Serrano arrived just as an old car braked, and slid sideways to block the street. The driver jumped out, and ran as a SAW opened fire.

  “Three-round bursts.” That’s what the gunners had been taught. And the incoming vehicles were hard to miss. Slugs peppered enemy vehicles, killing some narcos before they could get out, even as snipers fired on those who were lucky enough to exit their vehicles.

  Serrano was standing half-hidden by the corner of a building, firing on the “runners,” when Molotov cocktails began to rain down on the motionless autos.

  Flames spread, found gas tanks, and triggered explosions. It was the one-sided slaughter that Serrano had envisioned.

  Or, it would have been, except for one thing: Half of the narcos were on horseback! And arrived in trucks which delivered them to the edge of town.

  Serrano heard the clatter of hooves from behind him, and was in the process of turning, when a horse shouldered him aside. The animal’s rider uttered a whoop of joy.

  The rifle went flying and Serrano fell. He was lying on his back as the narco pulled his horse around and charged.

  Shorty seemed to jump into Serrano’s hand and fire on its own. The recoil jolted Serrano’s arm, and the noise assaulted his ears as the .357 hollow points hit the horse in the chest.

  The animal staggered and was in the process of going down when its rider jumped free. And, in an impressive example of horsemanship, landed on his feet.

  The narco was a 9mm aficionado and was taking aim when Serrano fired, and continued to fire. A man makes a lot smaller target than a horse, and the distance was well beyond the short-barreled pistol’s normal reach. Accurate reach anyway, which was why Serrano unloaded on the asshole.

  And the shotgun approach worked. The narco toppled over backwards, as Serrano stood and drew the long gun. A car alarm was bleating, a horse was screaming, and the bang bang bang of an assault weapon could be heard over both.

  A narco limped toward Serrano, hurrying to reload, but not in time. The S&W spoke, and a .357 magnum slug blew half of the man’s face away, leaving his body to spin and fall.

  A column of invaders appeared out of the drifting smoke and Serrano shot them, one after the other, until the last man tried to turn away. Serrano killed him.

  It was second nature to release the cylinder, shake the empties out, and drop a moon clip into place. Serrano was about to flip the weapon closed when someone jumped onto his back.

  He threw himself back, landed on top of his assailant, and rolled off. That was when Serrano realized that his attacker was a young woman.. Their eyes locked. Serrano flipped the cylinder closed. “Don’t do it.”

  The woman lunged at Serrano, knife raised, and was about to stab him when a bullet slammed into her head.

  Martina appeared out of the haze, pistol in hand, one sleeve wet with blood. She offered her free hand and Serrano took it. She pulled him up. He acknowledged with a “Thanks.”

  “De nada,” Martina replied. “You’re the one who deserves gratitude.”

  Serrano shook his head. “I didn’t consider the possibility of horses.”

  “That will keep you humble,” Martina answered. “Come on… We have work to do.”

  And that was true. There were wounded to take care of, weapons to collect, and ammo to harvest.

  Last, but not least, there were bodies to bury. Enough dead to keep coffin maker Jorge Gómez, undertaker Tomás Pérez, and Father Colon busy for days.

  Slowly, as if reluctant to shine on Mexico, the sun began to rise.

  Chapter Five

  Southbound toward San Luis Potosí, Mexico

  Nearly a week had passed since the attack on Lugar de Paz. The Federales had come and gone. And why not? Local citizens had the right to bear arms, and to defend themselves against “parties unknown.” Although everyone knew that El Cuchillo was behind the assault.

  So, peace had been restored to the Place of Peace. That left Serrano and Martina free to travel to Guadalupe, where she was scheduled to perform.

  The ostensible reason for Serrano’s presence was to serve as Martina’s one-man security detail. But there was a secondary agenda as well, and that was to have some time by themselves. Both felt something for the other. But what was it? Perhaps a road trip would provide an answer.

  Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte, often shortened to Santa Muerte, was a Mexican folk saint. Strangely, to Serrano’s way of thinking, even though Santa Muerte was said to be “Our Lady of Holy Death,” she was associated with healing, protection, and a safe delivery to the afterlife.

