by Mark Mosley
We finally arrived. Cammie inspected my wound. “The cut is across your entire back, but it’s not terrible the whole way. There’s a spot about six inches long that I’ll have to close—should take two burns.”
I was too exhausted to curse. Sam brought water and poured it on the wound. Even that hurt. I didn’t know how I was going to handle what I knew came next. Cammie squatted and placed her knife in the fire. After a while, it started glowing. If I had the energy, I probably would’ve run into the ocean. She nodded to Danny, Austin, and Eric. They grabbed my arms and legs, and Sam shoved a stick into my mouth.
“I’m gonna count to three,” Cammie told me. “One,” and then she pressed the flat side of the red-hot blade onto my skin, holding it down for several seconds.
My skin sizzled like bacon in a pan, then I tasted wood as I bit the stick in pieces, screaming a string of expletives. When she took the knife off my wound, I cried, “You lying motherf—” and then blacked out.
Chapter 28
So yeah, it’s probably safe to say that I hold the record for getting knocked out on Convict Island. I’m a legend.
I woke up exactly where I’d passed out on January 11th. It was still dark, though the sun was working on making its appearance. Sam was by my side. The others were already up, talking about everything that had happened. Mitch walked by and told me, “You’re an idiot for going back to Mason’s,” then kept going.
He was right. One person I’d gone back for stabbed me in the back (literally), and the other was nowhere to be found, possibly dead. I sat up delicately. My wound felt tight, like it was going to rip open with a quick movement. Danny brought me food and water. “Adam’s a douche, huh?”
“Apparently.” I grimaced.
“Still up for today?” Sam asked. “Because I’ll leave you behind.” She winked. I didn’t think she was serious, but I wasn’t certain.
The camp packed for the journey. We divided our dynamite. Others carried embers from dead flames and kindling and bushy crap to start fires. Between me, Sam, Danny, Eric, Cammie, Mitch, and the others who I didn’t know well, there were fifteen of us that were going to try and nab the boat and screw over a drug lord.
As we headed to the location, Cammie slipped away from the group. “Gotta pick something up. See ya later.” She smiled and left.
Her separation wasn’t something we’d discussed, but not knowing where she was heading made me uneasy—I’d been betrayed once already. But Sam didn’t protest; maybe there was something in the works I’d missed while passed out.
We reached the marijuana field and hid in the brush. Miguel and his company beat us to the field, not surprisingly. They had the same setup we’d observed before, though this time there were more guards. The boat and seaplane were visible, but the beach was a football field’s length away.
Zigor patrolled and bossed other people around. Just like last time, Miguel and Mason were seated at a folding table. Mason looked better than when we’d last seen him—he was clearly treated for his stab wounds. His Bible sat on the table within arm’s reach. I made a mental note to throw that in the fire if I had the chance—hypocrite.
Miguel was shirtless with a weapon slung over his shoulder. He and Mason passed a bottle of alcohol back and forth, pouring the contents into small shot glasses on the table. Every now and then, Mason tipped his head back as if laughing at something Miguel said. If that bottle was full before they’d started, they had to be fairly smashed. I wondered if they were celebrating Mason’s final day on the island.
Zigor came to the table and slapped Mason on the back in a congratulatory kind of way. Trailing him was some guy with shiny short hair, sleeveless army-green shirt, and a spider-web tattoo that started at his funny bone and spun outwards to cover his entire elbow. He and Zigor pulled up wooden folding chairs and made themselves welcome at the table. Miguel and Mason passed over their shot glasses to their two devoted workers, who immediately filled and emptied several shots.
We crept back into the jungle outside of the field, unseen in the shadows and brush. We circled up and took knees in a huddle like a sports team. “Last reminder,” Sam pointed to six people, “you and your partner crawl into the field and start your fires.” She gestured to four others holding dynamite. “You go around to the northern part of the field. You south. You east. I’ll take the west.”
She’d be the furthest from the boat.
“Remember, we don’t throw the dynamite until we see all three fires started,” she added. “That should cause enough chaos for us to make a run for the boat. Jhalon, you head to Miguel’s bird and make it impossible to fly.”
