96, Hitmen

“I swear to you on every holy book ever written, I will crush your face and hang you by your nostrils if you keep smacking that god damned gum.”  Agent Death was annoyed.  “If you desire an end to your existence, I suggest you fucking try me.”  She was calm as she made her threat.  “What’s it gonna be, fuck face?”

Special agent Trent Murdock spit out his gum onto the dusty gravel.  The alleyway went quiet without the smacking of his gum.  “I like my nostrils the way they are, thank you.”

Death turned back around and stared at a live video feed from a tablet screen.  “Wise choice.”  It had only been a few seconds of silence so her nerves had not yet calmed.  “You sounded like a fucking cow chewing cud.”

Curious, Murdock asked, “And how in the fuck do you know what a cow chewing cud sounds like?”

“In the decade we’ve worked together, I’ve been on twenty one undercover assignments with you, that’s how.”  

Sarcastically Murdock feigned, “Awww, how sweet!  You’ve kept track of our missions together!”

“And I pay my therapist way too much to help me work through my hatred for you after each one,” Death joked as her nerves started settling.

Their friend Dirt was an ex patriot who was living in Colombia and had come to Juarez, Mexico to try and figure out a connection between narcotics circles.  His bald head sweated in the border town heat, despite being in the shade of a tall building.  “You two sound married.”

“It’s a sexless marriage,” Death spatted.

Murdock was quick to shoot back, “Sexless for you, maybe.”  He smiled at his joke, then his brow crinkled.  “Come to think of it, when was the last time you got some, Death?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” she replied calmly.

“Well you’re wound up tighter than a nun at a male strip club, friend.”

“They’ve got a few good male reviews in Bogota,” Dirt commented.  “You should see the physiques on those Latin men.”  He sighed as he tried to encourage Death to possibly explore her feminine desire.  “Oh, to be young and virile.”

Murdock was wrongly convinced that Dirt was gay, and it was comments like this that solidified is incorrect conviction.  He ignored the strip club chat and went back to bickering with agent Death.  “Having an orgasm or three would help you relax, Death.”

Before Death could fire back, Dirt said, “I got laid a week ago.”

Instead of getting into a war of wits with Murdock about her lack of a love life, Death decided to drop it.  “Well look at you, Casanova.”

Agent Death also incorrectly thought Dirt was gay.  Murdock asked, “Is there a gay bar in Juarez or something?”

“Two of them, and hit them both last Friday.  I still had my shoes!”  Dirt closed his eyes and thought of the beautiful Mexican chica who crawled on top of him and rode him like a thoroughbred.  Then, the thought disappeared and changed to sadness.  Dirt’s perfectly white leather shoes were ruined in a warehouse shootout.  The thought of their loss stole his joy.  “It was the night before we rescued the bankers in that shootout, when my shoes were still sex magnets.”

“Sex magnets,” Death laughed.  “That’s a good name for a punk band.”

Murdock smirked, “And the night before the shootout sounds like a perfectly bad name for a gay porno.”

Dirt’s bushy grey haired mustache twitched from a huge grin as he tried to let the memory of the ruined shoes not bug him.  “More like the name of a gang bang gone right, perhaps.”

Some movement on the tablet screen made Death throw up her hand to tell the men to stop their chatter.  “Back to work, fuckers!”

In the same warehouse shootout where Dirts’ glorious pussy magnet shoes had been ruined, Team Whiskey had rescued two Juarez bankers named Juan and Matteo who had been kidnapped and tied up.  The bankers were involved in laundering money for a drug running cartel headed by a violent narco named El Padre.  Currently, three different agents from Team Whiskey were tailing Juan on the opposite side of town while Death, Dirt and Murdock tailed Matteo.

Their ear pieces made an electronic click sound, then the voice of Yen Roar filled their ears.  “Have you seen that guy with Matteo before?”

