Andrew Peterson
Ready to Kill
To Abedonia Marie Fagan (1954–2009)
and Tarsilla Martinez Davidson (1929–2013),
the best sister- and mother-in-law a guy could ask for.
Both of them now walk in grace with God.
MAP
CHAPTER 1
Pastor Tobias awoke to the sound of metal rattling. He was a light sleeper — it didn’t take much to rouse him. He pulled the insect netting aside and hurried over to the window. On the road below, a column of four pickup trucks approached the one-lane bridge at the south entrance to the valley, the truck beds clanging over the rutted road and the headlights bouncing. The pickups negotiated the final hairpin turn and began crossing the wooden bridge. Tobias’s small home, more like a tin shack, overlooked one of the most remote areas of northern Nicaragua. He looked at his watch—2:00 am. No one should be arriving in the middle of the night.
This wasn’t good; he’d seen it before.
Across the valley, lights flicked on as other people heard the caravan of trucks. Most of Santavilla’s fifteen hundred residents remained asleep, but that would change soon enough.
Tobias threw on some clothes, grabbed his flashlight, and started down the path. Several hundred feet below, the trucks rolled past his position. Being careful with his footing, he picked up his pace. Although in his midseventies, Tobias kept himself in good physical shape. Still, a misstep on this trail could be fatal — the mountainside angled sharply away, creating a fall he’d never survive. He adjusted the focus on his flashlight to make the beam wider.
The trucks picked up speed, their beds rattling again in sequence as they hit a deep rut. From his current position, Tobias couldn’t see the vehicles, but their headlights cast eerie shadows through the trees. To his right, a village elder stepped out of his hut.
“Pastor Tobias, what’s happening?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll get dressed and come with you.”
“Thank you, but please stay here. I’ll go see what’s going on.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”
“I’m sure. I’ll be right back.”
Tobias began a medium-paced jog when the terrain became more manageable. Half a minute later, he crossed the creek, using the earthen dam, and cleared the last of the big trees blocking his view.
The trucks had fanned out from the road and formed a semicircle around Mateo’s home, their headlights harshly illuminating the tiny structure. Each pickup produced two men. At this distance, Tobias couldn’t see much detail, but two of them wore the trademark white buttoned shirts associated with El Jefe’s criminal band. The other four were dressed in green combat uniforms, and they carried assault rifles with large magazines.
“Wait!” he yelled.
The gunmen either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore his command. With building anger, Tobias watched one of them kick open the front door. A few seconds later, they dragged Mateo’s wife out the door. Mateo staggered out after her, holding a hand to the side of his head. He’d obviously been struck, probably with the butt of a rifle.
Dressed only in a T-shirt and underwear, the woman offered no resistance as they pulled her across the gravel. Mateo yelled something and tried to free his wife from her assailant’s grasp, but a different gunman drove the barrel of his rifle into Mateo’s stomach. Mateo clutched his midsection, doubled over, and fell to his knees.
Nearly out of breath, Tobias yelled, “Stop this!”
One of the white shirts — who Tobias recognized as El Jefe’s chief enforcer — grabbed a bullhorn from the cab of his pickup. A metallic voice echoed across the landscape.
“Residents of Santavilla, let this serve as an example of the price of disloyalty. El Jefe is a generous man and pays you well for your work. Hoarding will not be tolerated.”
“Stop!”
Several gunmen turned toward Tobias as he closed the distance. The enforcer issued a hand signal, and they brought their weapons up but didn’t fire.
Tobias pointed at the leader with the bullhorn. “What are you doing? This is an outrage! You can’t just break into people’s homes in the middle of the night.”
“It’s much worse than that, old man.”
One of the uniformed mercenaries grabbed Pastor Tobias by the arm. The flashlight fell from his hand as he felt the iron grip on his biceps. He grimaced from the pain. The thug was purposely hurting him.
The enforcer motioned to several of his men. “Search the house.”
Two mercenaries disappeared inside. Tobias listened to the destruction as the men tore the place apart.
“Please,” Mateo said, “my wife is very ill and needs pain medicine. I have no extra money. El Jefe pays us pennies, and—”
“Silence! I will hear no more of your insolence.”
Mateo tried to get up. “Please, I’ll—”
The mercenary who’d struck Mateo in the stomach stepped forward and kicked him in the rib cage. Mateo curled into a fetal position.
“Enough,” Tobias yelled.
A high-pitched shriek came from inside the house.
“Leave her alone!” Tobias jerked free and ran toward the door.
He didn’t make it.
A sharp blow on the back of his head grayed his vision. Fighting to remain conscious, he fell to his hands and knees. One of the mercenaries grabbed his left wrist and began hauling him toward the trucks. Tobias wasn’t a small man, and the mercenary had trouble dragging him. A second man joined the effort, and Tobias felt his shoulder strain to the dislocation point. He cried out as the two men yanked him to his feet. The white-shirted enforcer stepped forward and backhanded Tobias across the cheek.
“This is not your business, old man. You cause only pain and suffering with your foolish beliefs. And now you’ve caused your own.”
A wave of nausea took the pastor. He bent over and vomited.
A second, higher-pitched scream emanated from the house as one of the gunmen yanked Mateo’s daughter, Antonia, through the door. In her early twenties, she too wore only a T-shirt and underwear. The man shoved the young woman to the ground next to her father.
Mateo managed to uncurl himself and rise to his knees. He wrapped his arms around his daughter, who glared at the gathering of mercenaries with bald defiance.
“Please don’t hurt my family,” pleaded Mateo.
The gunman who’d pulled Antonia outside handed the enforcer a tiny glass vial with a black cap. It was about an inch long and half an inch in diameter, filled almost to the top with gold flakes that shimmered in the headlights.
Before the enforcer brought the bullhorn up again, he gave Mateo’s daughter a long look, then smiled. She quickly averted her eyes.
“Everyone knows the rules. All gold panned on free Sundays must be turned over to El Jefe for cash payment on the same day it is obtained. No hoarding is allowed.”
Tobias knew Mateo was guilty. He’d planned to use the gold as currency to buy opium for his sick wife. In many areas of Nicaragua’s gold belt, it was regularly substituted for money. Mateo’s reason for keeping the gold wasn’t to enrich himself, only to ease his wife’s suffering.
“El Jefe is not without mercy,” the enforcer continued. “He has decided to spare this man’s life, but he must be punished.”
The mercenary on the leader’s left removed a pair of tin snips from his thigh pocket.
Pastor Tobias felt a second wave of nausea. “What are you doing? Stop!”
Without a word, the gunman grabbed Mateo by the hair and forced his head to the side. In a fluid motion, the gunman snipped off the upper half of Mateo’s ear. A semicircular chunk of bloody cartilage fell to the dirt. Mateo’s wife covered her mouth, stifling a scream.