FOUR

Andes Mountains, Bolivia, South America.

The small wooden cabin was the only residence around for miles. At first glance, bathed in darkness and overgrown with native vegetation, the place appeared to be deserted. But such was not the case. Currently taking up residence were the four members of Los Diablos.

Los Diablos were a four-man squad of Guerrero outcasts. Tainted warriors. Lost souls. They had all started out as regular Guerreros, hailing from the same small village in Bolivia, but since then each member had turned their back on the warrior’s way of life, trading their pursuit of money and fame for far more personal ambitions. They had come together under the leadership of their strongest member after a brutal inciting incident; their homes had all been destroyed and their families left slaughtered by a team of cartel militia being led by a fellow Guerrero. Nowadays Los Diablos were never afraid to fight unclean, or even to stab an adversary in the back; they held no respect for anyone or anything. It was for this very reason that they were equally despised amongst Guerreros as they were feared.

The inside of the cabin was littered with the freshly slaughtered corpses of ten heavily armed bounty hunters. The hunters had been hired by several Guerreros to cut out the cancer of their profession known as Los Diablos, but their pay checks for undertaking the job would never be cashed. Their mangled and bloodied bodies were bathed in a faint flickering orange glow from the burning fireplace.

Crouching there beside the fireplace, shoving fresh fuel into the flames, was a man named Eduado Ramirez. With black devil-themed tattoos all over his thick arms and chest, slicked-back hair and a moustache and goatee facial-hair combination, Eduado looked more like a bar-fly than the skilled killer that he was. But his looks were deceptive; slaughtering other Guerreros had become such a specialty of Eduado that he had been nicknamed the ‘Guerrero Slayer’ by many.

Eduado coughed suddenly as a change in the wind brought a thick whiff of smoke blowing back into his face. He turned back with annoyance to one of his comrades, a man named Sebastian Gonzalez.

Sebastian was sitting back comfortably on a worn sofa chair across the room, making out with a pretty Latina woman on his lap, right beside a headless corpse of one of the fallen bounty hunters. The two of them were kissing ferociously, breathing in short and deep gasps as their lips drove forcefully together, their tongues twisting and coiling like a pair of entwined snakes.

“Hey, Speedy,” Eduado called out, addressing Sebastian by his nickname. “Why don’t you put that cheap, mail-order prostitute on hold for a while and come take your turn watching the fire? I’m fucking starving here!”

The woman on Sebastian’s lap whipped her head around fiercely, her long, plaited hair swishing back over her shoulder as her eyes found Eduado. She was wearing a demonic halloween mask which covered the top half of her face, but her eyes appeared venomous through the slits. “What the fuck did you just call me, Eduado?!” She reached for the grip of the 12-inch Guerrero knife sheathed in her gun belt. “Go on, you fat fuck, I dare you to say it again!”

“Come on, Rosaria,” Eduado grinned sheepishly, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. “You know I was only kidding. Relax, would ya?”

Rosaria Rodriguez was a pretty woman in her own ‘tough-girl’ sort of way. Despite her fiery temper and outward aggression, there was no denying her beautiful feminine side. She had soft round lips, a smooth jaw line, and her skin was vibrant and olive-coloured. Dressed as she was in a dark tank top and pair of skin-tight leather pants, she could have passed for a cover model in some kind of satanic guerrilla warfare magazine, if such a thing existed.

“Easy, babe,” Sebastian said to calm her. “You know he’s just pissed because he hasn’t been laid in twenty years.”

Sebastian Gonzalez had been nicknamed Speedy by the rest of the group, and only partially because of the famous cartoon mouse character that shared his last name. The name was also due to the natural speed he had on his feet, and, although he could never openly admit it to anyone, his inability to last for very long in the bedroom. Like his partner Rosaria, Sebastian wore a halloween mask which covered the top half of his face. His was a skull design. Beneath the mask, Sebastian’s hazel brown eyes appeared more tired than aggressive, like those of an old grizzly bear. His lower face was covered with several days of stubble. The mid-length hair atop his head was scruffy and virtually unkempt.

“You might want to try finding a woman of your own, Eduado,” Sebastian smirked. “Jealously doesn’t look too flattering on you, hombre.”

“Jealously?” Eduado snorted. “What exactly have I got to be jealous about, Speedy?! Look at her; she looks like she’d sooner cut a man’s dick off than suck on it!”

“Only yours, pinderro!” Rosaria hissed back at him.

