THIRTY-SEVEN

It was 3pm when Sierra and his friends finally emerged from their bedrooms. Having not eaten all day, the smell of Sakura’s cooking had been what had finally coaxed them out.

Sakura had prepared a simple serving of fried rice and battered fish, and there was a side dish of rice balls laid out in a large bowl in the centre of the table. While hardly extravagant, the meal was quite enticing for the hungry Paraguayans.

Soon after, the eight of them were all sitting around the dinner table in silence. The four Paraguayans sat to one side, the four Japanese sat opposite them. Glances were exchanged and the occasional comment was uttered, but everyone was still understandably feeling a little subdued following the previous night’s bloodbath at the Marino Club. The Japanese were particularly shaken, having seen friends and colleagues slaughtered right in front of them.

At last it was Kenji who decided to break the awkward silence. He cleared his throat. “So, how about a joke? Stop me, anyone, if you’ve heard this one before. What did the dog say to the three-legged man as he limped down the street?”

Kenji paused, giving everyone a chance to answer.

Nobody said a word.

“Nothing,” Kenji finished his joke with a chuckle. “Dogs can’t speak, you fucking idiots!”

Silence.

“Damn, hombre,” Esteban said, “your jokes are even worse than Marco’s!”

Then something happened: Vincent started laughing, and soon the laughter began spreading down the table like it was contagious. It was not long before everyone had caught the bug. Everyone, that was, except for Marco, who glared at Esteban with a murderous glint in his eyes.

Sakura snuck in a quick kiss to the side of Kenji’s cheek as everybody else around the table dug in to their meals.

They started to make small talk as they ate, Esteban and Kenji doing most of the talking, being the two most open personalities in the group.

Suddenly Sierra glanced up from his food and caught sight Ryu watching him from across the table with a puzzled expression on his face. “Is something wrong, Ryu?” Sierra asked him. “Have I got some food on my face or something?”

“Um, no…” Ryu said a little awkwardly. “I was just curious about something. You were a Guerrero once, weren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“That belt you’re wearing. I’ve heard of your kind, many times before.”

“Si, I was a Guerrero,” Sierra said simply. “Once, but no longer.”

Ryu devoured another rice-ball. “I’ve heard so many stories. I just wanted to know… was killing the only thing you guys lived for?”

“Guerreros, you mean?”

“Of course.”

Sierra quickly glanced around the table, relieved to find only Meyoko was listening in on their conversation. “A Guerrero is no different to any other man. Each of us is unique,” he said. “But in answer to your question, Ryu, no, I don’t think killing is all Guerreros live for. Some of them… us … just lose our way after a while. The more you pull the trigger, the more disconnected from the rest of the world you become, and the harder it can be to come back. Some may very well take pleasure in applying their trade, but the rest just do what they have to in order to stay alive and make a living.”

“And what about you?” Ryu asked. “You say you’re not one anymore. Was it hard for you to just switch off and leave that life behind?”

“I’m not afraid to kill; at least not if it is for the right reasons,” Sierra said. “I never have been and I never will be. That is why I got myself involved back at the Marino Club.”

“And thank fuck you did!” Ryu chimed in. “You saved our arses.”

“The Guerrero way of life was one that was forced on me to begin with,” Sierra continued. “I didn’t choose it for myself, so I had no problems leaving it behind. Some Guerreros may kill for fun rather than necessity, and others for sport, but I was never one of them.”

“So what made you want to leave your old life?”

Sierra thought about it for a second. It was hard for him to put into words. “Let’s just say… someone helped me see the world in a different way. They made me desire something better out of life.”

“Who?” Meyoko interrupted from beside Ryu, her eyes brightening with interest. “You mean your friend, Vincent?”

“No, not him.” Sierra paused for a moment. He knew now he needed to be careful not to let his emotions get the better of him. “It was a woman. She was a truly beautiful person in every sense of the word. She respected me for the man I was, and I loved her with all my heart.”

Sierra glanced down at the rice ball he held in his hand, deliberately giving himself a moment to blink away the tears that he could feel welling in his eyes. Suddenly he felt overwhelmed by his emotions. He reached down under his shirt and held on tightly to the golden crucifix that Lana had given him. As he did, his mind took him transporting him back to another time, another place.

