El Soldado: The Soldier, page 3
“What good is an unloaded gun?” Papá liked to ask, whenever the subject of gun safety arose. “Will the desperados give me time to load?”
As Serrano held the gun in his hand, he remembered the lessons at the old quarry. Draw, aim, fire. Over and over again. It had gotten boring after a while.
But the practice paid off. Eventually, he applied to the USMC Shooting Team and was accepted. Handguns were Serrano’s specialty, especially since he was ambidextrous and equally lethal with either hand. But he was good with long guns too. Good enough to be a sniper.
Serrano’s thoughts were interrupted as Father Colon rushed into the room. “I got a call! Some pandilleros entered town—they’ve checked the garage and found the truck. They’re holding Carlos hostage. They want you!”
Serrano returned the .45 to its holster. It was his fault. “Then let’s provide them with what they want.”
Colon was at the wheel as the Taurus careened down the hill and into town. “Will the police respond?” Serrano inquired.
The priest laughed. “Officer Molina? Not a chance. He works for El Cuchillo (The Knife). The man who runs the local cartel.”
Serrano wanted to ask about Cuchillo and the cartel, but there wasn’t enough time. Colon brought the car to a screeching halt a block from the garage.
“Stay here,” Serrano advised. He then got out and made his way forward. The town was preternaturally quiet, except for the croaking sound produced by a Tamaulipas crow and the insistent ringing of a phone.
Once Serrano was close enough to be heard, he took cover behind a section of adobe wall, and cupped his hands. “This is Nick Serrano. I hear you’re looking for me.”
“Hell yes, I’m looking for you,” a voice answered. “You killed my brother! Drop your weapons and walk in. Otherwise, the mechanic dies.”
“Okay,” Serrano said, as he lowered the gun rig to the ground. “I’m coming in.”
The entrance to the garage was wide open. But it was difficult to penetrate the gloom. Close, Serrano thought. I need to get close.
“Raise your hands!” a bandit demanded. “Palms out.”
Serrano raised his hands, confident that the bandits wouldn’t notice the tiny aluminum sphere, or the rod attached to it.
Once inside the garage, Serrano could see them. Carlos was bleeding from his nose, his hands were tied behind his back, and his gaze was defiant. “Sorry, Nick…Your truck isn’t ready yet.”
A bandido pistol-whipped the mechanic, causing the others to turn their heads.
Serrano raised his left arm and used his fingers to press the ball twice. The spring-loaded derringer shot out of Serrano’s sleeve, and into the palm of his hand.
Serrano couldn’t risk headshots with such an inaccurate weapon. So, he fired at a torso, felt the recoil, and heard a loud boom as the .358 magnum bullet put the forajido on his ass.
Then it was time to switch targets. The second man was in motion, trying to aim, when Serrano shot him in the chest. The impact threw the outlaw backwards and onto the grease-stained floor.
Serrano waited to die. The math was simple. Two barrels, two bullets, three men. Game over.
Or it would have been over, had it not been for Carlos, soccer player that he was, who kicked the surviving gunman in the right knee.
That was the break Serrano needed. A large tool chest stood to his right. Serrano sent it rolling at the third man, who fired wildly.
Serrano bent to scoop a pistol off the floor. Two slugs from the 9mm put the last cabrón down for good.
Serrano helped Carlos to his feet. “That was a nice move, amigo. You saved my ass.”
Townspeople were crowding in by then. “Come on,” Serrano said. “Let’s load the bodies into the Tundra, grab some beers, and head for the quarry. We’ll have a bonfire. Truck and all.”
*
Martina Blanco was pulling weeds in the vegetable garden, when she heard the shots, and hurried to grab the AR-15 that was leaning on the fence.
But there had been no text message warning the town’s guerillas, most of whom were female, that an attack was underway. And, if El Cuchillo’s scum were staging a raid, the gunfire would be nearly continuous. Four shots were meaningless.
