’s. “Forget about the girl then. Just keep this quiet. I don’t want El Jefe to get wind of this.”

  PUT YOUR MOMMA OUT ON THE CORNER

  PASSADO, MEXICO

  Hector slid a handful of wet pesos across the dirty bar top, almost knocking over several empty beer bottles. Reyes, the bartender, caught a couple of the empties with the back of his hand and threw a nasty glance at the burly man who was trying to climb off the worn barstool. Reyes grabbed the soggy bills off the damp counter and quickly counted them. As usual, it was short. The big barman slammed the pesos down on the worn bar, causing old beer to splash across the dirty countertop.

  “Hector, you shorted me again!” Reyes growled in angry Spanish.

  “Later, hermano.” Hector waved a hand and stumbled to the door. “Later.”

  “It is always 'later'. You still owe me fifty pesos!”

  “Well,”—Hector belched loudly and pushed his way out through the saloon doors—“put your momma out on the corner. I’ll bet you’ll get your fifty pesos quicker than you’d get it from me!”

  “What?” Reyes glanced around the near empty cantina. Four or five patrons sat drinking and chuckling at Hector's remarks. Embarrassed, the bartender reached behind the counter and pulled out a well-used aluminum bat. The old drunk wasn’t about to get away with stiffing him and insulting his dear, sainted mother.

  “Calm down, Reyes,” said Orones, one of the cantina's regulars, annoyed as he tried to watch the soccer match on the bar's small television.

  “Leave the drunk be,” Salas—another regular—said as he grabbed up his half empty beer bottle. “He’ll be back tomorrow to apologize.”

  “Puta! I’ve had enough!” Reyes pushed his bulk through the swinging doors and disappeared outside. A few minutes later, the cantina was rocked by a terrible high-pitched scream.

  “Dios mio!” Salas stood up at the small table he shared with the snoozing Garces. The scream was soul piercing. It had to have been the worst sound Salas had ever heard. The bar regular reached over and tried to shake his passed out partner awake. “Garces!”

  “Salas?” Orones looked over at the older man from across the bar. Lozano, another patron slowly moved closer to where the other men were gathered.

  “What was that?” Lozano asked nervously.

  Salas shook his head then shouted for the bartender. “Reyes!”

  “Come on.” Orones waved to Lozano. “Maybe he needs our help.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t.” Lozano swallowed as he inched closer to the others. The three men looked at each other wide eyed as Garces continued to snore face-down at the small table. Several minutes passed that felt like an eternity to the three men. Orones had finally gathered up enough backbone to peek outside when the swinging doors suddenly flew inwards with a tremendous force. Reyes staggered inside. His clothes were torn and bloody. His face was smeared with red, and strips of flesh hung from his right cheek and neck. The cantina owner still held the crimson-covered bat in his torn and bloodied right hand. All three men jumped back in fright. Lifeless unfocused eyes glared in the direction of the terrified men.

  “Diablo!” Orones shouted as he tripped over a chair and crashed hard to the brick floor.

  “Reyes! Reyes!” Salas pleaded.

  “It’s not Reyes!” Lozano turned pale and stumbled over Orones, who still lay sprawled on the floor. “Demonio! Demonio!”

  The Reyes zombie lurched swiftly over to where Salas stood frozen in fear. The sound of the dead bartender dragging the aluminum bat across the brick floor filled the men's ears with dread. Before he could reach the cowering Salas, two more figures shambled quickly into the bar; the junkie Banuelos and the newly reanimated Hector. The three made horrible moaning sounds as they ravenously tore into the screaming bar patrons.

  When Garces finally awoke from his drunken stupor it was with a sharp pain in his stomach. The drunk instantly thought it was the tequila he’d been guzzling all morning. Cursing, the pain became stronger and stronger. He quickly opened his sleep-crusted eyes only to find himself face-to-face with the bartender, Reyes, hungrily kneeling over him, red-splashed face and chewing on something. Garces quickly realized that the something Reyes was chewing on appeared to be Garces own ropey intestines. That was when another round of screaming started.

