by J. L. Curtis
“Try to keep them south of Cali. Let’s not tempt fate, okay?” There was a chorus of agreement, and John decided that was enough for the night. “Okay, I’m heading out. Somebody want to let me out? And make sure I have enough notice to get back when you go on a run, if I’m your backup.”
Hector followed him to the back door, “John, what if Pasquale doesn’t come back?”
John shook his head. “I don’t know. I just…don’t know.” With that, he stepped out the back door and disappeared into the night.
***
The next two months passed quietly, with the exception of the restaurant in Cali getting busier and busier and their moving five or six criollos a week from the ranch to the restaurant. A much thinner Pasquale finally returned in mid-November much to everyone’s relief. He was still fairly weak, so John didn’t put him back on the truck, letting him rebuild his strength. The deliveries of avgas started tapering off, as the last of the coca crop was processed and the team was getting frustrated, feeling they weren’t doing any good.
Pasquale had said he was ready to go back to work, and John decided this would be his last trip when Montoya picked him up early in the December darkness. Montoya asked, “Señor John, are you going to go home for Christmas?”
“I hope so. Depends on what is going on. What about y’all?”
Montoya cocked his head. “One never knows. We are, how you say, dedicated to the team until we are pulled back to our original jobs.”
They made small talk, and John was pouring the last cup of coffee from the thermos when they were almost through Popayan, coming up on the bridge at Rio Molino and the airport when traffic suddenly halted. Montoya had gotten cut off by a couple of cars, and they were three cars back from the truck when Hector came over the radio, “Lobo, it looks like a…not a roadblock, more like a…hijack? A BMW and big truck blocking the road. I see guns openly carried.”
John keyed the radio. “What? Are the Policia?”
“No uniforms. And they are pulling two girls out of a car and putting them in the back of the truck. I make it four…sicarios. Plus maybe one more guarding the back of the truck. It looks like the boss is standing behind the car on the right.”
Montoya asked, “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know what we can do at this point.” John reached over and picked up the De Lisle off of the floorboard, opened the bolt and ensured a round was in the chamber, then ran the bolt home and slipped the safety on. He keyed the radio. “Patron, what are the relative positions?”
“They are letting cars through after they take…valuables, or women. We are now three back. One behind the car on the right, one in front of the truck on the left, one with bags for each side of the car.”
John looked at Montoya. ‘How good a shot are you with a rifle?”
“I can hit what I am aiming at.”
“I figure we’re fifty yards back. Think you can take out a guy at fifty yards?”
Montoya shrugged. “If I can’t, you need to replace me.”
“Ah shit. Alright, here’s what we’re going to do.” He keyed the radio, “Patron, let us know when they come to your truck. You and Rojo will have to take those two, and Gordo and I will take the backers.”
“Si, Señor.” A minute later he heard, “We are next. Moving toward us now.”
John opened the back door, “Let’s go Gordo. Shoot, shovel, and shut up.” He heard a laugh from Montoya as he slid out of the back seat, pulling the De Lisle with him and flicking the safety off as he stood behind the door, seeing a man waving imperiously from behind the BMW. He laid the carbine over the top of the door and got a good sight picture, Head shot. Gotta put him down from the get go. And be ready to take out Hector’s guy if the .22 doesn’t work. He saw the bag man come to Hector’s side of the truck and jump up on the running board, then took up the slack in the trigger and continued pressing it. The thut and recoil, along with the man disappearing from view, had him running the bolt and swinging to take the bag man, even as he fell backward off the running board. Without even thinking about it, he was around the door and moving quickly up the line of cars, when he realized he hadn’t heard Montoya shoot. Just as he started to cuss, he heard two reports, one from a 1911, and one from an AK. By then he was all the way up by the truck and yelled, “On your right, Patron!” He moved up to the front fender, then laid the carbine across it, watching for any other sicarios, especially the supposed guard. Moments later, the fifth sicario came around the front of the big truck, rifle in hand, and John dropped him with a head shot.
He stalked forward, confirmed both the sicarios were dead, and moved to the back of the truck. He looked under the canvas, then ripped it down, scaring the half dozen women and girls cowering there. He quickly said in Spanish, “The bad men are gone. Get out and get away from here. I am going to push the car and truck out of the road. Vete. Vete!”
Walking back to the driver’s side, he got in, started the truck, and used the front bumper to push the BMW down the embankment toward the river. He opened the door and jumped as the truck started onto the shoulder, then jogged back to the Mercedes as he motioned the cars to get moving. He hopped back in and Montoya immediately stepped on the gas. “What did you do, Señor?”
John sighed. “I probably fucked up. I killed two men, freed the women and girls, and got the BMW and truck out of the road. But, I didn’t have my boonie hat on, so everybody saw the blond hair. So, people are gonna know there was a Caucasian involved in this little shoot up.” As Montoya sped up, he keyed the radio. “Patron, let us know if you see any more reaction or other…roadblocks. I don’t think the Policia are going to like this one bit.”
“Si, Señor. I might have left a calling card in the pocket of the one I shot when I got out and checked to make sure he was dead.”
