“You’re as crazy as a soup sandwich.” Fire Team Leader Charlie went back to digging with the rest of the men.
“I’m really not, like, crazy, dude.” Ziggy examined his new treasure. “Avery just says I’m, like, mentally hilarious.”
It took a few minutes for the men to remove the rest of the skeleton. As the various pieces were excavated from the ground, Ziggy laid them out in anatomical order. “I, like, need the hip bone, man. The foot bone connected to the…leg bone. The leg bone connected to the…hip bone,” Ziggy sang as he worked at reconstructing the skeleton.
Private Tango heard a dull thunk as his shovel hit something solid. The men all looked at each other.
“We got something, General.” Fire Team Leader Bravo got down on his hands and knees, and began sweeping away dirt with his hands. “It’s wood. Looks like some kind of long crate.”
“You’re sure it ain’t a chest?” Private Zulu asked. “’Cause I never heard of a treasure crate, just a treasure chest.”
“He’s right — it’s definitely a crate,” Private Tango said as he started to dig around the sides.
“Like, you sure there isn’t a hip down there, man?” Ziggy pointed into the pit with the skeleton’s bony arm.
• • •
Avery sat in the military vehicle outside the Padre’s facility and fumed. He distinctly remembered General Morales’ comments about the value of the reward for the Padre’s capture being contingent upon the level of involvement of the individual claiming the money. They’re trying to cut me out. Rip me off on some Mexican technicality. You can’t trust anyone in this country. The fighting now seemed to be contained inside the facility. Around the grounds, only a few army soldiers remained on lookout. Avery opened the door and performed a barrel roll onto the hard ground. Springing to his feet, he took a karate stance. His eyes panned left and right and then left again, but his head didn’t move. Tiptoeing between the heavy machines, he reached down and picked up a broom. Unscrewing the handle from the brush, he attempted to break it over his knee. It didn’t work.
“Son of…” Avery hopped around on one leg while the other throbbed in pain. Avery took the broom handle and stuck one end in the ground. Holding the top of the long wooden stick, he placed his foot in the middle of it. He tried to snap it. Avery fell over. The stick rolled away. Picking it up, he jammed one end into the space between the tire and wheel well of a backhoe loader. Pulling back with all his strength, he leaned his weight into it. This time the broom handle snapped. It sent Avery rolling over backward. Dusting himself off, he took the two pieces of broom handle and began to alternate swinging them diagonally back and forth in front of his body in a looping motion that brought the sticks up and around his head.
“Strike, strike, deflection,” he said as he swung the sticks. Avery whipped the sticks back and forth, faster and faster in a crisscrossing figure-eight pattern. “Block, block, deflection, strike, strike.” On the balls of his feet, Avery moved side to side with small, hopping jumps. “Evasion, evasion, deflection, strike, strike. Keep the sticks moving. Never stop moving. Don’t let your opponent judge the range of your sticks. Block, block, strike…strike…deathblow!” Avery leapt in the air and took a huge downward swing with one of his sticks. “Victory is mine.”
Avery placed his arms at his side and bowed deeply to his imaginary sparring partner. He wasn’t at all happy with the weight and balance of his sticks, but they would have to do. He hoped he wouldn’t run into any Filipino martial artists inside. The odds weren’t good, but they’d die laughing if they saw his pathetic fighting sticks. Avery marched to the main door. Stepping around the bodies of dead cartel gunmen, he ducked inside.
• • •
Deep underground, Barquero watched as the Padre’s men began to barricade the massive meth lab against Cesar and his men. The majority of the Padre’s men took positions around the freight elevator at the far end of the facility as the gunfire above intensified. The rest of the Padre’s men went to guard the stairwell that Barquero had come down. He knew he couldn’t kill all of them. He needed to wait for Cesar. Then he could kill the one he wanted the most. Barquero slowly lowered himself from the platform above the facility’s floor and dropped to the ground. In the chaos and confusion, no one noticed as he hid behind a stack of chemical containers.
• • •
“General.” Fire Team Leader Alpha wiped the sweat from his face. “That’s all of them.” The General and men stood looking at the ten wooden crates.
“What do you think is in ’em?” Private Tango asked.
“They look like coffins to me,” Private Zulu answered.
“Hell, no.” The General kicked one of the dirt-encrusted boxes. “Too short and too skinny for coffins.” He got down on his knee and began to rub the dirt from the side of one. “It’s got something painted on it.” The General spit on the top corner of the crate and rubbed furiously at the dried soil. “New…New Haven…New Haven, Connecticut. Private, get me that smashing iron from the bus.” Private Zulu returned promptly with a claw hammer. The General took the tool and pried back one of the corners of the crate. The men of STRAC-BOM aimed their flashlights into the crate as the General lifted the lid. Even Ziggy looked on in anticipation. Nancy ignored them. “Great day in the morning,” the General said as he gazed upon the contents of the crate.
“What are they, General?” Fire Team Leader Bravo asked. Tears welled up in the General’s eyes as he lifted up something long and heavy.
“Henries, boys. I’ll be goddamned, but we found Henries.” The General lifted up the mint-condition Henry repeating rifle to show his troops. “You could load this salty bastard on Monday and shoot until Sunday. It’s…it’s…beautiful. It’s perfect.” The General wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
“They worth much?” asked Private Zulu.
“Perfectly preserved like this?” The General brought the never-before-fired weapon to his shoulder and sighted down the long barrel of the lever-action rifle. “Thousands, maybe tens of thousands apiece.”
“So,” Private Zulu said. “We got ten crates, at six rifles a crate, times thousands…tens of thousands…” The scrawny private stuck out his tongue as he attempted to do the math.
“Like, did we find the hip bone, man?” Ziggy interrupted.
“Quiet,” Private Zulu said. “I’m ciphering. Carry the…”
“It’s a lot of money, boys.” The General turned and shook the hands of his Fire Team Leaders. They saluted in return. All of a sudden, Nancy hissed. The big iguana’s head bobbed up and down violently. From the desert, sets of glowing eyes moved back and forth in the dark.
“Battle stations!” the General ordered. “Fire at will!” The men began to unload their weapons into the night. Like ghosts, the sets of eyes vanished from view and then reappeared in another place. “Keep firing, men!” The General squeezed off rounds from his pearl-handled revolvers into the dark.
“Behind you!” Fire Team Leader Alpha yelled as he let off a blast from his shotgun. Private Foxtrot turned around and aimed his single-shot twenty-two at nothing in particular and fired.
“I’ve only got two more shells,” the private said as he fumbled to reload his rifle.
“I’ve only three more,” said Fire Team Leader Bravo.
“I’m out!” yelled Private Zulu. Ziggy picked up Nancy and crawled into the pit.
“Ohmmm, ohmmm,” Ziggy chanted as the gunfire rattled his delicate nature. “Like, peace, man.” He was terrified, and even meditation wasn’t helping.
“Keep up the fire, boys.” The General shot from the hip as he aimed at glowing sets of eyes. The growling coming from the pitch black beyond their flashlight beams became louder and louder. The General’s pistols clicked empty.