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  I, Weapon

  by Vaughn Heppner

  “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”

  “Who will guard the guards?”

  -- From: Satires, by the Roman poet Juvenal

  Copyright © 2013 by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

  Prologue

  It has happened before. In Medieval times, in the Middle East, ruthless men programmed others in order to turn them into deadly assassins.

  Marco Polo wrote after visiting Alamut in 1273:

  The Old Man kept at his court such boys of twelve years old as seemed to him destined to become courageous men. When the Old Man sent them into the garden in groups of four, ten or twenty, he gave them hashish to drink. They slept for three days, then they were carried sleeping into the garden where he had them awakened.

  When these young men woke, and found themselves in the garden with all these marvelous things, they truly believed themselves to be in paradise. And these damsels were always with them in songs and great entertainments; they received everything they asked for, so that they would never have left that garden of their own will.

  And when the Old Man wished to kill someone, he would take him and say, “Go and do this thing. I do this because I want to make you return to paradise.” And the assassins go and preform the deed willingly.

  As Marco Polo discovered, clever men gave others false beliefs in order to turn them into killers. If it happened once, it could happen again.

  -1-

  He lay groggy on the damp grass. Close by, a helicopter’s blades sliced the air in slow rotation. He felt the wind of it on his face. It seemed as if people stood over him, and they began to talk.

  “Is he ready?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What’s his reading?”

  “Three-alpha-seven-seven. I should give him the injection.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. Do it and then let’s get the hell out of here. I feel exposed on the ground.”

  There was a prick of pain in his arm. Moments later, a cooling sensation flooded his body.

  “Bannon,” came a woman’s whisper in his ear. “Remember what they did to your wife and daughter in Monterrey. Remember, and then begin your revenge with the Butcher.”

  As he lay on the grass, he tried to speak. She called me “Bannon.” That must be my name. He wanted to open his eyes and see who was whispering to him, but the cooling sensation kept numbing his mind, numbing it, numbing…

  ***

  It was the middle of the night when Bannon found himself before an old door to an ancient Mexican church. There came a moment of disorientation. He had been lying on grass earlier outside of town and now he was here. Had he walked? Why couldn’t he remember that? He scowled, not liking mysteries.

  A portal seemed to close in his memories. He forgot about lying on damp grass, forgot about a helicopter’s blades and whispering people. Another portal opened and he realized—or believed—that he had been in Santa Rosa for a week already, tracking his enemies. He had traveled down to Chiapas Province in Mexico near the Guatemalan border, for reasons of bitterest revenge.

  His features hardened with the memories. He wore dark, damp clothes—it was hot and muggy outside—and he had a concealed pistol with a suppressor in a shoulder harness. Strapped to his left wrist was a sheathed combat blade. With his left hand he opened the church door and slipped within.

  Candles flickered under a stained glass portrait of a crucified Christ. Otherwise the sanctuary was dark. Bannon listened for a moment. He heard a cricket chirp, but he did not hear boards creak from soft footfalls, nor did men whisper or a hammer click from a cocking gun. He now remembered he’d seen a Los Zetas enforcer enter the church with several of his thugs, the killer known as the Butcher, the first man on his list.

  Bannon closed the door behind him. Old boards creaked under his feet as he moved toward the confessional. He heard a faint cry as he reached the front of the sanctuary. He stood near a wall, remaining as far as he could from the candlelight. The Butcher must have taken Father Jose down into the basement. Undoubtedly there would be Los Zetas guards at the head of the stairs. Although the Butcher was a murderous pig, he was a careful swine. That was why the man had lasted as long as he had.

  Bannon reversed course, moving faster now. Stepping back outside, he turned left. The Butcher hated priests anyway, and Father Jose had been speaking out against Los Zetas. That was very brave in Chiapas Province, and particularly in Santa Rosa. It had been only a matter of time before Los Zetas visited the priest.

  The stars shined brightly, although the heavens lacked a moon. It made for a dark night, as Santa Rosa had few streetlights. Those were in the north part of town where the rich lived.

  Bannon reached an open basement window. He didn’t look around to see if anyone was watching, but went to his knees and then his stomach. Stones pressed against his garments. Slithering feet-first into the basement, he landed on a floor of colored tile. That was good, as tiles wouldn’t creak.

  He moved slowly, not wanting to bump against anything and unsure how large the room was. The starlight coming through several low windows provided the only illumination. The priest’s muffled cries came again.

  The Butcher was an enforcer for Los Zetas, the most brutal of the Mexican drug cartels. In 1999, he was one of the elite commandos of the Grupo Aeromovil de Fuerzas Especiales who had deserted the Mexican Army and joined the Gulf Coast cartel. It was as if Green Berets had gone rogue and joined the Chicago Mafia. Several years later, they broke away from the Gulf Coast cartel, recruiting other Army deserters, and formed their own criminal organization. They’d carved an empire for themselves in the Mexican drug world. A former sergeant, Victor Garcia —the Butcher—was notorious among his fellow murderers as a sadistic psychopath, as massive as he was deadly.

