Vindicta: For The Innocent, #2

ONE

The sun had set in this part of town; everything was turned over, without a fight, to the gangs, the dregs of humanity. Even law enforcement units kept clear of it unless their presence was deemed absolutely necessary, and when a unit was dispatched, it was rarely sent in alone. The police tried to believe that there was a degree of safety in numbers. Thriving during the first quarter of the century, over the past few decades the neighborhood had degenerated into a fetid junkyard. When night crashed down on the city, it turned these mostly uninhabited blocks into an alien and forbidding world. Steam rose in thin pale clouds through the grates located at regular intervals along the trash strewn streets. Most of the streetlights were out, broken as quickly as the city maintenance personnel replaced them, by youths who claimed boredom as the cause of their misdeeds. Where possible, people avoided this area once the sun went down; even the homeless stayed clear, preferring the relative safety of the cold areas to the danger lurking in the areas warmed by the steam emitted through these grates.

Tonight, however, was a particularly active night throughout the city. A brilliant, full moon resembling a great silver disk shone down from a deep black sky. It was the kind of moon reputed to cause an imbalance in some people. As if to prove that theory, there were more unbalanced people out on the loose than usual. These people were keeping the police department so busy that only one police unit was available to respond to the dispatcher’s call for the investigation of a reported shooting that had just occurred in this dead-end district.

The officer behind the wheel was an exceptionally large man, his muscular frame the result of a long, dedicated regimen of weightlifting. He had logged in twenty-five years’ experience as a street cop. His partner, on the other hand, was a pimple faced twenty-two-year-old rookie, and tonight was his first night on the street. The old-timer was not pleased. Not even a little bit. Big Tom McGillicutty sat in hostile silence behind the steering wheel of the black and white Ford Crown Victoria sedan, paying no particular attention to where he was going. He had driven this patrol so often during the past years that his route was almost automatic, and he just drove aimlessly, watching and thinking.

Mostly, his thoughts were of a personal nature. As he had walked out the door on his way to work that night, his wife of sixteen years had let him know that neither she nor their three kids would be home when he returned at the end of that graveyard shift. He had merely nodded, understanding, knowing that a divorce had been on its way for the last several years. There was no point in arguing with her, no point in fighting. It was probably for the best, but nevertheless he had felt the loss deep within his guts, a wrenching sensation that had kept tears in his eyes all of the way to the station. He had wiped his eyes dry before going inside; no one needed to know. The shift was nearly three hours old and he still had not shared a single word with his eager new partner.

Richard Williams was a recent—very recent—graduate of the city’s Police Academy and was overflowing with anticipation of his first night on patrol as a real officer of the law. That morning he had purchased a Colt Commander MkIV Series 80 45ACP semi-automatic pistol with Pachmyer grips; he had wanted nothing to do with the department issued Smith and Wesson Model 15 Combat Masterpiece .38 caliber revolver. At the start of the shift, he had noticed that his silent partner, his unwilling mentor, had also eschewed the police issued revolver and was carrying a Dan Wesson Gold Series Model 15 .357 magnum revolver with a six-inch barrel riding high on his right hip. The rookie touched the cold rubber butt of his own weapon reassuringly and smiled discreetly, confidently. He had no doubt that he had the firepower to handle any situation.

The Motorola mobile radio suddenly blared, jerking the two men out of their individual worlds and back into the real one. Able Forty-five! The voice of the overworked police dispatcher was tired, irritated, biting.

Williams snapped up the microphone, his blue eyes aglow. We are en route! he shouted excitedly.

Don’t you think, said McGillicutty coldly, that you ought to wait until you know where you’re going before acknowledging to it?

Sorry, mumbled the rookie sheepishly.

I’m not the one who came across the air like an idiot. Do you really think I give a damn? snarled the veteran.

Able Forty-five, proceed to 1893 Armstrong, the dispatcher told them quickly. We have an unconfirmed report of a shooting at that location!

Roger, Dispatch, en route! Williams declared, grinning widely. He was in seventh heaven; it was his first night out and there was a shooting. There were some cops who never got a chance like this in twenty years, and here it was on his first night. He would have something to phone home about when the shift was over.

Idiot! snapped McGillicutty, snatching the microphone away from the rookie. Dispatch, Able Forty-five! Who’ve you got available for backup?