  In recent times, the number of participants in a day of celebration of the saint’s life had grown to over 12 million. Because of that, November second, the Day of the Dead, was big business. Taken together, travel, hospitality, costumes, and the endless tchotchkes associated with the celebration generated millions in revenue.

  And Martina was part of that. A performance in Guadalupe would generate the extra cash needed to save for Paco’s education, and for a new used car.

  They were driving Serrano’s Taurus. The countryside was hilly, dry, and given to patches of green. The occasional cell tower was visible in the distance. But, other than that, there was very little to see except for a few isolated houses—and an occasional cow.

  “So, what will you do when the fighting stops?” Martina inquired.

  Serrano glanced at her. “It’s going to stop?”

  “We can hope, can’t we?”

  “No,” Serrano said. “I don’t think we can. But maybe, just maybe, we can create an island to live on. A place of peace. Lugar de Paz.”

  “Such an island would have to be strong,” Martina replied. “Too strong for strong men to attack.”

  “Exactly,” Serrano responded. “So, to answer your question, I hope to create an island of peace within the larger peace and build a new life.”

  “What about the old life?”

  “Valerie stole my life savings and I detest her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Martina said. “So, you don’t have any children?”

  “No. Valerie said kids would be a lot of work, and might ruin her figure. She wants to be a social media influencer.”

  Martina laughed. “You are a hard luck case. Fortunately, not all women are like Valerie.”

  “No, they aren’t,” Serrano agreed as he looked at her. “Some are very different.”

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” Martina said primly.

  Serrano did as he was told. Were things going well? Yes, he thought they were.

  The distance between San Luis Potosí and Guadalupe was 245 miles, and rather than push through, the couple agreed to stay the night in San Luis Potosí and complete their journey the following day. The medium-priced hotel chosen was located on the edge of the business district, and surrounded by other well-kept multistory buildings.

  Because San Luis Potosí was a state capital, Federales were everywhere, causing Serrano to ask why the city had what seemed like a thousand policemen, while Lugar de Paz had only one. Assuming Molina qualified as a law enforcement officer.

  “Because,” Martina replied. “The politicians want to be safe.”

  Serrano knew she was correct.

  After parking the car, the pair entered the hotel’s lobby, and waited to check in. Serrano had his AWOL bag. She had a suitcase.

  Serrano requested separate rooms on the same floor, and wound up with cross-hall mini suites. With that accomplished they went upstairs to park their luggage prior to dinner.

  It turned out that the term “mini-suite” stemmed from the fact that each room had a couch and a chair. Not that it mattered.

  They chose the restaurant across the street. It was filled with “suits.” Men mostly, who were talking about money, sex, or power—and how to obtain more of each.

  Serrano and Martina’s conversation was quite different. Paco was being bullied, her car was dying a slow death, and the school’s principal was taking heat for Martina’s role as a part-time guerilla.

  “So,” Martina said, as their desserts arrived. “Enough about me. I know you want to protect Lugar de Paz. But surely you have other interests as well.”

  There was a long pause while Serrano tried to think of one. He couldn’t. “I joined the Marine Corps at 18. And I was a mercenary after that. That’s all I am. Or am likely to be.”

  Martina placed a hand on top of his. “Protecting the weak is the highest calling there is,” she assured him. And, judging from the look in Martina’s eyes, she meant it. Serrano felt a sense of gratitude.

  After dinner they went upstairs to their rooms. Martina kissed Serrano’s cheek and said, “Sweet dreams,” before turning to unlock her door.

  Serrano waited until Martina was safely inside before entering his room. Then he made the usual nest on the floor, brushed his teeth, and flopped on the bed. I’ll teach Paco how to fight. That’s what Serrano was thinking when he heard a soft knock.

  Pistol in hand, Serrano put an eye to the peephole, and saw Martina. He opened the door and she entered. He then closed the door and secured it. “What’s up?”

