Gun

Enrique Perez was both nervous and excited as he stepped through the doorway of the cold and dimly lit garage of the Academy Bus Lines Company. His cousin, Wilfredo, entered behind him, checking out his surroundings like an animal searching for prey. Inside the garage, other members of the Latin Soldados were already looking around, checking for any surprises while the members of the Hoboken Irish gang, The Jackals, looked on. Enrique noticed the Jackals’ second in command, Liam Dillon, as well as the general of the Soldados, Roberto Cruz. Some of the men in his family, such as his now deceased uncle and grandfather, had been members of the main gang in Hoboken, New Jersey. The gang had made Hoboken its home since the late 70s. His father, though, was an exception. Emilio Perez was a hard-working man and pushed his ideals onto Enrique and his sister, Maritza, but Enrique saw the life that Willie had lived and the money that he had thrown around. A life of not having to bust his ass just to be middle class was extremely tempting for the teenager. The Academy garage on Jefferson Street was lit with the occasional florescent light. The company had planted itself in Hoboken back in the 1930s when the original owner was running his lone bus route. Academy’s ownership stayed in the family so that the great-grandson now ran things, bringing travelers from Hoboken to Jersey City, Union City, North Bergen and even providing charters to Atlantic City. The Soldados had made use of it from time to time, thanks to the not-so-agreeable manager of it. And being in the shadow of the Viaduct that led from Jersey City to Hoboken, it was out of the public eye. The only interruption was the recently created light rail train that went from the main station, behind the town and over to Lincoln Harbor. Wilfredo nodded his head to the side to guide Enrique to where he should stand and be quiet. Enrique kept silent and put down the bag that he had been told to hold. Wilfredo shook his head and looked down at the bag. Enrique got the hint and picked the bag back up. Standing there, quietly, he looked around. Against the wall where the side entrance was, stood rows of shelves. On the shelves were thin plastic bins, each holding a different screw or piece of machinery that helped to make the bus engines whole. Behind him, were scattered pallets of boxes and larger parts. Near the pallets were lifts for the buses so that the mechanics could work under the vehicles. Bus seats were lined against the opposite side of the grimy and cold garage. He noticed the strong scent of the three coffee companies directly across the side street of the garage. Robbie Cruz of the Latin Soldados walked over to Dillon and shook hands like two businessmen. It was strange for Enrique to see considering that they were both in gangs struggling to hold their own side in the riverside town. The Jackals made their entrance into Hoboken in the late 90s and at first, their appearance brought stress into Hoboken’s City Hall. It was bad enough that there was one gang in what is known as the Mile Square City, but both gangs managed to be civil and divided the town down the middle. It remained peaceful between them to this day. “Yo, s’up, D?” Cruz asked his competition. Dillon blew smoke out of the side of his mouth and shrugged. “I don't know about you, but I just want to get this over, so I can get back.” “I hear ya. Where is this guy?” Cruz turned and looked over at Wilfredo and Enrique. He jerked his head up slightly, giving the signal to bring the sport bags that they held over to him. Wilfredo and Enrique brought the two bags over and placed them on the long wood table between the two gangs. Roberto kept the bags on their side of the table while Dillon had his men bring their two bags over. “Who are they waiting for?” Enrique asked his cousin in a whisper. “Guy from out of town is bringing in a shipment of guns,” Wilfredo explained, “He’s going to auction them off to the highest bidder.” The two gangs stood there for two minutes, talking among themselves, before the door opened and a lone figure walked in. Enrique noticed that the man wore a suit that reminded him of the men he saw walking around Wall Street. He thought it was one of those Armani suits that he heard about so much. The aviator sunglasses and the NY Yankees ball cap stood out from it. “You the negotiator?” Dillon asked. “Yes and no,” the man answered. Cruz and Dillon looked at each other, trying to figure out his answer. “What the fuck’s that mean?” Cruz questioned him. Enrique saw Cruz’s hand duck under his shirt and grab hold of the gun in his waistband. He didn’t take it out, but he was ready to defend himself against the mystery man. “Yes, I set this meeting up and no, it was not to sell guns.” “What are you talking about?” One of the Jackals asked. “Who is this fool?” Wilfredo threw out there, interested in the outcome of the scene in front of him. “Call me Hermes,” the man said. “Herpes? Your name is Herpes?” joked a Jackal. The other gang members began laughing. Some pointed at the stranger and made faces. The stranger began to join in and laughed himself. His laugh overwhelmed the garage until his laughter turned into a coughing fit. He hunched over, the sunglasses falling off his face. Cruz took a step forward, wondering if the man was going to fall over and die on them. Then everything for Enrique happened in the blink of an eye. The stranger bolted up straight, in his hand was an automatic submachine gun. Enrique was surprised because the gun appeared out of thin air. Cruz, the closest to him, felt nothing as the first bullet from the Italian Spectre M4 travelled through his forehead and exited violently out of the back of his skull. The stranger moved with lightning speed, pulling the trigger over and over providing short bursts from the silencer attached to the front of the barrel. Gang members either fell to the concrete ground, dead, or scrambled for cover. But the man barely moved from his spot. When the gun’s clip was empty, it magically dropped to the ground and he slammed another clip in before the last one stopped bouncing. “Run!” Wilfredo told Enrique. Enrique’s body finally reacted, and he ducked behind one of the shelves. He turned around when he felt safe only to see Wilfredo’s body on the floor. Half of his face was gone. I have to get out of here, he thought, unable to fight back the urge to vomit. When he finished wiping the drool from his lip, Enrique used the noise of the guns expelling bullets to run from one stray pallet to another. Although he was curious as to who was left, he knew better than to look behind him, and his fear forced him to continue running away. He ducked behind a pallet of cardboard boxes and found a man on the ground, bleeding from the chest. It sounded as if he was breathing through the hole in his chest - it made Enrique cringe. He didn’t know the man but figured he was one of the Jackals. The man reached up at Enrique, looking for help. He gurgled something that the teen could not make out. Then Enrique saw the gun lying a few feet from the wounded man and his adrenaline took over, he grabbed the gun with both hands and turned around. A back door! The teen’s eyes glanced at his salvation, but he took the risk, running full speed to the door. He knew that just beyond it was freedom from the nightmare going on behind him. Not caring about the noise, it made, he threw himself into the door and it gave way, opening out into the cold darkness of the night. Snow was gently falling, a peaceful feel compared to what lie inside the garage.