Gun Work

“This little rodent pulled a nine on me,” said Sirius.

“You look okay,” said Barney.

“No worries.”

Mojica looked despondent. His chances sucked and he knew it. “So... you gonna kill me now?” He tried for a hopeful-puppy expression that was vomitous.

“I’ll do it,” said Sirius, unsleeving his .45.

“Wait,” said Barney.

That was all Mojica needed to recharge his battery, and during the next few seconds he was as obsequious as it is possible for a human being to be without actually devolving into a lower life form. Barney had to smack him to shut him up.

“Listen very carefully,” Barney said. “Escuchame bien. You tell me where he is. Where he has gone; where I can find him, not later, not maybe, not eventually, but right now. You tell me that, Mojica, and you’ll not only live, but you’ll go free, right now, tonight. And if you’re lying to me in any way, I will come back here just for the pleasure of taking your life in the most painful and drawn-out way I can conceive. Think about that, before you answer.”

“You remembered my name,” the little man said, quietly.

“I try to remember everybody who kicks the piss out of me. Helps at Christmas card time.” Mojica had sterilized his amputated fingers — his face floated up out of the dim cesspool of pain-memory. Mojica had done him one small kindness during his days of torment. That bought him some wiggle room, but did not forgive his other sins.

Maybe Mojica had helped Barney escape, if by no other way than not shooting him when Sucio did following Barney’s bridge dive, headfirst and with no form at all.

It was so easy to be seduced by the thought. Conned, tricked, made a stupid mark, yet again.

Sirius centered Barney in his gaze: We can’t let this guy go. Not after —

Barney imagined what Karlov might have said: For a man on the revenge trail you sure are sparing a lot of warm bodies.

And Armand: You cut him loose now, he’ll be a problem later. Not professional.

Against all this stood Mojica’s one little favor he had not had to do, but had done anyway.

“Los Angeles,” Mojica said. “He’s with that guy’s, your friend’s, you know, that redheaded puta. Your guy’s wife.”

There was much more detail and Barney ran Mojica through the repetition wringer to ensure the tale was not cobbled on the spot. In the end, Mojica sang like a crested warbler just for being uncuffed before Barney’s crew set the Palacio to the torch.

Barney stood in the empty room where he had once been held prisoner.

It was apparently the only room outfitted for problematical detainees. Real hostages got amenities — locked in, not chained up. Beds and television, though the beds were probably lice-infested, and if you need a quick way to go gibberingly crazy there was no quicker method than watching a lot of foreign TV.

Barney wished he could feel some surge of latent emotion, but the room had given up its haunts. It was just a depressing, empty space.

El Atrocidad appeared behind him, moving lightly with his big athlete’s grace. “Not all people in Mexico are like this, amigo,” he said softly.

“You’ve done far too much for me, for far too little return,” said Barney. “I’m in your debt. I always will be. There’s no way to repay... This is unusual for me.”

El Atrocidad made a chaa sound of dismissal. It ain’t no thing. “Look at what you have accomplished. Look at the people you have saved.”

“I didn’t do it to save them.”

“Evil men dealt with.”

“It won’t make any difference tomorrow.”

“You even give all the credito to us.”

“Take it. I don’t want it.”

“Then what do you want from this?”

“My friend back in the hall. His name is Christoph Ivan Karlov. I need you to take him out of here. He needs to be buried. I don’t think he would mind being buried in Mexico.”

He imagined Karlov’s response: I don’t care, youngster — I’m dead. You gave me the challenge of showing a man with crippled hands how to shoot again. You put my weapons in the hands of true gunmen. You gave me plenty. You don’t owe me nothing. Just get on with the mission, damn it.

“El Murcielago Sangriento tells me the news people are on their way,” someone said.

Armand brought up a gallon of gasoline from somewhere in the compound, and Barney splashed it around the Bleeding Room. Ignited it. Walked away. Within minutes the entire third floor was ablaze.