  Martina’s eyes were big and brown. They locked with his. “I was lonely. Like I’ve been for a long time. But not now.”

  Serrano took Martina into his arms. They kissed the kind of kiss that’s a promise of things to come, and gradually made their way to the bed. “Where are the pillows?” Martina inquired.

  Serrano shrugged. “I sleep on the floor.”

  Serrano feared that Martina would think he was crazy. She nodded soberly. “So do I.” Both of them laughed.

  “But not tonight,” Martina said, as she began to remove her clothes.

  Serrano hurried to get the pillows and put them on the bed. He was about to strip when Martina stepped in to undo Serrano’s belt buckle. “I’ll take care of that,” she said. “And everything else that needs to be taken care of. But watch my arm. It hasn’t healed yet.”

  Once naked, they lay on the bed. Martina’s black hair was fanned out under her head, her nipples were hard, and her legs were slightly parted. “I’m yours, Soldado… But remember, it’s been a long time for me. So be gentle.”

  Serrano was gentle. And the lovemaking took a long time, followed by a second passion-fueled session, which ended quickly.

  And then Martina began to cry. Her chest heaved as the sobs came, one after another, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “What’s wrong?” an anxious Serrano wanted to know, as he used a sheet to blot her face. “Did I hurt you?”

  “N-n-no,” Martina replied. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m crying because everything is right.”

  Serrano held her close. And then, after some snuggling, he spoke. “So, are you going to confess to Father Colon?”

  Martina laughed, and giggled. “Not in a hundred years.”

  They slept after that. And, when Serrano awoke, Martina was gone.

  Serrano showered, shaved, and got dressed. He then put the rig on and checked his weapons before donning the jacket. Martina knocked shortly thereafter, and they had breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant.

  The relationship felt different. They shared a bench seat rather than sit opposite from each other. There was some touching under the table. And the conversation was light hearted.

  Serrano relished the intimacy of it. A feeling he’d never experienced with Valerie. And never missed because he didn’t know it was possible.

  After finishing their meal, they checked out. It was November second, the day of the Santa Muerte Festival, and Martina was scheduled for a rehearsal at five. So, it was important to get going.

  Martina’s performance was at the behest of the Catholic Church, which continually blasted the Santa Muerte cult as blasphemous and satanic. More than that, the Pope called the Santa Muerte movement an “extension of narco culture.”

  So, rather than allow the festival to go unanswered, the church was offering two hours of counter programming—set to begin with a performance by the woman billed as “Angel Face.” Which was to say Martina Blanco, dressed as an angel, and singing Blest Be the Lord.

  That’s why it was important to get an early start, push the top of the speed limit, and keep the bio breaks short. They took turns driving, ate a fast-food lunch, and were back on the road in less than an hour.

  Guadalupe was part of the greater Monterrey metropolitan area. And that meant heavy traffic during rush hour. But even though the flow was slow, it was steady, and they managed to arrive at the hotel in time to grab a bite.

  Then it was time for Martina to head for her rehearsal, leaving Serrano to sample the festival, before attending the performance. “Here,” Serrano said, as he offered the derringer. “Stash it somewhere.”

  Martina was reluctant at first, but eventually tucked the gun away. “I’m not used to having someone protect me,” she said. “But I like it. Give me a kiss.”

  Their lips met. And, when the kiss threatened to turn into something more, she pushed him away. “Angels don’t kiss! Not until later. I’ll see you later. After the performance.”

  Serrano waved as a cab took her away. Darkness had descended on the city, and the Santa Muerte celebration was in full swing, as Serrano entered the crowd. A street had been blocked off, and it was packed with revelers. The air was heavy with the mixed odors of marijuana, incense and street food. And the crowd was a heady mix of tourists, street vendors, drogadictos, policemen, pickpockets, and families—some trailing small children who struggled to keep up.

  People dressed as hollow-eyed calaveras drank beer and “bumped” tourists, while their fingers probed for valuables. Whores, some dressed in wedding gowns, plied their trade. And circuladores peddled their wares.

