I, Weapon Read online

  He clutched the steering wheel with his right hand and checked the left. It had one tattoo between his pinky and ring finger. Why didn’t he have three tattoos on this hand? What was crazy, he had no recollection of getting these.

  Was I drunk each night, or did I get them all at once?

  No. He hadn’t gotten them all in one night. Some of them looked different. He made a mental note to view each through a magnifying glass later, checking them minutely.

  The SUV’s left front tire hit a hole in the road. It caused the Butcher’s alligator-hide wallet to bounce off the passenger’s seat and onto the floor. In the wallet he had found Victor Garcia’s ID. A round flat container remained on the seat. A piece of replica tape lay in the disc-shaped object. On the tape, Bannon had impressed the Butcher’s right thumbprint.

  He shut off the vehicle’s inner lights and didn’t bother to glance at the tattoos again. They were a mystery for another time. Tonight, he needed to focus on eliminating the leader of Los Zetas, the leader of the narco-terrorist killers who had murdered his vacationing family.

  The original Los Zetas band had been thirty-one strong, guarding the boss of the Gulf Cartel. The elite Army deserters had been notorious for their military skills and an avid willingness to engage in firefights. That’s why most of them were dead or captured now. The newer members of Los Zetas no longer possessed the professionalism of the original thirty-one. These lived on the former members’ mystique and attempted to recapture their glory days.

  Los Zetas now trained recruits as if they were soldiers, and they sought skilled commandos elsewhere, inducing them with bribes to join up. Los Zetas often draped banners in various towns, boasting about their superior pay compared to the Mexican Army.

  An electric surveillance fence surrounded the fifty acres of the jungle compound where Bannon was headed. Sensors ringed the inner and outer perimeter.

  As Bannon took a sharp turn, he spied the first checkpoint: a huge gate. Los Zetas was decades ahead of their opponents with its sophistication and hardware. It showed here, with a massive iron gate blocking the path.

  Slowing down, Bannon lowered his window and pulled up to an iron post as if he were driving to an automated bank teller. He extracted the Butcher’s ID and slid it into a slot. As Bannon waited, he unscrewed the flat dish and carefully took out the piece of replica tape.

  A slot opened and a panel slid out. Leaning out of the window, Bannon eyed a glowing circle: a thumbprint scanner. He set the replica tape onto the scanner and used his thumb to press down.

  Seconds passed. Bannon would know he’d failed if heavy machine guns opened up. There was a click and the ID popped out. At the same time, an electric motor whirred as the huge iron gate began to open.

  Bannon drove past the automated sentry. He was in Los Zetas territory now. He continued for another quarter mile before turning off the road and parking between two huge trees. He shut off the engine and climbed out, hefting a large backpack onto his shoulders.

  Los Zetas shouldn’t have killed his wife. They shouldn’t have…

  Bannon glanced at his right hand. Why had he put the tattoos there? There had to be a reason. Something wasn’t quite right about this.

  He rubbed his forehead. He was forgetting something. It was critical. His day job…he remembered practicing endlessly: shooting, running, studying explosives, more running. What did he do to make a living? A man was supposed to know that.

  He furrowed his forehead. Someone had spoken to him earlier. She had whispered to him. It had something to do about his wife. Yeah, Los Zetas—

  Bannon shrugged off the pack and extracted a tiny flashlight. He clicked it on and shined it on his ring finger. The finger was bare and it was as tanned as the others were.

  When did I take off my wedding ring? Why don’t I have a tan line?

  For a wild moment, he feared what he knew was utterly wrong. That he’d never been married nor had a child. But that would mean—

  He opened his mouth, breathing deeply. A memory of his wife surfaced. In his mind’s eye he could see the wedding, putting the ring on her finger. He could see her face. She was lovely, an angel.

  He noticed the cell phone in his front pocket. That’s right. He was supposed to make a call. He took it out and tapped in the numbers. Then he put the cell to his ear.

  “Are you in?” a woman asked.

  He frowned. Who was this?

