Gun Work

Barney’s eyes quickly sussed the trap. To bolt for the car would just mean a Chinese fire drill of gunplay. No way to hole up in the room — the bathroom window was heavily barred and these dudes could shoot through the walls until the entire building fell apart. A quick glance at Carl — useless as a hostage, and honestly confused; what was landing on their heads had not been his idea. Barney had been so intent on watching Carl for the slightest new cheat that he had missed the smell of ambush, the hundred little wrong things that could tip you. They were center stage, spotlit, with no odds and no exit strategy.

Barney’s arm brought the gun around regardless, to wax the nearest oncoming gunner. Carl’s hand arrested its arc.

“Don’t,” said Carl, not looking at him.

There were at least eight men, all unafraid of wielding big weapons in broad daylight. Their team lead was a huge, vaguely Samoan monster; three hundred pounds (mostly above the belt) with a shaved head, a wooden idol face and the tiny, rapt eyes of a pit viper. His wifebeater tee revealed pale worm-bursts of stretch-marks radiating from his armpits to his shoulders — a sure sign, Barney knew, of an overdose of steroids and iron-pumping.

Nobody said a word.

In short order, Barney was divested of his armament. Both he and Carl were professionally frisked. The room was certified as clear — silently, by a guy who wore mirrorshades so thin they appeared to be growing out of his skull instead of perched upon it. Barney and Carl were marched to a waiting panel van, one badboy on each bicep doing the military-style bring-along with a vise-grip like a pit bull. They were seated roughly, heads sacked, hands cuffed, and the van door slammed shut with a crunch of finality.

The inside of the van smelled like all the guns that had been brought to bear. Humid and close. The sack on Barney’s head stunk of motor oil and acetone; somebody had used it as an engine rag. B.O. and hair pomade. Of course, somebody farted. Acidic.

Barney heard Carl’s muffled voice say, “What is this; you guys all mutes or somethi —?”

Thud.

Instantly, they were on the move.

Something was coming up, Barney knew. If nothing waited to complicate their situation, they would have been killed on the spot. So somebody wanted something from them. Maybe Jesús, spoiling for a bit of biblical eye-for-an-eye. Maybe the police, going all Gestapo to take them down for the murder of Estrella without any questions. Maybe Carl’s unknown handlers, imposing more conditions and specifications. Strictly business, amigo.

Maybe Erica, ready to yank off her human mask and reveal her true, bloodthirsty nonhuman self.

Maybe the concession on lies and made-up stories did not stop with Carl.

Barney’s battle mode was cranked full-up. First opportunity, smash faces, shed blood, obtain a weapon. If no weapon was available, use furniture, glass from a window, his own bones, anything. Walk out of Mexico with no water, naked if he had to.

The first step was to get an arm free, snatch an opportunity. Every journey starts with a first step. This one would never get started as long as Barney was cuffed, masked, blind and bulldogged. All he could do was tick off the silent minutes of their portage. No one spoke. Presumably they were communicating, unseen by their cowled captives, with nods, winks, points; implied degradation, predigested visual jokes. The crew that had taken him and Carl were hardcore professionals. A few good men. Shakespeare had said that: A few, that is eight.

To Barney, gunners were not as dangerous as bona fide gunmen. These men were gunners, but they were very good at what they did. Maximum threat potential. No slipups allowed.

They were rousted from the van — Barney had no idea whether Carl had regained consciousness or not — and muscled across graveled pavement, through a door, down a narrow hallway. Another door. An elevator.

A chair, secured to the floor. A set of cuffs for each wrist. The chair was metal, immobile.

The sack rasped off Barney’s head.

He was in a second- or third-floor room about twelve by twelve, facing a desk with several flat-screen monitors, a multi-line phone system, a bank of cellphone chargers. Little army men on one corner of the desk sorted out their toy battle plan. Painted jungle camo; tiny guns.

The huge Samoan-looking badass stood behind Barney and folded his arms. His weight creaked the floorboards like tectonic plates. Carl was not in the room.

“Who are you?” said a voice — it was the voice Barney had overheard on Carl’s hostage cellphone, back at the bridge.

A man rose up from behind the confusion of computer screens. Five-ten, pattern baldness, well manicured, expensive suit, inarguably Mexican but without a trace of Hispanic accent.