“How long ago was this?”
He focused on the ceiling as he thought. “I stop working there six months ago.”
“Why did you quit?”
He shook his head. “I was, how you say... fired? Yes, fired, myself and all the other fence workers.”
“Why?” Heat asked.
“They tell us they don’t need us anymore. But the fence was not finished.” He leaned closer across the table, Armagnac sloshing about in his snifter as his hand shook. “There were many workers, from here and all over the Caribbean. We do all sorts of jobs, but we all fired after a few months.”
“Who hired you? How did you get there?” Max asked.
“One day, a well-dressed man came into this very bar looking for laborers, but he was very secretive. But the pay he offer! Well, a few of us decide to go with him. We sign up and next day flew to the island in a... What is it?” He snapped his fingers when the answer came to him. “Avion... no... plane. We work about three months on the fence, and then we told we not needed, even though we saw a plane full of new workers arrive that morning. They send us back here and order us never to speak of the island or our work there. One man, a drunkard”—
And what the fuck are you, exactly?
—“told stories of the island around town, flash his money to the girls, things like that. He disappear a few days later. No one knows what happen to him.”
Max finally sampled the Armagnac and realized what all the fuss was about. Beats the shit out of bourbon. Most bourbon, anyway. He turned his thoughts back to Leseur’s story. Sounds about right, rotate the construction crews so nobody learns too much about what’s going on. But why build a fence through a jungle? What are they protecting? “How many buildings were there?”
Leseur scratched his chin and ruminated. “There was the one I tell you about, made of concrete, and I see from afar another on the slope of the smaller hill. Just a glimpse through the trees. A chateau, perhaps.” He licked his lips, took another swig of Armagnac. “The rest of the money now... please?”
Max pulled off three more hundreds and pushed them his way. “Keep talking. We’ve heard rumors about hunters... Maybe even large animals.” Now we’ll see if you’re for real.
Leseur’s face drooped into an uneasy expression. “Oui... I have seen both.”
Max slapped his hand down atop Leseur’s as he tried to pull the money toward his pocket. “I’m not paying you for bullshit!”
“I am telling the truth!” he whispered. “I see terrible things there. Allow me to explain, please!”
Max considered it. Concentrate on the hunters. There might be some truth there.
Heat patted him on the leg and nodded earnestly when he looked over at her, imploring him silently to let Leseur continue.
“Fine, tell me.”
“There were gunshots now and then, about one day a week, but sometimes for two days. They tell us ignore it. Then one day I see a man, he was far down the fence line, a black man, maybe local. He throw himself at the fence—four meters high top with razor wire—and start to climb. Myself and some others move to help him, but the guards shoot bursts with their machineguns over our heads, threaten to shoot us if we run off. Then there was a gunshot, like a big rifle, fifty caliber. The man shake once, stay stuck to the fence a moment, then fall. Then the guards herd us into the jungle for a while. He was gone when we resume work. I have thought since about the man many times, where he come from. I know many local men go missing lately, but the papers say little about it.”
Fifty caliber, how would you know that? Leseur didn’t strike him as a firearms enthusiast, and France was not known for lenient gun laws, all of which Max assumed applied in Guiana.
Before he could ask, Heat said, “Please tell us about the animals you saw.”
“Their tracks were everywhere, three toes, anywhere from this big—” he held up a drink coaster “—to this.” He spread his hands two feet apart. “But mostly smaller.”
“Did you ever actually see one?” Max asked.
Leseur nodded. “Once, in the very early morning while I piss in the woods. A shadow of a creature with a huge head, standing on its back legs. Bigger than most men. Bigger than you, monsieur. Then it fled when the guards open fire. Often in the night they shoot bursts of fire to keep the beasts from our camp. The loud noise scare them away.”
Well what the fuck to make of that?
“You will see when you go, Antoine Claude Leseur is no liar.” Looking agitated now, Leseur tipped back his snifter and finished it off, then reached immediately for the bottle.
While he poured Heat asked, “Did you see anyone else on the island?”
“From far I see other men at the building site. Not workers but bosses—white men with clean clothes and haircuts, sometimes in suits and one time a... a physician coat.”
“A lab coat, you mean?” Max asked.
“Perhaps so, monsieur. But as I say they were far away.”
“Ever hear any names mentioned? Does the name Gideon Wilde sound familiar?”
Leseur shook his head. “Only the names of our guards.”
“Any other notable people that you remember?” Heat asked.
“I see no others, but... sometimes planes would fly over and land. Much nicer than the planes we fly in on... private planes.”
“Were your guards French troops?” Max asked.
“No... Or they didn’t wear the uniform. They dress in black fatigues. All carry submachine guns, pistols, stun guns to torture tired workers.”
Heat’s lips pulled back from her teeth. “That’s fucking barbaric.”
“One even use a whip, so he don’t have to come near us and dirty himself.”
“Getting back to the man you saw get shot,” Max said, “why did you say fifty caliber?”
He shrugged, spread his hands in a bewildered gesture. “Because this is what it sound like.”
“How would you know? Were you in the military?”
