My scream rose above The Last Gang In Town. In the rearview, Gregor grinned. He might not walk real good, but he was ready to take some heads.
Xlmen lay on his belly, in amongst the white sage he was all but invisible. Ripping a piece of deer jerky, he kept his eyes on the ranch. It had taken him a long day to discover that the gringo had been driven to Tecate. Bodies in the borderland had been found with the bitch’s cards. He had lost their trail in the southern tip of the Mojave. In the two days since crossing the border, he had followed the Russian. He figured they would not let what happened in Ensenada rest. Sooner or later, they would go for the big gringo and the tarot bitch or, the two would come for the Russians. Either way, he would be waiting. Senor Santiago had instructed him to let the assassin be, she was gone and that was all he wanted. A weak move. He had been sent to kill her. And he would. If he let this bitch best him, what would come next? He could feel the breath of old age tracking him, getting closer. He knew if he fell, the young street dogs would feast on his bones. His reputation was all that kept the curs at bay.
“Nailing yourself some midweek poon, huh?” The gap toothed clerk winked. After drifting in the foothills for forty lost minutes, I had pulled into a Stop-N-Shop for directions.
“If you say so.” The coke had my teeth grinding.
“Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, no siree Bob. Man has a right to get his dick wet without needin’ to buy a girl no diamond ring.”
“How do I get there?” I was making a real effort not to reach over the counter and pinch his skinny neck.
“In a hurry, yup, know that feeling. Dang, they got some girls out there will wring the wiggle out of your worm. Call me a liar if it ain’t true.”
I was seconds away from calling in Mikayla and letting her get him to talk when he finally gave up the directions.
Rolling off the highway, we moved down an unmarked gravel road. The headlights pierced the black. No moon or streetlights. River stones the size of Volkswagens lined our way. Cresting a rise, a farmhouse glowed in the distance. I killed the lights and slowed to a crawl, keeping us on the road as much by feel as sight.
Wooden horse fences surrounded several acres of pasture, a freshly painted farmhouse and a barn that looked one good gust of wind away from falling over. From the sage a hundred feet above the ranch, I watched. Floodlights on the house and barn lit the surrounding area, no one was going to sneak up on them. Through the windows, people could be seen moving inside. Two men sat on the porch. One leaned on what looked like a rifle. In a corral behind the house were parked several Mercedes, a Suburban and a rusted GMC pick-up.
“What’s the plan, boss?”
“Go in hard, come out alive.”
“Works for me.”
We finished the toot in two lines. Gregor crunched a Percodan and racked a shell into the Remington auto loader.
“Put this on.” I tossed him the Kevlar vest I’d taken from the dead fed.
“You put it on.”
“I can run, can you?”
“Yes,” he lied. Pain in the ass.
“Put it on or I dump you here, let the coyotes have you.”
“Whatever, boss.” He shrugged into the vest.
Opening the trunk, I was confronted by the dead giant. His neck had been broken. Whatever his plans for the coming year, he wasn’t going to get to them. Fuck him, he chose the life. Pushing him to the side, I got to the guns we’d pilfered from the Israelis. I stuffed a Jericho.45 auto into my belt and the Beretta into the opposite side. Harry’s short barreled.44 went into my jacket pocket. I hung the strap of an Uzi around my neck.
“Got enough guns?” Mikayla stubbed out a cigarette.
“I doubt it.”
I keyed the Crown Vic to life and mashed down the accelerator. The V8-driven monster spat dust and gravel out the back as we soared toward the light. The boys on the porch jumped up as we splintered the gate. I was passing sixty MPH when I hit the E-brake, and racked the wheel to left. We slid sideways towards the porch. A shotgun boomed from the back seat. A painful ringing filled my ears. I fought to stop the beast before we collided with the house.
Shafts of light bore down through the dust storm we caused. The skid hadn’t ended before Mikayla was out the door and on the run around the building. From the second story, I saw the rapid flash of automatic fire. Bullets ripped through the car’s roof, tearing up the seat beside me. Rolling out the door, I put the car between me and the guns in the house. I thought Gregor would follow. The shotgun report told me he didn’t. Opening the back door, he sat with his back to me, firing up at the house. A manic grin was glued to his face. Never give drugs to an amateur.
A fresh burst ripped through the headliner. These fuckheads were doing a real job on my ride. Grabbing the scruff of Gregor’s jacket, I dragged him out the door. From the ground, he looked up at me like I was the asshole.
And that was when the shit got bad.
From the house, bullets punched ugly holes into the Crown Vic. From out of the barn, I saw a flash just before the dirt by my face exploded. We were trapped in the crossfire. Any way we went was death. The next bullet grabbed a piece of my leather jacket, pulling it open. Gregor, still grinning like an idiot, slipped fresh shells into the Remington.
I flicked my eyes up over the car to the house. He nodded.
Gripping the Uzi, I rolled into a crouch, leapt up and started to run toward the barn. Behind, I heard the shotgun; Gregor was firing over the hood of the car into the house. I hoped he could keep them from shooting me in the back.
I got twenty feet before the first bullet hit me. Flame popped from the barn. There were at least two shooters. I felt the hot burn along my lower left side. The Uzi jumped in my hand. One quick bone-rattling burst and it was empty. Thirty-two shots in a blast. I barely hit the broad side of the barn, but it had driven the shooters for cover and bought me ten feet free of their fire.
Dropping the Uzi, I pulled my Beretta and dropped to one knee. Aiming up at the door, I was ready when the bastard poked his head out. He was dressed in night camo and leveling a sniper’s rifle when I took off the top of his head.
Bursting through the barn door, I almost killed Mikayla. She was standing over a second Israeli in camos. He was wet and still.
“Looks like your trip wire didn’t take them all out.”
“They are dead now.” No smile. No pride. Just a fact.
Out the barn door, I watched, helpless, as Gregor fell. Bullets rained from the second story window. He slumped down behind the car.
Picking up the Israeli sniper’s rifle, I wrapped the strap around my forearm, just as Uncle Sam had taught me. Clicking the sight in, adjusting for distance, bullet drop, wind, I let the cross-hairs drift across the upper window. A man leaned out, searching the ground below for his shot at Gregor. His blonde hair was tousled, as if he had been woken from a restless sleep. In the scope, I could see his pale blue eyes. He was young. I let out a breath and pulled the trigger. A pink puff danced off his head. And he was dead. His eyes would haunt me later. But not then. Then, it was killing time.
Swinging the sights onto the next window, I waited, stilling my coke driven heart. A shadow moved behind a curtain and I fired. The bullet shattered the glass and flapped the curtain open long enough for me to see a tall man fall. I scanned the front of the ranch house but nothing moved. Dropping the rifle, I noticed Mikayla had disappeared.
When I got to Gregor, his breath was shallow. Blood streaked his left arm and he was missing his two middle fingers. Ripping his shirt, I wrapped a tourniquet on his arm. The vest was pocked with lead. His eyes fought to focus.