I tipped the stick of dynamite I’d been spinning between my fingers in Sam’s direction. “Roger that.”
She addressed one of the guys I didn’t know. “And you—slip onto the boat and get it ready to ride.”
I waited for Sam to put our hands in together and yell Go Team!, but she didn’t. I was actually disappointed. Then she wrapped it up, “Questions? No? Alright. Break!”
I smiled.
When we returned, Mason and Miguel were nowhere to be seen. The table was empty—even Zigor and that other guy were gone. We dispersed like ghosts into mist, making our way silently to our designated areas, avoiding patrols and workers. It seemed like forever, but eventually I saw the first smoke reaching its fingers towards the sky.
Making my way to the seaplane, I stayed in the jungle beyond the field, peeking back periodically. A second fire started, followed by yells of surprise from the workers and guards. The third fire began, causing all the workers to look around and see what was happening. Zigor ran towards the northeastern blaze, hoping to catch some fire starters. Workers were directed towards other fires and started pulling up plants with the hope of preventing the flames from spreading and engulfing the entire field of marijuana plants.
Then chaos erupted. Dynamite exploded, sending earth and plants and sticks zipping through the air. The patrol began firing their weapons. Screams pierced the air, climbing louder than the crackling of the fires. More explosions. I hoped they weren’t using all the dynamite up at once—an urge that would be tough to keep in check when everything is going nuts.
I focused on my job: destroy the seaplane. It rested peacefully just off the beach where the water was more like a pond than an ocean. I thanked God it was close to the shore so I didn’t have to swim. It was turned away from the island, ready for a quick getaway. Fifty yards to the left was the boat—our escape. Row boats were on the beach, and men had been bustling about but then headed back into the field when they heard explosions, leaving me alone to approach the plane.
I waded out, heaving my suddenly heavy legs through the water, holding a stick of dynamite in one hand, careful to keep it dry since I didn’t know if water would prevent it from exploding. In my other hand was the hollow bamboo pole with a little ember inside for lighting the dynamite.
Reaching a window near the middle of the plane, I peeked inside. The walls and ceiling were curved with a thin layer of off-white carpet. A wall separated the cabin from the pilot area. On one side of the interior was a small workspace the size of a card table, accompanied by two equally little benches—one backing up to the wall that separated the two areas, and the other on the wall of the tail-end of the plane. There was a sofa that looked like it could pull out into a very small bed. Everything was white and bare. It didn’t look like anybody was inside.
I moved to the small door, which was closed. A little metal ladder was flipped out at the bottom of the entrance for easy access. I climbed up to the door, but as I reached for the handle, it swiftly flung open. I jumped back, almost falling off the ladder, but my instincts caused me to grab the side. I wished I had just fallen off the ladder, because reaching out from the plane were two thick hands that grabbed my shirt and hauled me inside.
We can state the obvious: I’m no James Bond. I’m no ninja. Hell, I’m no Steve Irwin. In less than twenty-four hours, I managed to get c
aught twice by the enemy—once in a net made for animals, and then at the doorstep of a plane. I suck.
I was thrown onto the couch, gracefully hitting my forehead on the window. I turned and saw Miguel ‘Overkill’. He was still shirtless, but he didn’t have his gun strap. Two knives were strapped to his leg with a Batman utility belt thing. He had a meticulously trimmed black goatee and long hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. One of his well-toned pecs was a badass tattoo of a wooden stake going into the temple of a faceless man. The other had a skeleton dressed in military garb pointing a rifle at the person looking at the tattoo.
“Well hey,” I said. My diarrhea of the mouth immediately kicked in on account of my terror. “Miguel, right? Heard a lot about ya. I’m Jhalon. Sweet tats. I like how you incorporated your gang name—The Splinters, or Las Astillas—into the symbolic one on your left boob with the giant splinter. It’s not often tattoos make you think like that. And the other boob’s art is pretty too with the gun pointed at your audience.”
