Gun Work

Barney was shaking. Never before had he been rattled by gunfire. Nervous, yes, from tempting fate or being boxed in; apprehensive at bad strategy, hopeless from dire situations, but never aquiver at gunfire, which he thought to be his element.

“Amigo,” Mano repeated, leaning the shotgun against the wall and stepping over the shredded corpse on the floor. “Esta bueno?”

“Yeah,” Barney managed, his voice running away to a husky whisper. His eyes indicated the gun with which Mano had saved him. “Mano... what the hell?”

“Oh, that.” Mano shrugged, smiled. “Now that, my friend, is a gonn.”

This one was easier to figure out, now.

The killer, regardless of his muffed job status, had been a professional. An American, a stranger, a blond man with a rubescent complexion and bulletproof fake ID. Therefore, not sent by El Chingon, who probably would have sent Sucio.

Therefore, the kidnapping crew down here apparently did not yet know that Barney was still drawing breathable air.

So: the killer had been sent by Carl Ledbetter, or one of his satellites.

Why: Barney had been alive, though in dire circumstances, when Carl exited Mexico. He had probably gotten the news on Barney’s disposition and decided to check hospital and clinic emergency admissions; most likely he did his entire investigation on the Internet, with the right passwords. It would be simple to take some of his share of the million bucks and invest in a guarantor, who had found the clinic in Xochimilco and sweated poor Dr. Mendez until he spilled Barney’s whereabouts and died. Game, set, and match... except he had not factored in the possibility of the apparently harmless Mano packing some unsuspected heirloom firepower.

It held water as much as anything his scattered brain could conceive.

Result: Barney’s security had been compromised, and everyone around him was no longer safe. Their location was now, in the parlance, “hot.” Muy caliente.

“Mano, I have to leave this place.”

Mano countered that this was not a good idea, given Barney’s handicapped status.

“Mano, you and your family are in danger because of me.”

Mano returned that he had been in danger before, many times, and it was not good to live in fear.

“Mano, I have to get back to the States, somehow.”

Mano suggested that phoning up the American embassy in Mexico City was probably not the most efficacious course to take.

Barney’s existence as a visiting foreigner was gray at best; in-country on forged documents, involved in local criminal activity, responsible, at least in theory, for several deaths. He could claim to have been mugged, attacked, or kidnapped, all documents lost, but that might surface connections to the bad guys or the wobbly architecture of his paperwork — any slip could invite unwanted scrutiny, and seal his fate. Regional law enforcement, corrupt as they were, might just dump him back into the hands of El Chingon’s crew, or detain him in yet another locked room. No good.

Mano told Barney to wait, since he might have a solution. He was distressingly cryptic on what that might be.

Meanwhile, Barney had won himself a brand-new firearm.

The assassin’s piece of choice turned out to be a tactical SIG P229 with a threaded barrel, probably for a silencer he never got to try — this brand of pistol, firing beefier cartridges, was known to be loud. SIGs came with decocking levers, not safeties, so they were always ready to use. With Mano’s help, Barney field-stripped it and found the original .357 barrel had been swapped out to accept the Smith & Wesson .40 cartridge, a popular conversion. A Sprinco recoil reducer had been added to improve the control of rapid-fire shots — less muzzle climb, better sight recovery. That little piece of frosting could reduce the kick by half, not inconsiderable when your gun could muster over a thousand foot-pounds at impact. The single-stack hi-cap mag jutted from the butt of the gun, containing fifteen deadly bees, plus one in the pipe. Not exactly a race gun, but the owner had added a match trigger. The whole package had been refinished to be absolutely glare-proof and non-reflecting. The action was smooth as glass.

Waylaid as he was, Barney felt better just having the gun nearby.

He dozed off thinking of stimulants versus sedatives. He had to get up and moving, no matter how many leaks he sprang.