Read Times of Peace: Volume 1 of the side adventures to The Mercenary's Salvation Page 6
Chapter 2: El costo de nuestro acciones
May 22, 2001
1:49 P.m.
La iguana borracha, Matamoros, Mexico
“¿Y dije a él, eh, es su novio o esta azotaina un mono?”
The four Mexican gentlemen enjoying lunch along the bay roared with laughter from the crude joke as the sun continued to bear down on their lightly covered backs. Their work was done and would be for a while; they had been paid well for their services, enough that they could go months living like kings before they found their wallets empty. Now was the time to relax, at least until the summer waned and the cold began to set in; that was when they could cross the hemisphere and begin their work again, finding that precious warmth they knew and loved while charging extra to fleeing immigrants for their services as they prepared to enter the harsher northern lands.
So what did these men do with such vast sums of money? They didn’t flaunt it; they didn’t need the police or anyone else to know of their victories. They spread it out, used enough that they could enjoy their days off without spending so much as to catch unwanted eyes. No honor among thieves, no matter the nation.
That mainly meant eating out at establishments like these. Sure, there were nicer places and better food to be had, but not without a price and the piercing glances of rival bosses who owned those joints. La Iguana Borracha was thus the best place, if only because it let them linger there for several hours as they watched half naked beach goers frolic about, their TV blaring and constant stream of watered down beers and salsa continued to flow.
Nothing they could complain about. Nothing except for Jack.
“¿Carlos. Que paso con su amigo, el Gringo?” One of the larger men asked, the man who work longest under the elder veteran smuggler. Dressed in a tank top and shorts that showed the menacing tattoo of a handgun wrapped in chains and roses, their boss shrugged and made it seem as if he was firing the painted weapon as he answered.
“Los gringos en el norte estan enojados. El Gringo necesita un ano o dos antes que pueda ayudarnos otra vez. No hay nada que pueda hacer.”
“¿En serio? Que mala. Un trabajador que no quiere plata es un amigo de todos. Una cerveza por el Gringo!” (Flow: Are you sure you’re writing this correctly? I’m not fluent in Spanish but-) (Anthony: If no one complains, no one has to know).
“Brindis.” They said in unison as they cheered their beers, a few drops of liquor flying out upon impact. They continued their celebration when the sound of heavy shoes on wood began to echo in the open restaurant, the four Mexicanos turning to find a regular mail man approaching them of all people. That was a rare sight; usually they had to go to the post office to check whether they had received anything.
Saved them a trip. The man, with a thick mustache that hid his lips, replied in crisp language that seemed to betray a better background than the dirty clothes he wore now, “Estoy buscando por Señor Carlos Alberto.”
“Aqui.” Came the answer from the greedy Mexican, all too anxious and inebriated to find out what he had gotten. Without another word the mailman dropped the package on the table and left, receipts and tags unimportant to him as he went on his way. Any number of indicators should have alerted the smugglers that this was no simple delivery; the man was already tearing off his cap and borrowed outfit as he escaped the open cabana and headed towards a car fit for men who made five times amount of what a mail man should have been earning. Even the package itself was a red flag; no label, no return address, not even Carlos’ name. Perhaps they heard the ticking of what was hidden within and ignored it simply out of their own drunkenness or desire for a late spring surprise.
Whatever it was, the only thing that can be said is that they didn’t know it was a bomb until Carlos cut the lid open with his pocket knife… and was immediately consumed in the outward explosion seconds later, along with his cohorts and nearly half the restaurant.