All patrols are tied up at this time, Forty-five, replied the dispatcher. Her voice was almost apologetic. Proceed with caution and keep me advised. Dispatch out.

Damn! grumbled McGillicutty as he swung the vehicle around. And shut off the damn overheads and siren, you damn rookie! It’s three in the damn morning, no one’s on the damn streets this time of the damn morning! Not out here!

Disappointment was clearly obvious on the young man’s face, but he complied, begrudgingly. Riding with you is going to be all sorts of fun, he mumbled sarcastically.

Listen, boy, we’re going into the worst part of this cesspool of a town at three in the damn morning to check on a possible shooting without any damn backup! McGillicutty snarled angrily in a single breath. That’s not a good scenario in anybody’s damn book! With any luck, it’ll turn out to be a crank call and we can get the hell out of that armpit!

Wouldn’t we have to investigate, though, even if it’s only a crank call?

Normally, yeah, but this ain’t normal, kid. Where we’re headed is an urban combat zone after dark. Once that sun goes down, well, you don’t want to be in there after dark, kid, trust me. So we go in, look around really quick, and then get the hell out of there even quicker.

I don’t know, muttered Williams. That’s not how they taught us at the academy. It sounds kind of, well, cowardly to me.

Forget the damn academy, boy! This isn’t the damn academy; it’s the real damn world! What the hell do you know about any kind of crap anyway, boy! McGillicutty snarled vehemently.

It just sounds kind of cowardly, if you ask me! the rookie responded emphatically.

So who the hell asked you? Boy, you were put with me so as to learn the better part of discretion and all that happy horse crap! Besides, it’s better to be a live coward than a dead hero; dead heroes just ain’t worth a damn bit of good to anybody! And I’ll tell you something else, boy; the force has too damn many dead heroes because of thinking just like yours!

You mean they weren’t afraid to lay down their lives for something they believed in! Williams shouted defensively.

Get a grip on reality, man! Laying down your life for a good cause isn’t the damn issue here! roared McGillicutty angrily as he turned the sedan on to Armstrong. Dying for no good reason is the issue! Dying for being stupid is the damn issue!

There was no response from the now sulking young police officer, which was just fine with the veteran. He slowed the cruiser to twenty miles per hour, keeping it to the center of the two-way street. He had the high beams on, as well as the remote controlled spotlight that was mounted on his side of the vehicle. As they approached 1893 Armstrong, McGillicutty beamed the powerful light to reveal the deserted remains of a burned-out church. At one time it had been an impressive structure, but man had destroyed this House of God, and probably for no other reason than a desire to destroy something.

This is the place, said the veteran in a hushed voice, adrenaline rushing through his veins.

I don’t see anyone, was the quietly murmured response as Williams glanced over at his senior partner. So what do we do now?

Dispatch, Able Forty-five, McGillicutty said into the microphone. We’re coming up on 1893 Armstrong and we haven’t seen anything as yet. Everything’s real quiet out here.

Roger, Forty-five, keep me advised, replied the dispatcher.

Is anyone available for backup?

Negative.

Roger, he sighed heavily. He set aside the microphone and stared hard at the church, slowing the cruiser to fifteen miles per hour. He swept the bright beam of the spotlight across the church’s pitted facade, praying desperately that he would see nothing and be able to get the hell out of the area. That was when the light found the body lying just inside the church entrance. Oh, hell!

What do we do now? Williams asked nervously. He was suddenly not so eager.

Dispatch, Forty-five, said McGillicutty into the microphone. We have a body down in the church entrance. Send the meat wagon. We’ll be going into the building to investigate now.

Roger, Forty-five, keep me advised.

Any backup?

Negative.

Damn!

Maintain radio discipline, Able Forty-five!

Oh, piss off, you old battle-axe! snarled the veteran, as he tossed the microphone on to the seat beside him. Put her fat butt out here and we’ll hear what tune she starts whistling then, eh? He glanced over at the youth seated beside him; the rookie clearly was not relishing what was coming. Nor was he. This is the real thing, boy. No simulations and ‘what if’s here. Take up that shotgun, son, he said softly, bringing the cruiser to a stop with the high beams trained on the church entrance. I don’t like this, not one damn bit. This whole thing’s stinking to high heaven of a setup. He looked over at his junior partner. Piss anyone off today, boy?

