CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

“What the hell are you doing here?” Alan Bestwick asked as he approached the group. His gaze was firmly fixed on Ricardo Allende.

Brand glanced between the two men. “You know him?” he asked Alan.

“From Mexico City. He drove me around one night. Remember?” Alan asked Ricardo, now only inches separating the two.

The pistol appeared in Brand’s hand, and he flipped off the safety with the fluid motion that only comes when the user knows the weapon well. Carlos backed off, the Smith & Wesson out of his waistband, and covered the group from a few yards away.

“What’s going on, Ricardo? You and your little friend here trying to pull a scam of some sort?” Brand asked quietly.

“I met this guy one night. So what?” Ricardo said, faking bravado. Tough to do with a pistol aimed at his chest. “I drove him about the city. I haven’t seen him since.”

“You trying to say this is a coincidence?” Brand said. “I don’t think so.”

Silence engulfed the group. Brand backed off a few feet and watched both Alan and Ricardo. A slight breeze stirred the air and rustled the leaves on the few scraggly plants bordering the road. The moonlight played off the men’s faces, casting shadows on their eye sockets and masking the fear and the hate. Edward Brand didn’t need to see Ricardo’s eyes to know. Ricardo was in on the scam. He and Adolfo had five hundred thousand dollars of his money. Brand toyed with the idea of killing Ricardo on the spot, but the shots would only attract the guards. He made a motion toward the road leading away from the ruins.

“Move,” he said. “Down the road.”

“This isn’t right,” Ricardo said.

“You’ve got that right, you fucking moron,” Brand spat. When he spoke it was with emphasis on every word. “Get moving or I’ll kill you. Both of you.” He waved the gun at Adolfo.

As they started to move, a shout cut through the night air. The language was Spanish and even without Spanish as a native tongue, it was clear who it was and what they wanted. The guards had returned and were standing on the rocks yelling at them to stop. Carlos spun and yelled back, trying to encourage them to get back to work and leave well enough alone. The two uniformed men started down the hill, their guns still holstered.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Is everything going to fuck up tonight?” Brand yelled, spinning about and leveling the gun at the guards. He pulled the trigger, and five shots barked out. Two hit their target, and one of the guards grabbed at his stomach and fell, rolling down the hill, bouncing off the rocks. The second guard pulled his gun and returned fire, then dove behind the nearest rock. The bullets churned up the dirt at their feet, and one caught Carlos in the calf. He took two steps and crashed to the ground, writhing in pain. Ricardo pounced on him and grabbed his right arm, trying to wrestle the gun from his grip. Brand turned and leveled the gun at Ricardo’s head.

“You fucker,” he said. “Try to rip me off, will you?” He pulled the trigger.

Ricardo had grown up street smart and street wise. One thing he knew was when someone was pointing a gun at you, get something or someone between you and the gun. Fast. He wrenched on Carlos’s left arm, taking the man by surprise as he was protecting the gun in his right hand. Carlos rolled from the force, right into the path of the bullet. It ripped through his right shoulder, the trajectory and power of the pistol driving the bullet through his lung before lodging in his chest cavity. He shuddered from the impact and blood poured from his gaping mouth. Brand tried to find a target but Ricardo had pulled Carlos on top of him, giving the man nothing to shoot at.

Adolfo was running down the road, and Brand swung about and fired two quick shots after him. Adolfo stumbled and fell, clutching his side. Brand turned back to the scene just a few yards from his feet. Three shots, fired in rapid succession, whizzed by, just missing Brand. He ducked and dove for the edge of the road, training his gun on the approaching guard. Two shots smacked into the rocks close to the guard, who dropped to the ground, his gun in front of him. He fired another two shots before the hammer clicked on an empty chamber, one of the bullets ricocheting off the rock Brand was hiding behind and showering him with razor-sharp shards of stone. He grimaced in pain.

That wasn’t the worst damage from the last two shots. Alan Bestwick, running to the same side of the road as Brand, had taken one bullet in the neck. He was sprawled on the dusty road, clutching at the wound. Blood spurted out, leaving strange mottled patterns on the dirt. His hands slowly stopped grabbing at his neck, and his body went stiff.

Edward Brand leapt up from behind the rock and ran toward where the guard was hunkered down behind a large boulder reloading his gun. He had just finished reloading when Brand rounded the edge of the rock, and pumped three bullets into his chest. The impact knocked the guard over the rock, and he hit two more on the down slope before falling in a crumpled heap. Brand shot him once more in the head as he walked past.

“Asshole,” he said, looking down the road for Adolfo and Ricardo. He saw them, about two hundred yards along. Ricardo had his arm around the older man’s torso and was helping him. They were almost at the Jeep, parked facing down the road. Brand started to run, a fast jog at first, then an all-out sprint as he realized they were at the vehicle. When he was about sixty yards away, the lights came on and the Jeep lurched onto the road. He stopped and took careful aim, firing twice before the magazine was empty. He flipped it out and jammed in the replacement. He raised the gun and then slowly lowered it. The Jeep had rounded a corner.

Brand turned and surveyed the carnage. Alan and Carlos were both dead. He had lost a half million dollars. The bastards who had scammed him had gotten away. He stood on the road, the pistol by his side, the half moon reflecting a strangely luminescent light on the scene. It seemed almost surreal. He sat on a rock, his mind alive with the irony.

So many times he had taken people’s money. Some of those times it had turned ugly. People had died trying to protect what they owned. Until tonight it had always been them, never him. He didn’t like being on this end of things. He sat in the silence for a few minutes, then retrieved the car keys from Carlos’s pocket and returned to the car. He had to get out of Oaxaca before the Mexican police discovered the two dead guards. They wouldn’t give two shits about Alan or Carlos, but the guards would have them searching every house and stable inside a hundred miles.