Gun Work

“I can see the vehicles,” came Armand’s voice in a crackle. He was invisible somewhere off to Barney’s left. “They pulled back about forty yards, by the oil pumpers, whatever you call those things that look like dunk-birds. Two and two.”

Correction: nineteen men, all armed.

“Armand, take the cars,” said Barney.

“Copy, take cars and men. Done.”

“I’ve got five on my side of the river,” said Karlov. “Flanking out from the cars. They look to be cover fire or surprise backup. I can take these five but I’ve got to move closer for the rest.”

A phalanx of the men crossed the bridge and scattered, leaving a solitary shooter up top. No way there had been this many guys when Carl and Barney had first visited. Tannenhauser’s idea of security had gone practically American — more equals better.

“I’ve got men heading under the bridge,” said Sirius, slightly further back in a crow’s nest position with the Nitefinder binoculars.

“Can you get them all?” said Barney.

“You might have to pick up some spare change on your way over. Karlov, you’ve got two more moving up on your six o’clock.” Not good. Karlov’s hide now had shooters on both sides of it.

“Copy,” said Karlov. “Betcha a beer I can take seven before you take five.”

Sirius replied, “Meet me after. These are some scruffy-looking dudes indeed.” As an afterthought he added, “Packing autos; watch out for spray.”

“Complaints, complaints,” Karlov chimed in through a brief jolt of static. “Grow up. This is fewer than five each, and I have what you call the handicap.”

Armand’s voice came back: “I can take the bridge shooters from behind.”

“Negative,” said Barney. “Take the vehicles. Make sure they don’t go anywhere.”

“Copy.”

“Take them on my shot,” said Barney.

The sun ebbed and the shadows lengthened. It was getting crowded out here, thought Barney. The hidden watchers were themselves being watched by his team, better concealed.

At the appointed time, when the fetid atmosphere was bristling with anticipation, Barney saw El Atrocidad’s golden chariot slowly negotiate its way over roads that were little better than sodden goatpaths. It stopped the same distance from the bridge that Barney had stopped Carl’s limo, in another time.

Flecha debarked from the passenger side — Barney recognized the tank-shaped man immediately — which meant El Atrocidad was in the driver slot. The car was roughly between Sirius to the south, and Karlov to the north on the far side of the river.

He saw Flecha raise a cellphone to his ear.

Barney dog-crawled from his hide. He did not need nightvision, though he was aware the enemy probably had it.

Flecha repeated his instructions, his low purr of a voice audible, though not intelligible.

With the semi-auto Benelli in a low-ready dedicated carry, Barney did a double roll to bring him in line with the pathway on the bridge and fired twice from a distance of fifteen running yards. The shooter on the bridge screamed and fell over, pretty much a sieve from the knees up.

Gunfire perforated the night, muzzle flashes everywhere as the dumping ground transmogrified into a battlefield.

Sirius took the bridge runners, one-two-three, as they broke cover and started firing machine guns at Atrocidad’s car.

Karlov took the backup men, having correctly estimated the direction each of them would move once gunshots galvanized them. He poked up from his comfy foxhole and revolved like a gun turret, delivering both hi-cap mags — a blistering salvo of forty-four rounds — in under ten seconds, shooting both of his nines at once. Then he dropped out of sight like a jack in the box with second thoughts. His seven men were all down, dead or howling.

Barney ran across the bridge, eating up the real estate between him and the two SUVs, one of which was already moving. Two rounds from Armand’s Benelli caused the rear tires to shred apart and the chunky car sat down hard, ass-skidding into a crooked pyramid of rusty 40-gallon drums. Barney put his final four rounds through the windshield, which imploded in a sparkling black hailstorm of safety glass. Armand had command of the other car already.

Barney dropped the shotgun and cross-drew his .40, approaching the vehicles in a heel-and-toe step, careful not to cross one leg in front of the other and get tangled in his own limbs.

Sirius answered incoming auto weapons fire with his own shotgun. Then Barney heard the distinct cannonade of Sirius’ .44 clipping stragglers.

Start to finish, something like twenty seconds.

Gunsmoke spiced the toxic wind.

“Hey, amigo!” It was Atrocidad’s voice, coming from the car. “You there? I have a present for you!” The big wrestler’s guttural signature laugh echoed in the sudden silence.

Barney hustled over while his team checked the dead and the dying, to make sure no opponent could zombie up and start shooting again.