Williams stared at the older patrol officer. No, but I’d probably be safe guessing that you have.

With an unexpected grin and a nod, McGillicutty said, You’ll do all right if you keep that attitude, kid.

They stayed inside the vehicle for nearly a minute, scanning the surrounding area for any possible ambushers. They could see nothing that appeared to be out of the norm. The area was deserted, seemingly devoid of life. It was an eerie place, made more so by the steam that drifted up out of the grates and wafted across the street. With a heavy sigh, McGillicutty unfastened his seatbelt and stepped out of the cruiser. He undid the restraining strap on his holster, wrapped his hand around the rosewood butt of his handgun, and withdrew it. He waited until his partner was clear of the vehicle, with shotgun in hand, before moving toward the church.

This is really weird, muttered Williams. Is it supposed to be this weird?

You just be ready with that shotgun, boy, because there ain’t no telling what’s going to happen.

They were halfway between the cruiser and the church when the unexpected happened: the body that was lying in the church entrance suddenly sat up, a wide smile on the face. The two police officers froze in their tracks. McGillicutty brought his heavy revolver up, clasped in both hands, at the same time that Williams worked the pump action on the Remington Model 870 Police 12-gauge shotgun. They watched as the body stood up, brushed dust and debris from its fashionable, expensive clothes, and then stepped out of the shadows of the derelict building and into the full glare of the headlights. McGillicutty knew now that he had been right; they had been set up. The man, with his thick black hair smoothly groomed against his skull, was immaculate, showing no signs of a scuffle; but most ominous to the veteran police officer was that he reeked of drug money.

That’s far enough! ordered McGillicutty, his eyes moving rapidly about in search of the others who he knew were there. But he saw no one else. Get your hands up where I can see them!

You know, said the man with a very distinct Hispanic accent, I was wondering how long it would take for you guys to show up. Man, it’s a good thing no one was really shot, huh? He chuckled at his own joke. With a shake of his head, he continued, You guys have been cracking down too hard on my business ventures. I don’t appreciate that. I realize that the rest of the country is in a financial bind, but that doesn’t mean that I have to be as well, you know what I mean? Or are you guys just pissed off because I make more money in a week than you guys make in a year? He chuckled again, then said, So, it’s nothing personal, you understand, but I’ve got to get a message out to your people: ‘No more messing with José Florentino’.

Who? Williams inquired quietly.

From the church and nearby decaying buildings appeared six men, each carrying a .45-caliber Ingram Model 10 submachine gun. Instantly, the two officers knew that the chances of their escaping alive were minimal at best. The six killers lined up, their automatic weapons pointed directly at the two police officers. Williams slowly inched backwards toward the black and white cruiser, the shotgun pointed directly at the drug dealer. McGillicutty was ignoring the six other killers as well, concentrating on the leader of the murderous crew.

There’s no need for this, the veteran officer said as calmly as he could. You don’t want to be tagged as a cop killer; it’s a death sentence.

"As you can probably see, I am not too worried about that; you’re not the first cops I’ve killed. And my compadres do not understand you, amigo, replied the dealer with a flashing white smile. They’re from out of town, you know, from out of the country, in fact. He chuckled as he brought out his own automatic weapon. They’ll go back home tonight, and that will be that. You both will be dead, and word will get out to your compadres that to mess with José Florentino is muy desastroso."

McGilicutty was hit by a sudden brief but vicious spray of hot lead that shattered both of his arms and slammed against the Kevlar ballistic vest that he always wore beneath his uniform, knocking him into the street. Williams’ eyes widened in disbelief as he watched the street-hardened veteran fall beneath the hail of gunfire. For several seconds he froze where he was. Then, with a scream of rage, he brought the shotgun into play, blasting away all eight rounds from the Remington Model 870 Police. Florentino had disappeared. Throwing down the empty shotgun and pulling out his precious Colt Combat Commander MkIV semi-automatic pistol, the young officer ran toward the front of the church. It never occurred to him to call for assistance.

Get back to the cruiser! McGillicutty managed to bellow before a second burst of automatic weapons fire silenced him forever.