Montoya burst out laughing at that, as John groaned and shook his head. The delivery went without a hitch, as did the drive back to Quito. Montoya dropped him a block from his apartment, and John crawled into bed, trying to figure out how to report this little evolution.
***
Three days later, John walked into Morgan’s office, to see Menendez sitting there at seven in the morning. “Is there something I should know?” He asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
Morgan laughed and pointed to the conference table. “You might want to read the headline from the Popayan rag.” Menendez shook his head, but smiled as John glanced at the headline- El Lobo Blanco Salva A mujeres Y NI-AS! Underneath that was a picture of the four bodies in the road, and a blurry picture of the playing card. John groaned as Morgan laughed again. “I don’t know where that playing card came from. Nope, not at all.”
John sat down suddenly, and looked at Menendez. “How much trouble am I in?”
Menendez smiled ruefully. “None from the organization, but this puts paid to you being here, I guess you know that. But I thought the description of you was interesting. Paragraph two, I think it is. It’s not right, but—"”
John turned the paper around and read silently, The tall, fit, blue eyed, crazy white man shot all the sicarios with what was described by one of the survivors as a blunderbuss, told them to run away, pushed the truck and car off the riverbank, then disappeared after he told the vehicles to get moving. “Well, it doesn’t look like the team was compromised, so I guess that is a good thing.”
Menendez nodded. “Yeah, at least in the interim, Felix is going to come back and take over for you. If we can’t get another American down here, who would you recommend take over?”
John thought for a minute, then said, “Carlos Montoya. I know he’s the new guy, but he’s also heavy into the intel side of things, and he’s also a shooter. He thinks before he acts, and it’s well thought out. Much as I hate to say that, he’s better than Hector or Fernando.”
Menendez sighed. “That’s not what I was expecting, but I’ll take that as a strong recommendation. How is Pasquale doing?”
“He’s back
in the cycle as of yesterday. He’s…still a little weak, but he’s desperate to get back into action. He feels he let the team down!”
“Wait, he got his ass shot up, killed what, eight? And he thinks he let the team down?”
John shrugged. “That’s what he says. I’ve told him otherwise, but I’m not sure I’m getting through.” John toyed with the paper, the asked, “If I can’t stay here, where am I going?”
Morgan smiled. “Told you he’d ask rather than demand.”
Menendez laughed. “Well, you’ve been here almost two years, and it was coming up on time to roll you out anyway. The head shed has decided a two year tour is long enough, otherwise some of the troops decide to…go native. There are slots at both EPIC and the border station at El Paso. EPIC would be desk work, supporting the intelligence collection side. The border station would be field work, combatting the smugglers.”
“Field work. I’ve never been happy sitting behind a desk.”
Morgan laughed again and held out his hand. “Pay me, sucker. It’s pretty sad when I know your troops better than you do.”
Grumbling, Menendez dug a twenty out of his wallet and passed it over. “How about three months at EPIC, then the border station? I think you’ll find that it will give you a better feel for what is available to you in the field, and maybe you can spot some trends or other things the analysts don’t see, since you’ve been in the field.”
John took a sip of coffee then sat the cup down and blew out a breath. “If that’s my option, I guess I’ll take it. If I’m now a wanted man, how am I supposed to get out of here?”
Morgan replied, “There will be… a C-130 through here day after tomorrow,” he handed John a list of times for various places. “They are bringing some of your old buddies back from an exercise down in Chile that just wrapped up. They will land here at fourteen hundred, gas and go to Howard in Panama, overnight, And then to Kelly as their first U.S. stop on the way back. How much stuff do you have?”
John shrugged. “Not a lot. Maybe two bags. Nothing but…clothes. And a nineteen-eleven.”
“You don’t want the De Lisle?”
John looked up. “What? I can’t—”
Menendez interrupted. “It needs to disappear. It came out of Midwest Arsenal, and it can’t go back. We can put all your stuff under diplomatic pouch, so you could take it, if you want it.” Morgan nodded with a smile. “And you’re probably the only person down here that can actually make that thing work, and take care of it. Besides, as Morgan said, it’s off the books anyway.”
John smiled for the first time that morning. “Thank you. I’ll leave the car for Felix, and I guess he can take over the apartment, too.” Picking up the sheet of paper he got up. “If you will excuse me, I need to make some calls.”
They both nodded as John left, and Morgan turned to Menendez. “I think he knew he was gone.”
Menendez nodded with a grimace. “Damn John and his honesty. If he hadn’t put that shootout in his report, it would have been overlooked, or a minor hand slap at best. I’m more worried about how his team is going to take it. He saves their asses, and gets sent home.”
Morgan chuckled. “Glad that’s your worry and not mine.”
***
That night, John met the rest of the team at the house for their weekly steak dinner and broke the news to them. Montoya had come up with a copy of the same paper from somewhere, and he sensed they had already figured out what was coming. They were happy that Felix was coming back, since he was a known entity, but they didn’t want John to leave. Pasquale was disconsolate, blaming himself for what had happened. Tearfully, he said, “Señor, my life is forfeit. Had I been back and able to serve—”
John interrupted him quickly. “That’s bullshit Pasquale. It was the luck of the draw. And if you forfeit your life, I will find your ass on the other side and haunt you forever for being stupid.”