“Negative, Roar,” Death said to her wrist watch communicator as she watched her tablet screen like a hawk.  The video footage was super high definition and broadcasted to Roar’s computer perfectly, despite the shoddy Mexican cellular network.  “But if you made me make a bet, I’d wager that the new guy works for El Padre and is there to spook him.”

The field agents could hear Roar typing furiously on a keyboard.  “I’m going through every facial recognition database we’ve got.  If he’s got a picture on Facebook that’s been tagged, we’ll find out who the fucker is.  I’ll report back.  Roar out.”  The agents heard a click in their ear pieces as their communication disconnected.

Death took her eyes off of the tablet to look at Dirt and Murdock.  “Remind me not to piss Roar off, like, ever.  Jesus.”

“That bitch is crazy good,” Murdock muttered to himself.

Playing the role of the woke rescuer, Dirt joked, “Did you just call Roar a crazy bitch?”

Murdock laughed.  “Yes.  Cuz she is.”

Death added, “I tell that to her every time she drinks margaritas.”

“Which isn’t often enough,” Murdock laughed.  “Tequila makes Roar a wild woman.”

Their ear pieces clicked again to let them know someone was about to talk to them.  It was the monotone voice of demolitions expert, Dale O’ Connor.  “Hey fuckers, heads up.  Our boy Juan just got shot by a hitman.  We didn’t see it coming.  We’re pretty sure Juan is toast.  Miller is on the move to verify, so we’ll know for sure shortly.”

“Holy fuck!” Death said to her wristwatch.  She looked at Dirt and Murdock.  “Do you think that the guy with Matteo is a hit man too?”

Instinctively, Dirt answered, “Yes.  We need to kill the fucker.”

Murdock suddenly became the voice of reason.  “Or capture him.”  Dirt crinkled his brow as Murdock explained, “Doc and I are damn good at interrogation.”

O’Connor’s voice filled their ears.  “McVandalay and Miller are gonna apprehend the killer and we’ll bring the fucker in for questioning.”  His monotone passionless voice was creepy.  “Murdock, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, buddy.  Talk to me.”

“If the hit man doesn’t speak English, I’ll ask Dirt to help me with an interrogation.” O’Connor paused, then Murdock finished speaking for him.

“I’ll get Dirt up to speed about our interrogation techniques, Doc, but first we gotta get that hit man before he takes out Matteo.”

Dirt looked perplexed, then said, “Sure, I can help, but I’m not good at torture, if that’s what O’Connor is saying.”

Death had listened too many times to Murdock and O’Connor “interrogating” prisoners into confessions, giving up intel, and even to death.  The two Americans would drink and argue like two narcissistic retarded news anchors from competing media channels until the spiritual energy of their captives simply faded into oblivion.

Death figured that Dirt wouldn’t be able to last an hour with O’Connor before wanting to shoot either O’Connor or himself.  She tried to be compassionate to Dirt as she said, “I fear that you don’t have the, ah…,” she paused, then found the right words, “internal constitution to keep up with O’Connor and Murdock’s bullshit.”

The three agents could hear noises in their ear pieces, then O’Connor said, “McVandalay just knocked the hit man out by hitting the fucker in the back of the head with a rock.”

Murdock loved it when McVandalay did his super man shit.  “How far away was the throw?”

Without skipping a beat, O’Connor said, “Seventy to eighty yards.  It was beautiful.”

Murdock, Death and Dirt could hear Miller in the background.  “Fuck he’s good.”

“No one better!” Murdock said braggingly of his childhood friend.  “I wish I could’ve seen it!”

O’Connor was all business.  “We’ll get this hit man loaded up and meet you at the safe house.  Don’t let Matteo get smoked.  I’m out.”

As O’Connor ended his chat, their ear pieces clicked from the disconnection.  Dirt and Murdock were snapped back to being in the moment by another clicking sound.  Agent Death had ejected the clip from her hand gun and swapped it with a different clip.  “Stunners,” she said.  The bullets were made of rock salt soaked in pepper spray, intended to temporarily subdue the victim with stinging pain and incapacitating histamine reaction.  They didn’t always work, but Death was a pro.