The six killers, their faces unemotional, synchronously opened up on the lone surviving police officer. Richard Williams never had a chance as dozens of .45ACP-caliber bullets slammed into his body. His arms and legs were instantly shredded, sending him crashing to the pavement. His blood flowed freely. His entire being turned numb as shock set in. The shooting stopped as suddenly as it had started. The silence was ominous. Then he heard the unhurried footsteps behind him, from the church, and he knew that he was about to die.

Please, he pleaded as he tried unsuccessfully to force himself to bring his weapon into play. Please, don’t kill me.

Sorry, cop, but I’ve got to do this. You might say that I have a reputation to protect, was the relaxed reply. I want you to know, though, that it’s nothing personal; you’re just a message to your bosses. After a moment he added, Man, you guys don’t get paid enough to do this job.

No kidding, gasped Williams softly.

Anyway, you cops aren’t doing my business any good. So you’ve gotta die, went on Florentino.

Then do it! screamed Williams, wanting the pain to end.

You got it, cop, responded the killer, and pulled the trigger.

The six gunmen remained immobile, their weapons lowered but ready. The drug dealer stood between the two dead police officers, a smile on his handsomely chiseled face. It is times like this when I wish I’d remembered my camera, he sighed. Then he picked up the unfired Colt and slipped it into his waistband at the small of his back.

As he straightened up, he suddenly felt that he was being watched, and not just by his six gunmen. He glanced nervously up and down the street, but he saw nothing. Still, there remained the creepy feeling that he and his fellow killers were not alone, and he continued scrutinizing his surroundings. The blurred figure that materialized out of the steam swirling from the grate across the street was that of a towering, muscular man holding a very large framed revolver in his massive right hand. As he emerged from the haze, the distant light from the only operational streetlight on the block glinted off the stainless steel. The solitary figure moved at a steady, unvarying pace toward the scene of the slaughter. The six men with the Ingram Model 10s glanced at their leader, waiting for orders. He gestured to them to stand easy as he turned to face the stranger. Never allowing his eyes to waver from the oncoming man, the drug dealer replaced the empty magazine in his gun with a full one and chambered a round. The stranger came to a stop a dozen feet from the cold-blooded Hispanic killer.

Who the hell are you? demanded Florentino, raising his weapon slightly, menacingly.

The stranger was obviously unimpressed. He replied in a deep, resonant voice, To you, I’m the Grim Reaper.

"Very funny, pendejo! Now take a hike while you still can move!"

Oh, I don’t think so.

Florentino stared at the man for several seconds before warning him, Then you’re going to die!

Wrong again.

There were six sharp cracks in such rapid succession that they seemed to roll together. To the horror of the drug dealer, he saw each of his South American gunmen drop noiselessly to the cracked pavement, a neat hole drilled through the center of each forehead. Their weapons fell from their lifeless fingers. The drug dealer swung back around, sending a spray of 45ACP-caliber bullets at the stranger, but the stranger was not there. The cop killer felt a tightening in his chest, felt his pulse quicken. Perspiration dampened his face as his wide, dark eyes quickly searched the area. He knew that he had to get away, had to get out.

Hey, hissed a voice from behind him, you looking for me, Florentino?

The drug dealer spun around, weapon ready, but there was no one there. Where are you? he screamed, his weapon following the movement of his eyes. How do you know my name? Who are you?

I thought we already covered that, said the voice almost flippantly. You really ought to pay closer attention, José, there just might be a test later.

Who are you? pleaded Florentino.

The moment of foreboding silence seemed to last for minutes. Then came the hushed answer, Death.

Florentino hesitated, and then snarled viciously, "You’re wrong! Yo soy la Muerta!"

No, José, you’re messing with Death. The stranger stepped out from the carcass of the church. In his hand he held a stainless steel Ruger Redhawk .41 magnum revolver with a five-and-a-half-inch barrel.

A wicked smile appeared on Florentino’s face as he pulled the trigger on his Ingram Model 10. The smile vanished instantly as the firing pin fell upon an empty chamber. The Hispanic was terrified. An icy chill engulfed him and he could not control the shivers that shook his body. He lowered his useless weapon, and then tossed it to the pavement. Hey, man, I got no trouble with you. He mustered what bravado he could and added, If you leave now, man, I’ll let you live.