  “Bannon?”

  How did she know his name and he didn’t know hers? Maybe he should toss the phone. A voice deep inside him told him to do just that. That voice…it had something to do with the tattoos.

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  There were muffled words on the other end. It sounded like a man was with her. Then she said firmly:

  “Your heart became proud on account of your beauty, and you corrupted your wisdom because of your splendor.”

  Bannon blinked several times. That sounded like code words. That—it felt as if grindstones moved in his mind, shifting his thoughts until only one predominated. Nine months ago, Juan Ramirez had sent his killers onto the streets of Monterrey. The narco-terrorists had been looking for victims to slaughter. Because of their actions, Bannon had lost his vacationing wife and daughter.

  With anger etched on his face, Bannon picked up the pack, shouldering it. Then he headed toward the heart of the jungle training facility.

  ***

  Coming out of the edge of the jungle, Bannon saw the main compound. It was immense, built in the middle of nowhere. Giant trees surrounded the housing, and it was obvious that lumberjacks with chainsaws and bulldozers had created this open area.

  The compound held a runway to the north, a carport and arsenal to the west, a barracks and training complex to the south, and nothing but jungle to the east where Bannon stood. The central building was five stories high, a concrete monstrosity, surrounded by other, single-story buildings. Five strategic telephone poles with lamps illuminated parts of the compound, although not the particular spot where he was.

  Men with assault rifles patrolled the compound with leashed Pit Bulls. He heard the sound of a woman shrieking. It was a distant noise and came from the central building, a dark looming structure. Russians had built it in the Seventies, and like some ancient Aztec ruin, it had lain empty for decades until Los Zetas had reclaimed this jungle area.

  Bannon studied the layout. Yesterday the orgy had begun, with kidnapped victims chosen for their youth and beauty brought en masse to the camp. Bannon believed the outer patrols would be casting envious glances toward the central building rather than worrying about intruders or recruits trying to go AWOL. There could hardly be a better time to attempt infiltration.

  Bannon chose a weedy, ill-lit field and moved steadily toward the nearest building. It was an old shed as dark as sin and appeared to be empty. Big diesel engines ran generators day and night, providing electricity for the camp. They were old engines and crude like the central structure, unlike much of the other modern equipment Los Zetas used. It was a dichotomy: military excellence married to narco-terrorism.

  On the other side of the compound, a patrol moved past an outer building. Three Pit Bulls strained at the leash. He wondered who they were after; maybe an escaped woman, the one who had shrieked.

  Soon Bannon reached pavement and then the first building and walked around it. The diesels were louder from here and there was the smell of oil in the air.

  Because of the placement of the lamplights and the central building, he moved into darker shadows. Immediately he broke into a trot, heading for the five-story structure. He studied windows, looking for an open one. He was out of luck and he knew why. Air conditioners roared on this hot night, still in the upper nineties an hour and a half before sunrise.

  As he approached the central structure, Bannon scanned the roof. It was a poor angle and he couldn’t see much of it. He soon stopped, knelt, unslung his pack and extracted a bulky pneumatic rifle with a thick cylinder undercarriag
e. On the end of the barrel was a carbon grappling hook. Taking a large spool out of the pack, he attached it with a click to the rifle. Drawing a polyester line from the spool, he hooked it to the end of the grapple.

  Bannon glanced right and left, making sure it was clear. He raised the heavy rifle. This was a tricky bit of business. He exhaled, sighted the roof and pulled the trigger. The rifle bucked as it expelled air with a loud phut sound. The spool whizzed as it twirled, playing out the line.

  Bannon heard the grapple hit, but then he’d known what to listen for. He trotted toward the five-story structure as he reeled in slack. He set the rifle on the cement and applied pressure to the rope. The hook held.

  Extracting a blocky device, he clamped it onto the line. Gripping the handholds, he readied his feet and pressed a button with his thumb. A small but powerful motor started as it climbed the rope. Bannon held on and walked up the wall. He had traction pads on the soles of his boots. The climber took him ten feet, twenty, thirty and it kept going.

