Gun Work

“Then,” said Barney, “we remove this.” He pulled a wadded towel from where it was crammed into Condorito’s mouth. Condorito blubbered a string of insults and admonitions. “Then,” Barney continued, “you tell us where the hostage hotel is, comprendes?”

Condorito offered several observations on the nature of pain, on Barney’s sexual proclivities, and possible heritage.

Barney shot him in the other foot. Bang. Flush, rinse, repeat.

“Your knees are next. Then your hands. Then your elbows. Then I’ve got two shots left in this cylinder I haven’t decided what to do with yet. You tell us where it is, because you’re going to show us where it is, no matter how many holes I put in you.”

There was a loud thump against the wall from the next room. Everybody held in position and caught their breath, except for Condorito. There was a pain demon trapped inside his skin, and it wanted out.

The men looked to each other. Another thump. No, a series of thumps, rhythmic. Then a muffled cry: “¡Ayyy! ¡Ayyy! ¡Papi! ¡Mijo! ¡Ayy! ¡Ayy!”

Somebody was ramming their dream date against the headboard in the adjacent room with slightly more abandon than you would expect from a comfortably married couple, which is to say a couple married to each other. La Pantera Roja did, after all, have many other paying customers.

“¡Ayy! ¡Alocate y haste mia! ¡Chupame la cola! ¡Ayy! ¡Ayy!”

El Atrocidad lit up the room with his grin as the others tried to match it.

Barney rolled his eyes and turned back to Condorito, gun in hand. “Nobody’s going to hear the gun, not in this place, and for sure nobody’s going to hear you squawking.”

Not a particularly brave man when it came to saving his life, Condorito spilled everything he could think of. Area, street, security, size of opposing force. Layout. Anything that would keep him from getting married to another tiny wasp-like bullet. El Atrocidad nodded at Barney through some of it. Barney made Condorito repeat everything several times, faster and faster, so no a la carte lies could slip through. By the time he was finished, Condorito’s palate was very familiar with the taste of the gun barrel.

“All right,” said Barney. “Tape him up and get him into the van.” The rest of their gear had been loaded by Armand and Sirius. “Don’t forget the grenades this time.”

Sirius winced. “Hey, I was all excited and shit, okay? Let it go.” In his rush to first blood at the crack den he had forgotten the grenade bag; fortunately they hadn’t needed it.

There was a more important reason for clearing out of the Pantera Roja: Once the kidnappers twigged to the massacre at the bridge, one of them might be smart enough to remember that the Pantera Roja was where they had re-acquired Jesús, and come calling with maximum warpower. It was safer to consider this base blown. Whatever came in the aftermath — food, showers, rest — would come at some other place, utterly unpredictable and totally anonymous.

“Amigo,” said Atrocidad. “Pardon me for saying so, but—”

Barney whirled on him. “What?” This man was going to tell him what he was doing was sadistic and unfair, despite helping him do it. This man was going to lecture him on the differences between right and wrong, good and evil, and what was righteous and what was low.

El Atrocidad spoke measuredly, to insure he was not misunderstood. “I was just going to say, amigo, that you... ehh, stink. Smell really bad, you know?”

Barney had mopped off his camo but his eyes were still raccooned and black sweat tracks grooved his face. They all smelled like the septic tank of an abortion clinic at high tide.

“We haven’t got time for a group shower,” Barney said, collecting his refreshed clips from Armand. The motel room was thick with a humid inversion layer of butchershop blood and locker room secretions.

“That’s what we do,” said Sirius, holstering his Magnum. “We all stink together, baby.”

Karlov rose from his cot to prove he was far from out of the game. “Or we most assuredly shall stink separately.”

They had time for one swig from one beer Sirius had left in the fridge. They passed it around and it came to Barney last. He drained it, taking a unique pleasure in seeing Condorito eye the bottle as though it was the closest the little man would ever get to his version of Heaven.

El Atrocidad did his damnedest to tag along but Barney prohibited it. His mission was to assemble a group of Flecha’s friends, luchadors all, and await a cue via cellphone. Barney stressed this. It was important to have the wrestlers involved, particularly since Flecha de Jalisco had himself been wounded in battle over his own son, but Barney convinced Atrocidad that it was even more important to wait for the cue. Timing was paramount, and if a ring superstar could not acknowledge that, he or she had no business waxing mythic.