I, Weapon Page 3

  ***

  Bannon drove on a jungle road. He was already several miles outside of Los Zetas territory. He kept thinking about the girl in Ramirez’s room, playing the situation over in his mind.

  He had sidestepped and raised his gun. Ramirez had likely been half-asleep. The cartel leader would have been groggy, with slow reactions. He obviously hadn’t aimed well, either, just in Bannon’s general direction and pulled the trigger. That’s right. The slugs hadn’t ripped in short bursts the way a submachine gun marksman would do it. The slugs had hosed out, the way a frightened man reacted.

  In his memory, Bannon could see the girl toppling. He could see the flesh rupture and blood spray.

  Just like my daughter died—my sweet angel, Gloria.

  His cell phone buzzed again for the third time. The phone was on the passenger-side seat. He didn’t want it in his pockets anymore.

  He glanced at the phone, at the screen and the tiny picture of a yellow happy face symbol. Bannon gripped the steering wheel harder than before. He had to; otherwise, he would reach over, pick up the cell and answer. But he didn’t want to answer just yet. He wanted to think a few things through. A girl had died, an innocent chopped down in the prime of her life.

  What do I do for a living?

  That had been bothering him all night. What did he know about himself anyway? He was good with guns and with his hands and feet. He had military-style equipment and he operated like a pro. That indicted some kind of elite soldier. So why had he sneaked into two places and murdered people like an assassin?

  I paid back Los Zetas blood for blood. It wasn’t assassination so much as revenge killing. I took down evil people—but my actions caused a young girl to die.

  The cell phone stopped buzzing. He glanced at it there on the seat. He had done his job and now he drove—

  I’m driving for a destination. Someone is going to pick me up.

  The idea surprised him. Who was picking him up? For the life of him, he didn’t know. It would make sense that it was the person calling him.

  Bannon flipped on the Land Rover’s inside lights. He glanced at his right hand, at the tattoo between his index and middle finger. He made out a Greek delta sign. There was something in the delta sign. Ah, it was a tiny block letter, an “F”.

  So what did a delta sign with an “F” in it mean? Why would he have gotten the tattoo?

  He turned onto a gravel road and entered another stretch of jungle. Dawn was minutes away. Presently, the only illumination outside came from his headlights.

  “Delta Force,” he said. As he did, he expected a tingle of recognition to touch him. No, they were simply two words, nothing more and nothing to do with him that he could feel. Besides, it was officially known as 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta (SFOD-D).

  All right, forget about feelings then. Did Delta fit with anything that had happened to him tonight? That was a big, “Yeah it did.” He had operated with commando precision and had possessed Delta Force-like skills.

  He grinned tightly as a feeling washed through him. He couldn’t remember his day job. He could hardly remember crap about a lot a things. That told him someone had been messing with his memories. Again, there was no tingle of recognition, but there was a cold hard sense of positive logical deduction. What did all that mean, however? Hmm, likely it meant…

  I had the tattoo put there. The reason was so I would come to this conclusion.

  If that was true, what did it imply? Maybe that people played with his memories, with his mind, and he was fighting back. What sort of people mind-screwed others?

  People with power did, with money—the government or some super-rich corporation.

  The Land Rover burst through the jungle and into an open area. He spied a lake in the distance. The lake—

  Bannon squinted. He saw a helicopter landing. The chopper’s lights played on the ground less than a mile away. He realized that he headed straight for the chopper.

  It’s my ride out of here.

  The cell phone buzzed again. Bannon picked it up and he almost answered.

  Don’t do it! The voice in him was strong. His inner voice implied that it would be dangerous to answer and to listen to whatever the person on the other end was going to say. But if he didn’t answer, if he wasn’t going to rendezvous with the helicopter, what was he going to do? Los Zetas might have his picture by now. Surely a camera had caught him on video as he’d crept through the old Soviet building. Los Zetas would hunt him, likely putting a million-dollar bounty on his head. It would be wise to get out of Mexico now.

  The cell buzzed and he neared the chopper.