Two years earlier

Sierra and Lana always met up in secret whenever they saw each other, away from the prying eyes of the cartel. They were careful to ensure they were not seen together in public by anyone. Both of them were all too aware of the dangers they faced if Hector Chilavert were ever to find out about their relationship. Sierra was one of the tyrant’s greatest assets; Chilavert would never allow him to grow soft in the arms of one of his own slave girls.

Now the two of them lay coiled in amongst Lana’s bedsheets.

“I have to leave tomorrow, Lana,” Sierra whispered into her ear. “We’re heading into Bolivia.”

Lana rolled over to face him. “Why? Has something happened?”

“Chilavert. He still wants revenge for the attack on San Lorenzo, back on that night we met.”

An expression of worry appeared on Lana’s face. He could see she was scared she was going to lose him.

“Will it be dangerous?” She asked.

Sierra reached out and touched her gently on the chin, tilting her head up to face him. “I’ll be back soon, if that’s what you mean.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” Sierra leaned in, closing his eyes as their lips pressed together.

San Arancay, Bolivia, five days later

Sierra opened his eyes to a sickening scene of blood as the shooting finally subsided. There were twenty-five bullet-riddled corpses of women and children lying strewn over the pavement right in front of him. The sight of such bloodshed was quite a startling contrast to comfort and the loving warmth of the past several weeks he had spent by Lana’s side.

The battle in the village — if one could even call such senseless slaughter that — had not lasted for long. After the two Guerreros on guard there had been overcome — one slaughtered by Mickey Toma, the other one running away after Sierra had defeated him — it had been a massacre; twenty-five unarmed and defenceless Bolivian villagers all gunned down in cold blood. The last one, a pretty young woman who had held a striking resemblance to Lana, had been right there at Sierra’s feet begging him for mercy as Mickey Toma had walked over and calmly put a bullet through the back of her head.

“Ooh yeah! No better sound in the world than a woman screaming, is there, Toma?” ‘Slippery’ Sammy Snidez snorted, patting Mickey Toma on the back as he admired the Guerrero’s handiwork. “We probably should have kept at least one of the sluts alive though. Then we could have had ourselves some real fun.”

Toma chuckled, holstering his smoking Colt Peacemaker. “Fun? All these Bolivian whores smell like piss anyway. They’ve probably never even showered in their lives.”

Sammy Snidez burst out laughing.

Toma’s eyes shifted across to Sierra then, noting the look of disgust plastered on his face as he watched on. “Something wrong, Sierra? Don’t tell me you had the hots for one of those sluts?”

“Did you really have to kill all of them, Mickey?” Sierra hands started to shake just slightly at his sides. “They weren’t soldiers. They had nothing at all to do with the attack in San Lorenzo. Those two Guerreros maybe, but the rest… they were innocent.”

“Why the fuck do you even care?” Toma’s eyes squinted suspiciously. “We’re just here to do a job, nothing more. Don’t tell me you’re suddenly starting to develop a conscience?”

“All I’m saying is that they were unarmed. They posed no threat to anyone!”

“So? There’s no right or wrong in murder, Sierra. It’s just part of nature. You know that better than anyone.”

“No, Mickey. This was wrong!”

“Well, if you’ve lost your balls then maybe you should find yourself another job and leave this sort of work to the professionals.”

Sierra felt a rush of anger sweeping through him. He took a step forward and suddenly the two Guerreros were standing nose to nose.

“You know something, Mickey,” Sierra scowled, “for a self-proclaimed professional, you sure seem to have developed quite the knack for disappearing in a gunfight.”

“What the fuck are you rambling about now?”

“I’m still trying to figure out where you got to back when the Bolivians attacked us in San Lorenzo. I was hit, our men were dying all around us, but you were nowhere to be seen all fucking night!”

“So you’re saying I’m a coward, is that it?” Toma smirked. “With a past like yours, Sierra, that’s a pretty hollow insult.”

Sierra’s frown intensified. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, Sierra, don’t bullshit me. You’re afraid of death, more so than anyone else here, and we both know that. When the chips are down, you would kill anyone on the face of this earth just to save your own skin, innocent or not.”

Sierra’s eye started twitching with anger. He felt the urge to scream out and launch his fist right into Toma’s jaw, but somehow he restrained himself.

“That’s right, Sierra, the truth hurts, doesn’t it?” Toma continued. He could see he had hit a nerve now and wasn’t about to stop. “I know more about your past than you think. I know that for your very first kill Chilavert had you blow out the brains of a defenceless mother and her child. He gave you a choice; it was either them or you, and you took the coward’s way out, didn’t you?”

