The Gunman from Guadalez Read online

  The Gunman from Guadalez

  By Eric Meyer

  Copyright 2019 by Eric Meyer

  Published by Swordworks Books

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Prologue

  Guadalez in Mexico, fifty miles from Ciudad Juarez, was the hometown of Paco Martinez, who owned a lavish house on the outskirts. Far enough away from the poverty and misery of the residents, so he didn’t have to see them, or smell them. Huge wasn’t an adequate description. His house was a mansion. Opulent. Some would describe it as a palace, which would have suited Martinez well, for he lived like a king, a drug king. The Mexican made his money by trafficking massive quantities of drugs.

  Buying the raw coca and opium poppies from poor farmers across South America and Asia and processing them into heroin and cocaine for export to legions of willing buyers in America. As a result of his criminal enterprise, he was sufficiently wealthy to pay vast bribes to local politicians and cops. Suitcases bulging with cash, to ensure they left him alone to conduct his business without any legal inconveniences. Although there were some people he refused to bribe. Competitors. Other narco barons in the ruthless, literally cutthroat business of shipping and supplying drugs to the Norte Americanos. Those men were often a problem, and to deal with them he used other methods. Terminal methods.

  Paco called on his childhood friend Diego Rivera to handle such inconveniences. A man he trusted, for they went back a long, long way. The two boys had played together as children and had gone to the Guadalez village school. When Martinez established his business, it was inevitable he'd bring Rivera along. It was a good move. Rivera proved to be a ruthless killer, so good he’d even acquired a nickname. The Beast, a man who solved problems for him. As the brutal Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin once said, "Death solves all problems. No man, no problem."

  Martinez was eating lunch on the terrace of his mansion, served by a smart, uniformed butler and a pretty young maid outfitted in a crisp black and white uniform. Diego arrived and removed his Panama hat. Inwardly, Martinez smiled. Rivera was short, slim and wiry, his pockmarked face etched with lines from his upbringing in a poor, tough Mexican neighborhood. Yet he attempted to project an image of elegance and style, of an educated and moneyed background; hence the hat which he associated with the wealthy bosses who owned and ran most of the town. Nobody ever dared to tell him he failed dismally. Maybe it was the huge belt buckle shaped like two Colt .45 pistols, or it could have been the hand-tooled cowboy boots. Perhaps the tailored, white silk shirt with decorative frills on the front and oversized buttons made from deer antler. Or the leather waistcoat, adorned with gold-plated trims, and the black pants, just that little bit too tight.

  He looked like what he was, a man with humble origins trying to leave his poor upbringing behind. And failing. Martinez was different. He'd brought in the English butler to manage his household, while his maids wore traditional black and white uniforms. When he needed advice on clothes or hairstyles, he paid for the very best. As a result, he looked like a fabulously wealthy businessman, which in fact he was. He looked nothing like a drug dealing scumbag, which was also true. He was taller than Rivera and paunchy, although his superbly tailored clothes hid it well. His smooth, olive skin was flawless, and he looked fitter and younger than his thirty-six years. Money did that. Money and the finest surgeons money could buy.

  His friend nodded a greeting, and he waved a hand. "Diego, take a seat and help yourself to food. I have a problem I want you to handle for me."

  He grinned as he helped himself to toast, smearing caviar over the thin slices. Martinez made no comment when he poured tomato ketchup on his creation. "That's why you employ me, Jefe. Who do you want killed?"

  "The usual. A new man from Mexico City who thinks he’s some kind of a bigshot, and he’s trying to take over some of my business. I've lost several shipments. Farmers and couriers have been intimidated, and it has to stop."

  Rivera shrugged. "You want me to kill him?"

  He held up a hand, heavy with jewel-encrusted gold rings. "No, no, that would start a war, and a war would be bad for business. I want you to send him a warning.” He handed over a photograph, a woman with her two young children, both boys. A surveillance shot, taken from a distance.

  Rivera regarded it for a few moments and nodded. “She’s pretty, Jefe. Slim, dark hair, just the way I like them. Why are you showing me this?”

  “That’s his wife and children, and they’re the warning. I want you to kill them."

  He looked down at the photo again. “A nice-looking family, such a shame.” He chuckled, “He’ll get the message when they’re dead, loud and clear. No problem, Jefe, all I need to know is when and where.”

  “The Centro Commercial, the main shopping mall in Ciudad Juarez. They always go there on a Monday, so that’s the best time to do it. Don’t use any subtlety; I want this to be a highly visible, public killing. Everyone needs to know if they try to cross Paco Martinez, they’d better lock their families away and keep them well guarded. They must learn the only way to keep them safe is to stay away from my business."

  Diego nodded. "I will be happy to do this little chore for you, my friend. Did you say Monday? It’s short notice. Today is Sunday, so that means you want it done tomorrow.”

  "Correct. They usually enter the mall at three in the afternoon. That’s the time to take them, just after they go inside. Like I said, I want this to be a strong warning that echoes across Mexico. The more people who feel terrified, the better."