Satisfied that nothing was amiss, Martina had returned to pulling weeds again when her friend Carmen arrived. “Did you hear? Three bandidos came to town and took Carlos hostage! Then Antonio Serrano’s grandson arrived, and killed them all! And he’s handsome.”
“Good,” Martina said. “You handle the gossip… And I’ll take care of the vegetables.”
But in spite of what Martina had said to Carmen, she was interested. A man who killed three bandidos by himself! He would be worth recruiting.
Chapter Three
Phoenix, Arizona
Leo Creedy was of the opinion that the hardest part of killing someone was finding them. Not always. But often. Nick Serrano was no exception. Especially since it looked as though his personal history had been wiped by professionals.
Why? Because he worked for some sort of heavy-duty criminal enterprise? Or for the government? The two being one and the same, to Creedy’s way of thinking.
Facebook? Nada. Data scraping companies? Zero. People searches? Nope. But public records? Yes, in that Serrano had married Valerie Carter four years earlier in Texas and subsequently divorced.
Were they still in touch? Odds are that they were, for legal reasons if nothing else. So, if Creedy could find Valerie, chances were that he’d be able to find her thieving husband too.
Unlike Nick, Valerie was all over the social media sites, posing in a variety of skimpy clothing—and apparently bent on becoming an influencer.
But even though the thirty-something blond was pretty, could Val compete with eighteen-year-olds? Creedy didn’t think so. Not that it mattered. Not that he really cared.
The recon mission was simple: Fly to Phoenix, the city that appeared in Val’s social media posts, and have a chat with her.
But simple things can get complicated in a hurry. Especially given the professional manner in which Nick Serrano had neutralized two members of Mr. Yankovic’s staff.
So, when Creedy boarded the plane for Phoenix, he was accompanied by two sidekicks, who had worked with him before. Boz was white, and Trev was black, consistent with Creedy’s commitment to diversity.
Creedy and his two sides sat by themselves, didn’t chat with the people around them, and were very courteous. A black ops vehicle was waiting for them. The rental rate was one thousand per day, and no wonder, since it was armored and untraceable. Payment was upfront in cash. But Creedy didn’t give a shit. Mr. Yankovic was footing the bill.
The first step upon arrival was to latch onto Valerie Serrano and follow her home. And, thanks to all the marketing hype Val had posted, Creedy knew where to find her—at the Arizona Center Mall. There she, and half a dozen other “models,” were scheduled to strut their stuff in front of a clothing store.
All Creedy and his sides had to do was hang out there, take notice when the MC called for Val to walk the walk, and wait for the event to end.
That was easy. Following Valerie to her car was more difficult than it should have been, because it took her a long time to pop in and out of stores, increasing the chances that she’d notice one or more of her stalkers.
Eventually, when Valerie entered the parking garage, the others stayed back, allowing Boz to tail her alone. The trick was timing. The side couldn’t place the tracker on Val’s ride until he knew which one was hers.
Boz knew that most people are distracted when they open a car door, slide inside, and fasten their seat belt. And Valerie was no exception.
So that was when the hitman increased his pace, paused long enough to attach the package to Valerie’s rear bumper, and walk away.
An adhesive held the tracker in place rather than a magnet, since so many bumpers were made of plastic. A development Boz disapproved of.
After that it was easy to follow Valerie to a supermarket, then home to a development full of lookalike houses, and desert landscaping.
Creedy was planning to ring Valerie’s doorbell and bullshit his way in, but that wasn’t necessary. An alley ran behind the houses on Val’s block, providing residents with the “gotta have” two car garages, which set the development apart from many others.
Valerie was exiting her Benz when a car stopped behind hers, two men got out, and grabbed her. Val opened her mouth to scream, and as she did so, Creedy stuffed a handkerchief into the hole. Valerie kicked futilely as she was lifted up off the ground, and carried into the pool area, where a young man in a Speedo was lying on a chaise lounge.
He started to get up, but fell back when Creedy shot him with a suppressed Ruger .22. One bullet to the head, and one to the torso.
The subsonic bullets made a soft popping noise. And, small though the slugs were, they were equal to the job. Valerie attempted to cry out but the improvised ball gag prevented her from doing so.