  Serrano stared as a skeleton on stilts teetered through the crowd, and a ghoul wearing a top hat walked arm in arm with his dead bride—who was clutching a bouquet of black flowers.

  According to Martina, what all the celebrants had in common was a belief in, and a devotion to, Santa Muerte. An unsaintly saint willing to drink, have sex, and protect those who were plagued by poverty, lawless cops, and crooked politicians.

  An engine growled, and the crowd parted as a truck pulled a float carrying a living likeness of the saint through the throng. Her mask resembled a fleshless skull. And a cowl, heavy with medallions, framed her face.

  The saint’s top consisted of two cups connected by a chain. Her midriff was bare, and a gauzy skirt flowed from shapely hips, partially revealing slender legs.

  The final touch was the gold cross that dangled from her neck. One of the many symbols believers had “borrowed” from the church.

  Costumed children rode the float as well, and showered the crowd with bits of black licorice, as a niño thumped a drum.

  And that was the moment when a street urchin emerged from the crowd to push a flyer at Serrano. “Ella vale dinero, señor. Estar atento.”

  The words were enough to trigger Serrano’s curiosity. He eyed the poster. And much to his horror, discovered that he was looking at Martina!

  At the bottom of the page, it said: “Ayúdanos a encontrar a nuestra madre.” Followed by: “$100 U.S.” and a phone number. That was a lot of money here.

  What felt like ice water trickled into Serrano’s veins. Had El Cuchillo’s men produced the flyer? Of course they had. And, if someone delivered Martina into their hands, the narcos would kill her.

  Should he call the number? Pretend to have her, and meet with them?

  No. The narcos would insist on a video of her.

  Did they know about her performance? No. Serrano didn’t think so. Why produce the flyer if they did?

  On the other hand, they knew Martina was at the festival. And all it would take was a stage hand, a makeup artist, or a musician to give her away. Serrano began to run. He had to reach the basilica before the narcos did.

  The Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe was located at the foot of a hill, roughly half a mile away. It was well lit, and Serrano caught glimpses of the dome as he forced his way through the crowd.

  *

  The rehearsal was about to begin. Martina was standing to one side, well clear of the Basilica’s altar, across from the formally attired musicians. The local bishop was about to introduce her when shouts were heard from the back of the nave, and two files of demons entered in, one from each side—waving assault rifles. “¡Abajo! ¡Abajo! ¡Abajo!” a ghoul shouted, as he fired his weapon into the air. The performers screamed and ducked, covering their heads with their hands.

  The bullets shattered one of the high-arched windows above, causing broken glass to fall on the musicians. One went down with a serious head wound.

  The living dead were forced to hesitate, as a brave policeman entered the nave, and fired at a ghoul.

  Bursts of 5.56x45mm rounds cut the lawman down. “The Angel! Get her!” a linen-swathed corpse yelled. And Martina knew the creature meant her.

  A skeletal demon rushed at Martina. A hollow point bullet from Serrano’s derringer punctured his throat. Blood sprayed as the body collapsed into a pool of gore. Then the living corpse issued new orders. “¡Mátala!”

  Martina took a dive, and elbowed her way through the pool of blood, to gain the scant protection offered by a pew.

  *

  Serrano heard the gunshots while racing up the steps to the Basilica. He pulled both pistols, firing both at once.

  Those who could flee had already done so by the time Serrano entered the nave. He could see the dead cop, the scattering of glass, and a broken angel wing up front.

  Rage surged through Serrano’s body. There were two groups of tangos, and Serrano fired at both targets as he made his way up the center aisle.

  A demon was thrown forward as a bullet hit him in the back. Another turned to confront the menace when a .358 round punched a hole through his chest. He fell backwards.

  A ghoul threw his weapon down and raised his hands. Serrano shot him, and threw himself sideways, as a blast of automatic fire tore into the spot where he’d been.

  Then help came from on high as a much-bloodied angel rose from her hiding place to fire a captured assault weapon. She killed two of them before the rest fled.