Miguel’s arms weren’t huge, but they were muscular. He folded them across his chest, revealing more ink: the word exceso in cursive on one forearm, and the other had overkill in matching font. I waited for him to talk. But he didn’t move a muscle. Not in his face. Not in his arms or hands. Nothing. Ice cold. I nervously continued.
“And the forearms? Wow. I assume exceso is overkill in Spanish? That’s cool—now your nickname is bi-lingual.”
He was a statue. Then the statue finally moved. He uncrossed his arms, put his palms on his thighs, and bent to within two inches of my face. I pulled back, having received a full hit of alcoholic breath.
He whispered in halting English, bouncing between my language and his own. “My name is Miguel Altimirano, amigo.” He pointed to the stick of dynamite in my hand. “Tienes un palo de dinamita en la mano.” He gestured to the inside of the plane. “You boarded my plane.” He pointed outside. “Has prendido fuego a mi campo.”
Even his whisper intimidated me—who sounds tough and scary when whispering?
I built enough courage to answer his Spanglish. “Woah there, amigo. You kinda went in and out with your Spanish and your American. I think I heard something about dynamite.” I held up the stick of dynamite. “Guilty. That last part…something about setting fire to the fields?”
He shot out his right hand and grabbed my throat, his thumb and index finger putting pressure on my neck at the base of my jaw. “Clearly you don’t appreciate my tone,” I gurgled.
He turned my head and leaned in close. “I will cut off your limbs and tie them to the propellers on my trip home, then feed them to my dogs. Your head I will save and tape the eyes open so you can watch them feast.” He let go. “Was that clear for you?”
I massaged my neck. “There are several issues with that plan. For one, I doubt the plane would fly with my body parts tied to it. And do you even have rope to securely keep said parts from slipping off the propellers? Those things go super-fast. Also, I wouldn’t see your dogs eat me because I’d be dead. Just seems…I don’t know…overkill.” I snapped my fingers like I’d just figured something out. “Miguel, I see why you have such a nasty nickname! If you hope to change your reputation—”
“He never shuts up, does he?” Mason strolled out of the cockpit.
Why the hell didn’t I think there could be people hidden in the cockpit?
Still hampered by the knife wound, Mason moved slowly. And he was carrying that damn Bible again.
“No. His talk annoys me.” Miguel glared down at me. “Words spew from your mouth like vomit.” He looked at me but pointed to Mason. “I don’t like how you hurt my men. Has apuñalado a mi mano derecha.”
I put my hands up. “I wasn’t the one that hurt him. Somebody else poked him with a sharp object. Also, full disclosure, I have no idea what that last thing you said is. I think—”
He cut me off. “I am going to cut out your tongue and—”
“See?” I interrupted. “That’s what I’m talking about. The threat of cutting my tongue out is scary enough. No need for the whole overkill thing.”
The flash of anger in Miguel’s eyes alerted me I’d gone too far. He took one of the knives strapped to his thigh, grabbed my left wrist, and slammed my hand down on the table. Before I could look down, I heard a thunk! like someone just cut a raw carrot.
Overcome by a rush of pain like I’d never experienced, I dropped my dynamite and pulled my hand to my chest. I looked down and saw my pinkie resting on the table in blood, like a boat on a lake.
Chapter 29
Blinding pain. Absolute. Blinding. Pain. I’ve never claimed to be a tough guy, and I’m not about to lie. I screamed, clutching my hand to my body, squeezing it like a tourniquet. I’m not stupid—I knew I wouldn’t die, but I wanted to slow the bleeding.
Mason and Miguel stood like they were watching a street performer. They didn’t bother stopping my flailing about the cabin. Nor did they yell at me to shut up. They just avoided getting blood on themselves. Miguel wiped his blade clean and slowly put his knife in its holster. He picked up my pinkie and licked the severed end like he was cleaning off a spoon after finishing his ice cream. This sobered me. This dude was off.
I eventually sat. Miguel threw my pinkie at my chest and it landed pathetically on my lap. You’ve never experienced humility until someone throws one of your own, detached, body parts at you.