  "I will handle it, Jefe. Tomorrow morning, I will drive to Ciudad, and I’ll be back by evening." He grinned, “In time for dinner.” He pushed his half-eaten caviar to one side and took out an ornate snuffbox. From inside he took a pinch of white power and snorted it up both nostrils, sighing with contentment.

  His eyes blazed with a manic energy, and Paco frowned. Coke was good business, but Rivera had been snorting increasing amounts of late. Besides, this was his dinner table.

  “Diego, a word of warning. You’ve been hitting the product hard lately. I don’t want it to cloud your judgment. You’re the best man I have, and I want you to stay that way.”

  He grimaced. “A few snorts of cocaine? It keeps me strong, at the top of my game. Why else would our customers pay so much money to get the white powder if it wasn’t so good?”

  “I know, I know. Just keep it under control, my friend.”

  “I will, never fear. I must go to prepare for tomorrow.”

  “Good luck, Diego."

  "Thank you, Jefe. I don't need luck. A job like this is easy. Like taking candy from a baby."

  "Nevertheless, God go with you."

  Diego crossed himself. “I pray whenever I find the time. It’s like the coke, talking to God gives me strength.”

  Martinez watched him leave and knew the job would be taken care of with his usual brutal efficiency. But still, he worried about his coke habit.
>
  Sooner or later, I may need to do something about Diego. We’ve been friends a long time, but it may be time for that friendship to come to an end. Along with his life, before he becomes a drug-addled liability.

  Rivera snorted more lines of cocaine in the evening, and his sleep was restless. He was tired and bleary-eyed the next day, and he snorted more coke to revive his energy. As ever, he felt better afterward, and he arrived at the central shopping mall in Ciudad Juarez just after midday. He parked his SUV, an American Jeep Wrangler, close to the exit of the parking lot. When he'd done the job, he’d need to make a quick getaway before any cops took an interest. A final check to make sure his gun, a Beretta .22 LR Jaguar, was ready for a fast draw. An assassin’s weapon, the Beretta was favored by the Israeli Mossad for wet work, and for good reason. It was small, easy to conceal, made little noise, and was very accurate. He'd never missed and was confident he wouldn't miss this time.

  In his mind he rehearsed the killing from start to finish. He’d see the woman and her two boys walk into the mall, and he’d follow them. In full view of hundreds of people milling around, gawking at the store window, but they wouldn’t notice the gun held at his side. A single bullet in the head of each of the targets, and when he'd finished, he’d do what he always did. Put on the Panama hat he always carried in his hand, to hide his face, and stroll away. Although when the bullets started to fly, people didn't stop to look at the shooter. They were too busy running.

  He snorted two more lines of coke and felt the familiar strength and power flow through his body. Stepping out into the open, he bought a burrito and a coke from a stall and returned to the Jeep. He ate his lunch with the engine switched on to keep the aircon running, watching for the target to arrive. They were early. The stretch limo, an armored Mercedes pulled into the parking lot and stopped near the entrance. A uniformed chauffeur climbed out to open the rear door. The woman got out, pretty, dark hair, followed by two boys of around five and seven-years. They all looked happy, which amused him, laughing and chatting to each other.

  Those smiles would soon disappear. There was nothing like a .22 bullet to wipe the smile off a person’s face. He tossed his lunch litter behind the rear seat, stepped out of the Jeep, and walked toward the entrance. He removed the Panama and held it at his side, keeping his other hand on the gun held low at his side.

  People saw him, saw the expression on his face, the feral glare in his eyes, and instinctively veered away. This was Ciudad Juarez, the murder capital of Mexico, and people had learned to stay out of trouble by avoiding the type of man likely to start it. He looked like such a man.

  Unaware of and uninterested in the effect he was having on the throngs of eager shoppers, Rivera reached the doors and strode inside. The woman and the boys were not far away, no more than thirty yards. He quickened his pace until he was close enough, snatched out the Beretta… and froze.

  The voice boomed out through the loudhailer, a harsh, compelling voice of authority. "This is the Federales, put down your weapon. Lie flat on the floor and stretch out your hands. Do it now, or we shoot."

  He was already moving. He’d survived more than a few fights by reacting fast to threats from cops, and he knew they wouldn’t fire in this crowded mall. He spun on his heel and raced back toward the exit, scattering shoppers as he ran. A shot rang out behind him before a voice shouted for the cop to hold his fire to protect the shoppers. He had no such qualms, and he turned back and fired. Two Federales were running toward him, and he killed one with a bullet to the head.

  He fired again, and the other cop peeled away, clutching a bleeding wound in his shoulder. He fired twice more, not aiming at anyone, just pouring lead into the crowds to create panic. People screamed and ran every which way, making an effective barrier between him and the cops. He kept running, through the main doors, out into the parking lot, and another amplified voice bellowed an order.

  "Stop, drop your gun. Get down on the ground."