You really are too kind, was the cold, emotionless response. Unfortunately for you, we’ve some business that has to be settled. Into the brilliant light of the police cruiser’s headlights stepped a bearded black man who stood six-feet-six-inches in his stocking feet and carried his two hundred fifty pounds on a massive, rugged frame. The immense hand holding the Redhawk rose until the weapon was aimed directly at the left knee of the Hispanic. The red dot from the Aimpoint laser sight did not lie. I want the name of your supplier.

You’re crazy, man! He’d kill me! declared Florentino indignantly, momentarily forgetting his predicament. I’m no stool pigeon!

If you don’t tell me what I want to know, José, I’ll put you into so much pain that you’ll wish you were dead, said the man with the revolver. In the still of the night the cocking back of the hammer of the Redhawk was unerringly audible. It’s your choice here.

Florentino’s eyes were flashing about as he desperately sought a way out of the rapidly deteriorating situation. He had been in tight spots before; growing up on the streets, in the barrio, had been a harsh education, but this was different. Completely. In the past he had always made a point of having an ace up his sleeve, as it were; but this time his aces were lying in pools of blood in an otherwise neat row on the cracked pavement, each killed by a single small caliber bullet expertly drilled through the forehead. He knew without a doubt that he was way out of his league this time. Who are you? he asked again, his voice almost a whisper.

Gentry, was the reply.Jack Gentry.

Do I know you? Why are you doing this to me, man? pleaded the drug dealer. Why do you want to know my supplier?

I have my reason, that’s all you need to concern yourself with. Now, name your supplier and tell me where I can find him. The dark eyes were cold, unblinking, penetrating. The Aimpoint laser sight attached to the Ruger never wavered from its target.

Nervously, the drug dealer licked his thin parched lips as he tried to consider what options he might have. It took him only a few moments to realize that he had no options. Okay, man, I’ll tell you, but you’ll let me walk, is that the deal?

This is not open to negotiation, Gentry told the freely perspiring man standing before him.

"¡Mierda de toro! Everything’s open to negotiation! Florentino flared. I’m not saying nothing if all you’re going to do is waste me!"

Fine, said Gentry. The roar of the Redhawk’s firing was deafening as it reverberated along the otherwise silent street of the deserted slum area. The .41-magnum hollow-point round destroyed the left knee of the second generation Puerto Rican, dropping him immediately to the cold pavement. Writhing in pain, Florentino was screaming at the top of his lungs as he gingerly took hold of the bloody mass that had been his knee.

Now, continued Gentry quietly, cocking the smoking weapon for the second time, who is your supplier and where can I find him?

After several minutes, Florentino’s screams finally subsided as shock set in and numbness took over the wound. His skin had turned ghostly pale, cold and clammy, and his dark eyes were dilating and slowly beginning to roll back into his head. A hard slap across the face brought him back to consciousness, but only temporarily. He babbled about a big brick house outside of the city limits, to the north, on a private road. And he gave a name.

Gentry recognized the name.

He squatted down beside the frightened, wounded man, the gaping muzzle just inches from the chalky white face. That wasn’t so hard now, was it? He tapped the warm barrel on the bridge of the man’s nose. Now tell me how many men he has with him in the house.

Five. Six. It varies. Florentino, gasping with pain, shrieked, Call me a doctor!

Okay. You’re a doctor, but I don’t see how that helps you. Gentry looked up. A lone figure was approaching through the swirling steam near an old building not fifty feet away. The figure was carrying a modified Charter Arms AR-7 Explorer .22LR-caliber semi-automatic rifle with a fifty power scope attached. Gentry returned his attention to his unwilling informant. This fellow—Marcos—who is his supplier?

I don’t know!

Gee, that’s a shame, mused Gentry as he stood up and turned to face the approaching man. Good shooting, Kyle, as always.

"No problema, said the blue-eyed thirty-year-old, running a hand through the tousled waves of his thick blond hair. As he glanced at the six dead gunmen, he grinned. They made it look so easy. Come on, guys, stand up and take a bow! Kyle Murphy exclaimed enthusiastically. When the six did not move, he added, They’re just so modest. He looked toward the two dead police officers. Shame we couldn’t get here before these goons wasted the cops."

Yeah, agreed Gentry quietly.

DEA! gasped the drug dealer, his eyes widening with the sudden realization. Gentry and Murphy! You guys are DEA!