From nowhere, Death pulled out a face shield and put the strap around her head.  Before she pulled it down, she said, “Murdock, clean up!  Dirt, get the car!”  As she snapped the mask down, her face looked like something out of a horror sci-fi movie, but Murdock and Dirt knew it was a state of the art gas mask that would allow her to breathe just fine while the stunners did their work.  Without asking, Death took off from their alley vantage point.  

“God dammit,” Murdock said.  “Why does she get to have all the fun, you know?  Whaddya think Dirt.  Dirt?”

The bald headed pudgy ass middle aged man didn’t answer because he’d taken off jogging to retrieve the car and bring it around.  Despite being round and bound in his mid section, the old man moved at a good clip.  Murdock watched Death disappear around the corner of a building as Dirt jogged towards their getaway car two blocks away.  Murdock looked down at the small transmitter set up plugged into a car battery.  He grabbed the tablet screen along with the other gear and put it under his arm, then started walking briskly in Dirt’s direction.

A minute later, Murdock could hear the faint but distinct sounds of gunshots.  The stunner bullets did not have the same audible snap as regular bullets, but they were propelled by gun powder, and there was no denying the sounds.  Within moments, Dirt had pulled the car up to Murdock.  A door flew open and Murdock hopped in.  “Nice work, Dirt!” he said approvingly.

“I’ve made more than one getaway from late night cantinas where jealous men want me dead, amigo!”  

Murdock figured that Dirt was talking about jealous gay men but he was quite wrong.  Without asking any other questions, Murdock pointed.  “Death was running to cut them off over there!”

Without comment, Dirt stomped on the gas as he reached into the door paneling.  He pulled out a gas mask and expertly threw it on with one hand.

“Wait, where’s mine?” Murdock asked.

Through the gas mask, Dirt yelled, “Are you telling me you left your fucking gas mask back at the safe house?”  The blank look on Murdock’s face told the story.  “You idiot!”

“I’ve been called worse, believe me,” Murdock admitted sheepishly.

The car pulled up to the scene of two men on the ground, gasping for air and holding their faces while agent Death stood with her perfect feminine physique over them.  A hand gun lay fifteen feet away from the hit man.  It was clear that agent Death had gotten there just in time.  Death kicked the hit man hard several times in the ribs, then pointed at Murdock to get out of the car and help load the man up.

Dirt popped out of the car and opened the trunk.  He grabbed a medical kit and ran for Matteo.  He pulled out a state of the art air driven needle applicator full of high powered super fast acting anti-histamine.  Without asking, Dirt jammed the small needle through Matteo’s suit jacket into his arm.  Within seconds, Matteo stopped writhing from the pepper spray.  He opened his eyes.  They were swollen and bloodshot, but the itching and burning had stopped.

Meanwhile, Murdock had hopped out of the car and ran towards the hit man, but within seconds, he was on the ground, completely paralyzed by the pepper spray.  He curled up in the fetal position and yelled, “This is worse than that time I tried to eat a bottle of sriracha in one sitting cuz Doc dared me to!”  He started coughing uncontrollably.

A few moments later, he felt Dirt by his side and then his shoulder burned from a stabbing sensation.  It took ten seconds, but he realized that Dirt had also given him a dose of the fast acting anti-histamine.  Despite the pain, Murdock’s coughing subsided quickly.  In a weak voice, he said, “Buy a man a drink before you poke him, Dirt!”

With his homo-erotic humor, Dirt said, “I don’t buy shit, amigo!  The fellas are the ones buying me drinks!”  His charming laugh was muffled behind his futuristic gas mask, but it came to an abrupt halt.  “God, I miss those fuckin shoes.”

Death’s muffled voice was direct and authoritative.  “Murdock, use your freak strength to pick this fucker up and toss his ass into the trunk.  Let’s move!”

