FOURTEEN

The sun had started to descend by the time Sierra Rico and his three tired amigos slowly trudged their way into the Panama City. Their van had broken down a good twenty kilometres out from town, forcing them to hike the rest of the way on foot.

Sweating profusely as he was, Sierra was just about to tear off his long, bulky coat, but then he remembered his clothing was all he had to conceal his Guerrero gun belt. There were strict laws in Panama against carrying firearms in public and Sierra had no wish to test them. His friends had all wisely abandoned their weapons long ago, before their boat from Chile had even dropped them off in Panama, but Sierra had been unable to throw his away just yet. Sierra had carried his weapons most of his life and he felt as helpless as a child without them buckled around his waist. Old habits died hard, indeed.

“Nice work, Vincent,” Marco moaned sarcastically. “Maybe next time before you insist on doing all the driving, take some fucking driving lessons first!”

“I can't see how any of this was my fault, Marco.” Vincent stopped to wipe the sweat off his face. “The van broke down. And you’re the one who chose that piece of shit to buy out of all the cars back at the lot, you cheap-arse bastardo, so if anyone’s to blame here, it’s you!”

“That thing was in top condition when I picked it,” Marco retorted. “I don’t know how, but you somehow managed to fuck it up!”

“Hey, Marco, chill,” Esteban rested a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “It seems the only time you ever open your mouth these days is to complain, which is all the fucking time. Lighten up, hombre. We’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

“Yeah? And who the fuck asked you, Esteban?!” Marco glared at his friend. “Why don’t you stop sucking Vincent’s cock and use your mouth to do something useful for a change, like call us a tow-truck!”

“You mean for the van?”

“No, for my fucking ten-tonne dick! Of course I mean for the van!”

“You really want to try keeping that rusted pile of bolts running?” Esteban snorted. “It would probably cost more to fix now than the whole damn thing was worth to buy.”

“Well, I would rather get it fixed than have to walk ten hours just to get a fucking blow-job, Esteban!”

“Believe me, Marco, there’s not a blow-job waiting for you within a million miles.”

While the others were still all busy bantering, Sierra noticed a taxi coming down the street and stepped out to hail it over. As soon as the taxi stopped, Sierra climbed into the front seat. The others shuffled into the back as Sierra called them over.

“Where are you guys headed?” the driver asked as they all got in.

“Honestly, amigo, we have no idea,” Sierra said with a shrug. “We just got into town today. Any suggestions would be appreciated.”

“Well,” Vincent chimed in from the back, “I think I speak for everyone here when I say we’re on the lookout for somewhere to get shit-faced. Preferably some place with cheap drinks and lots and lots of easy women; for Marco’s sake, the easier the better.”

“Fuck you, Vincent!” Marco growled.

“Sí, no problem, amigo,” the cab driver grinned, edging the vehicle back out onto the street. “It sounds like you boys would feel right at home over in Calle Uruguay. That’s our most popular tourist spot for drinking and partying. By the way, my name’s Jose. It’s nice to meet you all.”

Jose reached out and extended his hand to Sierra, who shook it after a brief moment of hestitation. Trust still wasn’t one of Sierra’s strong suits, but the cab driver seemed friendly enough, Sierra figured. He was young, chatty and wearing a big straw cowboy hat; a typical Westernised Panamanian teenager. Like many other developing nations around the world, Panama was fast turning into a multicultural society and the effects were rubbing off on the nation’s younger generations more and more by the day.

Sierra let his eyes wander out the window, scanning the busy inner city streets. As he did, the scenery suddenly began to blur and the city noises around him faded out into the back of his mind. In their place came something else: memories.

Four years earlier...

Sierra had been lying in his bunk bed in the main barracks of Hector Chilavert’s compound trying to get some sleep when his friend Vincent walked in.

“Hey, Sierra,” Vincent smiled, taking a seat on the bed opposite him. “Chilavert said you just got back. It’s good to see you in one piece again, hombre.”

