Excerpt: Wilde Card: Four of Clubs

Jorge looked up at the clearing sky and wondered if the temperature would drop again that night. The sun still winked over the white jagged crests of Nevado de Toluca, with the gray stones composing the base of the mountains washed in faded crimson. Were he an artistic man, Jorge would imagine the scene to be worthy of an oil painting. The way the sun glinted off of the icy caps of the ancient volcano and eased out amongst the tall evergreens, sifting orange light through the humid air, would make a Renaissance painter pleased.

But he was not an artistic man, he realized as he sucked on a Delicados. Introspective, perhaps, but even that trait was borne from necessity and not instinct. Jorge knew what he was and where he belonged in the world, and he had no aspirations to try for anything different.

At the very least, he thought, perhaps I can be a good enough father. It was a foolish hope, given the oppressive culero that was his father. Yet even a fool's hope was better than none.

Deluding himself into believing this for yet another day, Jorge picked up his rifle and flicked his cigarette away and turned back to base camp.

There was an unusual energy in the men today. Ever since Jorge's cousin, Amile, returned from Toluca earlier with another ten men, there seemed to be a sense of confidence. Even eagerness. The operation... once so small with only Jorge and Amile and a couple border runners... was now measured by the dozens. They had AK-47s now where they had hunting rifles and handguns before. Hell, Jorge even saw Amile pull two wooden crates of pineapples off the truck when he returned.

Jorge had never met the financier that Amile managed to scrounge up a month ago in Mexico City, and nor would he ever if that woman had her way. To his cousin's credit, Amile had tried to bring him along. But this woman, whoever she was, had no interest in meeting people. Secrecy made Jorge nervous.

Still, looking out as the weapons were distributed and the men cracked open a few twelve-packs of Coronas and American Budweisers, Jorge had to admit that he felt the touch of optimism.

“Maybe tomorrow will be a good day after all,” he mumbled to himself as he wandered off to find Amile.

♣

The first screams came at around three in the morning. It was echoed amongst the camp quickly, guttural cries to arms and general howls of urgency mixed in with a healthy amount of fear. Jorge recognized the tone of the words without even needing to understand what was being spoken.

They were being attacked.

As if to punctuate that realization, a spattering of gunfire echoed from the north-west corner of the camp. It was followed by more screams, but then all noise fell quiet from that direction. Men still screamed and hurried about amongst the canvas tents and stacked wooden crates of food, guns, and... yes... stashes of crack cocaine, but Jorge's trained ear told him that something had gone wrong.

An AK-47 had a very distinctive sound when fired. The sharp sounds carried for miles in any direction and always made Jorge's temples ache slightly. If another weapon had been fired in the exchange to the north-west, he had not heard it. The only shots fired were a few scattered bursts from the men's weapons. There had not even been a clap of a handgun.

Now, there were no more screams or shots coming from that direction. There was only silence. No more shots. No more yells of concern or victory. That meant the attackers had won. Their defenses were breached.

Jorge burst from his tent and saw confusion in every face. Several men were standing around, back-to-back, looking up at the treetops as though the attack would come from the branches. One looked his way, and he could see the fear in the man's wide and white eyes.

“North-west!” Jorge bellowed at them, pointing in that direction. “They're coming from the north-west!”

By then it was too late.

An explosion tore through the moonlit night. Both cargo trucks, ancient diesels brought over from Brazil, lit up the night. Tar-black smoke belched skyward, drifting thick into the pine branches and sickly-bare oaks. Nightmarish shadows leaped across the thin tent fabrics and across the flattened underbrush laid thin by boot steps and tire treads.

Between the panicking mercenaries and scrambling soldiers were dark outlines, visible only when the flames gleamed off the lenses of their night-vision goggles. Jorge saw them for only the briefest moment, and then the wraiths melded back into the darkness.

Then more of his men started falling to silenced bullets.

Fear finally crawling into his spine, Jorge ran. He sidestepped through the small gathering of troops just before shots tore into them, bending their bodies in grotesque angles. Blood splattered in his face as he scrambled between them. Dirt flew in Jorge's eyes as he tripped over the flailing limbs. He clawed at the forest floor to keep his balance. Onward he rushed.

“Amile!” Jorge screamed, diving behind a stack of crates and turning the corner.

He heard the wood snap and splinter from more shots. Gravel and dirt exploded in bursts as shots peppered the ground. Holes appeared in the tents.

Still Jorge ran, until at last he found the communications tent. He dove in, flinging the canvas shut behind him... before realizing how pointless that was.

He turned and saw Amile leveling his rifle at him.

“Don't shoot!” Jorge screamed, hands out to each side.

“Cousin?” Amile stared at him dumbly, satellite phone pressed to the side of his head. “What is...?”

But he never finished the sentence. The tent canvas fluttered as shots tore holes through the fabric. The air was alive with snaps and hisses. Jorge smelled sulfur. He watched as Amile's body was torn apart in the darkened tent, black splashes of fluid spraying across the ground, the tent, and the communications equipment behind him. His cousin screamed. Amile squeezed the trigger without even thinking, and the AK-47 spat wildly as Amile twisted and fell to the earth, blood gushing from his mouth.