“You see!” Eduado shook his head. “All that agro bullshit she sprouts is just a turn-off. If I ever get a woman of my own, I’ll pick one who doesn’t belong in a padded cell!”

“Oh, really?!” Rosaria growled. “You make it sound like you’d have a choice. No woman in her right mind would even touch you with a stick. Unless maybe she sharpened it into a spear!”

“There you go again, getting all aggressive on me, Rosaria,” Eduado rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t stop being an agro bitch even if Speedy’s life depended on it, could you?”

“Well, I for one love my girl’s passion,” Sebastian chuckled. He gently reached up and gently turned Rosaria’s face back towards him, pressing his lips lovingly against hers. “She has fire. You should see how she handles in the bedroom.”

“Psico mujer!” Eduado muttered under his breath, but only once he was sure Rosaria was no longer listening. He was not in the mood to argue any further.

Elsewhere in the cabin, the leader of the four-man Los Diablos sat in complete silence in front of the fire in an old, throne-like armchair. The fire’s roaring glow reflected brightly off the silver-tinted Ray-Ban sunglasses hiding his eyes. The man’s face was hard, bland and drained of all emotion. He was shirtless, clothed only in a pair of loose-fitting black leather trousers, and his Guerrero gun belt. His figure was leanly cut, chiselled with more toned muscle than Bruce Lee. His head was cleanly shaven with the exception of two small tufts of crimson-dyed hair, which were deliberately spiked up like demonic horns. All in all, the man had a rather satanic appearance that went well with the name that he had chosen for himself: Ramon Diablo.

On the armrest beside Ramon was a small, portable satellite phone. As soon as it started to ring, Ramon picked up. He listened intently for a few moments without uttering a word, the man on the other end doing all the talking.

“Sí, Los Diablos will be there,” Ramon said once the man on the other end was done, then he hung up without even the slightest of changes in his facial expression.

The other three members of Los Diablos all turned to their leader as stood up from his chair and set the phone down.

“So, are we on, Ramon?” Eduado asked.

“Sí,” Ramon nodded. “We’re going to Panama City.”

“And about Calavera,” Sebastian said. “You’re sure he will be there?”

“He will. Assurances have been made.”

As soon as Ramon said that the other three stood up and began making preparations to leave, gathering up their weapons and personal belongings scattered around the cabin. As they went to work around him like a busy nest of worker ants, Ramon Diablo remained standing there by the fire, his eyes fixated on the roaring flames, his thoughts focused on one thing only; on a man he would soon be killing.

Sierra Rico, he thought to himself, this time there will be no escaping me!

***

La Modelo Prison, Bogotá, Colombia, South America

The figure sat there all alone in total darkness, chained and shackled to a concrete wall. Once the man had been a great Guerrero, reknowned and revered all across the continent; now he was just a mess of a human being who had lost his mind a long time ago. Only one thought remained inside his head. A name.

Sierra Rico, Leon Sphinx growled. That was the name of the coward. The one who had confined him to this purgatory-like prison he found himself now. In actual fact, it had been Leon’s own Bolivian employers who had imprisoned him as punishment for failing his last job. Nevertheless, it had been Sierra Rico who had inflicted defeat upon him, dousing Leon in a flammable substance and burning the skin off his entire body before leaving him to die. Now, thanks to Sierra, Leon Sphinx was trapped in his own living hell.

Leon could barely even remember the last time he had seen the light of day. Solitary confinement in a Colombian prison was hardly an ideal place to be incarcerated even at the best of times, but for a victim of severe full-body burns like those Leon had suffered two years ago, it was something else entirely. The Colombians cared very little for human rights or the proper treatment of a prisoner injuries, as Leon had been forced to find out the hard way. And the fact that the Colombian cartels had placed a bounty on Leon’s head many years earlier afforded him no favours with the locals either.

Leon was under no illusions; he knew he had been left here by his old employers to die. Not that it mattered anyway; Leon knew that whatever it was that awaited him after death could not be any worse than what he had already been forced to live through.

Suddenly Leon’s moment of reflection was put on hold by the metallic grinding of a key turning in the door of his cell. The heavy iron door swung open and the darkness surrounding him was swept away by a surge of light from the outside corridor.

The three prison guards all averted their eyes as light flooded into the confinement cell. What they saw there chained to the wall before them was something straight out of a horror movie. Leon Sphinx was a horrific mess of boiled and blistered flesh; the man had no ears left intact and most of his skin had been burnt away right down to the bone. His eyes seemed to glow fiercely with the fires of Hell.