  He pumped a couple of bullets in the direction from which the order had come and kept on running. Swerving away from his Jeep, which he knew they’d have staked out, he ducked down between the parked vehicles, running doubled over. He reached the edge of the parking lot and vaulted over the fence. He was in midair when he felt the intense pain sear into his head. He knew instinctively he’d taken a bullet, yet he was still moving, still alive, still running from the cops. They hadn’t got him yet, and they never would, provided he kept running.

  The pain in his head was fierce, but he was still alive, so he ignored it and raced around the next corner. Ahead of him a canvas-topped truck had slowed to take a tight right turn. He took a flying leap at the tailboard, pulled himself inside, and lay flat out of sight. When he poked his head up, there was no sign of the pursuit. He’d lost them. The truck continued driving, and he soon realized they were heading for the border crossing into North America. He pushed past the load of cardboard cartons until he was just behind the cab, invisible from the street. The cartons were marked ‘Urgent Medical Supplies.’ He could hardly believe his luck when they reached the barriers. The truck clearly made regular crossings, and the border guards conducted no more than a cursory search before they allowed the truck to pass through. When he poked his head out again, they were driving through the streets of El Paso.

  He’d got away from the Federales and made it to the United States, away from the immediate pursuit. What he needed now was treatment for the wound to his head and something for the pain. He touched it, and jolts of agony tore through him, making him feel faint. He passed out for a short time.

  When he regained consciousness, he touched his head again and understood he'd been shot, although he couldn't remember where it had happened or how. Only that the Jefe had ordered him to shoot a woman in a shopping mall. A woman with brown hair accompanied by her two young boys, around five and seven. He must complete the task Paco had given him. When he'd done something about the wound, he’d locate them and kill them.

  In his dazed state he wasn’t sure in which mall he was supposed to carry out the hit. He was in America, and there were thousands of malls. Yet all he needed was to find the woman with brown hair and two young boys.

  No problema.

  The truck drove for several hours, and he held his head, wincing with agony from the head wound. He snorted two more lines, but it didn’t lessen the pain, although he felt stronger, less likely to pass out again. He saw a sign for the State of Albuquerque, and the truck stopped in a city he discovered was named Lewes.

  He climbed out at a stoplight and wandered through the streets, looking for a pharmacy. It was strange. The place looked familiar, as if he’d been here before. He couldn’t remember, but he felt sure this had to be the right place. Else how would he recognize it? As he walked along the streets, he held a dirty piece of rag to his head to stop the bleeding. And to hide the obvious gunshot wound it from any suspicious cop that happened to drive past.

  The priority was a dressing, and he soon found a pharmacy. The guy behind the counter didn't look happy see a hard-eyed Hispanic in his store, his head covered in blood from an obvious bullet wound.

  "Is that a gunshot wound, Mister?"

  "An auto accident. I just need a dressing to stop the bleeding."

  "You should go to the nearest Emergency Room. You need more than a dressing. You’ve got a nasty head injury there, so they’ll want to do a scan for possible brain damage. They may even insist on keeping you in overnight.”

  Rivera fixed him with an ice-cold glare, and the pharmacist flinched. "Give me the dressing, hombre."

  He got the message. “Sure, sure, no sweat."

  He rummaged behind the counter and produced several packages. "There’re antiseptics, bandages, gauze pads, and surgical tape, everything you need. That’ll be thirty-eight dollars, cash. But I still advise you to get it checked out at the hospital."

  Rivera put two twenty-dollar bills on the counter, took his change, stuffed the dressings in his pock
et, and walked away. He found a gas station and used the bathroom to clean and dress the wound. Looking in the mirror he was shocked at the amount of blood almost covering one side of his face and dripping down inside his collar. Thankfully, his fancy leather waistcoat showed no sign of bloodstains, and he cleaned his face, using the antiseptics to swab the affected area.

  It's strange, but I can't remember how it happened. Was it really a gunshot, or it could have been an auto accident like I told the pharmacist?

  Not that he cared, for he had important work to do. His orders were to go to the mall and kill a woman. Dark-haired, pretty, and she'd have two children with her, two boys of five and seven. But the pain was terrible, and first he needed somewhere he could rest until the painkillers took effect. He left the gas station and checked in at a nearby motel, the Traveler’s Rest. The place was sleazy and rundown, anonymous, the kind of place that rented rooms to low-lifes by the hour. Cash up front. The desk clerk showed no interest in the bloody dressings wrapped around his head.

  "That’ll be fifty dollars a night for the room, and a two-hundred-dollar advance against the key. You want cable?"

  "No cable. Give me the key."

  He peeled off the bills, slapped them on the counter, and took the key. In the room he snorted more cocaine and lay down on the bed. After a short doze he felt better. The mall would still be open, and he decided to go there right away and do the job. He left his room and returned to the desk clerk. "Where's the mall?"

  “Which mall?”

  A pause, and he felt the waves of confusion swamp his brain, until the answer came to him in a flash of inspiration. “The nearest one.”

  The guy jerked a thumb to the left. "Out there, about eight hundred yards. You want me to call a cab?"

  "No cab."

  “You sure, Mister? It’s quite a walk, and I know a guy who...”