Gun Work

“We take the ransom drop. It’s a bluff, and we’re stuck with it, so let’s play it all the way. The difference is, now we have to snag one of the bad guys and not waste any time sweating him.” He cracked a crooked half-smile and stared at the floor. “I’ve done it before.”

Bulling in full-strength and unidirectionally was not the way to approach the Rio Satanas bridge drop. They had one day left on the ransom clock and Barney took them to the target twelve hours ahead of schedule, for best placement based on what he remembered from the first ransom delivery.

“The minute there’s gunfire, the secuestradores will know the deal has curdled,” said Barney. “It’ll take about two seconds for somebody to spread the news on a cellphone, and thanks to me, Almirante will probably lose a finger before they double their demands, but better a finger than a life.”

“No need to keep blaming yourself,” said Karlov. His face was dotted with little circular Band-Aids he had smeared to neutral with camo paint.

But Barney felt the bite of irony; it had him captured like a narcotic. His negligence would cause Almirante to lose fingers. He did his best to refocus his embarrassment into aggression, then froze fast in wonder at the fact he was concerned at all. Dormant feelings had roused deep inside him. He was not the reincarnation of the Old Assassin after all, or if he was, the sage old killer had been resurrected with a vulnerability, a soft spot. Emotion, however primal, had entered his target’s sight picture, and at that, Barney should have quit and withdrawn. You could not permit an objective to become polluted. His gratitude to the people who had saved his life had just been shoved into hot focus by the fact he was no longer acting solely on behalf of his vendetta, but to save the skin of one of their own.

The best course was to hop-to and not fuck it up, this time. He could psychoanalyze himself later, because right now there was brutal work to do.

Barney indicated the primary shooter slots, the directions from which the late Jesús and his runner buddies had hared forth to collect the cash, and the most likely strategic positions for cover and observation. Tannenhauser, the Mexican with the unlikely name and principal architect of the art of abduction, had been nearby when Carl and Barney had showed up the first time. Not only had he watched, probably through binoculars (which could put him a thousand yards away, or better), but he had gloated to Carl over the hostage cellphone in such a way as to indicate he was indeed seeing the whole exchange live.

But the boss would probably not attend tonight. In business, one learns from experience.

There was no way not to tell El Atrocidad.

“I and three of my friends will be waiting,” Barney said into the phone. “We don’t want to have to deal with friendly fire. Our objective is to capture one of the pickup men. Repeat, capture — not kill.”

“So you cannot locate the hotel of the rehéns?”

“No, my information was unreliable. I know Almirante is at risk, but we must take that risk.” Barney could not quite bring himself to admit out loud that he had screwed the pooch once already.

“You risk not only yourself, but your men,” returned Atrocidad gruffly. “For one of ours. We shall not bring las armas if you tell me that you will.”

“Consider your ass covered, big man.”

If anything, the meltdown district where the oddly fanciful bridge was located smelled even worse than Barney remembered. No memory puckers the pores like decomposing sewage and toxic spill. Karlov wore his shooting glasses with flip-down tinted lenses — he was a bit nearsighted — and within moments they all had mufflered themselves in bandanas in a futile attempt to filter the stench. You wanted to cover as much of your skin as possible in a place like this; even taking a sip of bottled water seemed hazardous, because the water made the briefest contact with the air before it got inside you. Nothing had any color here, beyond iron-gray and mud-brown. Nothing grew on the eroded banks of the river where La Llorona was said to call out in the night, at the full moon.

As the sun descended, the evil, poisoned ground gave up more odor in thick waves of released heat. The men were already sweltering in their gear, but to inhale a double lungful of this aroma was to induce vomiting.

Barney unsheathed one of the Benelli shotguns. He was positioned so as to neutralize the bridge shooter who had surprised him the first time. Different cast, same movie, only now Barney was the screen, looking at the audience. Two hours before the appointed meet, two full-size, flat-black SUVs with nonreflective rims showed up to disgorge about fifteen men. Barney’s team was secreted around the perimeter, concealed beneath reeking garbage and industrial litter, their faces eliminated by camouflage paint.

They all went hot on their conferenced cellphones, another tweak of Karlov’s.