Gun Work

That was what Carl would want to know. Barney was stone-faced and silent as he put distance between them and the bad guys, one eye already on the GPS tracker in the limousine. The onscreen map was shifting, stuttering southwesterly — away from them. Carl would want to talk, to quell his rampant panic with chatter; Barney would tell him to please be quiet.

Gunfire produces a surreal, accelerated state of mind, and the first rule is not to be seduced or distracted by the hyper-reality of metal projectiles whizzing through the air all around you, the noise, the muzzle flashes, ricochets and panicked confusion. You must envelop yourself in a pocket of calm deliberation that permits maximal safe evasion, target tracking, and optimum — not wasteful — return fire in order to neutralize the opponent’s capacity to kill you. The learned behaviors of firing scared, firing blind, or firing wounded cannot be acquired by advice or instruction; either you got it or you ain’t.

The people who had abducted Erica Ledbetter were businessmen in a cruel trade who no doubt thought of what they did as a brutal necessity in a harsh and unforgiving world. If they were good at what they did, they would not gratuitously sacrifice a revenue asset — Erica — for the sake of a macho gesture.

But. But this was Mexico, birthing crib of cowboy machismo. What if their dicks had been scuffed enough to warrant a violent display and alpha-male retribution?

But. But the voice on the cellphone hadn’t sounded like a street thug. He’d sounded like a businessman with an education, which made his status in the kidnapping trade extra-lethal, because here was a person who would not bluff.

But. But Carl and Barney now possessed a counter-hostage, one of the bad guys, currently dozing in the back of the limo after being knocked unconscious by Barney’s second shot, a deflection hit that had skinned the hair off his left temple and put his nasty self down into dreamland. Barney’s first shot had hit the guy in the ass, and the slug was buried deep in the meat of his right buttock. That would be painful soon enough, and very useful.

But. But Carl would believe Barney was a loose cannon, a gold-card-carrying member in good standing of Club Psycho, for taking provocative action. Carl might not understand that had been the only option. They could accede like sheep or push the ante. The deciding factor for Barney had really been the bulletproof car. The armored limo had been better than having five extra guys on their side. The Rio Satanas drop-off stank in more important ways than its eye-watering odorama: At the moment Barney had seen the setup, he’d known the drama was far from over, but there’d been no time to explain that to his compadre.

The kidnappers had never wanted an exchange at Rio Satanas, Erica for the cash. They had wanted an excuse to sweeten the pot. They had already known Barney was in play before he and Carl left their seedy hotel, so credit Estrella for sinking them even before they got to the river; Erica was probably miles away. Carl was to be told his desperate gambit — using Barney — had been hopeless. There was to be the requisite gunfire and shouted ultimata. It was designed to play that way so Carl, now more freaked out than ever, would eagerly agree to any solution, any carrot the bad guys offered, like doubling the ransom. Minimal effort, and the kidnappers win two-to-one.

Which was why the only option had been to jab them, see who flinched, maybe score a drop of blood in payback. It had all happened very quickly, and the exchange seemed to have soldiered Carl up. He had dropped back into combat mode, heeding the incoming fire, grabbing their hostage, tossing Barney the MP5, not pointing the muzzle at Barney or himself.

Maybe that was why Carl was being unaccountably quiet right now.

Barney’s own return to combat mode had come much earlier. It had surged back instantaneously like a good cocaine bump to his bloodstream. It was all foregone the moment he saw the bridge. Flooring that pedal was as natural for Barney as hitting the brake would be for an ordinary human with a toddler in their path. You either got it or you ain’t, and Barney owned it.

He could feel his heartbeat. He was awake now, and that was why he had engaged superior forces while hopelessly outnumbered.

Now all he had to do was figure out a way to tell Carl that his saucy little friend Estrella was working for the bad guys.

“He’s awake,” Carl said from the back of the car.

“The bag has stopped,” Barney said, watching the GPS screen.