Sierra didn’t answer, his mind was too busy trying to figure out just how Toma had found out about all that.

“Of course I’m right,” Toma answered his own question. “Know your place, hypocrite! You are no fucking saint; you’ve killed more innocent people than the rest of the cartel combined, Calavera!”

Sierra could feel the eyes of the other cartel gunmen around the village all watching him now, eagerly awaiting a response. Before he could think of one, Mickey Toma burst out laughing and walked away, high-fiving Sammy Snidez on his way over to a nearby survivor from the massacre.

The survivor was a little girl, no more than six or seven years of age. She had just crawled out from under the body of her mother, who had no doubt been shielding her body from the bullets. She was crying, covered in blood.

Toma bent down and grabbed the girl roughly by the hair, pulling her up to her knees.

“Hey, Sierra,” Toma called over. “How about you kill this one and show us all you that still have some balls!” He drew his knife from his sheath, holding the blade to the sobbing girl’s throat. “Because if you won’t, I will. And I have no intention of making this quick! Either that, or you can try stopping me! Go on! Just try it, Guerrero! Come at me! Save her, you fucking pussy!”

Sierra’s hand balled into a fist at his side. To try to stop Toma would be a death wish, especially with all the other cartel gunmen watching. With a shake of the head, he turned around and walked away, unable to do anything else to help the girl and unwilling to watch the execution that no doubt lay ahead.

Mickey Toma snorted in disgust as he left. “Fine, have it your way, hero. Just save yourself, like you always do!”

A second later the girl’s screams sounded out across the whole village, assaulting Sierra’s ears. It was a sound he would never soon forget.

...

Suddenly Sierra found himself back at the dinner table in Kenji Kojima’s condo. As he looked around, he was surprised to find everyone else was staring straight back at him.

“Everything okay, Sierra? Vincent whispered beside him. “You were totally spaced out there for a moment.”

“I’m fine, Vincent,” Sierra said with a shake of his head clear. “I’m just feeling a bit tired, that’s all. I don’t think I got much sleep last night.”

“Join the club, hombre.”

Sierra forced a smile, then he stood up from his chair and excused himself from the table.

Vincent got up to follow but Sierra turned back and shook his head, telling him no. He knew right now what he needed was some time to himself.

And so Sierra went back to his bedroom alone and lay down on his mattress. He remained completely still, staring up blankly at the condo ceiling, trying to calm himself as his thoughts wandered back to the past.

Then his thoughts shifted to Lana and he held his crucifix tightly against his chest.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Sierra thought he heard a faint noise, like the sound of a door or a window sliding open perhaps, but then an abrupt and sudden wave of exhaustion swept over his entire body and the dark shroud of sleep overcame him.

...

Back in the main room of the condo, Kenji had just grabbed Sakura gently by the hand to stop her as she stood up to collect the dinner plates. “No, don’t do that, Sakura-dono. Ryu here has already volunteered to do the dishes tonight.”

“I have?” Ryu glaced across at Kenji in surprise. “When did—”

Kenji booted him in the shin under the table to shut him up. “Yes, Ryu, you did. And I, very kindly, offered to assist you. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Ryu frowned, clutching gingerly at his sore shin.

Sakura smiled. “Oh, well, thank you, Kenji and Ryu.”

“Kenji washing up?” Meyoko laughed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Ye of such little faith,” Kenji snorted. “This may surprise you, little sister, but I am actually quite self-sufficient.”

“I’m calling bullshit on that.”

“Yeah? Well, watch and learn.”

Kenji had just risen to his feet when there came a sudden crash from the skylight window up above. A second later a small puck-like cylinder landed right in the middle of the dinner table.

“What the fu—”

Before anyone had a chance to react, the cylinder exploded and a thick grey cloud of gas swept rapidly over the whole room. Being closest, Sakura went down first, choking and spluttering, and then the others all quickly followed.

Kenji was the last to hit the floor. Just before the gas overcame him too, he looked up through the skylight window and saw the figure of a man watching him. The man was covered entirely in bandages, like some kind of Egyptian mummy. He jumped down through the glass, landing nimbly on his feet atop the dinner table.

“Greetings, amigos,” Leon Sphinx laughed through his gas-mask as he gazed down at them through the thick wall of mist. “Feel free to enjoy these last brief moments of consciousness; they are sure to be your last!”