“The minute there’s gunfire, the secuestradores will know the deal has curdled,” said Barney. “It’ll take about two seconds for somebody to spread the news on a cellphone, and thanks to me, Almirante will probably lose a finger before they double their demands, but better a finger than a life.”
“No need to keep blaming yourself,” said Karlov. His face was dotted with little circular Band-Aids he had smeared to neutral with camo paint.
But Barney felt the bite of irony; it had him captured like a narcotic. His negligence would cause Almirante to lose fingers. He did his best to refocus his embarrassment into aggression, then froze fast in wonder at the fact he was concerned at all. Dormant feelings had roused deep inside him. He was not the reincarnation of the Old Assassin after all, or if he was, the sage old killer had been resurrected with a vulnerability, a soft spot. Emotion, however primal, had entered his target’s sight picture, and at that, Barney should have quit and withdrawn. You could not permit an objective to become polluted. His gratitude to the people who had saved his life had just been shoved into hot focus by the fact he was no longer acting solely on behalf of his vendetta, but to save the skin of one of their own.
The best course was to hop-to and not fuck it up, this time. He could psychoanalyze himself later, because right now there was brutal work to do.
Barney indicated the primary shooter slots, the directions from which the late Jesús and his runner buddies had hared forth to collect the cash, and the most likely strategic positions for cover and observation. Tannenhauser, the Mexican with the unlikely name and principal architect of the art of abduction, had been nearby when Carl and Barney had showed up the first time. Not only had he watched, probably through binoculars (which could put him a thousand yards away, or better), but he had gloated to Carl over the hostage cellphone in such a way as to indicate he was indeed seeing the whole exchange live.
But the boss would probably not attend tonight. In business, one learns from experience.
There was no way not to tell El Atrocidad.
“I and three of my friends will be waiting,” Barney said into the phone. “We don’t want to have to deal with friendly fire. Our objective is to capture one of the pickup men. Repeat, capture — not kill.”
“So you cannot locate the hotel of the rehéns?”
“No, my information was unreliable. I know Almirante is at risk, but we must take that risk.” Barney could not quite bring himself to admit out loud that he had screwed the pooch once already.
“You risk not only yourself, but your men,” returned Atrocidad gruffly. “For one of ours. We shall not bring las armas if you tell me that you will.”
“Consider your ass covered, big man.”
If anything, the meltdown district where the oddly fanciful bridge was located smelled even worse than Barney remembered. No memory puckers the pores like decomposing sewage and toxic spill. Karlov wore his shooting glasses with flip-down tinted lenses — he was a bit nearsighted — and within moments they all had mufflered themselves in bandanas in a futile attempt to filter the stench. You wanted to cover as much of your skin as possible in a place like this; even taking a sip of bottled water seemed hazardous, because the water made the briefest contact with the air before it got inside you. Nothing had any color here, beyond iron-gray and mud-brown. Nothing grew on the eroded banks of the river where La Llorona was said to call out in the night, at the full moon.
As the sun descended, the evil, poisoned ground gave up more odor in thick waves of released heat. The men were already sweltering in their gear, but to inhale a double lungful of this aroma was to induce vomiting.
Barney unsheathed one of the Benelli shotguns. He was positioned so as to neutralize the bridge shooter who had surprised him the first time. Different cast, same movie, only now Barney was the screen, looking at the audience. Two hours before the appointed meet, two full-size, flat-black SUVs with nonreflective rims showed up to disgorge about fifteen men. Barney’s team was secreted around the perimeter, concealed beneath reeking garbage and industrial litter, their faces eliminated by camouflage paint.
They all went hot on their conferenced cellphones, another tweak of Karlov’s.
“I can see the vehicles,” came Armand’s voice in a crackle. He was invisible somewhere off to Barney’s left. “They pulled back about forty yards, by the oil pumpers, whatever you call those things that look like dunk-birds. Two and two.”
Correction: nineteen men, all armed.
“Armand, take the cars,” said Barney.
“Copy, take cars and men. Done.”
“I’ve got five on my side of the river,” said Karlov. “Flanking out from the cars. They look to be cover fire or surprise backup. I can take these five but I’ve got to move closer for the rest.”
A phalanx of the men crossed the bridge and scattered, leaving a solitary shooter up top. No way there had been this many guys when Carl and Barney had first visited. Tannenhauser’s idea of security had gone practically American — more equals better.
“I’ve got men heading under the bridge,” said Sirius, slightly further back in a crow’s nest position with the Nitefinder binoculars.
“Can you get them all?” said Barney.
“You might have to pick up some spare change on your way over. Karlov, you’ve got two more moving up on your six o’clock.” Not good. Karlov’s hide now had shooters on both sides of it.
“Copy,” said Karlov. “Betcha a beer I can take seven before you take five.”
Sirius replied, “Meet me after. These are some scruffy-looking dudes indeed.” As an afterthought he added, “Packing autos; watch out for spray.”
“Complaints, complaints,” Karlov chimed in through a brief jolt of static. “Grow up. This is fewer than five each, and I have what you call the handicap.”
Armand’s voice came back: “I can take the bridge shooters from behind.”
“Negative,” said Barney. “Take the vehicles. Make sure they don’t go anywhere.”
“Copy.”
“Take them on my shot,” said Barney.
The sun ebbed and the shadows lengthened. It was getting crowded out here, thought Barney. The hidden watchers were themselves being watched by his team, better concealed.
At the appointed time, when the fetid atmosphere was bristling with anticipation, Barney saw El Atrocidad’s golden chariot slowly negotiate its way over roads that were little better than sodden goatpaths. It stopped the same distance from the bridge that Barney had stopped Carl’s limo, in another time.
Flecha debarked from the passenger side — Barney recognized the tank-shaped man immediately — which meant El Atrocidad was in the driver slot. The car was roughly between Sirius to the south, and Karlov to the north on the far side of the river.
He saw Flecha raise a cellphone to his ear.
Barney dog-crawled from his hide. He did not need nightvision, though he was aware the enemy probably had it.
Flecha repeated his instructions, his low purr of a voice audible, though not intelligible.
With the semi-auto Benelli in a low-ready dedicated carry, Barney did a double roll to bring him in line with the pathway on the bridge and fired twice from a distance of fifteen running yards. The shooter on the bridge screamed and fell over, pretty much a sieve from the knees up.
Gunfire perforated the night, muzzle flashes everywhere as the dumping ground transmogrified into a battlefield.
Sirius took the bridge runners, one-two-three, as they broke cover and started firing machine guns at Atrocidad’s car.