  Bannon touched the inner doorknob of the room and turned it. The knob squeaked, so he waited until he heard another dismal cry before continuing. He eased the door open a crack. Lights shone along a narrow corridor with several doors on each side. At the end of the corridor a thug smoked a cigarette. A strap hung around his thick neck, attached to an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle.

  Even silenced pistols still made noise. It would be better to lure the man here than to shoot him by the Butcher’s door.

  Therefore, Bannon shut the door with a decided thump and made the knob squeak once more. Several seconds later, he heard approaching footsteps.

  “Salga de alli,” the guard demanded.

  Bannon understood Spanish. The guard had told him to come out of there. Instead, he waited for the man’s curiosity to overcome his caution.

  The knob squealed again and the door opened under the guard’s hand. On it he wore a silver skull ring with tiny rubies for eyes. Bannon grabbed the wrist and yanked the thug into the room. The man stumbled, apparently unprepared for someone who wasn’t afraid of him. Bannon struck powerfully and precisely, knocking the man unconscious onto the tiles.
/>   He pried open the man’s slack mouth and shoved a wadded cloth onto the tongue. It was like stuffing a sleeping bag into its pouch. Bannon kept pushing in more cloth, using his thumbs and filling the mouth, then stuffing in just a little more. It brought the guard to consciousness, but kept him silent.

  Before the man had strength to resist, Bannon tied a gag around the mouth, cinching the cloth as tightly as he could. He lashed the ankles with wire, used plastic zip-ties on the wrists, securing them behind the man’s back and using a short rope to connect them. He pulled so he could almost hear the thug’s shoulder-joints creak as he lashed wrists to ankles. Most people called this “hog-tied.”

  By this time the bound cartel guard looked at him with terrified eyes. The man lay motionless as he made a whistling noise through his nostrils. Any struggle would tear his limbs from their sockets.

  Leaving the room and closing the door, Bannon crept down the corridor. Ahead and to the side there was an open arch. He spied a step, the beginning of stairs, no doubt. Bannon peered around the corner up the stairs. They were empty. Could the Butcher have been so careless as not to set a guard? Or had the guard gone somewhere else, maybe to the bathroom or maybe to see how the Butcher was doing?

  Bannon darted past the open arch and moved to the end of the corridor. The handle of the last door was a hinged bar of metal. It looked like a food locker, probably where the priest kept the church’s meat.

  Bannon rested his shoulders against the wall and laid his head back so his skull touched cement.

  Were you there that day, Butcher? Do you even remember what you did?

  Bannon pushed off the wall, used the latch and fractionally opened the door. He peered through a crack of space with his pistol ready.

  A single hanging light bulb illuminated the evil. Piano wire dug into Father Jose’s wrists as blood trickled down his skinny arms. The priest was naked and hung in the air. A gag kept in some of his sounds. Sweat bathed his face and his eyes bulged with agony. The Butcher, a massive man weighing well over 350 pounds, had taken off his shirt. He was hairy and thick with hardened fat and dense muscles. Blood dotted his skin. The monster delicately held a barber’s razor between his huge thumb and index finger. He’d already peeled a patch of skin from the Father’s back.

  From Bannon’s vantage, the Butcher stood behind the priest. Another thug sat in a chair, leaning against a wall and holding a bloody towel. He used his right foot to balance himself near the door.

  Through the crack, Bannon targeted the Butcher. He heard the scrape of a shoe behind him then. Now he knew where the second guard had gone. Bannon twisted around as something dark flashed toward his head. He dodged and a metal club struck his right shoulder, numbing his arm. His attacker pushed against Bannon, propelling both of them into the horror chamber.

  Bannon’s suppressed gun hit the floor. As he stumbled into the room, he kicked a chair leg. That toppled the sitting thug, who sprawled in a heap.

  “Quien es usted?” the Butcher asked in his deep voice. He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he dropped the razor and clawed for the gun in his holster.

  Bannon kept moving, his mind whirling at lightning speed.

  The Butcher drew his gun. Before he could aim Bannon struck with the stiffened fingers of his left hand, jabbing the monster in the throat. The Butcher staggered backward as he made choking noises. Bannon followed and chopped with the edge of his left hand, striking the killer’s wrist. The gun went flying, and it hit the floor, bouncing and skittering away.

  Bannon could feel the club-wielder behind him. He turned and ducked the whistling iron baton. He moved fast, flexing his right-hand fingers. His right shoulder throbbed where the club had hit, but he had motor control there again. He drew his stubby Gerber combat knife and slashed the off-balance thug. The man reeled to the side, clutching his throat. He struck the wall with a shoulder and crumpled, blood pumping from him.

  The thug that had been knocked off his chair now picked up Bannon’s fallen pistol.

  Bannon had one chance. He took it and hurled the knife. The blade sank through one eye and must have hit the brain behind. With a convulsive shudder the thug collapsed and the pistol fell for a second time.

  Bannon whirled around. The Butcher had recovered his poise, although he remained weaponless. Bannon knew all about the monster, so he did not lower his guard.

  Victor Garcia was a brutal man who had grown up in the violent slums of Mexico City. He had immense strength and pride. He’d fought many times with his hands. Los Zetas legend told of him lifting enemies high over his head on three different occasions. With his hands driving each man down from that height, the Butcher had thrust out a knee and snapped his spine.

