Read Online Head Games (The Hector Lassiter Series) by Craig McDonald - Free Book Online
Authors: Craig McDonald
Tags: Novel
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he saved me and Alicia --- who at that point I was thinking might well be the next Mrs. Lassiter.
There was blood at the corners of the shooter's mouth --- some more running from his nose. Lung shot, probably. He wouldn't linger long like this. The gunner was maybe thirty. High-country Mexican ... some Indian in there. Maybe Tarahumara in the mix. "You got a handle, boy? You speak English?"
"I'm dying."
I nodded. "Probably. Why'd you try to kill me, son? Who are you working for?"
"I need a priest."
Christ . One of those.
"Not much chance of finding a padre around here at this hour," I said. "But I'm Catholic, too, and I know the words well enough, I guess."
Well, I was a Catholic three-marriages-ago. I looked at Fiske and Alicia. "Anyone got a crucifix?"
Alicia was wearing one around her neck. I handed it to the Mexican who kissed it with his bloodied lips.
"Now," I said, "you tell me who sent you after me, and why, and we'll pray with you."
Not good --- he was fading faster than I expected. I thrust my thumb into his shoulder wound, bringing him back a ways. Between screams he gasped, "Fierro. We were hired by Fierro, to help get el Jefe's head."
I kept digging my thumb into his wound: "Fierro? Who is Fierro?" I pressed harder.
He groaned, blood bubbling from his mouth with the garbled words: "Rodolfo ... Rodolfo Fierro ... el Carnicero ."
The Spanish for "the Butcher."
"You fucking liar!" I ground my thumb in hard then and accidentally passed the bastard out. "Fuck!" Rodolfo Fierro --- a dead legend. Long dead . He couldn't be alive...
Alicia, white-faced, was clearly upset by what I'd just done, what I'd just said. She put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed hard. "Did you hear what he said?"
"Pretty clearly I did. You know of Fierro?"
Alicia angrily shook her head. "No, not that, Héctor. He said, ' We were hired...'"
Oh yeah "we . " And just then, the second machine gun opened up on us.
15
Bud wrapped an arm around Alicia's trim waist and rolled back around the corner of the loading dock with her --- good thing for them the building was brick because the shooter tracked their path with a flurry of lead. Fragments of brick rained down on me. But my friends were safe. I crouched down behind some boxes filled with something I prayed was thick and hard. I aimed the first shooter's discarded Thompson and fired back at the other machine gun's muzzle flash. I held my thrumming machine gun with one hand. It was murder on my right wrist. With the other bandaged hand, I fished out the keys to my Chevy and lobbed them over my shoulder at Bud --- all that twisting and exertion was almost too much for my Orson Welles'-splintered ribs.
I hollered over the din of the roaring machine gun, "You two go get to my car, and pick me up at the end of the alley. While you do that, I'll keep this bastard busy." Then I remembered fabled Fierro, and said, "Bud, you see any old Mexicans, you shoot 'em. Don't hesitate. God'll sort ' em out on the other end. No shit --- shoot first." I heard four feet beat pavement down the alley. God willing, I'd follow them soon enough.
I squeezed off a couple of bursts then set the Tommy aside. I had no target, and no infinite supply of ammo. My situation wasn't looking anything near the neighborhood of good.
Groaning, I picked up the conked-out, wounded Mexican at my side. I propped him up and then lifted him up from cover and pitched him far and high as I could to the right. My ribs burned as I hurled him up and out.
Several slugs tore through the Mexican and shredded his head and neck. I picked up the machine gun and rolled off to the left of my cover, deep into shadows. I rolled up against a pile of old discarded burlap sacks. I pulled the sacks over me and waited.
The other shooter approached, crouched low, his gun swiveling side-to-side --- a very cautious fellow.
At six feet, I let loose on him, looking just to maim him --- I sorely wanted to debrief the bastard.
But it's a tricky
There was blood at the corners of the shooter's mouth --- some more running from his nose. Lung shot, probably. He wouldn't linger long like this. The gunner was maybe thirty. High-country Mexican ... some Indian in there. Maybe Tarahumara in the mix. "You got a handle, boy? You speak English?"
"I'm dying."
I nodded. "Probably. Why'd you try to kill me, son? Who are you working for?"
"I need a priest."
Christ . One of those.
"Not much chance of finding a padre around here at this hour," I said. "But I'm Catholic, too, and I know the words well enough, I guess."
Well, I was a Catholic three-marriages-ago. I looked at Fiske and Alicia. "Anyone got a crucifix?"
Alicia was wearing one around her neck. I handed it to the Mexican who kissed it with his bloodied lips.
"Now," I said, "you tell me who sent you after me, and why, and we'll pray with you."
Not good --- he was fading faster than I expected. I thrust my thumb into his shoulder wound, bringing him back a ways. Between screams he gasped, "Fierro. We were hired by Fierro, to help get el Jefe's head."
I kept digging my thumb into his wound: "Fierro? Who is Fierro?" I pressed harder.
He groaned, blood bubbling from his mouth with the garbled words: "Rodolfo ... Rodolfo Fierro ... el Carnicero ."
The Spanish for "the Butcher."
"You fucking liar!" I ground my thumb in hard then and accidentally passed the bastard out. "Fuck!" Rodolfo Fierro --- a dead legend. Long dead . He couldn't be alive...
Alicia, white-faced, was clearly upset by what I'd just done, what I'd just said. She put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed hard. "Did you hear what he said?"
"Pretty clearly I did. You know of Fierro?"
Alicia angrily shook her head. "No, not that, Héctor. He said, ' We were hired...'"
Oh yeah "we . " And just then, the second machine gun opened up on us.
15
Bud wrapped an arm around Alicia's trim waist and rolled back around the corner of the loading dock with her --- good thing for them the building was brick because the shooter tracked their path with a flurry of lead. Fragments of brick rained down on me. But my friends were safe. I crouched down behind some boxes filled with something I prayed was thick and hard. I aimed the first shooter's discarded Thompson and fired back at the other machine gun's muzzle flash. I held my thrumming machine gun with one hand. It was murder on my right wrist. With the other bandaged hand, I fished out the keys to my Chevy and lobbed them over my shoulder at Bud --- all that twisting and exertion was almost too much for my Orson Welles'-splintered ribs.
I hollered over the din of the roaring machine gun, "You two go get to my car, and pick me up at the end of the alley. While you do that, I'll keep this bastard busy." Then I remembered fabled Fierro, and said, "Bud, you see any old Mexicans, you shoot 'em. Don't hesitate. God'll sort ' em out on the other end. No shit --- shoot first." I heard four feet beat pavement down the alley. God willing, I'd follow them soon enough.
I squeezed off a couple of bursts then set the Tommy aside. I had no target, and no infinite supply of ammo. My situation wasn't looking anything near the neighborhood of good.
Groaning, I picked up the conked-out, wounded Mexican at my side. I propped him up and then lifted him up from cover and pitched him far and high as I could to the right. My ribs burned as I hurled him up and out.
Several slugs tore through the Mexican and shredded his head and neck. I picked up the machine gun and rolled off to the left of my cover, deep into shadows. I rolled up against a pile of old discarded burlap sacks. I pulled the sacks over me and waited.
The other shooter approached, crouched low, his gun swiveling side-to-side --- a very cautious fellow.
At six feet, I let loose on him, looking just to maim him --- I sorely wanted to debrief the bastard.
But it's a tricky
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