Resurrecting Midnight (8 page)

“Not you, Medianoche. I was talking to Señorita Raven.”

“Everything is settled, sir. For now.”

Medianoche said, “Get on your knees and thank Señor Rodríguez you didn’t end up with that pen coming out the back of your fucking skull. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

“Well, sir. You just started something I hope you can finish.”

“Arrogant bitch.”

“When I need to be. Most of the time I’m a just a regular diva, sir.”

“Diva is right. Dumb. Ignorant. Vulgar. Arrogant. A disgrace to your people.”

“My people?”

“That’s what I said, soldier.”

“I’m American. Those are my people.”

“You’ll never be a true American. Not North America. Not the U.S.”

“You’re one eye away from being invited to a camp sponsored by Stevie Wonder.”

Medianoche opened and closed his hands, made his knuckles pop. “That witty banter might work in a sitcom, but this ain’t a fucking sitcom. You will respect me. One more snappy comeback and the last sound you will hear will be the snapping of your pretty little neck.”

“Guess you expect me to kiss your ass. I’m not an ass kisser. I’ve never kissed ass. Well, once. He was cute. And I didn’t like the taste of ass, so I gave up ass kissing right away.”

He barked, “I’m not your goddamn equal, Señorita Raven.”

“And being seventeen points behind in the IQ department, you never will be, sir.”

“No matter what you scored, no matter what you think you know, I outrank you, soldier.”

“In the military. This ain’t the fucking military. Get off my case, Cyclops. If you lost that peeper in combat, yeah, I’d respect you and call you Sergeant Rock. You lost it over a piece of rental pussy? Shot by a kid in North Caro-fucking-lina? What kind of loser shit is that?”

Medianoche was about to go for her again. Rodríguez moved in between.

The Beast said, “Soldiers. Enough. Recess is over. Check your egos. Time to work.”

They left the edifice and paused at the security gate. The guard was a middle-aged
Porteño
dressed in a white shirt and black security pants, standard uniform, his coat black, like a parka. He saw them and a moment later handed each a black backpack. Then they were buzzed out of the premises, took to the narrow street lined with cars, taxis, businesses, and dog shit, turned right and marched into the coldness and the rain.

Señorita Raven hiked her backpack up on her shoulder and asked, “Smoke and flash?”

Señor Rodríguez answered, “I ordered stun and flash.”

“I’m partial to smoke, good for instant cover, good for distraction, good for decoy. Assholes always pop a few shots into a smoke and expose their position.”

“Good for confusion in small rooms with tangos in it.”

“Pop a smoke in, followed by a frag, they’ll get stuck against each other trying to escape.”

Medianoche led the team through a parking garage on the corner, connected with streets lined with cars, buses, and Radio Taxis. Medianoche marched a step in front of The Beast, led his warriors, the Book of Revelation come to life. The bringers of the end.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Capítulo 7

The Four Horsemen arrived like a hurricane battling an earthquake, contents of the backpacks removed, a combination of M84 stun grenades and flash grenades that exploded and disrupted their enemies’ senses, blinding and deafening their adversaries for six seconds as they moved in with precision, guns drawn, military force exerted on all who stood in their way, shooting the blind and deaf like they were sitting ducks. It sounded like a reenactment of the Buenos Aires civil war, a battle between the
unitarios
and
federales
.

Medianoche and the rest of The Horsemen moved like a tsunami, as if trained by notorious firms like Blackwater in both technique and ethics. They fired like they were renegades operating above the law, as if they were clearing the way for diplomats to come into Iraq, moved like they were deep inside Fallujah, on a mission to rescue hostages.

Blackwater was paid up to ten times more than government employees, and The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse made twenty times more than Blackwater.

To murder with impunity.

The seventh floor was a war zone.

A dozen bodyguards on the ground, a dozen left.

A battle ensued as the target fled the hallway, bullets flying as the man from Uruguay grabbed the black briefcase and ran. Gunfire in the darkness. Spanish screams. Shadows moving. Shadows running. Shadows shooting. More flash grenades.