  “I will kill you slowly, gringo,” the Butcher said in English. He coughed hoarsely before adding, “I will make the rest of your life hell on Earth.”

  Despite his bruised larynx, Victor Garcia rushed Bannon. For such a big man, he was fast on his feet. He pawed at the American. The Butcher had wrestled in school and later in the Army. He had hospitalized many of his opponents.

  Bannon deliberately took the bait, the meaty paw. The Butcher grinned and brought up his other hand to grapple. Bannon jumped, twisted his body and flipped acrobatically while keeping hold of the Butcher’s hand. It wrenched the man’s arm, and the thug bellowed like a stuck bull. The maneuver torqued the shoulder and flung the Butcher off his feet. Bannon released the limb so the massive narco killer crashed onto the floor. Bannon savagely kicked the Butcher once, twice in the head.

  Before he could kick a third time, the Butcher grabbed his foot. The man gripped like steel. Bannon jumped, and he landed his free foot on the Butcher’s face, grinding his heel against the man’s nose. With a roar, the Butcher twisted the foot and threw Bannon onto his stomach.

  The lean American rolled and shot back up, although his ankle throbbed. He’d never fought someone as powerful as the Butcher before. The monster climbed to his feet like an unconquerable iceberg. Blood dripped from his nose and craziness shone in his eyes.

  Bannon took three quick steps and launched himself airborne. With both feet, he struck Victor Garcia in the chest and sent the huge man tumbling end over end.

  From the floor, the Butcher laughed harshly. He put his big palms on the cement and pushed up, grabbing the fallen baton. He charged and Bannon backpedaled, dodging two whistling swings. The Butcher was cunning, and backed him toward a corner. The third time Bannon dodged, he crouched and reached, yanking his knife free of the dead thug lying on the floor.

  Victor Garcia breathed heavily. “I will keep you alive for days,” he boasted. “I will put you up there with him.” He indicated the priest.

  Bannon closed in and he feinted a stab at the belly. The Butcher blocked with the baton. Bannon had been waiting for that. He slashed across the Butcher’s eyes.

  The Butcher howled and released the baton. It clanged on the floor. His huge hands flew to his face. “Usted bastardo, usted pagará mis ojos!” He lunged blindly for Bannon, trying to grab him.

  Bannon ducked out of the way and retrieved his gun. The big man crashed against a wall, spinning around, sweeping his arms. His bloody face was twisted with rage. “Usted bastardo!”

  Bannon pulled the trigger three times.

  -2-

  A helicopter flew high above the jungle canopy of Chiapas Province, over the dingy town of Santa Rose far below.

  Inside, a heavy man named Karl Sand shouted at the pilot, scolding him about flying too near the Los Zetas perimeter. The cartel had acquired several Chinese-made surface-to-air missiles and had installed them down there.

  The pilot nodded and moved the controls, taking the helicopter north.

  Karl checked his watch. It was almost 2:00 AM. “When’s Bannon going to call?”

  Beside him, a woman named Susan wore earphones and a dark visor, studying a netbook displaying infrared images. “Give it time!” she shouted.

  “No. I don’t like this. He
’s too unstable and this proves it.”

  “He probably doesn’t know to call yet,” Susan said. “He’s too absorbed right now.”

  “I told Parker this was a mistake.”

  “If it’s any consolation, if Bannon fails, he’ll die. Problem solved.”

  “And if Los Zetas tortures and breaks him first?”

  Through her dark visor, Susan stared at Karl. A faint smile stretched her lips. “Don’t you understand yet? Bannon doesn’t know anything that could give us away. That’s the beauty of it. He’s expendable in every sense of the word.”

  “You’re a cold-hearted bitch.”

  “No more than you. Now let me concentrate. The jungle is dense and I don’t want to lose his signal.”

  ***

  Bannon bounced along a rutted jungle road in the Butcher’s Land Rover with the air conditioner going full blast. A glance out the window showed leaves whipping by in the darkness.

  Before taking the vehicle Bannon had searched for GPS tracking devices. Los Zetas and the Mexican government had been fighting a bitter war for years, using any expedient they could against each other. The Mexican authorities wouldn’t have bothered with warrants to attach a GPS device.

  In America this was prohibited since the 2012 Supreme Court decision United States v. Jones. The court had unanimously agreed that attaching such a device to monitor a vehicle’s movements constituted a search under the Fourth Amendment. For that, law enforcement authorities needed a warrant.

  Bannon frowned. How did he know about the Supreme Court case? That was weird, wasn’t it?

  Yeah, it was an odd thing to be familiar with. Was he lawyer? No, he was… His heart rate quickened. What did he do to make a living? It seemed strange that he wouldn’t know.

  Strangeness welled within him and it triggered something. He flicked on the inside lights. He looked at his right hand, spreading his fingers apart. There in the web of flesh between each finger was a tattoo. He couldn’t see exactly what they were, just splotches in the dim light. One, two, three…why didn’t he have a tattoo between his thumb and forefinger?