The Power Of The Dog by Don Winslow Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Don Winslow
guns.
Güero crouches deep on the car’s floor, his hands over his ears because the noise is incredible. The old man’s blood falls like soft rain on his hands, the side of his face, his back. Even over the roar of the rifles he can hear Don Pedro’s screams.
Like an old woman chasing a dog from the chicken coop.
A sound from his early childhood.
Finally it stops.
Güero waits for ten long moments of silence before he dares to get up.
When he does he sees the police emerge from the cover of the thick green brush. Behind him, Don Pedro’s five sicarios are slumped dead, blood running from the bullet holes in the side of their car like water from a downspout.
And beside him, Don Pedro.
The patrón’s mouth and one eye are open.
The other eye is gone.
His body looks like one of those cheap puzzles where you try to roll the little balls into the holes, except there are many, many more holes. And the old man is coated with shattered glass from the windshield, like spun sugar coating the groom on an expensive wedding cake.
Foolishly, Güero thinks of how angry Don Pedro would be at the damage to the Mercedes.
The car is ruined.
Art opens the car door, and the old man’s body falls out.
He’s amazed to see that the old man’s chest is still heaving with breath. If we can air-evac him out, Art thinks, there’s just a chance that—
Tío walks over, looks down at the body and says, “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”
He draws a .45 from his holster, points it at the back of the old patrón’s head, and pulls the trigger.
Don Pedro’s neck jerks off the ground, then drops again.
Tío looks at Art and says, “He reached for his gun.”
Art doesn’t answer.
“He reached for his gun,” Tío repeats. “They all did.”
Art looks around at the corpses strewn on the ground. The DFS troops are picking up the dead men’s weapons and firing into the air. Red flashes burst from the gun barrels.
This wasn’t an arrest, Art thinks, it was an execution.
The skinny blond driver crawls out of the car, kneels on the blood-soaked ground and puts his hands up. He’s trembling—Art can’t tell if it’s fear, or cold, or both. You’d be shaking, too, he tells himself, if you knew you were about to be executed.
Enough is fucking enough.
Art starts to step between Tío and the kneeling kid. “Tío—”
Tío says, “Levántate, Güero.”
The kid shakily gets to his feet. “Dios le bendiga, patrón.”
God bless you.
Patrón.
Boss.
Then Art gets it—this wasn’t an arrest or an execution.
It was an assassination.
He looks at Tío, who has holstered his pistol and is now lighting one of his skinny black cigars. Tío looks up to see Art staring at him, nods his chin toward Don Pedro’s body and says, “You got what you wanted.”
“So did you.”
“Pues …” Tío shrugs. “Take your trophy.”
Art walks back to his Jeep and hauls out his rain poncho. He comes back and carefully rolls Don Pedro’s body up in it, then hefts the dead man in his arms. The old man feels like he weighs practically nothing.
Art carries him to the Jeep and lays him across the backseat.
Drives off to take the trophy back to base camp.
Condor, Phoenix, what’s the difference?
Hell is hell, whatever you name it.
A nightmare wakes Adán Barrera.
A booming, rhythmic bass.
He runs out of the hut to see giant dragonflies hovering in the sky. He blinks and they turn into helicopters.
Swooping down like vultures.
Then he hears shouting and the sounds of trucks and horses. Soldiers running, guns firing. He grabs a campesino and orders “Hide me!” and the man takes him into a hut, where Adán hides under the bed until the thatched roof bursts into flames and he runs out to face the bayonets of the soldiers.
A disaster—what the fuck is
Güero crouches deep on the car’s floor, his hands over his ears because the noise is incredible. The old man’s blood falls like soft rain on his hands, the side of his face, his back. Even over the roar of the rifles he can hear Don Pedro’s screams.
Like an old woman chasing a dog from the chicken coop.
A sound from his early childhood.
Finally it stops.
Güero waits for ten long moments of silence before he dares to get up.
When he does he sees the police emerge from the cover of the thick green brush. Behind him, Don Pedro’s five sicarios are slumped dead, blood running from the bullet holes in the side of their car like water from a downspout.
And beside him, Don Pedro.
The patrón’s mouth and one eye are open.
The other eye is gone.
His body looks like one of those cheap puzzles where you try to roll the little balls into the holes, except there are many, many more holes. And the old man is coated with shattered glass from the windshield, like spun sugar coating the groom on an expensive wedding cake.
Foolishly, Güero thinks of how angry Don Pedro would be at the damage to the Mercedes.
The car is ruined.
Art opens the car door, and the old man’s body falls out.
He’s amazed to see that the old man’s chest is still heaving with breath. If we can air-evac him out, Art thinks, there’s just a chance that—
Tío walks over, looks down at the body and says, “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”
He draws a .45 from his holster, points it at the back of the old patrón’s head, and pulls the trigger.
Don Pedro’s neck jerks off the ground, then drops again.
Tío looks at Art and says, “He reached for his gun.”
Art doesn’t answer.
“He reached for his gun,” Tío repeats. “They all did.”
Art looks around at the corpses strewn on the ground. The DFS troops are picking up the dead men’s weapons and firing into the air. Red flashes burst from the gun barrels.
This wasn’t an arrest, Art thinks, it was an execution.
The skinny blond driver crawls out of the car, kneels on the blood-soaked ground and puts his hands up. He’s trembling—Art can’t tell if it’s fear, or cold, or both. You’d be shaking, too, he tells himself, if you knew you were about to be executed.
Enough is fucking enough.
Art starts to step between Tío and the kneeling kid. “Tío—”
Tío says, “Levántate, Güero.”
The kid shakily gets to his feet. “Dios le bendiga, patrón.”
God bless you.
Patrón.
Boss.
Then Art gets it—this wasn’t an arrest or an execution.
It was an assassination.
He looks at Tío, who has holstered his pistol and is now lighting one of his skinny black cigars. Tío looks up to see Art staring at him, nods his chin toward Don Pedro’s body and says, “You got what you wanted.”
“So did you.”
“Pues …” Tío shrugs. “Take your trophy.”
Art walks back to his Jeep and hauls out his rain poncho. He comes back and carefully rolls Don Pedro’s body up in it, then hefts the dead man in his arms. The old man feels like he weighs practically nothing.
Art carries him to the Jeep and lays him across the backseat.
Drives off to take the trophy back to base camp.
Condor, Phoenix, what’s the difference?
Hell is hell, whatever you name it.
A nightmare wakes Adán Barrera.
A booming, rhythmic bass.
He runs out of the hut to see giant dragonflies hovering in the sky. He blinks and they turn into helicopters.
Swooping down like vultures.
Then he hears shouting and the sounds of trucks and horses. Soldiers running, guns firing. He grabs a campesino and orders “Hide me!” and the man takes him into a hut, where Adán hides under the bed until the thatched roof bursts into flames and he runs out to face the bayonets of the soldiers.
A disaster—what the fuck is
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