“Likewise, Vincent.”

“I heard you had some problems this time,” Vincent said. “You even took a bullet?”

“Si,” Sierra turned to face his friend. “But don’t worry, I’m not planning on making it a regular thing.” He reached up to touch his most recent patch of stitches in his shoulder. “I got a bit sloppy this time.”

“Should I be jealous of anyone?” Vincent joked, in obvious reference to the bullet Sierra had once taken for him.

Sierra chuckled at that, then he rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry to say I was working alone on this one.”

Vincent’s face suddenly turned serious. “Hey, I hate to be the bearer of bad news here, but Chilavert said he wanted to see you about something. I think he has another job lined up for you tonight.”

“Of course he does,” Sierra groaned and sat back up. “Where is he?”

“In his den. He’s waiting for you.”

Hector Chilavert’s compound in the heart of San Lorenzo was truly an architectural showpiece. The entire compound, surrounded by twenty foot high steel barred perimeter fencing, covered a total area of around fifteen-thousand square feet. There were lush green lawns and clipped hedges all around. The main villa was four stories high, made from marble. Sierra had never had the opportunity to go inside there; only Chilavert’s most esteemed guests were ever welcome, and this occasion was no different. Today Chilavert had arranged to meet up with him inside the building directly adjacent the villa, which served as a gambling den for the few people in town who had the money to waste.

Ten minutes later, Sierra found himself walking through gambling den hallways with a three-man escort. It seemed even after all his years working for Chilavert that the tyrant still didn’t trust Sierra enough to meet with him alone. The man walking on Sierra’s left was someone he despised; his name was Sammy Snidez, and he was one of Chilavert’s newer recruits. Much like the snake that he was, Sammy had become infamous for slithering his way out of precarious situations in battle, always mistaking his luck for skill in the process. This had earned him the nickname ‘Slippery Sammy’. The other two thugs escorting Sierra were so low down the cartel’s food chain that they didn’t even warrant a mention; all muscle, no brains.

Sierra stopped suddenly as a small group of women came walking down the narrow corridor towards them. They were slave-girls, hand-picked by the cartel from out of the San Lorenzo slums. All the prettiest girls in the city worked for Hector Chilavert in some capacity or another, whether they served drinks, lit cigars, prepared meals or provided entertainment for esteemed guests; it was one of the few ways left for a young woman to earn money in San Lorenzo, other than through prostitution.

Sierra kept walking, moving straight through the all-female crowd as though he didn’t even see them. Under Chilavert’s orders, the slaves were off limits for cartel employees. Not that it would have made a difference anyway; not one of them even looked Sierra in the eye. Every man, woman and child in San Lorenzo knew about the infamous Calavera, and they all avoided him like the plague.

Soon after, Sierra and his entourage reached the main poker-room at the end of the corridor. Sammy unlocked the door, then he and Sierra entered while the other two waited outside. There were three men inside waiting for Sierra and they were all seated around the large circular table, chatting quietly amongst themselves. The lack of any empty seats gave Sierra the impression he was not welcome join them, so he simply stood there in front of the table and waited for someone to address him. For a long while, nobody did.

Hector Chilavert was seated between the other two. His face partly illuminated orange by the glow of his expensive Cuban cigar. On his left sat Carlo, who was Chilavert’s only son; essentially just a calmer, quieter and slightly more discreet version of his father.

Sierra’s eyes glanced over to the third man at the table then, who was someone he had not met before. The man returned Sierra’s glare without so much as a blink; it was almost like he was challenging him. He had the eyes of a Guerrero — a man with no ties to the world; nothing to lose, nothing to fear.

There was just something about this last man that didn’t quite sit well with Sierra. Although he couldn’t quite figure out what it was, there was somehow something familiar about him. The man’s face carried a mean sort of scowl that seemed permanent, and his hair was coloured like that of a tiger’s fur.