Since the aguardiente was flowing freely, there were laughter and tears at John’s declaration, then they got down to serious drinking. John woke up on the couch about five in the morning, mouth tasting like an elephant had taken a dump in it, and staggered down the street to where he’d left his car. He managed to get back to the apartment without having a wreck, and collapsed in bed, only to be awakened two hours later by a phone call from Menendez telling him not to come to the embassy, and that he would be given a ride to the airport tomorrow.
He mumbled an answer, rolled over and went back to nursing his hangover, Gah! I know better than to drink that shit. I don’t know why I let them… Ah hell, I didn’t let them talk me into it, I voluntarily joined in. Dammit, I’m going to miss those guys. Truly the salt of the earth. I just hope they survive this mess down here.
The next day, Menendez picked him up at noon and took him to the FBO at Quito airport. Menendez was uncharacteristically quiet, and they sat in relative silence in the car until they saw the C-130 on final approach. He grabbed his two bags out of the trunk, and Menendez picked up the long cardboard box containing the De Lisle and the 1911, slapped a couple of diplomatic stickers on it, and followed him into the FBO lounge. Menendez finally smiled at John stopped dead, seeing Hector, Fernando, Pasquale, and Carlos sitting in the chairs. “They weren’t going to let you go without saying good-bye.”
John finally said, “But what about security? I mean—”
Fernando grinned. “Oh, Señor, did you not realize this is where we buy fuel? They are conveniently absent for a half hour.” He hugged John and mumbled something he took to be a blessing. Pasquale followed, almost crushing his ribs wordlessly, then Carlos Montoya stepped up. “Señor, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your trust and your leadership. That you accepted me on your team speaks well of you and your honesty and integrity.” Carlos stepped back and snapped a parade ground salute, holding it until John returned it. Hector simply shook hands. “John, may God go with you. I hope to see you again after this mess is all over.”
John smiled. “Thank you all. I cannot tell you how much your support and cooperation have meant, not only to me, but to those higher up,” he hooked a thumb at Menendez, “I leave you in Felix’s capable hands. If you ever need me, just get ahold of the John Ranch, Fort Stockton, Texas. I’ll be there for you.”
Menendez said, “Nice speech. You done good, John. And now your freedom bird awaits.”
***
The Christmas season was a happy one, with Amy more than pleased to get him back in one piece, and demonstrated her affection, much to Jack’s horror. They laughed as Jack routinely fled to his room, his blush lighting his way. Amy even said laughingly, “Hormones are a two way street. Jack’s horrified that mommy and daddy do what he’s started dreaming about.”
John laughed softly. “At least we’ll get to do this every weekend. I’m off Saturday and Sunday.”
Billy and Ana came over for New Year’s, and they let Jack go spend the night with one of his friends as they enjoyed steaks and a little bubbly at midnight. Billy was working his way through law school, and had already decided he was going to be a corporate attorney, saying that was where the money was. Ana was happily ensconced in the family restaurant, although sad she couldn’t practice medicine anymore. But she was ecstatic that Billy had bought her a piano for Christmas.
The holidays ended all too soon, and John left the afternoon of the 1st for El Paso, checked into the hotel he was going to use until he found an apartment, and showed up for work on the 2nd. After the usual drill of security checks, in briefings, and getting a badge made, he was finally escorted to the director’s office.
Director Abraham got up and came around the desk, “Agent John, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I understand you’re going to be a test case for us. You’re going to do a few months here, then go to the field station working the border.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pointing at the coffee table settee, he said, “Sit, sit. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, sir, black please.”
John sipped his coffee and thought before he answered. “Ah, how much latitude do I have to correct, shall we say, issues with interpretation?”
Abraham laughed. “Well, I’d prefer there not be blood on the floor afterwards. Oh, and one more thing, after your stint here, your TO is going to the field with you to learn that side of the program.”
“What?”
Abraham held up his hand. “I want to see if this will work. This kid is a damn good analyst, math major in college. He’s been through the basic course, and did well there. His mother is from Venezuela, and he grew up speaking both English and Spanish at home.”
John took another sip of coffee. “Uh, yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
The director’s phone rang, interrupting anything else he might have wanted to say. The director stood up. “Best of luck, Agent John, and again welcome home, and welcome aboard.”
John let himself out, and saw a young vaguely Hispanic looking man stand up and come toward him. “Agent John?” When he nodded the man stuck out his hand and continued, “Agent Grant. I’m supposed to be your training officer for the next couple of months. If you’re ready, I can show you the ops floor and the other areas.”
“My name’s John. But I can go by either John or John.”
Grant smiled. “Mine’s Bucky. And before you ask, my daddy was the mascot at Wisconsin back in the late forties. He was Bucky Badger, so I got named Bucky. Feel free to laugh.”