Used to be, but now we’re freelance exterminators, Murphy informed the wounded man. And as one of our first customers, what do you think of our service? Pretty final, huh?

Florentino, Gentry said, you know that there’s no way I can justify letting you live.

What? The drug dealer’s eyes snapped open as his mind suddenly cleared, overriding the pain that pulsated from the remains of his left knee. No! You can’t just kill me! gasped the wounded man, terror in his voice. I have got my rights!

That’s true, admitted Murphy, nodding. Looking at his partner, he said, As judge and jury, I find the defendant as guilty as Satan himself. Over to you, executioner.

It’s not fair! It’s not fair! wailed Florentino. I’ve got family!

Nodding toward the bodies of the dead police officers, Murphy said flatly, So did they.

You can’t just shoot me!

Now, you see, that’s where you’re wrong, sport, Gentry countered quietly, bringing the muzzle of the heavy caliber revolver to bear on the drug dealer’s forehead. You don’t deserve to live; it’s as simple as that. You lose in the game of life, dirt bag.

Killer game, dude, Murphy noted, shaking his head.

"¡Vete a la mierda!" Florentino screamed as he jerked the dead rookie’s Colt from his waistband. He never had the time to aim the weapon at his executioner.

Sorry, replied Gentry, but we don’t do requests. That said, he calmly pulled the trigger.

For the second time, the heavy weapon bucked in the big man’s massive hand, the recoil causing his entire arm to ride upward slightly. The sound of the explosion echoed its way up and down the empty street; then an eerie silence fell upon the scene. After replacing the two expended cartridges with fresh ones, Gentry returned the stainless steel revolver to the modified shoulder holster beneath his left arm. The empty brass cartridges went into a pocket to be reloaded at a later time.

Get a name? Murphy inquired, breaking down the rifle and putting the sixteen-inch barrel and receiver into the hollow high-impact plastic stock. The scope went into a hard plastic case that, in turn, went into a deep jacket pocket.

"Oh, yes, our ‘dear friend’ Señor Marcos Espinoza, complete with address."

Damn but you’re good! He looked at Gentry. So, when do you want to go visit our ‘dear friend’?

Well, the night is yet young, Gentry said admiring the clear night sky and its full moon, and he isn’t that far from here.

I kind of figured you were going to say something like that, Jack, sighed Murphy.

TWO

Half an hour later the two ex-Drug Enforcement Administration agents were parked on a private street outside the city limits, just a short distance from the only brick house on the tree-lined street. There was no other house close by, which pleased the two men. Seated behind the steering wheel of his deep blue 1969 Camaro, Kyle Murphy wondered if Espinoza’s neighbors, though few and far between, knew that their Colombian neighbor with the cherry red 240SEL Mercedes Benz convertible parked in the driveway was the major narcotics distributor in central Texas. Somehow, he doubted it. Gentry sat silently beside his partner, staring at the two-story brick house. Unconsciously, he was chewing on his lower lip, something he always did when he was in intense concentration.

It’ll be daylight soon, Murphy finally said. If we are going to do this, Jack, we need to do it now.

Yeah, I know, murmured the African American softly. Sometimes I just wish I didn’t have to do this, you know?

Murphy nodded. You’re justified, though.

Not in the eyes of the law.

Justice is blind, remember?

The ex-DEA officer nodded slightly. He had been trained in counter-insurgency, deep cover operations and anti-terrorist actions, as well as standard DEA operations. It was what he did best, what he and Murphy did best. They had been a team in the Drug Enforcement Administration for almost ten years, and they were very close. An unbeatable team, they had a reputation among their peers as well as among the narcotics traffickers. Because they were so effective, they were not well liked by many in senior, politically appointed positions, and were often given the most hazardous missions, which, to the frequent consternation of some of their superiors, they always accomplished successfully. Many thought that they were too good, and rumors began to fly, with a little help from higher up. Their highly successful work at DEA had eventually resulted in the execution-style deaths of Gentry’s entire family. Conveniently for the murderers, there had been no proof found that pointed to anyone in particular, and the deaths were listed as accidental homicides: the Gentry family, the report concluded, had not been the real target; the real target had been another family. Case closed.

