Saint Death

“No, Sanchez. I don’t agree. I’ve been doing that for months and it’s selfish. I’m police for one more day. My oath should still mean something.”

They heard a dog somewhere. An anguished, hungry howl.

The receiver crackled inside the car. “We got a 246 at St. Mark’s Close. Repeat, a 246 at St. Mark’s Close. Possible 187.”

“That’s the narco-mansions, right?”

“Yep,” Plato said.

“Gonzalez’s mansion?”

Plato nodded. He pushed himself off the bo

“No-one’s answering that call.”

“I will,” Plato said.

“You’re joking — right?”

“No. You coming?”

He gaped at him. “Someone’s shooting up González’s mansion and you want to respond? It can only be another cartel. You want to get in the middle of that? Are you crazy?”

“That’s what we’re supposed to do.”

“You promised Emelia — don’t get shot. One more day, amigo. You stay away from shit like that. How stupid would it be to get yourself shot now?”

“I’ve been making the wrong decisions all week. And now I’m thinking what am I going to do to set them right?”

53

The lights went first. The live music, which had been playing loud all evening, petered out and then stopped. Milton winced as he pushed himself upright against the wall. Small arms fire rattled from the grounds outside the house. Beau got up, went to the window and put his eye to the crack between the shutters.

“Can you see anything?”

“Not really.”

“Yes or no?”

“It’s too dark.”

The door opened and a guard came into the room. “Bajar,” he told Beau, waving his ArmaLite at him. Get down. He unlatched the shutters, threw them aside, switched the rifle and used the stock to smash out the glass. He swept away the shards still stuck to the frame and then put the stock to his shoulder, glancing down the sight and opening fire.

Alright, then. Milton winced as he moved forwards onto his knees, sliding his hands all the way down his back, his shoulders throbbing with pain as he passed them over his backside and then down into the hollow behind his knees. He rolled his weight forwards until the momentum brought him to his feet, stepping over the loop of his closed hands, raising himself up. Milton dropped his cuffed hands around the man’s throat and, with his left shoulder pressed as near to perpendicular to the man’s head as he could manage, he yanked quickly to the right and snapped his neck.

“You’ve done that before.”

Milton frisked the dead guard, found a butterfly knife in his pocket, shook it open and sliced through the plastic shackles. He did the same for Beau. He stooped to collect the ArmaLite, checked the magazine, added a second from the guard’s pocket, and went out into the corridor.

“We’re getting out, right?”

“Not without the girl.”

“Come on, man, we’re fucked as it is. You want to waste time looking for her? Forget what they said — they were pulling your chain. That psychopath probably did her yesterday. She’s already dead, man. Dead.”

“We get her first.”

“She’s dead and you know it. And we got to get out. I don’t know who that is outside, but I’m willing to bet they ain’t go

“We get her, then we get González. How much if you bring him back?”

“Twenty-five large.”

“So why do you want to leave?”

“Can’t spend it when you’re dead.”

“If you want to go, there’s the door. Go. I’m not stopping you.”

Beau sighed helplessly. “I’m go

“Stay behind me.”

“You’re as crazy as they are.” He settled in behind him. “I need a gun.”

Milton brought the ArmaLite up and tracked down the corridor. As he passed a window all the glass fell out of it. He hadn’t even heard the shot. He looked out of the next window: a pandemonium of gunfire had broken out. Muzzle flashes spat out, three of them, shots aimed by the guards, and as Milton watched all three were taken out by a single frag grenade. The portion of the garden was subdued; Milton saw a flash of khaki as a figure in night vision goggles crab-walked to a forward position, an MP-5 cradled easily between practiced hands.

“It’s not a cartel,” he muttered.

The next room to the one in which they had been held was occupied by two men. They were pressed against the wall on either side of an open window. One had a shotgun, the other had an M-15. Shots from outside passed through the window and jagged across the ceiling. Milton turned into the doorway and raked both men with a quick burst of fire.

“Smith! Look out!”

A third Mexican was coming up the stairs, reaching for a small machine-gun he carried on a strap. Milton turned and fired, the ArmaLite cracking three times, blowing the top of his head against the wall and sending his body spi

“There’s your gun,” he said. “Help yourself.”

Beau took the shotgun.

There was a window at the end of the corridor. It smashed loudly, a six-inch canister crashing through it and then bouncing once, twice, before it came to rest against the wall.

Gas started to gush from both ends.

Milton’s mouth was filled with the impossibly acrid taste of tear gas before he covered his face with his sleeve. Whoever was attacking the mansion was professional. They’d cut the power and now they were going to disable everyone inside. Too organised and too well equipped for a cartel. There was precision here. A plan.

If he didn’t know better, he would have said it was special forces.

54

Felipe González watched as the grenade looped in a graceful arc over the swimming pool, bounced against the tiled floor and collected against the cushion of one of the loungers. It immediately started to unspool a cloud of brown-tinged smoke and, within moments, the guests on that side of the garden started to choke. Women screamed. One of the guests — it was the mayor, for fuck’s sake — stumbled and fell into the water. Felipe turned back to the mansion — the lights had all been extinguished there, too — and then he heard the first rattle of automatic weaponry.

What?

Que Madres?

More screams.

What the fuck was going on?

“El Patrón?” Isaac said.

“Come with me — all of you.”

He hurried around the pool, away from the spreading cloud of gas. The gringos stumbled after him, drunk.

“Sir,” Pablo said. “Come.”

“Who is it? Army?”

“I do not know. But whoever they are, they are very good.”

“Los Zetas?”

“We need to get you away from here.”

“Where is Adolfo?”

“Inside — with the girl.”

Felipe cursed. “Get him.”

“Javier has gone for him. Come, please, El Patrón.”

“Bring the gringos,” he said, pointing back to the three Americans.

“We will. But we must leave — now.”

There was a garage at the end of the garden. Pablo hurried him down the path towards it. A BMW was waiting, the engine ru

He thought of his son.

The driver stamped on the gas, the wheels spi

55