Medianoche felt his heart racing. Life or death.

Then the generator kicked on.

Fluorescent lights revealed Spanish bodyguards who had been taken down, men dressed in all black, the gear of a Spanish militia. Pristine white walls and contemporary Spanish art were now stained in warm blood. Medianoche moved down the hallway. Señorita Raven moved with him, shooting anything that moved. Medianoche did the same, hoping the bitch caught one in the eye.

Señorita Raven, the arrogant soldier who ignored the pecking order. Medianoche fired on a shooter who had appeared off to Señorita Raven’s side, gun aimed at her head, about to take her out. Medianoche blew that sonofabitch’s head off, saved Señorita Raven’s life without thought, then moved on after the target.

He disliked her, but she was a soldier. His instinct was to protect The Four Horsemen.

His goddamn instinct was to protect a woman. A dumb, ignorant, vulgar, arrogant woman. A woman who had eyes that reminded him of the love he’d had in Montserrat.

Rodríguez popped one of the Uruguayan men in the leg. Then popped the other in his knee. Both went down in screams and pain. The third Uruguayan. The briefcase was in his goddamn hand. That was what the mission was all about. The third man panicked, abandoned his fallen comrades and ran off without his bodyguards, fled like a halfback taking off without his blockers. Medianoche went after the package. This was where he was the most alive.

They had been outnumbered six to one. Within thirty seconds, it had been two to one. Now, another thirty seconds later, it was an even fight.

He had seen the third Uruguayan take the briefcase and run through an emergency exit. Medianoche was up front, in the best position to capture the object. Señorita Raven, Señor Rodríguez, and The Beast covered Medianoche as he ran after the package. Behind him, flash grenades and gunfire.

The target fled down another hallway, ran past the elevators, and took the exit to the stairwell, sprinted to the exterior metal stairway above the Sanatorio Güemes building, the chase high over the intersection of Figueroa at Cabrera. Down below was a trail of headlights and taillights, nonstop on every avenue. Traffic down below headed at a northwest angle, the whole city in grids, mostly one-way streets.

He felt like he was too old to chase his prey. In a cold fucking rain. On a slippery metal stairway. In his younger days, that was the fun part, being a hungry lion chasing a gazelle through a storm. He had tracked and chased men across fields in the UK, across rooftops in Brazil, had chased prey through rivers and deserts.

He had lived for the chase.

Twenty years ago, the easy kill owned no thrill.

Now it pissed him off.

Anything extra pissed him off. Every day he was a little more impatient.

The contract ran like an animal.

Medianoche chased, refused to let his contract flee to safety.

The target ran up the goddamn stairs, went against gravity instead of running down. Medianoche gritted his teeth, anger rising as rain fell, frustration a raging storm. He didn’t know why the man from Uruguay ran upstairs. There was no escape. Unless there were others. But there were no gunshots. He didn’t know what was up there; he only knew that he couldn’t let that fucker get away.

The skies rumbled. Lightning flashed.

The target was almost on the thirteenth floor, maybe one hundred and fifty feet off the ground, high enough to look out over the rooftops and see the blackness of Rio de la Plata out in the distance, beyond the
rico
lives lounging in Palermo Chico, Recoleta, and Barrio Norte.

Medianoche was catching up with his target, less than a floor behind him. He saw that the man from Uruguay had stopped running, exhausted, and had begun crawling up the damp, metal stairs. When Medianoche caught up, he removed his earplugs and stood over his target, winded, rain dripping down over his fedora as he raised his gun, listening for sounds, teeth gritted as he searched for shadows above him, ready to fire on anything moving, then did the same behind him, before realizing they were alone. Just him, the man from Uruguay, the shadows, the sound from the rain, noises from the streets below.

His target panted, trembled, got his breath, and managed to say, “
Los Cuatro Jinetes
.”

Medianoche nodded.
Cuatro Jinetes
. Four Horsemen.

The Uruguayans knew who they were.

The man panted, “
Los Cuatro Jinetes del Apocalipsis
.”