Murdock’s eyes still burned from the swelling but the allergic reaction was over.  He got to his feet and did as he was told.  As the dragged the writhing body of the hit man over to the car, Dirt walked up beside the hitman and stabbed him in the arm.  “This is a powerful sedative.  It’ll calm his histamine reaction to the pepper spray but he’ll sleep like a newborn for several hours.  He won’t wake up ’til tonight.”

Murdock unceremoniously threw the hitman into the trunk and crammed the man’s appendages in, then slammed the trunk down on him.  The hitman was stoned out of his mind from the sedative Dirt had just injected and didn’t move a muscle.  “Let’s roll, bitches,” he said to Dirt and Death.

The banker known as Matteo was coherent enough to see that once again, these two gringos had appeared from nowhere to save him.  He was very Mexican and his superstition took over.  He asked in Spanish, “Are you two devils?  Or angels?”

Dirt said in Spanish, “Matteo, that man was going to kill you.  Your friend Juan is dead, and you’ll be next.  El Padre clearly wants you dead.”

Matteo shuddered and looked very frightened at the name, El Padre.  “I’m innocent,” he said in English with a weak voice.

Dirt spoke in Spanish.  “Let us help you.  We can protect you if you’ll testify against El Padre.  We need your help.”

In Spanish, Matteo cried out, “Testify!?  Against El Padre?  No gracías!”

“You’ll be safe, Matteo.  We can protect you and protect your family too.”

“El Padre will kill everyone I know and love.  He’ll kill everyone at the bank, everyone I do business with, and everyone in my church.  I will not help you.”  He got up and tried to jog away but his equilibrium was still wonky.  He had no idea where he was going, but he was certainly not going to help the Americans take down the feared narco boss.

Dirt looked over at Death as they loaded into the car.  “How long do you think Matteo has to live?”

Death shrugged.  “Days.  A week at most.”

Murdock pointed to the car and said, “We’ve still got his expensive suit bugged.  If he wears it or takes it with him, we could keep an eye on his whereabouts, at least.”

“Until one of El Padre’s goons finds the fucker and buries the guy in it,” Dirt said.  “Those transmitters don’t work when they’re buried in six feet of dirt.”  He looked off at the scared banker wobbling away.  “Good luck, Matteo,” he said to no one in particular.

Back at the safe house, the hitman awoke in a groggy state of mind to the smell of strong booze.  Every muscle in his body ached, a few of his ribs were broken from Death’s kicks, and he was tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth.  As his eyes focused, he saw a skinny white man sipping a rocks glass full of brown liquid.  The hitman looked around and saw another man tied up, bound and gagged like him.  Their eyes met and both got big.  They clearly knew each other and were processing their current predicament.

“Hola, amigos,” special agent demotions expert Dale O’Connor said.  The American took another sip of Jameson whiskey and let the smooth gasoline taste burn down his throat.  In Spanish, O’Connor added, “My name is The Torturer, and this is my assistant, Mr. Fatty.”

Dirt looked at O’Connor and said in Spanish, “Mr. Fatty?  My fucking name is Fatty?”

“You’re fat,” O’Connor replied in Spanish.  “Don’t try to hide it with your gay shoes.”

“Just because gay men loved my shoes does not mean my shoes were gay!” Dirt replied passionately back in Spanish.

In the other room, special agent Trent Murdock watched his best friend begin what he did best, and he was impressed that Dirt didn’t flinch one bit.  Usually it was Murdock and O’Connor that bickered in front of prisoners until they spiritually gave in.  Since Murdock didn’t speak Spanish, he had to sit this one out.  Dirt was new to this type of interrogation, but he clearly was going to be good at it, and neither American was willing to take each other’s shit.

It was the beginning of the end for the hitmen.

In the distance, a banker from Juarez who’d been laundering money for a narcotics boss named El Padre frantically washed the pepper spray off his face, only to turn off the water from his sink in time to hear his front door creak ever so quietly as someone clearly had now sneakily entered his house in an attempt to be stealthy.