Gun Work

“Heeeeeyyyyyy!” Atrocidad’s grin was so wide that Barney was afraid it would split his face and make the top of his head fall off. He was holding a ransom runner by the scruff and randomly punching him whenever he twitched. The smaller man’s feet were off the ground.

“Look at you!” Atrocidad bellowed. “You’re up, you’re walking, you’re fighting, life is good!” He punched his captive again. “You’ll pay for my paintjob, pinche cabron.” Then he dropped his insensate prisoner like a mail sack and wrapped Barney up in a bear hug.

Flecha de Jalisco was smiling big as well, even though he had one massive hand clamped over his bicep, which was leaking blood through his suit. He gave Barney a thumbs-up. No big deal.

“It’s good to see you,” said Barney. “But we’re going to have to hold off on the celebration and reunion for a bit.”

“We know,” said Atrocidad. “But meanwhile, check this puto.”

El Atrocidad dragged his charge in front of the Cadillac’s headlamps.

Barney’s mouth belayed into a stall of disbelief. Even past the blackening eyes and ruptured nose, he could still recognize the guy Atrocidad had stopped on the run.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned and completely gone to hell if it’s not my old pal Condorito.” The skittish monkey-man from the hostage hotel, the one who had participated in Barney’s beatings after Sucio and the others had softened him up. Barney grabbed a fistful of his rank hair and got in his face. “This is a rare honor. It’s not every day I get to watch somebody’s life turn to shit right before their eyes, and today, old buddy, that somebody is you.” He held the dazed man’s head in his hands, resisting the urge to smash it to pulp with his SIG.

Armand came humping up. “Karlov’s hit. We have to get the hell outta here, pronto.”

A 9-millimeter slug from an HK MP5 had bored into Karlov’s forearm below the elbow, and boy, was he piqued.

“Damn stupid dumb luck,” he griped. Lacking a field dressing, he applied pressure to the entry and exit wounds by plugging his thumb and middle fingers into the holes and grimacing a lot. Karlov had stamina, no doubts there.

A brief debate ensued over whether Atrocidad should take him to the hospital along with Flecha, whose pistol wound would be easier to explain. Karlov vigorously protested, saying he needed to get back to his toolkit, and a first aid box they had back at the motel. Too many questions and not enough time. He needed to concentrate on processing the trauma.

“Let me stay,” said El Atrocidad after he had delivered Flecha to a clínica he knew close to Arena Coliseo. “You need little puto to tell you where los secuestradores are hiding; I can make him sing opera.”

“It has to be fast,” said Barney. “They’ll be chopping off Almirante’s fingers any minute now.”

“Sí, claro. But a man can lose many fingers before he is dead.” The wrestler opened his arms in brotherly entreaty. Barney himself was proof of what he said.

They wrung out Condorito in the motel room while Karlov treated his own gunshot wound. It was a toss-up as to which spectacle was bloodier.

Armand flinched when he saw Karlov ream out his arm with a sterilized barrel-cleaning brush. He poked it in one side and pulled it through the other while biting on a rolled-up washcloth, making a horrific noise like a prehistoric animal going down in a tar pit. Armand flinched again when he saw Karlov douse the tunnel with peroxide. The table flooded with pink fizzing foam dotted with tiny splashes of Karlov’s sweat, dripping freely from his brows and chin. He packed the wound with antibiotic gel and wrapped it in gauze.

“If you’ll pardon me now,” Karlov said, “I am going to go vomit, and then lie down. Do not even think of telling me I am out of the op, because I am not.”

“You can’t do gunfire,” Barney said, looking up from where he was dealing with Condorito on the far side of the room.

“I’ve got ten years on you, young man, so I outrank you. I just took down seven men firing two-handed. So don’t tell me what I can and cannot do.” Karlov shuffled off toward the bathroom, woozy from shock. He had a bit of trouble tacking on the doorway.

Barney returned his attention to Condorito, holding up the Smith & Wesson .22 revolver Karlov had given him. “Real simple. I shoot this through your foot, like so.”

Barney placed the eight-inch barrel on top of Condorito’s sneakered foot, beneath which El Atrocidad had lodged a phone book. The bang of the .22 was similar to the snap of a big mousetrap. They could shoot this piece in here all day and nobody would notice or care.

Condorito contracted in abrupt, undeniable pain. He could not kick or flail much; his extremities were all duct-taped to a tubular metal chair which Atrocidad held down in order to keep it from falling over as the smaller man juddered.