  PEOPLE'S FEELINGS GET HURT

  0600 AM

  CREECH AFB,

  NEVADA

  “I am truly getting too old for this,” Hale said as he stretched his legs in the cool morning air. The unit had gathered in the early darkness all decked out in the new black and gold Army issue PT clothes; Hale was the only stand out with his grey Air Force t-shirt and royal blue shorts. .

  “Too old for this? I thought you Pararescue guys were all about running? Saw some of you guys at Lackland carrying a telephone pole and running all about,” Cross said and slapped Hale on the back jokingly.

  “No. I love running. Going out and drinking all night with you youngsters? I’m too old for that.” He glanced at the huge dive watch on his wrist. “I should have been in bed by nine.”

  “I do agree with that.” Morgan yawned and did a quick little back stretch. He disliked running but hated stretching more; he always thought it was a waste of time. “Shitty band, shitty booze, shitty fucking night.”

  “You still wound up about Kubicek?” Hale asked. Morgan just frowned and nodded.

  “I don’t see him,” Cross said, glancing around at the soldiers who were stretching or just shooting the shit in the near-vacant parking lot.

  “Maybe Hamil was able to get him bounced after all.” Hale shrugged.

  “We’ll see. L.T. was a West Pointer so…?” Morgan raised his hands in mock surrender. “Anything can happen.”

  “Yep.” Cross sat down on the crunchy ground and started to stretch. “Hell, somebody dropped that turd on us.”

  “How in the world do you get all limber like that?” Morgan asked as he watched Cross loosen up for the run. The Sergeant wasn’t being pervy he was just astounded at her ability to stretch.

  “You have to try, Morgan.” She smiled. “You know that means you have to actually get down and stretch.”

  “Shit.”

  “She has a point. Stretching does work,” Hale agreed.

  “Not you too, flyboy.” Morgan heard heavy crunching on the gravel behind him. As he started to turn, he heard Sergeant Gino “Milli” Vanelli start to call them to attention when he was cut short by a familiar voice.

  “As you were!” Captain Galvan shouted as he approached the group of soldiers followed by First Sergeant Kurtz. “As you were.”

  “Captain.” Morgan nodded as their commanding officer stopped in front of them. He was all decked out in the black Army PT uniform.

  “Morning, Sergeants,” he said to the three. “You ready for some exercise?”

  “Always.” Hale nodded.

  “Good.” Sergeant Kurtz smirked. “Heard you all tied one on last night—or should I say this morning. You’re gonna be sweating out plenty of cheap alcohol!”

  “Lifer,” Cross said under her breath. Kurtz was a fitness fanatic and built like a bulldog; 'no mercy' was his nickname.

  “All right, Sergeant,”—Galvan turned to Kurtz—“form up the troops; I need a minute with Sergeant Morgan.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kurtz gave a curt nod and turned to the others. “Time to break up this gaggle fuck! Move it, ya ass bags. Let’s go!” he barked.

  “Sir?” Morgan asked as they walked away from the formation.

  “Well, I talked
to Hamil.” Galvan took a breath and ran a hand through his buzz cut. “Seems our boy has some powerful connections.”

  “That’s just swell,” Morgan said glumly.

  “He’s got an uncle that’s a New York Senator; big time high roller. The colonel couldn’t get shit through a strainer on this. Kubicek stays. I’m sorry.”

  “Then maybe I should ask for a PCS, Captain. That frag magnet is going to get someone killed.”

  “Listen. I need your skills more than his. I’ll keep him tied up in admin doing shit work until he gets so many paper cuts he can’t take it anymore. I already have Colonel Hamil’s approval. Kubicek will be Kurtz' house mouse and my office bitch.” Galvan grinned.

  “Well, shit, Captain. Thank you.”

  “Least I could do. I don’t like to talk shit about men in my command but I’ve seen a lot of shitbirds in my career.” He rested his hands on his hips. “I was enlisted before I became an officer. I’m not a maverick because I started the Army late. I worked for a butt boy like Kubicek. I swore never again. Thought I could make a difference, so here I am.” He chuckled. “Am I making a difference?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Ha.” Galvan chuckled. “At least you’re honest. Let’s get back before ‘No Mercy’ wears them out before the run.”