Gentry had believed none of that and had started his own investigation on his own time. When the possibility of a high-level cover-up began to surface, Gentry’s employment with the DEA was terminated; officially, the loss of his family had made him unreliable. He accepted that, took the medical retirement, and went out in search of those responsible for the deaths of his loved ones. He did not go alone, however; his partner was with him every step of the way. By the time Gentry was finished with his investigation, several senior DEA officials were facing a Congressional hearing for cover-up and corruption. Florentino had been a minor member of the drug cartel that actually was responsible for the killing of Gentry’s family. Payback was a bitch, and it was not over yet.

Let’s do it!

They climbed out of the Camaro and walked to the rear of the vehicle. Murphy opened the trunk and, from a false bottom, the men took out two Heckler and Koch MP-5SD silenced 9mm submachine guns. The German-made weapons each came with ten 30-round magazines. Slinging the MP-5SDs across their backs after closing the trunk lid, the two men walked unhurriedly across the street and toward the two-story brick house. As they neared their target, they parted company. Gentry kept walking toward the front of the house, while his cohort ducked into the shadows of surrounding trees and made his way to the rear of the building.

Gentry stopped beside an old elm tree not far from the target and waited, giving his partner time to get into position. After several minutes, he started toward the front of the impressive residence. In the front yard, there was a large tree with a swing hanging from a thick limb; the tree, Gentry decided, would provide the access he needed to penetrate a second floor window. For a man of his stature, he moved with amazing speed and agility; it was an attribute of which he was reasonably proud. In less than two minutes he was across the spacious yard and up the tree, looking in through a bedroom window. It was dark inside and he could not tell whether or not there was anybody in the room, but he was pleased to see that the window was conveniently open.

As silently as a giant jungle cat, he slipped in through the open window and set himself up in a corner of the room, with his MP-5SD in his hands. The light from the full moon, barely filtering through the windows on this side of the house, was insufficient to enable him to see clearly. Taking a deep breath, he began moving slowly across the richly carpeted floor to where he thought the door might be. Suddenly his right shin encountered a corner of an unexpected low table, and an involuntary hiss escaped him as a sharp pain shot up his leg. Off to his left, he heard the sound of someone else in the room. He froze where he was and listened for more sounds from the other person, straining his hearing for any noise. After a full minute had passed with no further sounds coming from the unseen occupant, he inched around the table and continued in the presumed direction of the door.

"¿Quien esta ahi? came a hushed voice, tired and nervous. ¿Es que usted, Marcos?"

It was a female voice. Gentry straightened to his full height as he turned toward the voice. He kept his lips tightly sealed as he contemplated his next move. The muffled sound of a weapon being cocked caught his attention and solved his little dilemma. Silently he moved the selector lever on his weapon to semi-automatic and aimed it in the general direction of the speaker. As he squeezed the trigger the Aimpoint laser sighting system activated, putting a red dot on the woman’s exposed chest. Wrong guess, he whispered.

The female’s voice became alarmed. Who are you? she hissed in accented English. What do you want?

Where’s Espinoza? inquired Gentry quietly. The red dot did not waver.

I don’t know what you mean, she said firmly, her voice increasing in volume.

The red dot did not move; it was a fact of which she was not unaware. Try again, he urged.

Who are you? she asked again, silently sliding her weapon out from beneath her pillow.

Gentry knew that he had no option. Death, he told her, and he pulled the trigger twice with such rapidity that there was only one muffled, extended cough, a cough that could not be heard outside the confines of the bedroom. He heard the impacts of the two rounds in her soft flesh, followed immediately by an expulsion of air. Hurrying over to the bed, he quickly checked the unseen woman for a pulse. As he expected, there was none. Satisfied, he moved rapidly to where he thought the door ought to be, smiling as his hand encircled the cold brass knob. Opening the door carefully, he hurriedly glanced up and down the hallway for any sign of life. There was none in either direction. As he stepped out of the bedroom, he heard a door suddenly open not far down the hallway from where he was standing.

**********

Kyle Murphy moved stealthily into the backyard of the brick house, keeping low and hiding in the shrubs not a dozen feet from the back door. His blue eyes briskly scanned the surrounding area for any surveillance devices; there appeared to be none. Either Espinoza was either very careless or very sure of himself, thought Murphy. It did not matter which: the Colombian’s time was about to expire. With the Heckler and Koch MP-5SD in his hands, he moved toward the