“Oui, for eight years.” He pulled up the short sleeve of his ratty button-down shirt and exposed a faded tattoo of the French flag above crossed rifles, with some French gibberish scrawled at the bottom. “Foreign Legion.”
“Really?” Leseur didn’t strike Max as military at all, let alone a Legionnaire. He had never worked with the Foreign Legion, but there was no denying their place in the world’s elite fighting forces. “What was your job?”
“Infantry man. Rifles, machineguns.”
“I get the idea. How long have you been out?”
He thought a moment. “About say fifteen years.”
“Were you ever in combat?”
The familiar grimace of a man who had seen things he wished he hadn’t flashed across Leseur’s features. “Oui.”
“Not something you’d do again?”
“I would... If necessary. On the island, many times I dream of taking a machinegun from the guards and killing them. Those men are bastards.”
“Have your vengeance on them,” Heat said.
Max shot her a pissed-off look. You need to shut up, like right now.
“I would. And gladly,” Leseur replied. “For five thousand dollars I go with you to the island. I guide you as best I can.”
Max gave Heat silent credit for planting the seed, for the more he considered it, the more it made sense. Leseur didn’t know much about the island overall but provided a wealth of information nonetheless. But can I trust him? Max doubted the present Leseur would be as effective as the Legionnaire of fifteen years past, either physically or mentally. Something’s off about him. Fidgety, like he’s on something other than alcohol... or perhaps off something he’s addicted to. But the price was definitely right. Five grand is a drop in the bucket, especially if he can get us around.
“Fine, you’re in,” Max finally said. “But you don’t
get paid until after the mission.”
Leseur looked elated at first, but his face fell after Max’s disclaimer. “But... might I receive half in advance?”
“No.”
Heat nudged him with her elbow, whispered, “Give him something up front for fuck’s sake.”
Max sighed. “Fine. Here’s the rest of your thousand bucks plus an extra thousand. The other four after the mission. Agreed?”
“Yes. That will be enough for now.”
“Good. I take it you’ll need weapons and gear too?”
“Yes. I have a gun, but it is a revolver. No good for this.”
“Not at all.” Max eyed up Leseur, estimated his size for a suit of camo and a plate carrier. He would call Ruddick in Suriname immediately after this and request the extra gear and weapons in the ammunition shipment due to arrive in two days.
“I thank you, Monsieur Adams, for this... opportunity.”
“My name is Max Ahlgren and don’t mention it. And do not disappoint me. Show up all fucked up and I’ll leave you behind. Understood?”
“Oui. I will be ready. Times have been hard since I lost the job on the island. I have been a burden on my family. This money will pay them back.”
And get you a few goodies as well. Max didn’t care what he might buy with the cash, so long as he brought his A-game to the field. If he didn’t, he would be considered expendable.
As Max handed him the money, he held onto his hand and pulled him closer. “Don’t speak of this meeting to anyone, and don’t you dare mention my name. Try to double cross us, and I’ll spread your guts from here to Brazil. Understood?”
“The secret is safe with me.”
“Good enough,” Max said as he and Heat stood, the meeting over. “We’ll be in touch later today. You work for me now.” He snatched the half-full bottle of Armagnac from the table. “So we’ll finish this after the mission.”
Though crestfallen when he watched Max steal the Armagnac, Leseur seemed somewhat amused in the aftermath. “Monsieur, you are a merciless and... disciplined task master.”
“Which is obviously what you need. Welcome back to the Legion.”
10
Three days later Heat joined Max to pick up Leseur in front of his hovel, which had obviously been cobbled together on the fly out of whatever building materials he could find. She chuckled when Leseur appeared in a clean button-down shirt tucked into a pair of brown trousers. A small shoulder bag hung around his neck.
She nudged Max. “Looks like he took your advice and cleaned up.”
“He already got the job; why he’s dressed for an interview, I have no idea.”
Leseur loaded up in the back seat. They pulled away from the shack and drove into the setting sun.
“Looking bushy tailed today, Leseur,” Max said from the driver’s seat.
“I am ready,” was the extent of Leseur’s response.
And Max figured he’d be a mess today. Guess he really wants his revenge.
“You ever do any tactical diving?” Max asked over his shoulder.
“No... but I scuba dive when I was young man.”
“Good.”
So that’s how we’ll infiltrate. Heat had dived before, years ago. I’m in good enough shape. Nothing I can’t handle.
About half an hour later they arrived at the airfield. A large, dark-blue helicopter stood parked outside the hangar where they would meet the rest of the team, all of whom had arrived yesterday. Max had met them at the airport alone and ensconced them in three different hotels. Heat had to give it to him; he’d done an excellent job coordinating logistics—assembling his men, picking up supplies, and procuring munitions and apparently scuba gear, along with uniforms for herself and Leseur. She couldn’t wait to get started. This was going to be one hell of a story.
As they passed the chopper, Max nodded to the pilot in the cockpit, an obscure shadow behind smoked, polarized glass. Heat assumed he was performing a pre-flight inspection.