The door was unlocked. Creedy and Trev hustled Val into the kitchen, dumped her on top of the island she was so proud of, and used strips of duct tape to secure her limbs.
“There,” Creedy said, as he removed the soggy handkerchief from Valerie’s mouth. “I’m looking for you husband. Where is he?”
“I-I-I don’t know,” Valerie stuttered. “We’re divorced.”
“Okay,” Creedy said. “Where do you think he is?”
“San Antonio?” Val inquired hopefully.
“We looked there,” Trev put in.
“That’s right,” Creedy said. “We looked there. So, if your ex had to run, where would he go?”
Valeries’s eyes darted from face-to-face. “Lugar de Paz,” she said. “It’s a town in Mexico. That’s where his grandfather lives.”
Creedy said, “Thanks,” and shot Valerie in the head.
*
Lugar de Paz, Mexico
Three days had passed since the confrontation in the garage. And Serrano, at Father Colon’s urging, was about to attend a church dinner. The sun was setting as people streamed past the church, under an arch, and onto a patio. Serrano followed.
Christmas style lights were draped between poles, buffet tables were heaped with food, and the crowd was festive. Except for one thing: At least half of the congregants were armed. Women included.
Serrano asked Carlos about that when the mechanic emerged from the crowd. “Ah yes, amigo. Have you noticed that there aren’t any narcos hanging around town? That’s because of the guerillas. Women mostly. But some men too… Who stand ready to fight El Cuchillo’s bastardos if they try to take over.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To steal, rape, and kidnap,” Father Colon said, as he approached. “Nick… I would like to introduce Martina Blanco.”
Martina had long black hair, an oval shaped face, and big eyes. She had something else as well, and that was charisma. “El Soldado,” Martina said. “That’s what they call you. Are you a soldado? Or, are you a pistolero?”
The challenge in Martina’s voice was obvious. Colon smiled.
“I was a soldado,” Serrano answered. “A sergeant in the United States Marine Corps. But not anymore.”
“Will you teach us?” Martina demanded. “Or sit in the sun and watch us die?”
“That’s enough, Martina,” Father Colon said. “Do you want Nick’s help? Or do you want to piss him off?”
Carmen arrived at that point. “Martina! They’re waiting for you!” Martina allowed herself to be towed away.
“Martina is in charge of our guerilla fighters,” Colon explained. “And she’s quite passionate about it. Her husband was killed by the narcos eight years ago.”
The priest might have said more, but was interrupted by a voice that boomed through the sound system. “Damas y caballeros... ¡Por favor, junten las manos por Martina Blanco!”
People began clapping as a mariachi band joined the crowd, and an improvised spot light found Martina as she began to sing Tu Solo Tu in a warm, full-bodied mezzo-soprano voice.
Serrano stood transfixed as Martina sang the love song, lost in the clarity of her voice and the depth of her emotion.
Loud applause followed the performance, and Serrano saw that a sombrero was making the rounds, and dropped a twenty into the hat as it passed by.
Then Father Colon took the mike, thanked Martina, and urged people to eat.
The rest of the evening was a blur. And, when Serrano drove home, he was thinking about Martina rather than the repairs Father Colon was hoping to fund.
The next day dawned gray, with low lying clouds in the west, and a distant mutter of thunder. After a simple breakfast of coffee, toast and bacon, Serrano drove down to the Día de la Independencia ballpark.
In spite of the important sounding name, the all-purpose ballpark wasn’t much to look at. There were soccer nets at both ends of the mostly dirt field, with a scruffy baseball diamond in the middle, bracketed by weather-worn wooden seats.
Spectators were seated here and there, oldsters mainly, who were there to oversee the children playing all around them.
Approximately 50 people were doing calisthenics at centerfield, led by none other than Martina Blanco, who was clearly in good shape. Her voice was loud enough to be heard on and off the field. “Come on! Ten more… You can do it!”
