The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set by Ernest Dempsey (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

Carina had informed Dak that this place was one of the fronts the Guerreros ran. A bar was an excellent choice when it came to moving both money and product. Enough cash changed hands to avoid raising any red flags, and bars all over the world were frequently used as transaction stations for moving small and sometimes medium amounts of drugs from cocaine to heroin.

The Guerreros cartel boss, Carlito Esparanza, was known to frequent the place, and they carried a special tequila that few other bars in the state could get. It just so happened, Dak was drinking that very tequila. He knew, of course, about Esparanza's affection for the drink, which was why he'd added on that last little dash of venom to his comments.

The first of the four men at the bar drew his weapon and held it at his side. The other three soon followed suit.

The bartender stuck to only flinging daggers from his eyes as he spoke. "You should leave, gringo. It's not polite to insult a barkeeper's tequila in Mexico."

Dak nodded, gave a sniff at the liquor, then took another sip. He swallowed, somewhat enjoying the sip, but not giving the bartender the satisfaction. He scowled at the drink and set it back down.

"You know what, I'm sorry I asked for another one." His words came out in a slur. "It's one of those things like when you taste something you know is probably good, but it isn't, and you think maybe it's because you just brushed your teeth. You know what I mean?"

"Callate!" the bartender blurted.

"He's right, gringo," the nearest man to Dak said. He hovered dangerously close. Dak kept up the drunken charade. "But it's too late for that. You should have shut up."

"He should have gone to another bar," another one said in Spanish.

"Yeah," the first agreed.

"I didn't like the other bars," Dak muttered.

"Doesn't sound like you like this one either, ese."

The four men surrounded Dak. The bartender crossed his arms as if he'd seen this play out a hundred times.

Dak looked at the first guy who took up a spot to his left. The gun hung loosely at the man's side. He was probably in his early twenties, maybe a year or two older. The others looked to be about the same.

"Is that a gun?" Dak asked. "It's so shiny." He did his best to sound completely hammered.

"Yeah. It is. And I think we're going to take you out back and use it on you."

The referee blew the whistle on the screen and issued a yellow card to one of the players for Club America.

"But then you'd miss the game," Dak groused.

He reached for the tequila glass again.

"We'll catch the highlights."

The man to his left reached out to grab Dak by the arm. That was a mistake.

Dak abruptly snatched the man's wrist, jerked him forward, and drove his elbow into the guy's throat. Still holding the tequila tumbler, he whirled around, ready for the attacker behind him to make his move.

The man didn't disappoint. He raised his weapon, but Dak spun and shattered the glass against the guy's skull.

A gash opened over the man's right eye and he staggered backward. Dak jerked the gun out of his hand, released the magazines, and ejected the round in the chamber within a second, then tossed the pistol to the other end of the room. The next two were slower, though still armed. Dak rushed them both as they pulled their pistols and readied to fire. He lunged at them, dropped to the ground, and slid between them, driving his fists into their groins like twin hammers.

The two men doubled over, groaning.

Dak popped up off the floor, grabbed each by the collar, and jumped down to the floor again, driving the back of the men's skulls into the hardened tile. They instantly lost consciousness and went limp, their weapons falling just as lifelessly at their sides.

Dak stood up straight as the first attacker continued to struggle to breathe. The other dabbed at the bleeding wound on the side of his head.

The bartender looked conflicted, his eyes darting from the cash register to Dak and back again.

Meanwhile, the three patrons at the booth merely sat in abject silence, as if watching a movie.

"You thinking about going for the shotgun under the register?" Dak asked.

The man licked his lips.

"Don't," Dak advised. "I'm not here for you. I'm not here for them, either. In fact, your tequila isn't all that bad. But I had to make sure I was in the right place."

The bartender seethed, breath coming out of his nostrils like an angry horse. "Right place?"

Dak nodded. "I'm looking for Carlito Esperanza. I have something he wants."

"And what would a vagabond American like you have to offer Carlito Esperanza?"

The voice came from behind him, at the booth.

Dak turned slowly and faced two more guns, one held by the woman, and the other by the guy across from her.

The man who'd issued the question sat with one arm around her shoulders, but he brandished no weapon.

"A way to get ahead of Dorado Aguilas."

Eleven

Uruapan

The man in the booth stared at Dak. Questions seeped out of his eyes.

He glanced around at his guards. Three of them were starting to recover. The one who'd been unconscious sat on his rear, eyes glazed over in a fog. The guy Dak punched in the neck had managed to loosen his airway. He breathed in desperate, relieved gasps, finally able to fill his lungs with precious air.

"You took out four of my men," the man said, "in less than thirty seconds."

Dak breathed easily as if he'd just walked to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. "To be fair," Dak said, looking around at the guards, "they're not very good."

The man blinked slowly. "Or perhaps you are better than most."

"Quisas," Dak said, agreeing in Spanish.

The man smirked and nodded slowly. "And you speak Spanish." He turned and took a sip of tequila from a glass on the