They entered the closed hangar through a side door and found two men seated in plastic chairs against the wall. On the floor in front of each sat a camo military backpack with a cased rifle leaned against it. When Max and Heat entered, the two men broke off their conversation and stood. The blond one with the blue eyes and expensive haircut stood about six-two, a couple of inches taller than the redheaded man wearing the mil-spec glasses. She guessed them both to be about forty years old. Neither packed nearly the muscle mass of Max, but they appeared fit nonetheless.
Max introduced her to Flint Boswell, the blond, and Otto Christian, the redhead. From his diction and mannerisms Boswell came from money, likely old and definitely Southern. Christian spoke slowly, and Heat detected a backwoods twang in a few of his words, something he obviously tried to minimize.
They were cordial enough to Leseur, but his cool reception revealed misgivings about his presence. Of course she received roughly the same treatment. I guess I’m more the shape they’re used to rescuing. Despite his military background, Leseur didn’t look the part and thus didn’t fit in well. I hope for his sake he wasn’t bullshitting us.
“Where’s our last man?” Otto asked Max. All smiles, he looked pretty happy to be getting one more shot at the elusive Gideon Wilde.
“Probably still at his hotel, shoveling down one last steak for the road.”
“No, I’m right behind you.”
Startled, Heat turned to see a monolith of a man filling up the doorway, blocking the final few rays of daylight. Max had described Swift Carter to her in detail, but no verbal account could have prepared her for such a sight. Oddly, he kind of resembled Max—yeah, the Bizarro World version—though he stood slightly shorter and had even wider shoulders. Where Max possessed rugged features, Swift’s were merely blunt and indistinct, his muscles huge yet poorly defined. His face belonged on a bulldog, and a blacksmith could have beaten out some nice horseshoes atop his varnished gray flattop. The grunt from central casting.
“You gone all PC on us, Ahlgren?” Swift growled in a bass rumble when Max introduced Heat. “We got split tails on board now? And why the hell are you Heat, anyway? You look more like Ink to me.”
She didn’t deign to explain her name. “You should consider getting another tattoo. I know an artist who could ink you a brand-new face.”
“Ouch!” Otto barked out a hearty laugh.
Boswell nodded in approval. “Well played.”
“Yeah, you talk a good line of smack, Heat,” Swift said. “But we’ll see who’s laughing here in a few hours.” He turned to Leseur. “And who the hell is this twerp?”
“Antoine Leseur,” Max said. “He’s a local who worked on the island, used to be in the Foreign Legion. He’ll be our guide.”
“It is a... pleasure to meet you, monsieur.”
“Masseur? Sorry, I don’t do back rubs. You got a mouth full of marbles, Frenchy. What did you do in the Legion? Waiter at the officers’ club?”
At the racist overtone of that comment, Heat hissed, “Hey. That’s a bit insulting, don’t you think?”
“I haven’t noticed him thinking as of yet,” Boswell said.
“The wheels are always turning, Harvard.” Swift wagged a finger. “Never forget that.”
“I went to Duke, actually.”
“Too bad. We already got a Duke around here.”
“You could always try addressing people by their names, Swift,” Max said. “Now settle down so we can get started.”
“’Bout time and time is money” Swift put down his pack and a hard-sided case that must have held a very bulky weapon.
“What are you carrying these days?” Max asked him. “The old standby?”
“Yep, brought my sixty. Hope you have some belt ammo, or I’ll have to appropriate your rifle.”
“You’re golden on that.” Max turned to the
group. “Pull up a chair, people; let’s get started. Otto, grab Duke from outside.”
They set up their chairs in a semi-circle around a large dry-erase board covered with several large pieces of cardboard. Max took down the cardboard revealing a detailed drawing of the island, several smaller maps and photographs, and a mission timeline. Paws had finally come through, in a manner of speaking, by providing older satellite photos of the island from before it had been developed. He’d infiltrated the database of the Institut Géographique National in Paris. Even without the current structures, the pics revealed the dimensions of the island: about eight miles long and shaped roughly like a kidney bean, with a hill at either end and small airstrip in the center.
Otto returned with Duke Hodges, the smallest man in the group, even shorter than Leseur. He wore tattered jeans, a tank top and a tattoo on his forearm of the military unit he’d once flown for. A rakish looker with a full head of shining brown hair, Duke would have been attractive if not for his seventies pornstache. Ruins everything.
“Your taste in sidekicks has improved, Max,” Duke said as he shook hands with Heat, inclining his head slightly. “This one’s a lot cuter than LT.” Only Duke smiled. The other men looked confused, while Max only glowered at him. “Oh... Oh shit, man, sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Max said. “Let’s get down to business; I want to be airborne by 2300.
“We have two objectives on this mission. Primary: locate and rescue Josh Pierce, the son of Senator Linda Pierce. Secondary: locate Gideon Wilde and take him out once and for all, along with his research facility if possible. If you see him, shoot to kill. I’m not about to lose him again, and I don’t trust the International Criminal Court to adjudicate wisely.” Max highlighted both of their pictures with a laser pointer.
“Amen to that,” Otto said.
“We both have axes to grind with Wilde, Otto, but remember that locating and rescuing Pierce is our top priority.” Max picked up an envelope from a nearby table and pulled out a stack of photos. “These are your objectives. Memorize their faces.” He passed out headshots of Josh, then the last known pic of Wilde.
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