  Who had caused him to lose his memories? Logically, probably the same people who had sent him to kill Los Zetas personnel. If that were true, it would mean he hadn’t killed for revenge.

  A hard knot of resolve grew in Bannon. He knew implicitly that he had hunted Victor Garcia and Juan Ramirez to gain payback, to put the ghosts of his slaughtered wife and daughter to rest. There was an easy way to find out if that was true or not. He should visit Monterrey and walk through the mall and the store where he had watched his family die.

  The delta sign with the block letter “F” tattoo convinced him to try.

  Bannon braked and came to a sliding stop. How would the chopper have known to come here on time?

  Because they’re tracking you, Bannon told himself. The easiest way to track would be through his cell phone.

  Bannon opened the door and dropped the cell phone onto the gravel road. He floored the gas pedal and twisted the steering wheel, roaring away from the rendezvous point as he headed back toward the jungle.

  Once Bannon reached the jungle, he parked the Land Rover and jumped out. He faded into the dense growth and walked. He heard the helicopter once and knew the people in it searched for him.

  After it left, he walked a mile, pulled down some banana leaves and went to sleep. He was dead tired and slept to twilight.

  His muscles were stiff but he walked them out, soon finding a jungle road. An old man in a beat-up pickup gave him a ride to San Gabriel, a town of around eighty thousand.

  Bannon had been thinking the entire ride over and had come up with blanks. He was presumably a Delta Force commando or an ex-member in any case.

  At this moment as he walked along a city street, that didn’t matter. He passed two boys probably pedaling for home and saw an older man step out of a liquor store with a paper bag. Bannon saw a bottle’s long neck sticking out of the bag.

  What mattered now was getting to Monterrey. However, the city was almost the entire length of Mexico away. He had no desire to travel by car or truck, nor was he going to thumb his way there. It was logical to think the people in the helicopter and the organization they represented was after him. Los Zetas was probably after him, too. Therefore, he needed money and an ID to purchase a plane ticket. He could also use a private place to do some thinking. He wore dark boots, dark pants, a black shirt and a black jacket. He had an almost shaved head and regular Anglo features. His size…an inch or two taller than average. He couldn’t blend in.

  He’d ditched his gun and knife some time ago and had left the Butcher’s ID and plastic in the Land Rover. He had enough pesos for several stiff drinks. Yes, some alcohol might help him probe his memories. Ah, and several games of pool would thicken his wad of cash. He still had the Butcher’s alligator-hide wallet. It was how he had any money at all.

  It was fully dark by the time he entered a large bar. Men in cheap business suits sat at tables, eating sandwiches. Others in Mexican cowboy attire played pool. Here and there, one of the businessmen had taken off his coat and loosened his tie to play.

  Bannon scanned the smoky room, cataloging each person. It was an automatic reflex and it surprised him how effortlessly he did it. Most of the businessmen were harmless, tired office workers letting off steam before they went home. A few of the men wearing cowboy hats were different. One had a knife. Another kept a gun in a hidd
en shoulder rig. A slender man in an expensive suit sitting at a table exchanged small packets with two others on the opposite side. Lounging nearby were two bigger men in suits, apparently the man’s enforcers.

  Were they Los Zetas members? Bannon couldn’t tell, but it was a good chance they were somewhere in the lucrative drug business.

  He went to the bar and ordered a beer. Eating peanuts and sipping his drink, he studied the pool players. Some were skilled, but none of them was great.

  As he decided how to do this, Bannon glanced at his tattoos again. He passed over the delta sign and frowned at the next one. It showed a tiny lightning bolt with a whirlwind in it.

  What was that supposed to mean?

  As a tall Mexican cowboy won another game, Bannon saw his chance. Sliding off the stool, he offered to play.

  The cowboy was in his mid-thirties, a tough-looking man with a knife in one of his boots.

  A few men shouted for the cowboy to play Bannon. They called him Carlos. Encouraged, Carlos shoved up the brim of his hat and agreed.