“Why would anybody pay to release this fucking… thing?” one of the guards asked.

“I don’t know, and I’m not so sure I want to find out,” a second guard said. “Lets just get this over with.” He took a deep breath before approaching the horribly disfigured figure.

Leon Sphinx glared up as one of the guards bent down and began unlocking his shackles.

“On your feet, prisoner,” the guard said once he was done with the shackles. “Someone has just paid off the warden and arranged for your release; you’re free to go.”

“Oh?” A slight smile appeared on Leon’s grotesque face. “And to whom exactly do I owe my… undying gratitude?” He spoke in a dry and raspy voice, an obvious side-effect of his burns.

“We don’t ask, and they don’t tell. But whoever he was, he left this for you.” The guard took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Leon. “My guess would be that he has some work for you.”

“Ooh, I certainly hope so.” Leon tore open the wax seal and pulled out the letter inside. His eyes quickly scanned over the letter once out of curiosity, then he read it again for a second time just to make sure he got the gist of it. Once he was done, he rose to his feet and followed the three guards outside.

As he walked out, half stumbling as his blood took its time returning to his legs, Leon Sphinx crumpled up the piece of paper in his hands. A sense of excitement started to surge through him.

I’m coming for you, Sierra Rico, he thought to himself. And nothing in this world can stop me!

***

The two men were seated across from each other at a desk in a bare, dimly-lit office.

“These Guerreros you’ve been hiring; you’re certain they can be controlled?” the Japanese man asked his host. He leaned forward in his seat, the shinning blade of his long bladed katana sword resting down against the floorboards at his feet.

“All men can be controlled,” the host said. His face was hidden away in shadows. “Guerreros are no different; the trick is understanding what they want, and then utilizing their desires to your advantage.”

“Which brings us to Sierra Rico…” the Japanese man said. “Tell me about this man; what’s so special about him?”

“Where to begin?” The host chuckled. “Back on the Lost Continent he was known by another name: Calavera. In Spanish, that means The Grim Reaper; Death itself. Sierra was already legend when he was only still a child, and he grew up to become one of the very best on the entire continent. Given his reputation, his head would make a fine trophy to any one of his kind. Additionally, each of the Guerreros that I have had my employee hire for this job carry their own personal grudge against him. Their urge to slaughter Sierra Rico in combat is what will keep each of them in line long enough to carry out their work.”

“And was this Sierra Rico really as good as the stories say he was? A god with handguns, a master of blades?”

“You should pray you never have to find that out for yourself,” the host grinned. “Either way, it doesn’t matter; his only job is to be the unknowing bait.”

“But what if that changes? What if he finds out what you’re doing?”

“So what if he does? He’s lived a hard life and suffered more pain than ten should have to endure. Deep down he’s looking for a way out. Sierra Rico wants to die, and we want to kill him. The end result is a no-brainer. Besides, he's not the stud he used to be.”

“I guess.”

“Now,” the host said, clearing his throat, “before we begin, I need to know for sure that you’re ready for this. Because once the wheels have started turning, they cannot be stopped; there will be no time for buyer’s remorse.”

“I must admit that I regret it has come to this,” the Japanese man shook his head. “But nothing has changed. My resolve has only grown stronger in the time since we last met.”

The host nodded, his smile broadening further. For years he had organised this. Every last scrap of detail was thorough and every foreseeable contingency had been planned for. Now, finally, his master plan was ready to be put in motion.

Suddenly the phone sitting in front of them started to ring. The host reached out to answer, pressing the speaker button. “You’re on speaker. What is it?”

“It’s done,” the caller said. “I have just been in contact with Los Diablos and Leon Sphinx; both parties have accepted your terms.”

“Well done,” the host said. “Your money has already been wired into your usual account. Try not to blow it all at once.”

“So what happens now?” the Japanese man asked as the host hung up.

“Now it is time for me to go dark,” the host said. “From this point on if you need anything, anything at all, then you talk to my associate in charge of field operations. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“And just remember, over these next few days it is imperative that you do not mention me to anyone, even your own people. If need be, you may refer to me simply as… El Maestro.”

The Japanese man shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”

“Now, you’re entirely certain that you’re prepared?” El Maestro asked. “For the consequences you will face should you not be successful? This is your last chance to back out.”

“This is my destiny.” The Japanese man raised his katana, staring down the gleaming blade with excitement. “Let the blood begin to flow!”