She’s okay. She’s okay. She’s okay. I just repeated that message over and over in my head. It was the only thing keeping me sane, as my team of Rafael and two marksmen shooters rode back over the US border from Mexico.
Still, my bike couldn’t go fast enough. It couldn’t roar loud enough. It couldn’t get me to her soon enough. After I received her text message with her GPS coordinates, I forwarded it to my crew back at headquarters. Our tech guy spent all of three minutes looking up the coordinates before coming up with the owner of the home—Guzman himself. It was another safe house meant for his family for when they were in the States.
When I found out, I pulled over the side of the road, the men following behind me. Rafael translated my questions, as I drilled the men on what they knew about the complex and house’s security. Luckily for me, they knew more than anyone else could have. One had even worked as a guard and knew the passcode to take the high-tech security system down with just eight numbers.
Before we rode off again, I took the time to spell out my orders to the men, “Tonight,”—my voice carried over the wind and rush of the highway—“you ride with me. You take no orders from anyone else, no matter what they may say. And we take no prisoners. You see someone that’s not myself or Rafael, you kill them. No questions asked. The only exception is the girl inside of the house. If you find her, I will reward you handsomely with enough money to set you up for life. That I promise you.”
I never used money to motivate men before. It’s not that I didn’t think it would work, but it was because I usually trusted the guys I brought in for jobs like this. But with my Apaches miles away, holding down the fort in case Abe opened up an attack on our men, I didn’t have the backup I was used to or needed. Instead, I had to hope that Guzman’s promise that these men would follow me to the death held true. And after tonight, Guzman’s word meant nothing to me. So the green was going to have to speak for both of us.
The road opened up, as my mind wandered away from my body. I couldn’t help but picture Sierra trapped in some dungeon… Abe torturing her and beating her till she screamed… his grubby fat fingers undressing her… spanking her… pulling her hair. If he touched her like that, if he took my girl, I was going to kill that man if it was the last thing I ever did. There would be no power great enough to stop my force. No one took a woman I conquered and claimed as my own.
The GPS on my phone echoed over the microphone in my bike helmet. “Turn right at 4J Road. The destination will be on your right in one point two miles.”
I raised my hand in a fist near my ear as I slowed down near the fork in the road. The men followed, their bikes as silent as they could go. I turned to the man on my right and asked in my broken Spanish, “Does this road look familiar?”
Rafael translated for him, as he pointed off into the distance. “Yes, sir. Mr. Guzman’s home is about a mile down this road. It’s dark, no street lights. There’s another home about a half mile in, but there’s usually no one there. It’s a rancher’s home during the season.”
“You.” I pointed my chin to the other man who had yet to say a word. “Ride with Rafael to the rancher’s place and see if it’s really empty or not. Last thing I want is the cops called or Abe’s men to be hiding out at another home. Park your bikes in a clearing of trees and walk. We’re on foot from the rancher’s home to Guzman’s place.”
I reached behind me and into my satchel, pulling out two handguns I kept in case of an emergency. “You loaded?” I asked Rafael, as he removed his helmet and dismounted.
“I’m good to go. Three on me. A knife on the leg.” He lifted up his jean pant leg to show me the huge hunter’s knife carried in a red leather sheath. But still, he looked towards the man I just paired him up with me and asked, “You think we can trust them? I mean, we’re going into Guzman’s home. Shouldn’t their boss have told us that or at least have known?”
I keep my voice down, unsure if the men have any comprehension of English. “All I’ll say is this—you worry about you, Rafael. No one is keeping you here or working with me to get Sierra out. You do what you need to do, especially if those boys turn or pull something shifty on you. You got my go-ahead to shoot now and take questions later.”
He nodded and began walking fast towards the darkened, gravel road. “Hey Rafael!” I whisper loudly, “You call when you get in. Give me your feedback live. I don’t want to be waiting to hear if your dumbass was killed or not.”
“Got it, boss,” he said with a slight smile and a thumbs-up. The two men walked towards the brush, camouflaging themselves in the green and tan overgrowth that filled the ditch. My partner and I followed behind them, taking our bikes and the other two down into the clearing and leaving them behind a few larger cacti.
The further we inched toward the clearing, the darker it became. The ground crunching under me and the outline of the man kneeling and squatting was the only way I knew that I was going the way towards Guzman’s home. When Rafael finally calls, the sound from my Bluetooth echoes off of the trees and fills up the black spaces.
“It’s clear,” he says breathlessly. “Nothing here but some pots and pans and an old beat-up television set. Even the ashes in the fireplace look like they haven’t been touched in months.”
“Did you do a full sweep of the perimeter? The last thing we want are surprises, Rafa.”
“Guzman’s man is out there now. I’m hanging out here, looking for something to eat. All I see though are dusty old cans of red bea—” His voice is interrupted by the sound of two loud pops. Glass shatters, as I hear him mutter, “Oh fuck!”
“Rafa! Rafa!” I shout loudly, not caring if I’m heard. Guzman’s man turns back towards me curiously. I reach behind me and point my gun at him, unsure if I can trust him. “What’s going on! Who’s firing? Tell me what is happening to you?”
There’s more gunfire and the sound of a man shouting just far enough away that I can catch his voice. “I’m hit! I’m hit! There’s two of them. Don’t know where my partner is. I need help, Tank! I need help!”
