El Barquero looked at the head of the strange-looking animal wrapped in silver tape on the table. He swung his pistol from Avery to the animal and fired a single shot into middle of its body. The bullet left a perfect hole in the duct tape outer wrapping; the smell of gunpowder filled the room.
“It’s a coyote,” El Barquero growled.
“You son of bitch!” Avery spat as he grabbed the silver-wrapped bundle and clutched it to his breast. “You might as well burn the Shroud of Turin or paint a mustache on the Mona Lisa. I won’t let you desecrate this international treasure.”
“Find my shipment.”
“I told you, I don’t know where it is,” Avery replied as he cuddled his rotting, mangy coyote corpse, shielding it from the imposing man’s aim.
“Two minutes,” said El Barquero as he leveled the gun again at Avery’s head. “Start looking.”
“Okay, okay,” replied Avery as he released the dead coyote. “Just don’t hurt the chupacabra.”
“It’s dead.”
“That’s not the point,” Avery replied as he began looking around the headquarters and wondering where the shipment might be. “Three bundles, three burlap bundles,” he muttered as he paced around the room, opening file cabinets and storage lockers. Avery spotted what looked like an office on the far side of the room and shuffled toward it with El Barquero, his pistol still aimed at Avery, in tow. Avery frantically searched General X-Ray’s darkened office, doing anything possible to buy himself some time. El Barquero entered the General’s office and turned on the light. He walked over to the desk and pressed the “Play” button on the answering machine.
“This is Avery Bartholomew Pendleton of Austin, Texas,” the message began. “This message is for one Private Zulu. I made an earlier departure than I thought and with one minor mechanical…”
“Is that you?” asked El Barquero.
“Yes. I told you I wasn’t one of them,” replied Avery as he looked inside a coat closet. Maps and paperwork tumbled out as he opened the door.
“Then I guess I really don’t need you,” El Barquero said as he aimed his weapon at Avery.
“Wait! Stop!” Avery pleaded. “I’ve still got thirty seconds. Hold on. In the back, come on.” Avery hustled out of the office and toward the back room where he’d entered through the window. El Barquero followed him. Spotting the closets in the back room, he quickly searched one and then the other. There in the second closet rested three large, square burlap bundles with improvised shoulder straps attached to them.
“Move them to the front.” El Barquero ordered. For the next few minutes, Avery struggled to drag the heavy loads into the main room.
“Voilà!” said Avery as he wiped the sweat from his brow, not sure if it was from the physical exertion or nervous perspiration. “Now, you’ve got what you want, and I’ve got what I want. I suggest we both head off with our respective possessions before Private Zulu arrives, and none will be the wiser. Fair deal. Good trade, I think. Happy ending for us all, mister, uh, I didn’t catch your name, did I?”
“His name is El Barquero,” came a voice from the back room. “Don’t move, El Barquero. It’s time to pay the Padre.”
“Is that you, Sandro?” El Barquero asked of the man behind him. “The Padre must really want you dead if he sent you after me.”
“It’s the other way around, El Barquero,” Sandro said as he stepped into the headquarters’ main room. “Put the gun on the table and turn around.” El Barquero placed his gun down and slowly turned to face Sandro. The tall Mexican covered in tattoos held a large-caliber chrome-plated revolver pointed at El Barquero in one hand and El Barquero’s silver case in the other. “Back up against the wall, both of you,” Sandro ordered. Avery and El Barquero complied. “Who are you?” Sandro asked Avery.
“No one,” Avery nervously replied. “I really should be on my way. Give you gentlemen some time to catch up.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Sandro said as he walked to the table in the middle of the room and placed the silver case on it. “The Padre will be upset to know you left his money in an unattended car. Very sloppy, El Barquero. But I’m glad you kept it with you. Just follow the money.” He reached into his pocket and removed a phone and tossed it onto the table. A red dot flashed on the phone’s screen. “Finding you was easy.”
“You didn’t check the case for a tracking device?” Avery asked El Barquero. “Jesus, what an amateur. I myself perform a weekly bug sweep. It’s standard operating procedure for any operative worth their salt.”
“Shut up,” snapped El Barquero and Sandro at the same time.
“I’m going to be needing your head, El Barquero,” Sandro said as he reached behind his neck with one hand and removed a long machete from the diagonal sling across his back, the whole time keeping his revolver trained on the muscular giant. “You want me to take it now or once you’re dead?”
“Now, you piece of shit,” El Barquero snarled. Sandro took a step toward the two men. Quick as lighting, El Barquero reached over and grabbed the back of Avery’s tracksuit and threw him toward the advancing Sandro. Sandro pistol-whipped the stumbling Avery across the face, knocking him to the floor.
Immediately, Sandro swung his gun toward El Barquero, who had somersaulted to the floor behind the table, using the table top as cover. Sandro’s pistol roared as the back corner of the table exploded, the bullet just missing El Barquero. In one fluid motion, El Barquero reached underneath his leather coat and grabbed a hand scythe. As he rolled up on one knee, he threw the curved blade at Sandro’s head as hard as he could. Sandro ducked just under the whirling steel weapon as he fired blindly. The bullet’s impact left a fist-sized hole in the cinderblock wall behind El Barquero.
Sandro rose up to draw a bead on El Barquero, but it was too late. The powerful Mexican had launched himself at Sandro as soon as the scythe had left his hand. He closed the gap between the two men in a split second. Before Sandro could aim his pistol, El Barquero was on top of him. The force of El Barquero’s impact knocked both men to the floor. El Barquero was on top of Sandro, locking his pistol hand to the floor. From his back, Sandro swung the machete with his free hand at El Barquero. El Barquero rolled to his right to close the distance to the blade and trap Sandro’s arm and the machete to the floor. Rolling to stop the blade pulled Sandro on top of El Barquero, but El Barquero had his wrist locked in a vise-like grip and wouldn’t allow Sandro to bring the gun barrel down.
“Jesus,” said Avery as he watched the two men’s deadly struggle on the floor. Wiping blood from his face, he got to his feet. Deciding this might be a good time to evacuate the scene and let these two men settle their differences in private, Avery snatched his precious duct-taped bundle from the table. Turning to the front door, he stopped and glanced back at the silver case on the table. Then he looked toward the two men on the floor. Avery grabbed the case and ran to the front of the building. Unlocking the door, he bolted for his car. Fumbling with his keys, he finally managed to unlock the back door. Avery dropped his taped bundle in the back seat. Then, opening the silver briefcase, he dumped the stacks of bills onto the floorboard. Throwing the case on the ground, he slammed the back door shut, climbed into the front, and peeled out backward down the bumpy drive. Slamming on the brakes when he came to the main road, he spun the car around and floored the accelerator. Avery’s hands shook as the car’s engine whined. Wiping the blood from the wound Sandro’s pistol barrel had left on his forehead, he sped down the road and toward the highway.
Back inside, El Barquero’s crushing grip on Sandro’s wrist began to take effect. Slowly the heavy pistol began to wobble in Sandro’s grip. El Barquero stared into Sandro’s panicked eyes and smiled.