  Morgan glanced over at the formation of soldiers doing pushups. “Where is the lieutenant anyway?”

  “Mental health day.”

  “What?”

  “Mental health day. He was shook up by almost killing you so he went to see the doc. Your yelling and threats hurt his feelings.”

  “Hurt his feelings?”

  “Relax, Sergeant. This is a new Army, people's feelings matter.” The officer shrugged as he jogged off toward the formation. “Feelings, Sergeant. Feelings!”

  “Swell.” Morgan chuckled. “Since when did they start issuing those?”

  ALL DRESSED UP

  PASSADO, MEXICO

  Nero wiped the fog from his bathroom mirror with his hand. The condensation streaked the glass as he moved his hand back and forth across the surface. When he was satisfied he could see himself clear enough, the ex-Narco soldier splashed the warm water on his face and slowly proceeded to dry shave. Once he was done, and with a minimal amount of cuts, he splashed his face again then dried it on a well-used towel. Clean enough, he thought and smiled. He threw the blue button up shirt over his wife beater and headed out the front door of his shack of a house. He squinted in the morning sunlight before putting on his cheap sunglasses. He loved those sunglasses; they were supposed to be the same ones they wore on that American TV show about outlaw bikers. Nero felt they made him look badass, and today he wanted to look like a tough guy. But not too tough, he didn’t want to spook Salazar away from hiring him.

  Nero quickly made his way into town. As he crossed the main street, he saw a crowd gathered over by Reyes' Cantina. It didn’t look like a drinking crowd; people were gathered around in groups, whispering and looking nervous. He almost had a mind to go over and find out what was going on but he didn’t want to mess up his job opportunity. As he crossed a side street, an old pickup pulled up next to him.

  “Nero, where you headed?” A gruff voice came from inside. Duran recognized the man behind the wheel as Daniel Flores. He waved at the old farmer and smiled.

  “Up to the compound.”

  “Bob the Butcher's?”

  “Si.” He walked over to the open driver's side window. “And how are you today, Señor Flores?”

  “Good,” he answered curtly. “Why are you going up there all dressed up?”

  “Job. I hear there are openings.”

  “Miho, you can come work for me and—”

  Nero raised a hand. “Thank you for the offer, Señor Flores, but you cannot pay what Camacho does. I only wish to raise enough to move closer to my daughters.”

  “I see.” Flores nodded his understanding. “Climb in, Nero. I’ll give you a ride there.”

  “You are a good man, Señor Flores,” he said, climbing into the cab.

  Flores shoved the truck in gear and the vehicle jerked forward. “You see what happened at the cantina?”

  “No? What?”

  “They say there was some kind of fight. Lots of blood but no bodies.”

  “Very strange.”

  “I agree.” Flores shifted gears roughly on the old pickup. “Might be your new employer behind this—some kind of cartel thing.”

  “I don’t think so. They would have cut off Reyes' head and put it out front to make a point. Besides, Reyes wasn’t into anything illegal.”

  “Well, it is strange, Nero. People talk. Say La Llorona is behind this.”

  “La Llorona is a kid's story. My mama and grandmamma used to tell that to me so I’d behave.” He shook his head. “Probably just a bad bar fight. They’ll probably find Reyes and his cronies at the whorehouse or worse, the clinic in Pinello.”

  “Maybe, but I tell you, Nero, strange things are happening,” Flores said quietly. “Other people are missing.”

  “Could be a lot of things, Señor Flores.” He patted the grizzled old man on the shoulder. “I have seen a lot of horrible deeds with the army and in prison. No La Lloronas, just evil men. Demonios in the flesh. We have enough to worry about without blaming children's horror stories.”

  Flores shrugged. “There is all kinds of evil out there, Nero, in the flesh and spiritual. To fight it, you need to keep faith.”

  “God?”

  “Yes, God.”

