Creedy opened the front passenger door and got in. Boz was at the wheel. “We’ll drive by the location,” Creedy told him. “And ID the house. Then we’ll go to dinner. I’m hungry.”

  It was dark by the time the crew finished dinner and made their way out of the restaurant to the parking lot. Beacon Hill was easy to find. And thanks to the scouting trip earlier that day, they knew which house belonged to Serrano.

  “Oz,” which was short for Ozborne, was an ex-locksmith. So, he went first, satchel in hand.

  There weren’t any lights, suggesting that Serrano was in bed, or elsewhere. In which case, the crew would enter and wait for him to return.

  *

  Serrano was dreaming about Martina. They were on a beach somewhere, and about to kiss, when something woke him. A sound? Yes, but what sound?

  Suddenly the lights came on. A man was pointing a pistol at the bed. “Serrano! Wakey, wakey. Let me see your hands.”

  Serrano was lying on the floor as usual. He raised the long-barreled .357 and shot the intruder in the head. A mixture of blood and brains splattered the wall.

  Serrano rolled under the old-fashioned bed in time to see a pair of fancy cowboy boots enter the room. He fired, the hitman fell, and a second bullet finished him off.

  That was when a third killer launched himself through the air, landed on the bed, and began to fire down through the mattress. A bullet passed within an inch of Serrano’s head.

  That was a mistake. Serrano pressed his weapon against the sagging mattress and fired three times. He heard the hitman cry out, and elbowed his way back toward the sleeping bag.

  A voice called to him. “Well, well… I’m impressed. Too bad we’re on different teams. I could use a man like you.”

  Serrano was painfully aware of the fact that six of his pistol’s seven rounds had been expended. And, if he could stall, he would. “Yankovic sent you to get his money… How much would you charge to simply walk away?”

  Serrano was out from under the bed by then. Papá’s Colt .45 was hanging from a bed post. Serrano stood, pulled the revolver free, and faced the door.

  “Now you’re talking,” the hitman said. “A hundred thou. That’s my price.”

  Serrano didn’t believe it. And wasn’t about to pay in any case. He threw the S&W out into the living room.

  Serrano heard the pop, pop, pop of a suppressed .22 as the other man fired. Then he slipped through the doorway, pistol raised.

  In order to survive, the hitman had to shift his aim from the S&W to Serrano in less than two heartbeats. He failed. The Colt produced a loud boom, as the .45 hollow point slug struck the intruder’s right arm, and nearly severed it.

  Blood pumped onto the tile floor as the hitman looked at it, attempted to keep his balance, and failed. There was a thump as the body hit the floor. Leo Creedy was dead.

  Chapter Four

  Lugar de Paz, Mexico

  In another time, in another place, the attempt to kill Serrano would have caused a stir. But not in the Place of Peace. That was because Serrano’s home had clearly been attacked, most of the dead men were gringos, and Mayor Aguilar, never mind Officer Molina, didn’t want to get crosswise with an American gang. They already had El Cuchillo to deal with.

  There were some winners however, including coffin maker Jorge Gómez, and undertaker Tomás Pérez. They were understandably neutral where murders were concerned.

  As for death rites, there was only one flavor in Lugar de Paz, and that was Catholic. And Father Colon, who was by no means neutral, managed to condense the vigil, mass and committal into a single five-minute service attended by no one other than a black crow.

  Meanwhile, Serrano and Emilio were working to clean the blood off La Casa Bonita’s walls and floors. And once that was accomplished, to plaster over bullet holes, and apply two coats of paint.

  That’s what Serrano was doing when Martina arrived with a little boy and a Chihuahua. “Hi Nick, I’d like to introduce my son, Paco. He’s eight. Shake hands with Señor Serrano, son.”

  Serrano extended his hand. “Hello, Paco… It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Paco muttered something that was too soft to hear. “Paco’s shy,” Martina said. “He’ll talk your ears off once he gets to know you.

  “Look!” Martina said, as she offered the Chihuahua. “A present! His name is Macho. And he’s an excellent watch dog.”

  Serrano didn’t want a dog, especially a Chihuahua. But he couldn’t say no. Not to Martina. The dog growled as Serrano took him.