My feet take off before I can even think. I sprint through the bush towards the road, using it as my guide towards the rancher’s house. Guzman’s man runs alongside me, as he dials frantically into his phone. In Spanish, he cries out as he gets no answer. I can only imagine whom he is calling at a time like this, and I find myself holding that gun in my hand even tighter.
We see the guns fire before we even see the outline of the home. My partner drops to his knees and pulls me down with him, as we use the ditch as a trench. He pulls the gun strapped to his back up and around his body and pulls himself up on his stomach and knees. Even though I can’t make out a thing, he begins to fire a round of bullets from his automatic.
Within minutes, I hear a cry. It’s bloodcurdling, the familiar sound of someone knowing that death is just seconds away. The sound charges at us, as the return fire doesn’t come. The only bullets flying are from my partner’s weapon. He notices the change too and dips his head out from the cover and then whistles a short pattern. Another whistle comes from behind where the house must be.
“Señor, it’s clear.” The man brushes off his sweaty brow and then offers his hand to me. I put the gun in my other hand and let him pick me up and out of the ditch. We run off towards the whistling hidden behind the side of the wooden shack. There, we find our second man leaning down over the body of an Aztec. Without care, he reaches into the man’s vest and grabs his wallet, the packet of gum, and the large gun strapped to his bare, bloody chest.
The two men talk rapidly in Spanish, recounting what had just happened, while I run off towards the door. “Rafa!” I call urgently. “Rafael! Where the fuck are you?!” I walk into the home, past the bullet holes and the light on the porch flickering on and off. As the light turns on once more, I see the outline of my second’s body. It’s lying in a pool of dark red blood, enough for me to know that he wasn’t coming out of this death house anytime soon.
Nearby is another man, his throat slit wide open, Rafael’s knife lying just feet away. I pick it up and clean it with my shirt before sticking it into my front pocket. While Rafael’s body couldn't be brought with me, I was going to take something of his back to his gal and son. They deserved that from me after I asked him to die for the cause.
“Señor?” Guzman’s men walk cautiously into the home, each taking in the sight of the two men dead on the floor. “We go now. Not safe.”
I agree, and the three of us head out of the house. I shut the door behind me before taking out my lighter and setting a pile of twigs and logs in flames. I watch wordlessly as the house catches and the black and red smoke plumes begin firing up around the base of the wooden frame home. We sink back into the darkness of the clearing, as I say goodbye to my one good friend.
About a thousand feet away from the home, we finally spot Guzman’s home. It towers over the darkness like a castle in a storybook, and unlike the other fortresses Guzman has shown me in Mexico, his American home is completely different. It’s a mansion done in a cabin style. Everything is sleek, modern, and tech heavy. Floodlights around the gate make it easy for the cameras to focus in on any movement, and we can make out the lights from a night-vision-equipped guard at one of the towers.
My two shooters suddenly take over, running left of the main gate and out of the line of the red security beams. I have no choices but to let them lead us through the back toward the guard tower. Inside, a man in a blue uniform sits, watching a security screen while a baseball game plays on the radio. I take out my gun, pointing it towards the window, but my partner pulls my arm down and puts a finger to his lip to silence me.
As I begin to silently protest, his friend starts for the door. Before the guard can even react, his arm is around his neck, causing the large guard to fall backwards and over the chair. From my spot, I see the guard claw furiously at the ground, his nails leaving marks in the wood plank floor. And then, a loud, long crack. The man’s hand falls flat, the life snapped out of him.
My partner runs into the guardhouse and pulls out the main computer sitting in the desk drawer. Without stopping, he begins typing a pattern of numbers over and over. And one by one, I watch the screens go from displaying pictures of the perimeter and the inside the home to completely black. Only one remains when I begin to shout, “No! Stop! No!”
I see her. I see Sierra. She sits huddled next to a bed where a man lays mostly covered. She pulls her knees up to her chest, as I watch her breathe so deeply that the curve of her back rises and falls. And suddenly, she startles. Her body leaps out of position and she uses her hands and feet to crabwalk all the way back towards the wall.
In the bed, Abe stirs. Even with the grainy screen, I watch terrified as his eyes pop open and his head twists and turns. He pulls against the force of whatever is holding him into the bed until he gets one arm free. Sierra stumbles, as she stands and runs back towards a small room in the corner, flicking on the light.
I turn towards the men and point to the room still up on the screen. “There! There! Show me how to get there. I need to go… NOW.” Rafael’s partner starts pulling the clothing off of the corpse on the floor, stripping off his own clothes as the other pushes the body out of the way. In a corner, he grabs an enormous spare uniform shirt and hat tosses it over his own clothing. Both men grab their weapons and lead me out, but not before turning back to me and grabbing my jacket off of my arms and tossing it back into the guard post.
Each running step pounds with my heart as we make it into the home and past the men running and shouting about the fire. Only when they are at the door, gathering up, do my shooters turn, firing on them one by one. Each of them hit their marks in seconds flat. A pile of dead men line the front entrance.
“Run, señor!” My partner turns back to me, as more men come down the ornate metal stairway towards the noise of their partners’ shouts for help. His companion takes over picking them off, as he continues to order me, “That way! Third room. Third room!”
He doesn’t need to give me directions. I’m already off. My feet pound heavily on the wooden floors, as I pass the room full of toys and the darkened hallways full of pictures of Guzman and his children smiling on their family vacations. I am headed directly towards the unmistakable sound of Sierra screaming for her life.