  Soon, he heard muffled laughter from a lit room with a curtain across the window. The room was on the fourth floor, three windows from his line. Banda music played in the background, similar to polka.

  He quickly reached the raised bastion around the roof. He pressed the button again so the climber halted, and he swung up a leg. Next, he swung his body onto the edge and rolled. He dropped a foot onto the roof proper. A quick scan showed him the roof was empty. There was a closed door and several big air conditioning units. The roof was composed of tar and pebbles with wooden walkways to the big thrumming machinery.

  After a thirty-second rest, Bannon moved toward the door. It opened to a steep iron stairwell lit by a single bulb. The bulb flickered, and it told him the generators were near their limit tonight. He descended the iron steps and it felt as if he was entering a cave. The old Soviet building seemed like an ancient castle.

  He reached a concrete landing. For some reason he could not fathom, the Soviets had built this fortress in an unusual way. To reach the next set of stairs, he had to move through the fifth floor. He pushed open the heavy door. Many of the lights were out and an old musty odor assaulted his nostrils. It came from the hall carpet. As he glided like the shadow of vengeance, he almost sneezed three times because of old dust.

  At the third intersection, he heard a woman before he saw her. He peered around the corner. She wore a skirt and nothing else, and had huge breasts. She struck the wall with her shoulder, laughing drunkenly. Bannon waited. She reached a door, hesitating as she licked a palm and rubbed a spot on her face. Finally, she threw open the door. A man called out, telling her to hurry. She closed the door, disappearing from view.

  After waiting ten seconds, Bannon strode down the hall, the smell of urine mingling with the musty carpet odors as he passed a communal bathroom.

  On the fourth floor, a man snored in a hall, as he lay stretched out on the floor. There were only two lights in this hall and peeling wallpaper. An empty bottle of tequila stood beside the snorer. Bannon padded toward him, moving silently. Despite the building’s disrepair and age, here there were no creaking boards, but something must have alerted the sleeper. The man smacked his lips, and he opened bloodshot eyes, sitting up. He stared at Bannon.

  “Who are—” the man said in Spanish.

  As the man finished his second word, Bannon kicked him under the jaw. The steel toe of his boot dug into soft flesh. It was a vicious strike, and it twisted the man’s head so his neck popped loudly as he thudded onto the floor. It ended the question and the man’s consciousness.

  His first mistake occurred on the third floor. It had newer carpets and a disinfected smell, a hint of ammonia. All the lights worked, and guards walked the halls. Gavin passed one without mishap. The second guard, a silent walker, surprised him as they both came around the same corner from different directions. The guard had one hand clamped against his ear, and he appeared to be listening to an earphone. He held a .44 Magnum in the other hand. Looking up, the guard’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth.

  Bannon reached out, clamped both hands on the gun wrist and twisted. Bones snapped. The guard screamed, and his .44 boomed as a slug tore into the floor. The Magnum hit the carpet and Bannon snapped the guard’s neck, killing him and letting him drop beside his weapon.

  The single boom could ruin everything no matter what else he did. People had certainly heard that, and someone would soon inquire as to what was going on. He had little time left so he broke into a sprint.

  As he reached Ramirez’s bedroom door he heard a snick, as if someone had just locked it. Bannon launched himself at the door in the same way he’d kicked the Butcher earlier. With his body parallel to the floor, his feet struck near the knob. The door banged open, and a naked woman turned around in surprise. She must have been walking back to bed after locking the door.

  Time seemed to slow down for Bannon, even though he knew that he was thinking and moving faster than normal.

  The naked woman, she was thin…because she was young, with underdeveloped breasts. Fear contorted her thin features, and she backed away from him with a slender hand over her mouth.

  She’s one of the captives. Ramirez—the pig likes teenage girls. I can’t shoot her.

  Bannon’s hand had reflexively lifted, aiming his silenced pistol at her. His finger already put pressure on the trigger. He eased off and he gestured, indicating she should hit the floor.

