Gun Work

Barney’s plan was to alert El Atrocidad and his men as soon as the assault commenced. By the time they could rally and storm the Palacio, the shooting would be done... and the masked superstars of lucha libre could take credit for rescuing thirty or more hostages. It should have come as no surprise that the wrestlers were standing by and eager to jump; they showed up early by Barney’s wristwatch, and got to pound a few criminal heads in the deal. The most astonishing part was that they showed up in costume — flamboyant spandex, filigreed masks and boots for stomping. A couple had sequined capes. Flecha de Jalisco was wearing a gray business suit and tie, but with the sleeves ripped off due to his gunshot wound. These men were accustomed to fighting in their sacred masks, and barreled into the Palacio practically foaming to take on all comers with a hysterical bravery that would make you think it was a pay-per-view event.

Armand had discovered Flecha’s son Almirante locked in a third floor room, west wing. The boy’s fingers were all intact. One more day and the merch might have devalued enough for the kidnappers to begin lopping parts.

Some bad guy stragglers caught the worst of it, getting flung two stories down, hammered until they were raw meat, or centered in a kicking contest by two or three luchadors. No way this fighting was fake, and the blood was more real than ever.

All the masked men thought Barney was el campeon de justicia, and Atrocidad told him so.

“But that is not the reason you do this.” El Atrocidad winked at Barney from the depths of his green, vinyl-flamed mask, his grin like a grille, his face like the front end of a Chevy low-rider. “The champion of justice, that is part of the lucha libre leyendo, the legend. You do this thing and want no one to know it is you, except those you punish.”

“I’m no hero,” said Barney. His throat was still scoured and aching. Breathing hurt. “I’ve killed unarmed men. I’ve lied and bushwhacked them for no other reason than revenge.”

“You might think that,” said Atrocidad. “You might even talk yourself into believing it. But I know better. You came back to Mexico for a right reason, correcto, ¿no?”

There would never be any way to explain it to the big goateed man.

If El Atrocidad was exuberant, Flecha de Jalisco was gushing, effusive, verging on tears, and who was Barney to say the man’s gratitude was not deep and genuine? He had reclaimed his son from the forces of evil men. But Barney could not take much more gruff good cheer in the name of justice.

What now? During the mop-up, everybody looked to Barney as though he was some kind of leader, and all Barney could look at was the lifeless form of his good friend Karlov, lost thanks to his vendetta.

“Now?” said Barney. “What now? We get the hell outta Dodge before the news trucks show up. But first we have to give them a show. Once El Atrocidad and his men get the hostages clear, we burn this fucking place to the ground, to ashes. If Tannenhauser isn’t here, then there’s nothing left. His scumbag army are all dead or fled. One thing — I want to find the room. The room. The burning starts there.”

“Yeah, well before you go all pyromaniacal on us,” said Sirius, “I’ve got a guy handcuffed to a water pipe up on Three you might want to have a word with. Over next to the computer room.”

Barney just wanted to sleep. Post-combat metabolic flush, when your adrenalin has cooked away, is opiate in its draining effect. Sirius told him more, but it washed over Barney, who clumped along, unhearing.

Seeing the guy Sirius had detained woke Barney up doublequick.

“Saaay, amigo!” said the battered man braceleted to the immovable pipework. “It’s you! They kill you and you don’t die, eh? Or are you el espectro, a ghost come to visit his havoc on earth? Amigo! What a pleasure to see you!”

“Mojica,” said Barney. “You’re Mojica.”

“Aha, see?!” The shaved dome of the too-fervent, murine man was leaking nervous sweat. His trademark mirrorshades were trampled on the floor. “Remember I told you I help you get out? And you got out! You remember me, eh? You remember that I help you so this maricon don’t shoot me?” His introduction to Sirius had not been amicable.

“I’ll shoot you myself,” said Barney, “if you don’t tell me where El Chingon is. Tannenhauser. Whatever that stick-up-the-ass animal calls himself.”

The entire front of Sirius’ face crumpled together in a frown. “You know this dude?”

“Just an acquaintance,” said Barney.

“O-ha, you kid, you kid!” said Mojica with false bluster. “That is the big joke, my friend, the biggest joke of all: El Chingon had to go to America. Come on, you can laugh, guy, it’s funny! He had some bigshot El Chingon business in Los Estados Unidos. He’s not even fucking here, ese! And I tell you sure as shit he’s not coming back now, not after you —” he searched for the right words “— redecorated this place, eh?”