  Martina laughed. “Give Macho a treat every now and then. We brought some with us. Isn’t that right, Paco?”

  The little boy held a bag up for Serrano to see. “Thanks, Paco. Hand me a treat before I get bitten.”

  Paco opened the bag, chose a bone-shaped biscuit, and passed it over. Macho sniffed the offering, and bit it. Serrano looked at Martina. “Macho isn’t the only one who’s hungry. I am, too. Can I take you to lunch? I hear that Pancho’s is the best restaurant in town.”

  Martina laughed, and Serrano liked the sound of it. “What you heard is true. Largely because Pancho’s is the only restaurant in town. But yes, that would be fun. People will talk though.”

  “Really? What will they say?”

  “They’ll say that we’re having an affair. That’s how people are in a small town.”

  “I can live with that,” Serrano replied. Then, before Martina could reply, Serrano took Macho inside.

  A faint yapping noise was audible as Serrano left the dog in Emilio’s custody and exited the house. “My car?” Serrano inquired.

  “Yes, please, my backseat is loaded with groceries,” Martina said, as she gestured toward an old Ford Fiesta. It had been red originally. But now, after years under the sun, it was pink.

  Pancho’s was good. Not great, but good. The tables were organized around a fountain at the center of an internal courtyard, and the service was excellent.

  Some of the other diners stared, just as Martina predicted they would. “The news will reach Mexico City by dinner time,” she joked.

  The conversation was intentionally simple, and free of anything related to violence, until Paco spoke up. He was looking at Serrano as he sucked Coke through a straw. “How many people have you killed?”

  “Paco!” Martina exclaimed. “We don’t ask questions like that.”

  “We do if we’re eight,” Serrano said. “And here’s my answer… I don’t keep track, because if I did, it would be like a score in a game. It’s my hope that I’ll never have to kill anyone again. Does that answer your question?”

  Paco nodded and his straw made a rattling noise, as he siphoned the last drops of Coke out of his glass. “That was well said,” Martina told him. “Thank you.”

  She looked at her watch. “Paco and I need to get going. We have school tomorrow.”

  Serrano’s eyebrows rose. “We?”

  “Yes. I am a maestra. You didn’t know?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Serrano replied. “Guerilla, yes. Vocalist, yes. But a teacher? No. I’m impressed.”

  Martina shrugged. “I’m lucky. I have a way to earn a living. Many people don’t. Or, they do, and El Cuchillo steals 3% of their money.”

  Serrano frowned. “How so?”

  “It’s a protection racket,” Martina replied. “You can be sure that the family who owns this restaurant pays it. Otherwise, there would be a mysterious fire, and Pancho’s would burn down. Locals call it ‘la roca,’ meaning the rock that holds them down.” After a moment, Martina added, “Take this place for example. It probably generates something like a 5% profit. So, after the owners pay up, they have 2% of revenues to live on. It’s evil.”

  They left after that and returned to La Casa Bonita, where the pink Fiesta was waiting. The kiss on the cheek was unexpected but welcome. Their eyes met. “Take care, Soldado,” Martina said. “This isn’t over. It’s just beginning.” Then she drove away.

  Macho was yapping as Serrano entered the house. It lasted five minutes. Then, when the dog finally stopped, he received a treat.

  Emilio had left, but a lot of progress had been made, and a new mattress was supposed to arrive the following day.

  Serrano opened a beer. The air was hot and the cold liquid felt good going down. There was something he’d been putting off. It had to do with the enigmatic line in Papá’s letter: “Protect the weak, and rely on Bruno. He will assist you.”

  Bruno was a Xoloitzcuintle, or Xolo, one of several breeds of hairless dog. There were three sizes, including standard, intermediate, and miniature. Bruno was a standard Xolo, who had been passionately dedicated to Papá, but didn’t care for anyone else, Serrano included.

  And, when Bruno died of old age, Papá had a headstone made—and interred the dog next to the house.

  So, if Serrano wanted to seek Bruno’s help, he’d have to dig the dog up. A chore that shouldn’t bother Serrano but did.