“I think a warning would’ve sufficed,” I said through gritted teeth, amazed I could even talk. “You kinda went from zero to a hundred at an obnoxious pace. There’s a middle ground you failed to reach.”
“I always liked you, Jhalon,” Mason said, like a father about to give his teen a life lesson. “But you got a mouth on ya. Now, your folks are out there causing a mighty big ruckus.”
I considered going all Breakfast Club on him and asking him to describe the ruckus, but the recent loss of my pinkie provided me with a brief appreciation for keeping my mouth shut.
Mason continued. “We just wanted to unload this cargo. We would not bother you until our next pickup—seven months from now.”
“We kill him,” Miguel intervened. “And his men. They do not live after this.”
Mason shrugged. “I tried, Jhalon. I really did. But if the head honcho says,” he made the slitting motion across his neck, “then there is nothing I can do for you.” He squatted to look me in the eye. “I just wish you had not been such a pain in the ass, Jhalon. You could have worked your way up—like me.”
“Like you? You mean kill someone and take their place?”
Mason chuckled. “I must confess: that was just luck. I did not realize what fortune killing that Mexican would bring me. But Miguel keeps his word. I worked hard for him, and now I am free. With this last pickup, I get to ride out of here.”
“I thought you already did. I saw you on the plane. Why’d you come back?”
He didn’t act surprised that I knew. “Miguel got me patched up after your attempted assassination. See? Miguel reciprocates loyalty. Because I am a man of my word, Jhalon, I returned to finish this job.” He put his hands up as if he just made some grand point. “Loyalty.”
Through the window, I saw Xavier, sneaking his way towards the door. Thank God. “Then what about Robbie?” I asked loudly so Xavier could hear what really happened. “Was he not loyal? What’d he do wrong?”
Mason considered for a second. “Robbie is the one that got away. I truly liked him. Appreciated him. But he was smart and I feared he had big ideas.”
“You got nervous. Because you’re a hypersensitive paranoid coward.”
He stiffened.
“The problem, Mason,” I continued, “is that your paranoia blinds you to reality. Robbie never had plans to thwart you. You’re just a psycho.”
He punched me. I cleverly blocked it with my face. A crunch reverberated through my body and my face erupted into a faucet as more blood spilled from my body, my nose pouring red like a faucet distributing Kool-Aid.
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What the hell was Xavier waiting for?
When the pain subsided, I asked, “How’d Robbie really die? You said it was The Solos, but you did it, didn’t you? Or you had one of your guys stab him.”
“Yes. I stabbed him.”
Xavier’s face appeared through the window, his face tightening and his eyebrows dropping in anger. Good.
“Robbie would not shut up about how we should work with The Solos like one big happy family on this crappy island. Just live in harmony.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I wanted out.”
“Everybody does. Robbie didn’t?”
Xavier crept closer to the ladder. I glanced at Miguel to make sure his attention was still on me. It was. “Robbie did not want to reach freedom the way I planned.”
I recalled Robbie’s note: Make the snake eat itself. So I conjured up some BS. “You mean like how you planned on killing Miguel to get off the island? He didn’t want to kill Miguel. But you did,” I lied.
Miguel, not surprisingly, looked to Mason quickly.
The thing about convicts, drug lords, any nefarious characters, is that they constantly see shadows in the light and knives in cloaks—real or imagined, threats are everywhere to them. And they take them seriously. I continued my false narrative, directing my comments to Miguel. “Ya see, Miguel, Mason talks loyalty. But he’s a coward and a traitor. He killed Robbie with no justification because he wants freedom and power. Mason’s the one that came up with the plan to take you out today. He’s a hell of an actor—clearly has you duped.”
Mason slapped me with his open hand. I grimaced then spat out more red fluid that should flow through my body, not from it.
“That’s right, Mason. Shut me up before I tell Miguel what’s really going on. How you made this plan to blow up his plane with him on it.”
“You will come up with any lie to save your own teeth,” Mason growled. “How dumb do you think Miguel is to believe such nonsense?”