  Instead, she pivoted and ran toward the huge bed, screeching a warning.

  Ramirez was in the bed with shimmering silk sheets covering his lower torso and legs. Without a word, he leaned down to the floor and picked up an Uzi submachine gun. He ruled an empire of ruthless killers for a reason.

  Bannon sidestepped because the girl was in his line of fire. Ramirez had no such compunction as bullets hosed from the Uzi. The girl went down hard as lead tore into her. Bannon fired. He had no other choice. Ramirez twisted back as the bullet hit and his gunfire stopped as quickly as it had begun.

  Bannon knelt. The girl was dead with several ugly exit wounds in her back.

  A terrible cold feeling squeezed Bannon’s heart. In three strides, he reached Ramirez. The cartel leader was big, with big muscles and tiger-stripe tattoos on his shoulders. Blood leaked from the hole in his chest. His eyes had already begun to glaze. Even so, using his fingers, Ramirez’s moved a hand toward the Uzi lying on the covers.

  Bannon flung the Uzi against pornographic wallpaper full of scenes of S&M orgies. The room sickened him, and so did this killer.

  “Who…” Ramirez moistened his lips. “Who are you?”

  Somewhere outside, a siren began to wail.

  Bannon’s face became like flint. He lifted his gun and shot Juan Ramirez twice in the forehead. As smoke curled from the suppressor, he heard shouting from far down the hall.

  Bannon stared at the corpse. He had expected to feel peace, knowing that he’d gotten justice for his family. Instead, the poor girl on the carpet…this wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t burst in.

  He blinked several times. There was a building pressure in his skull and in his heart. It became too much, like a dam breaking under the strain of a flooded reservoir. He lifted his head and fire blazed in his eyes. The shouting down the corridors—people called for Ramirez.

  In this state Bannon could no longer look at the dead girl. He strode to a fancy gilt-inlaid window, twisting a latch and sliding the glass upward. He pulled out his last pieces of equipment from his pack and secured heavy-duty sucker discs to his knees, cinching the binding tight. He shoved his hands through palm discs and climbed out the window. It was a long drop to the bottom, and the siren was louder now. No one had raced out onto the grounds yet. Even in an emergency, it took time for sleepy people to react.

  With his feet on the outer sill, Bannon closed the window. The wall was old but rock solid. Bannon reached up and slapped a rubber palm disk against it. Like a gymnast, Bannon raised himself upward by arm strength alone.
He climbed with suction power, planting the discs, hoisting upward and releasing the individual suction cups one at a time.

  Soon he pulled himself onto the roof, barely in time. Men with guns appeared on the grounds below. Some fired rounds into the air. Truck engines roared to life. There was motion, excitement—men ran toward the central building.

  Bannon strode to the other side of the roof where the polyester line waited. This needed exact timing. They would search this building, particularly once they learned that Ramirez was dead. Then he would have a single moment to rappel down the line, mingle in the masses and break free later as he returned to the jungle. Even with dogs, they could never catch him if he reached the trees.

  Bannon crouched low, watching, waiting and glancing occasionally at the tattoo of his left hand. It was almost time to puzzle them out.

  -3-

  “Why isn’t he answering his cell phone?” Karl asked. He was still in the helicopter.

  “I’m not sure,” Susan said. “At least he’s heading for the rendezvous point.”

  “Is anyone following him?”

  Susan studied the infrared images on her netbook. “Negative.”

  “Is anyone with him in his vehicle?”

  “I can’t tell that from up here.”

  “Why isn’t he answering? He’s not following the script.”

  “Stop worrying. We’ll know everything soon enough.”

  “Do you have the pills and his next injection ready?”

  “I’ve been handling Bannon a long time. I know what I’m doing.” Susan tapped the screen on her netbook. Numbers appeared in the right-hand corner. She turned to Karl. “You should probably order the pilot to take us down. We want to be there before he arrives.”

  Karl appeared thoughtful. Finally, he nodded and gave the order.