Then Jorge felt the shots turn towards him. He dived to the ground, covering his head. He screamed, dirt and soil flying in his mouth. He felt fire and knives stab into his shoulder and legs, one in his ribs. All of his breath left his lungs, but still he screamed silently. When he tried to breathe again, he vomited, gagging fiercely.

After a while the air cleared of deadly lead. Jorge stayed silent, unmoving, suppressing the urge to throw up again. His face was pressed hard into a puddle of blood and vomit. Every breath was agony, his windpipe burned from the stench of the firefight and the acid of his stomach. His side screamed with every twitch. He could feel his heartbeat along every nerve and inch of his skin.

He waited a long time until the camp fell completely silent, and still he stayed still.

Finally Jorge heard boot steps drawing closer, thick and heavy on the forest floor. Branches and twigs snapped as dark figures moved through the camp. Flash lights came on. In the distance, Jorge heard the distinctive beating of a helicopter's rotors. Muffled voices were barely audible, some distorted by radio.

Jorge tried to stay still when the tent flaps were thrown back and two dark-clad soldiers stormed in, silenced weapons leveled. Instead he felt himself jerk instinctively, fight or flight instinct favoring the latter. Every muscle in his body clinched tight as he tried to crawl away, the bullet in his ribcage sending lightning strikes of pain throughout his torso.

His efforts went for naught. Strong hands grabbed him mercilessly and bound him, arms twisted harshly behind his body. Jorge's vision blurred from the pain. His head began to swim from the blood loss. He knew, though, that if he let himself pass out, that would be the end. There would be no awakening. The war to stay conscious stretched on for the longest, most agonizing minutes of Jorge's life.

He tried to think of his son at home, of his ivory-skinned wife with hair as black as coal. Try as he might, though, Jorge could not picture what they looked like. His gaze constantly wandered to the unmoving figure of his cousin that lay collapsed on the dirt floor, sprawled out in an inhuman pose.

He felt himself come back around ten minutes later, his mind and body wavering between the waking world and the empty nether that called to him. More figures were walking through the communications tent, including a pasty-skinned man in civilian clothes that was half his age. The man... boy, really... poured through a collection of photographs and documents, most taken from Amile's body. Jorge vaguely remembered the soldiers searching him too, but there was nothing on his person to find.

“Well, here's a nice surprise,” the pasty-faced boy muttered.

He held up a picture of a woman up to the mounted flood light that somehow appeared in the tent. Jorge wondered how long he was out that they had moved in the light, scoured through those documents, brought in the extra guards to keep him prisoner. He chuckled to himself. Like he was a threat now.

Jorge tried to see what photograph the gringo was examining. He twisted slightly to the side, but that earned only another lightning strike that vibrated through every nerve.

The pasty-faced boy noticed Jorge's effort.

“Hold on,” the boy said, and for the first time Jorge noticed that he was on a cell phone.

The boy walked over to the prisoner. A flashlight snapped on in Jorge's face, the light not as painful as he would have expected. He tried to flinch away, but the world seemed too muddled. The air felt as thick as water.

A hard slap across the face brought Jorge back to the waking world. Just before his face was the photograph, illuminated by the hand-held flashlights. Jorge saw a young woman, hair as black as his wife's. The woman's skin was well-tanned. He vaguely remembered Amile telling him that was a photo of the woman he met in Taluca.

“Do you know this woman?” the pasty-faced boy insisted.

Jorge tried to focus on the picture. His lips moved slowly, but produced no sound. The photo vanished. Another slap across the face. Then another. The photo reappeared.

“Hey, asshole,” the kid pressed on, speaking in fractured Spanish. “This woman? Where did you meet her?”

Jorge mumbled something incoherent.

“Is she here in Mexico?”

It was so damn hard for Jorge to stare at the gringo. The boy's words bounced inside his skull. The world behind the kid was spinning. Or was Jorge himself spinning?

“Is she here?” the kid... he had to be American... pushed again. “Did you and your cousin meet her?”

Jorge finally found the strength to nod.

“Where?” the American insisted, still speaking in Spanish. “Where did you meet her?”

“Taluca,” Jorge mumbled, driblets of blood and saliva trickling from between his lips.

“This week?”

Jorge nodded again.

The flashlights went away. When Jorge opened his eyes again, the American had his back to him. He was on the cell phone again, babbling happily. Jorge knew only a bit of English, but he could pick up nothing that the kid said. His heartbeat was echoing too loudly in his ears.

Moments passed. More English... the kid rambling on the phone and to the soldiers. Eventually, though, he hung up.

“We're done,” the American informed the soldiers. “Clean this place up.”

With that, the American walked out of the tent.

For a long moment, the outside world blurred again. Jorge felt himself swimming in a murky haze, again halfway between life and eternity. He tried so hard to picture his wife. That was his dying wish, as blood seeped from the viscous wound in his side.

The soldiers pushed and shoved at him again, forcing him to his unsteady feet. They half-carried him out of the tent. The night air had cooled, flushing the stench of blood from his nostrils. Bright lights glowed from the opposite side of the camp. Though he could vaguely remember the trucks exploding, Jorge only saw the oppressive orange and yellow glow... even when he closed his eyes.

Was it the devil come to claim him?

The soldiers dropped him in a ragged line of what remained of his men, all of them wounded and many... like him... dying. The soldiers lined up opposite and stood at the ready, weapons aimed.

Jorge died having never remembered what his wife or son looked like.