Again Medianoche nodded. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

The man from Uruguay pointed at him and said, “Medianoche.”

The man knew who he was.

“
Sí
.” He adjusted the patch on his eye and nodded. “Medianoche.”

In Germany he was Mitternacht. In Italy, Mezzanotte. Along the Scandinavian Peninsula in northern Europe, in Sweden, he was Mid natt. Hours away from where he stood, in Brazil, he was Meia-noite. So many ways to say the same word, to feel horror because of one name.

In North America, in Estados Unidos, he had been called Midnight.

A man known for his preternatural talent in the field of assassinations.

The man from Uruguay begged for his life. “
Por favor, no me mates
.”

Medianoche asked the man how he knew the Horsemen were coming. Asked if there had been a phone call. The man nodded. He asked the man who had called him, who had warned him. The man wouldn’t say.

Medianoche put the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple. Lips loosened.

The man said he didn’t know. He wasn’t the one who took the call. Said they had come over from Colonia on a high-speed Buquebus they had rented and were the only passengers, had arrived in Puerto Madero less than four hours ago, told Medianoche that no one was supposed to know they were in Buenos Aires. Yet someone had known their every move.

He asked the man why he was running up the stairs.

The man said he didn’t know, said the explosions had left him disoriented, confused.

Medianoche didn’t believe him.

Next to his target was what had been weighing him down. A black briefcase. It was the briefcase their client wanted. A briefcase their client had paid plenty of money to obtain by the next sunrise. The man from Uruguay yelled, said the package would do them no good, said there were two parts to the package, and one part was no good without the other.

Medianoche didn’t give a fuck. The mission was to retrieve the package.

He picked up the briefcase. Mission accomplished.

Then he grunted and reached for the Uruguayan, told the bastard to come with him.

The man was terrified.

The man from Uruguay got his wind and leaped at him. Medianoche was caught off guard. The man punched him in the face, the blow intended for his good eye.

Medianoche took the blow and frowned. He had seen battles in many lands, hand gone hand to hand with many men, had taken blows that could put a rampaging bull into a permanent sleep. Had survived being shot in his head. Not even Death had succeeded at claiming him.

Being hit like that was an insult. Like being slapped by a teenaged girl.

Medianoche cursed in English and dropped the briefcase, then reached his scarred and veined hands out and grabbed the target. He slipped on the metal stairs, lost his grip on the man from Uruguay, and struggled for his balance, but the momentum was too great. Gravity pulled, yanked him downward. He and the man from Uruguay tumbled. Medianoche pulled the malnourished target underneath him, rode the thin man down the flight of stairs, the ride bumpy and ugly. When the ride was over, Medianoche saw that they were both near the briefcase. Medianoche threw his elbow into the man’s face, hit him over and over, then pushed him down another flight of stairs, sent him headfirst, let him ragdoll down to the next level. Medianoche picked up the briefcase and walked down the stairs, put the briefcase down again, within arm’s reach, and went through the man’s pockets, found his cell phone and put that inside his own pocket.

The man from Uruguay was unarmed. He was not a threat.

But he had information.

Medianoche grabbed the man by his collar and picked up the briefcase, headed down the stairs, dragging the man from Uruguay, his prisoner battered and bruised, in agony, yelling that his employers would kill him, would murder his family, would slaughter his friends for losing the briefcase. Medianoche didn’t give a fuck, not his problem. He didn’t have a family to lose. The man from Uruguay tugged, slipped out of his coat, then hit Medianoche with his fist. It was like a child striking an adult. Medianoche cursed, put the briefcase down, then grabbed the man and lifted his two hundred pounds up over his head.

The man from Uruguay kicked and clawed.

Medianoche grunted and held the man from Uruguay over his head, the task taking more energy and effort than it did ten years ago. Cloaked by darkness, the target’s scream was muffled by rain and thunder. The man from Uruguay was slammed back onto the metal stairs, his body turning, once again flailing, his long legs moving like he was trying to run on the molecules that made up air.