The Avenger (38 page)

El jefe
enjoyed smoking these so-called seven-minute cigars, unconcerned about alerting his victim with the pungent odor. The boss once claimed if he could not dispatch a target in the seven minutes it took to finish his cigarillo, he himself should face a firing squad for being such an inept assassin.

José had no doubts the man they now prepared to kill would be dead long before his nostrils detected the scent of the cigarillo.

In the brief moment of the lighted match, José glimpsed
el jefe’s
battled face, the vicious scar that carved its length from brow to chin, the thick black hair, the hollow eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered how such a stone-hearted man had won the trust of Diego Vargas. And the greater mystery – how he had won the affection of the beautiful Magdalena Vargas. Wife of Diego,
el jefe de jefes,
the big boss. The one they called
El Vaquero
because he was descended from a long line of cowboys who roamed the plains of Mexico.

Aye, what a dangerous life Santos lived!

The clink of steel-toed boots striking gravel at the street end of the alley attracted José’s attention. He saw Santos rise, reach for his weapon at the small of his back, and draw the silencer from his jacket pocket. Unhurriedly, he fitted silencer to gun barrel, his gloved hands steady, his damaged face impassive.

Un qué corizón frío!
A cold-blooded man.

Preferring the deadly quiet slice of the knife, José had his long blade in hand by the time the man reached ten feet of where they lurked in the shadows.

Santos waited until the man passed between the two of them. "Hombre," he spoke, his voice a deadly whisper in the night air.

The man seemed unsurprised. Without turning, he lifted his arms out from his sides, parallel to the ground as if to show that he was unarmed. At a nod from Santos, José stepped forward, knife swinging loosely from his left hand. Carefully, he patted the man between the legs and around the chest.

"He is not armed," he said.

"Ah,
amigo, mi buen amigo."
Santos addressed the man’s back. "How foolish of you to walk alone so late at night." The man turned around slowly to face them. "Especially in such a part of town.
Es muy peligroso.
Very dangerous."

"I have important information for Diego Vargas," the man said, arms still extended. "Information concerning
el árabe."

José knew by the look on
el jefe’s
face that Santos was surprised at this news, and it was no small thing to take a man like Santos unawares.

"The Arab,
el terrorista?"
Santos asked.

"Sí."
The man smiled, revealing yellowed and broken teeth. "Ashraf Hashemi, the agent who works for the federal government."

José knew that the man he spoke of, this Hashemi, was not really a terrorist. It was the name the Norteños had given the Arab-American DEA agent who so trailed them so doggedly.
Un dolor en al asno.
A pain in the ass, Diego Vargas had claimed many times, one whose relentless pursuit of the Norteños and the location of their latest drug routes had caused his organization a great deal of trouble.

"What information?" Santos prodded.

"I have learned the name of Hashemi’s informant."

"Tell me," Santos commanded, lowering his weapon, "and I will pass the information along to Diego."

The man let out a whoop of laughter. "Ah, I think not, my friend. I will take the information to
El Vacquero
myself. I am not so eager to die this night."

Santos smiled, but not with the black holes of his eyes. "Perhaps you will die, nonetheless."

There was a fraction of a second between the realization of the deed and the deed itself during which José knew the man about to meet his death clearly saw the foolishness of challenging one like
El Diablo.
Santos was a cold-blooded killer, but he was a practical man, which was why his next move startled José.

El jefe
slowly removed the silencer from his gun and placed it in the pocket of his pants. Then he lifted his jacket and stuffed the gun into the waistband of his pants. Finally, with a motion so quick José could not follow and the target surely never anticipated, Santos slipped a blade from his jacket sleeve, palmed it, and in one swift slash, slit the man’s throat. The mark clutched both hands to his neck. Blood spurting from between his fingers, his eyes wide and vacant, he fell to his knees and toppled face down on the asphalt.

Santos squatted beside the body and slowly wiped his knife on the man’s jacket. He removed the cigarillo from the corner of his mouth, glanced at the tip, and ground the butt out. He placed the remains in his jacket pocket.

Seven minutes, José confirmed, glancing at his watch.

"A good soldier knows when to keep counsel," Santos said, grinning up at José with perfectly even, white teeth that flashed with startling beauty in the scarred face. "And when to speak."

Dios.
Now they would both have to answer to Diego Vargas for the information about the DEA agent and his unknown informant. There was no doubt at all in José’s mind.

El Diablo
had not only made a pact with the devil, but
él está loco!

###

Jo Lewis-Robertson, a former English teacher, makes her home in northern California, with her seven children and sixteen grandchildren whose lives make the world a beautiful place.