“Ah, Sierra,” Chilavert said, finally noticing him standing there. “Good to see you back. I must commend you for making yourself available again on such short notice; I understand that your most recent job in Brazil got a bit… messy.”

“The Diaz boys refused to pay up,” Sierra said with a shrug. “But it was nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“I figured as much when I received each of their trigger fingers in the mail,” Chilavert nodded. “And are you sure you’re properly healed now?”

“I’m fine; the bullet went clean through. Can’t say the same for them.” Sierra’s eyes shifted across to the Guerrero at the table. “Vincent said you wanted to see me about something?”

“Indeed I do,” Chilavert smiled, following Sierra’s eyes. “But before we get down to business, there’s a man here I’d like you to meet. His name is Mickey Toma. Perhaps you’ve heard of him before. It’s possible the two of you have even traded bullets out on the battlefields. He’s a Guerrero, just like you.”

Sierra shrugged, showing no recognition of the man’s name. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure.”

Toma just grunted.

“That’s good, then I see no need for there to be any hostilities.” Chilavert’s eyes focussed on the new Guerrero. “For the past few years Toma here has been making quite a name for himself in Brazil. It was actually quite by luck I was able to acquire his services. His former employer died rather suddenly in Rio, so Toma made his way into Paraguay looking for a new home. As luck would have it, he met up with some of my boys doing business down in Villarrica. He mailed me back their heads in a cardboard box, along with his resume. How could I say no to such a thoughtful gesture?”

Sierra’s eyes remained locked with those of the Guerrero at the table.

“Sierra Rico,” Mickey Toma broke his silence. “It’s an honour to meet you. I’ve heard quite a lot about you over the years. I must say, most of it was good. Most of it...”

“Wish I could say the same for you,” Sierra said.

“Okay, okay, enough of this getting-to-know-you bullshit,” Chilavert cut back in. “Now that the introductions have been made, we have some work to discuss. I trust, Sierra, that you still remember one of my employees; a man named Henrique Marshall? If I recall correctly, you and Vincent went into Chile with him just a few months ago to kill that fat bastardo Omar Quinto.”

“Sí,” Sierra nodded. “Henrique’s a good man, and reliable in a gunfight. Will I be working with him and his crew again tonight?”

“Not in the way you might expect.” Chilavert exhaled a puff of smoke and glanced around the table. “Henrique and his crew have not reported in for over a week now. Now, usually that would be no cause for concern, but in this case I had some work prepared for them. I sent Toma here over to their place to fetch them this morning, but they were not there. They have gone completely off the grid.”

“What are you saying?”

“He’s saying that they have left San Lorenzo without authority,” Mickey Toma butted into the conversation.

“Why would he do that? Henrique has always been one of our best,” Sierra said. “He’s been with the cartel even longer than I have.”

“Clearly, unlike you, Sierra, the man has no loyalty,” Toma said.

“So you want me to hound down Henrique and bring him back?” Sierra directed his question to Chilavert.

“No, just bring me back his head,” Chilavert stubbed out the end of his cigar in the ashtray on the table. “His body can stay wherever the fuck it falls.”

“I understand.” Sierra didn’t know what else to say to that; he wasn’t comfortable at the thought of killing one of their own, least of all one he had once considered a good friend. “Is there anything else I need to know?”

“Toma will be going along with you tonight, as backup,” Chilavert said. “As you know, Henrique’s crew are all quite handy with guns, so his company may prove useful.”

Sierra frowned at that piece of news. “That won’t be necessary. You know I work best alone.”

Chilavert looked up from his ashtray. “That’s funny, because I wasn’t giving you a choice, Sierra. That’s the way it’s going to be. Toma will be able to help you pick up Henrique’s trail; from what I hear he’s good at tracking, maybe even a little but better than you.”

“Maybe,” Toma added with a smug grin that made Sierra’s blood reach boiling point.