  “Hmm. I do believe, Señor Flores; it's just hard sometimes.”

  “Si, miho, it is.” The old man pulled the truck up just outside the road that led to the compound. “God is good to have on your side. Life is not easy, but what is?”

  “Si.” The younger man nodded and opened the ancient vehicle's door. Nero knew the farmer wouldn’t make the quarter mile drive up the private road. Flores' dislike for the cartel was well known.

  “This is as far as I go.”

  “Thank you.” The ex-soldier climbed out of the truck.

  “Be safe, Nero,” Flores shouted as the pickup kicked up dust and vanished down the road. Nero shook his head and smiled. Life was never easy, but maybe things were starting to look up.

  Duran turned to face the thick wooden gate that divided the bright white, eight-foot adobe wall that surrounded Camacho's huge compound. A well-worn sign was placed squarely and visibly on the center of the gate. NO TRESPASSING OR SOLICITING was printed in huge red letters.

  He noticed a camera and an intercom posted on a cement block near the gate. The camera was mounted high out of reach. Before he could press the red intercom button, there was the rumble of a vehicle from the road behind the fence. Through all the lush green trees that surrounded the complex, Nero could see a faint dust cloud and hear the loud crunch of tires on gravel. He’d obviously been spotted before he’d even left Señor Flores' truck. An open-topped red jeep came to a halt behind the wooden gate. One of the men stood up in the lifted vehicle and glared down at Nero.

  “What do you want?” the man said. A cigarette dangled from his lip, framed by a thick moustache.

  “Looking for work.” Nero held his hands open at his sides. “I was told Señor Camacho was hiring.”

  “Hiring? For what?”

  “Security.”

  The thickly mustached man chuckled and took a drag from the cigarette. “Security.” He looked down at the still seated driver and said something. Both men laughed. Nero was starting to feel a little nervous.

  “Okay. You have any weapons on you?’

  “No.”

  “Stand back from the gate.” Moustache waved a hand that held the shrinking cigarette. “When it opens, step inside. Alberto is going to search you first. No big moves or I will shoot you. You don’t want me to put a hole in that nice shirt of yours, do you?” He drew a Desert Eagle handgun out of a side holster and pointed it right at Nero.

  Nero raised his hands and
slowly walked inside the secured area. He hated looking down the business end of a gun; it rarely ever seemed to end well.

  YOU EAT A LOT OF SHIT?

  EN ROUTE TO PASSADO, MEXICO

  “This taste like shit!” Leeland dropped the foil wrapped burrito out of the open passenger's side window of the black '67 Chevy Impala. Baylie rolled her eyes at him from behind the wheel of the old muscle car.

  “Leeland, you eat a lot of shit?”

  “No.” The big man in the bright Hawaiian shirt cracked open a can of Coke and quickly took a big swallow.

  “Then how in the hell do you know what shit tastes like?” Baylie ran a tattooed hand through her short black hair. Leeland could hear Tanya giggling in the back seat. He fixed her with an evil glare then looked back over at Baylie.

  “Baylie, if you and I didn’t go way back, I would have dumped your ass back in Waco.”

  “Uh huh.” She took a bite from her foil wrapped burrito. “Then who would drive this monster?”

  She smirked, mouth full of food. “Tanya don’t drive, and Ricky back there can’t figure out which side of the road is which.”

  “Hey!” Ricky protested from the back seat.

  “And you…” Baylie took another bite. “You couldn’t drive in a straight line if your life depended on it. Which, actually, it has!”

  “Baylie.” He waved a hand dismissing her.

  “Yeah, just what I thought.”

  “Leeland,”—Tanya leaned forward and handed him a paper wrapped taco—“try one of these. They ain’t so bad. Can’t have you going hungry. You get all grumpy.”

  The big man frowned and grabbed up the taco from Tanya’s hands. He peeled open the greasy paper and took a big bite. After a few chews, he turned around to the smiling stripper and nodded. Tanya patted him on the shoulder and smiled, happy in the knowledge she was easily able to manipulate the big man.