  Each of them put a hundred dollars-worth of pesos on the end of the pool table. Carlos broke and sank two balls. He chose stripes and won the first game before Bannon had a chance to shoot.

  Several men laughed and congratulated Carlos.

  “Double or nothing,” Bannon said in Spanish.

  Carlos agreed and he broke again. This time, none of the balls went in, so Bannon had his chance.

  Bannon won that game, sinking solid after solid with several tricky shots, finally putting the eight ball in the left side pocket.

  After two hours of play, Bannon had amassed a small sum equivalent to about five hundred dollars. He had also been ordering drinks and now leaned to one side, looking a little worse from the alcoholic consumption. Several times after a great shot, he shouted in English.

  One of the businessmen asked, “Are you an American?”

  “That’s right, my friend,” Bannon said, slapping his chest, “and I’m proud of it.”

  Since then, everyone in the bar had started watching in earnest. Finally, after Bannon had won about one thousand dollars-worth, men began chanting, “Cesar, Cesar, Cesar!”

  The slender men in the expensive business suit had been watching for some time. Bannon had noticed early that there were smears of chalk dust on the man’s hand. He suspected that the dealer was a crack shot, and could not resist putting the gringo in his place.

  At last, Caesar slid out of his booth. One of the big enforcers handed him a case. As the patrons of the bar grew quiet, Cesar put the case on the table and unsnapped the lid.

  “You’re the best player around here?” Bannon asked loudly and arrogantly. His eyes were bloodshot and he swayed a little while asking it.

  Señor Cesar glanced at him. There was cold calculation in the man’s look. He sported a narrow mustache and had dangerous eyes.

  The room grew still and men glanced at each other in expectation.

  “If you lose,” Cesar said, “my men will throw you out of the bar, you gringo braggart.”

  Bannon’s face broke out in a huge smile. “But I’m not going to lose. I’m going clean you out.”

  A roar went up and one of the enforcers started toward Bannon.

  “No,” Cesar said in a silky voice.

  The enforcer glanced at his boss. Cesar motioned with his head and the man retreated into the shadows.

  Cesar took up the two halves of his custom pool stick, twirling them together. He approached the pool table, staring at Bannon the way a rattlesnake might its meal. “We will flip a coin to see who breaks.”

  Bannon stubbornly shook his head. “I’m the winner so—” His eyes widened as Cesar smoothly drew a small pistol from his suit, pointing it at Bannon’s forehead.

  “Let’s flip to see who breaks,” Bannon whispered weakly.

  Men roared with approval. With a mocking grin, Cesar put away his gun and Bannon took a swallow from his latest beer.

  The tall cowboy flipped a coin and Bannon called heads. He lost. Cesar broke and he sank a stripe and a solid, choosing solids. He proceeded to sink solid after solid.

  “You cheater,” Bannon mumbled, as he walked near Cesar. Then he stumbled, and he crashed against Señor Cesar. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” Bannon said drunkenly, straightening, brushing the man’s jacket until one of the enforcers shoved him away. Bannon stumbled again, but managed to catch himself.

  Five shots later Cesar won, to the roar and approval of the crowd. He picked up Bannon’s winnings, handing them to the nearest enforcer. Then he turned to an open-mouthed Bannon, and said, “Throw the American outside and send him on his way.”

  The two enforcers moved quickly. Each grabbed an arm and propelled a protesting Bannon toward the door.

  “I was supposed to break!” Bannon shouted. “You cheated.”

  Cesar twirled apart his cue stick, motioning his enforcers to hurry with their task.

  Bannon noticed that the two men pushed him toward a side door, an alley entrance, no doubt. They would probably work him over for good measure. He had expected no less.

  “You shouldn’t have bragged,” an enforcer told him.

  Another man waited by the door, holding it open. The two enforcers shoved Bannon through so he stumbled over trash in the alleyway. The enforcers followed, the bigger of the two slipping a pair of brass knuckles over his fingers. He strode purposefully at Bannon and swung heavily for his face. Bannon stepped back, letting the fist harmlessly pass him. He used his hands and pulled the swinging arm, turning the enforcer around. Reaching up, Bannon unsnapped the holster and drew the man’s gun before the thug realized what had happened. By this time, the second enforcer started forward.