***

The gunshots tore across the grassy fields, echoing out through the quiet night air . What had started out as a massive gunfight out in the wilderness was now finally dying down. With every passing minute the muzzle flashes were becoming fewer and fewer. It did not take long for them to cease completely.

Sierra Rico stood up from his hiding spot and stalked his final victim, who was crawling away helplessly on his back through the long grass. Henrique Marshall had been one of Sierra’s comrades for as long as he could remember; he had been involved in his life in some capacity or another ever since Chilavert had first taken Sierra away from his parents. And now he was about to die, by Sierra’s hand no less.

Henrique’s eyes were wide with terror as he saw Sierra approaching. He stopped crawling and rolled over onto his back, realising that any further attempts at escape were now futile. He raised his hands, showing Sierra he was unarmed.

“It’s over Henrique,” Sierra levelled his Colt Peacemaker with his prey’s face. But rather than simply pulling the trigger and getting the deed over with, he paused, letting his curiosity get the better of him. “Tell me, why the fuck are you running from the cartel?”

“Come on, Sierra, do you really need to ask that?!” Henrique gasped. “Christ, all I’ve ever wanted was to get out, get away from Chilavert!”

“What the hell for?”

“Is that a trick question, or are you really that stupid?!”

“No games. Just answer me, Henrique!”

“That fucking tyrant has had us all working like slaves since we were kids, Sierra; he puts a gun in our hand and forces us to kill. Fuck, we’re the same, you and I. The only real difference between the two of us is that you were always his best, always his favourite.” He looked up into Sierra’s eyes, searching there for some level of understanding.

He received none. “Try again.”

“Come on, just take one look at youself now, Sierra!” Henrique slobbered. “This is what Chilavert has made you become! This is not a job, Sierra, it’s slavery, and I want out! Every day you fight, you bleed and you kill, and all you get for it is a bed to sleep on and enough food to keep you killing for another day.”

“Chilavert provides us with everything we need,” Sierra said, only half believing it.

A tear ran down Henrique’s face. “If you really think that, I pity you, Sierra. I truly do. You of all people should know by now what a fucking monster Chilavert is. You’ve had it worse than most.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. I was there that very first day he made you take a life, back when you were still just a kid, don’t you remember? I watched as Chilavert made you shoot dead a mother and a little girl like they were nothing! And that’s your biggest problem, Sierra; you follow Chilavert’s orders without question. You always have. That’s why you’re his favourite. You are as loyal to him as a dog to its owner, and for the life of me I just can’t understand why. Chilavert doesn’t give a damn about you; he doesn’t give a damn about anyone. Hell, your father was just like you once… and look what Chilavert did to him!”

“My father…?” Sierra relaxed his weapon slightly. “Henrique, I—”

Bang! The gunshot echoed out like a crack of thunder, striking Henrique flush in his eye and blowing his brains out all through the grass.

“What the fuck?!” Sierra whirled around, his sights levelling on the figure who was standing right there no more than twenty feet away, a silhouette in front of the moon.

“Whoa, easy there, Sierra,” Mickey Toma said as he holstered his smoking weapon. “It’s only me.”

“Mickey?!” After a second of hesitation, Sierra followed the Guerrero’s lead and lowered his gun. “What the hell are you doing?! You’re supposed to be watching my back, not doing my job for me!”

Toma shrugged. “Relax, hombre. I know how hard it can be to kill an old friend, so I decided to help you out. No harm done; this can be our little secret from Chilavert, okay?”

“If you ever try sneaking up on me again,” Sierra growled, “I’ll put a bullet in you!”

Mickey Toma chuckled at that. “You’re welcome to try, Sierra. Any time, any place, if that’s what you want, I’ll be ready.”

“What was that?!” Sierra’a hand brushed against his knife. “I’m not sure I heard you right. That sounded a lot like a threat to me, Guerrero!”

“You heard me,” Toma grinned. “But relax, Sierra, if I wanted you dead tonight, you already would be.” Then he simply turned around and walked away, disappearing just as suddenly as he had arrived.