  The sun was starting to set as Serrano collected the necessary tools, went outside, and began to work. A waist-high adobe wall hid Serrano’s macabre task from the neighbors, who were understandably skittish where the Americano was concerned.

  The initial task was to remove the pavers that protected the grave and put them aside. Each tile was numbered on the back, which struck Serrano as strange.

  Once that task was complete Serrano found himself looking at a dust-covered tarp. Serrano freed the plastic which revealed a coffin below. And there, burned into the wood, were the words, “Here lies Bruno. RIP.”

  Was that it? A box filled with dog bones? Serrano didn’t think so. By kneeling, and reaching down, Serrano was able to grab the lid.

  Rather than creak, like in a movie, the coffin opened noiselessly. And there, lying side-by-side were individually sealed packages.

  Thanks to his years in the Marine Corps, Serrano could identify them by feel. There were two long guns—sniper rifles probably—and more importantly, three M249 light machine guns!

  Though no longer issued by the Marine Corps since the M27 Infantry Automatic Rifle had been introduced, the old Squad Automatic Weapons were battle tested. And Papá knew that.

  Properly employed, the SAWs would go a long way toward fighting off the next attack by El Cuchillo’s narcos. And the rifles wouldn’t hurt either. Serrano planned to grab one for himself. God Bless you, Papá, Serrano thought. And Bruno too.

  It took two days to secretly transfer the weapons and ammo to carefully chosen guerillas. However, the additional guns weren’t enough and Serrano knew that. Weapons without training were meaningless.

  But, if the guerillas were to train openly, thereby revealing their new weapons, El Cuchillo was bound to learn of it via Mayor Aguilar or Officer Molina. Both of whom were known to act as spies.

  It was Martina who came up with a solution and made the necessary arrangements. Some of the guerillas went on vacation. Others left for a spiritual retreat with Father Colon. And three guerillas left town to participate in a triathlon. Even though they had never participated in such an event before.

  Then, twelve hours later, all of them came together on a hacienda managed by a man whose daughter had been kidnapped, and was still missing.

  Training began right away. By that time the once amorphous group of fighters had been rebranded as Alpha Company. It was comprised of six squads, each with a leader, and consisting of two, four-person fire teams. Martina was in command and an ex-army noncom named José Herrera was XO. Serrano was listed as an “advisor.”

  The amount of time spent at the improvised firing line was limited due to the scant supply of ammo. But the brief live-fire exercises did offer the trainees an opportunity to become acquainted with their newly acquired machine guns.

  On the second day the company focused on squad level maneuvers, followed by fire team exercises, and learning specific skill sets like communications, first aid, and transportation.

  All the while Serrano was walking around shouting, “Shoot! Move! Communicate!

  “Don’t bunch up. One grenade will kill you all!”

  And, “Stay off the skyline damn it!”

  The two-day field exercise ended with a carne asada. But even then, Martina insisted on a security perimeter with loaded weapons. “Never assume you are safe. Tu arma es tu amante.” Your gun is your lover.

  It was, Serrano thought, a good beginning.

  *

  Rancho del Sol, Mexico

  Pablo Enrique Ramirez was inside, sitting in his favorite easy chair, as he looked at the pasture where his horses were grazing. It would be nice to ride one.

  But, due to the guerra eterna he couldn’t. Not without running the risk that a sniper would shoot him.

  It was, Ramirez thought, similar to the Late Middle Ages. During that time, European principalities ruled by princes and dukes waged endless war on each other.

  And that, Ramirez believed, was analogous to the battles between Mexico’s drug lords. The list was long, and included Los Tecnos, Las Patriotas, Los Ceros, his cartel Los Ortegos, Los Caribes, and last but not least, Las Rojas. A cartel led by Elena Isabella Ayo. A handsome woman with reddish hair. Thus, the cartel’s name.

  All of Ramirez’s competitors were dangerous. But Las Rojas were of the greatest concern, because their territory bordered his to the south, and Ayo wanted to expand.

  A chime sounded and Ramierz’s major domo appeared. His name was Balasco. “Officer Molina is here, sir.”

  Ramirez sighed. Lugar de Paz. The town was a thorn in his side. As was the need to deal with an idiota like Officer Molina.