  Bannon stepped away from them, aiming the gun at the first enforcer. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  Startled, the two big men stared at him, blinking in astonishment.

  “Let’s make a deal,” Bannon said. “I give you the gun back and you let me walk away.”

  The two enforcers glanced at each other and then at Bannon. “That’s it?” asked the biggest.

  “That’s it,” Bannon told them.

  They nodded.

  Bannon slid the magazine out of the gun and extracted the bullet in the chamber. “Catch,” he said, tossing the man his gun. He proceeded to empty the magazine’s bullets into his coat pocket and then tossed the thug his magazine.

  “Adios,” Bannon said, watching them.

  The two men glanced at each other again, and they saluted him before heading toward the door.

  Bannon hurried for the end of the alleyway. He had Cesar’s wallet in the other coat pocket. He’d lifted it off the man while sweeping his clothes straight after rudely bumping into him. He needed an ID for a plane ticket and planned to use one of the man’s credit cards. He’d seen one of the enforcers hand the wallet to Cesar earlier and was sure most of the time the enforcer carried it for his boss. It meant Cesar likely wouldn’t be missing the wallet any time soon.

  As Bannon strode down the city street, he wondered at his ability to watch and catalog nearly everything around him. It was a trained thing, of that he was certain. The other thing he believed had to do with the lightning bolt tattoo. It was supposed to tell him that he moved faster than other people did. It’s what had allowed him the nifty move just now disarming the enforcer. What troubled him about the realization, however, is what had made him faster? Was it a natural quickness, or was there a more sinister reason behind how he’d gained the ability?

  He was learning about himself, and the tattoos pointed the way he should go. It was time to head to Monterrey and visit the scene of the worst atrocity he’d ever witnessed. That would prove he had killed people in the Los Zetas compound for reasons of justifiable vengeance, and not just as someone’s assassin.

  -4-

  Karl Sand stood beside a black helicopter in San Gabriel Airport. He had a satellite phone pressed against his right ear as he spoke to the Control
ler.

  “Sir, I request Max and his team.”

  “That’s premature,” the Controller said in his soft voice. “To begin with, you have no idea as to Bannon’s whereabouts. Therefore, having Max becomes moot.”

  “The Mexican authorities have spoken to the farmer who gave Bannon a ride to San Gabriel. The police have Bannon’s photograph—”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “Sir?” Karl asked.

  “How did the police get Bannon’s photograph?”

  “I thought—”

  “You provided it?”

  An icicle of fear wormed up Karl’s spine. He was a squarely built man and therefore seemed shorter than his five-ten. He easily weighed two hundred and thirty pounds, most of it muscle. He wore a black suit and tie and he was immensely strong, had wide-set eyes and prematurely silver hair.

  “It was a calculated risk, sir. If we can nab Bannon before—”

  “No wonder the CIA cashiered you,” the Controller said in a cold voice. “You cannot capture Bannon easily. Yes, I see now why you want Max. You wish to sweep your errors under his corpse. With this bungling—”

  “I warned you, sir, about using Bannon here. He’s unstable and—”

  “Clarify your statement.”

  “Bannon must have broken his conditioning.”

  The Controller snorted. “You are gifted at wet-work, but I’m beginning to question your understanding of the situation. Bannon is a great leap forward in clandestine operations. These few imperfections, one must expect it in something so new. Now you have jeopardized everything by providing the Mexicans with his photograph.”

  “If we capture Bannon, I would think it a simple matter to alter his appearance.”

  “Ah…I see you still do possess a modicum of guile. Yes, that’s true. But you will not ‘capture’ him, but bring him in from the cold.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I will send you Max on the assumption that this bungling is a precursor of more to come. I would rather you bring Bannon in, but if events unfold beyond your capacity to control, you have permission to eliminate.”