Serrano was carrying Shorty in a cross-draw holster, and was dressed in a t-shirt, shorts, and running shoes as he joined the group. Once Serrano started doing pushups, he realized that he needed to do them, and made a personal promise to work out every day.
When Martina called a halt, Serrano heard his name. “We have a new member!” Martina announced. “A person you’ve heard of, even if you haven’t met him. His name is Nick Serrano. He’s Antonio Serrano’s grandson, and the man called El Soldado. He’s going to advise us.”
The announcement produced loud applause. Like Father Colon, Martina had a way of locking people in, and doing so without seeking their permission.
Serrano raised a hand by way of acknowledgement, even as Martina invited him to come forward. “So,” Martina said. “What do you think of our guerillas now?”
“I think I’ll take the rest of the day off.” That drew laughs as it was supposed to.
“Someone has been eating too many burritos,” Martina suggested tartly. “I would like our officers and noncoms to join Nick and me after we complete our laps. I want to pepper him with questions, and I’m sure you feel the same way.”
Much to Serrano’s chagrin he was winded after two laps around the field and happy to sit on a patch of grass for the impromptu meeting.
During the ensuing give-and-take, a number of things became clear. About 40 of the 52 members of the guerrilla force were women because they were effectively single, or their men were working, some far from home.
The trickle down from that was that the guerillas were more of a quick reaction force than a standing unit. And if a child was ill, and no one was available to babysit, individual guerillas felt free to ignore alerts.
Furthermore, officers and noncoms were elected, rather than being selected, which meant popularity was more important than proficiency.
And those were just the personnel issues. The unit was short of every kind of supply imaginable. Especially weapons and ammo.
Once the session was over, and parents went off to claim their children, Martina and Serrano had an opportunity to talk privately. “We’re pretty messed up, huh?” Martin inquired.
“You fought El Cuchillo off,” Serrano replied. “That’s what Father Colon told me. That’s a big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” Martina agreed. “But we were lucky. The narcos didn’t expect any resistance. Not so much as a single shot. That was because Officer Molina didn’t take our training sessions seriously. El Cuchillo cut him for that. That’s the rumor.
“But even with the advantage of surprise we lost five people,” Martina added. “We can’t sustain those kinds of losses. You were a sergeant in the American Army?”
“The Marine Corps,” Serrano replied.
“And that’s better?”
“Marines think so,” Serrano answered.
“So, Sergeant,” Martina said. “What should I do?”
“Gradually transition away from elected leaders,” Serrano suggested. “And break your squads down into four-person fire teams, each having a leader who can be promoted to sergeant if they prove themselves. Their subordinates will include an automatic rifleman, an assistant, and a rifleman.”
“We have one fully automatic weapon,” Martina countered.
“For now,” Serrano replied. “We’ll work on that. Plus, other necessities. And, once we get them, we’ll have the right structure in place. Which is to say an organization that can be broken down into small, agile teams.” He paused, and looked at Martina carefully. There were so many things to correct. Which one should he emphasize? “Right now I’m most concerned about your early warning system. How does it work? “Poorly,” Martina confessed. “If someone sees something they think is suspicious, they phone or text me.”
“Maybe you can recruit some old people to serve as lookouts,” Serrano suggested. “Then we’ll train them.”
Their eyes locked. “So,” Martina said. You’ll help us.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Her eyes were searching Serrano’s face.
Serrano paused for a second. “Because my grandfather told me to.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance and rain began to fall. It felt warm. Like newly spilled blood.
*
Leo Creedy hit paydirt in the local cantina. All he had to do was buy a drink for a drunk and tell him a lie. “I’m supposed to deliver a package to Señor Serrano. Can you tell me where he lives?”
“Sure,” the drunk replied. “He lives in La Casa Bonita up on Beacon Hill.”
“Beacon? How so?”
“Settlers used to light off a pile of brush when Comanches were coming,” the man said. “It’s the only hill in Lugar de Paz. You can’t miss it.”
Creedy left the cantina and returned to the black SUV. He had three sides with him, including Boz and Trev.