  Ramirez stood and turned to face his visitor. “Officer Molina! It’s a pleasure to see you!”

  *

  Molina knew the greeting for what it was: mierda. The man standing before him was tall, at least six-two and armed with a sheath knife. Was it the one used to carve the letter “C” into Molina’s chest? The blade was sheathed so the policeman couldn’t tell.

  “Gracias,” Molina responded, as he battled the desire to pee. “It’s good to see you as well.”

  “Please,” Ramirez said, gesturing to an overstuffed chair. “I’m going to light a cigar. Would you care to join me?”

  Molina was afraid to say no, so he said, “Sí. Gracias.”

  “Balasco!” Ramirez exclaimed, as he sat down. “Bring cigars. The ones from Cuba, por favor.”

  Balasco arrived with an open humidor and the special lighter Ramirez insisted on. Molina watched the drug lord rotate his cigar over the flame, without letting it touch, before taking a puff.

  So, when Balasco offered the humidor to Molina, he copied Ramirez and couldn’t help but cough.

  Ramirez smiled indulgently. “Tell me, Jorge, how’s it going in the charming village of Lugar de Paz?”

  “That’s why I came,” Molina said, as he held the cigar well away from his face. “A man came to town. Three Mexicans tried to kill him. They’re dead.

  “Then four Americanos broke into his home. He killed them too. The townspeople call him ‘El Soldado.’”

  “Please use the ashtray next to your chair,” Ramirez said, as some ash landed on the wood floor. “The soldier… Was he one?”

  Molina nodded eagerly. “A United States Marine. And he spends a lot of time with Martina Blanco.”

  The drug lord’s eyebrows rose. “Are they lovers?”

  Molina shrugged. “I don’t know. What I do know is that Blanco plans to visit Guadalupe and take part in the upcoming Day of the Dead celebration. Blanco is going to perform there. She’s a singer.”

  Ramirez frowned. “How do you know this?”

  “There are posters all over town,” Molina replied. “Some townspeople would go to the festival regardless. But Blanco’s performance is another reason to go.”

  “And Mayor Aguilar?” Ramirez inquired. “How’s he? Well, I hope.”

  Molina was paid to keep an eye on Aguilar, who in turn, was paid to watch him. “The mayor is fine. And, if I’m not mistaken, he shares my concerns regarding the mestizo.”

  “Which are?”

  “That he could lead a revolt.”

  Ramirez stubbed his cigar out, which allowed Molina to do likewise. “Balasco! The box!”

  When the major domo appeared, he was carrying a beautifully crafted wooden box, which he presented to Ramirez.

  After flipping the lid back, Ramirez selected a gold peso. Although the coin’s face value was only twenty pesos, its intrinsic melt value was $977.82 on that particular day.

  Ramirez said, “Catch!” and tossed the coin. Molina fumbled the catch, and was forced to get up and go after the gold disk.

  Ramirez laughed.

  *

  Lugar de Paz, Mexico

  Barber Herman Burgos had been crippled by a car accident. “But you can fight the narcos from your rooftop,” Martina assured him. “By warning us when they’re on the way.”

  And it was true. By learning to fly the commercial drones donated by Nick Serrano, Burgos and a rotating team of other pilots could monitor the approaches to town and provide two minutes of warning before El Cuchillo’s men entered the community.

  It wasn’t much, but some warning was better than none, especially at night. And Burgos was proud of his contribution.

  The barber was sitting on his roof, wrapped in a blanket, when the first headlights appeared. Then, as more lights populated the screen, Burgos felt a rising sense of excitement.

  His phone was on and ready. The first 25 messages went out to leadership and specialists. The second group of texts alerted the rest of Alpha Company. Lights came on in houses all over Lugar de Paz.

  Serrano awoke to the sound of his phone going off, swore, and hurried to dress. The rig went on last. Then, rifle in hand, he hurried downhill toward Kill Box One.

  The plan was to capture the incoming vehicles in one of three intersections, where expendable cars would be used to box the narcos in, even as automatic fire poured down on the invaders from the surrounding rooftops. A plan which, Serrano hoped, would maximize enemy casualties, and minimize the danger posed by friendly fire.