“Probably not,” Juan said.
They sat in silence for about ten minutes until the train passed over some rough spots in the tracks. The turbulence jostled the passengers around Juan and Sam, and complaints started to make their way through the train car. When they hit a particularly rough bump, Sam grunted and felt his lower back with his hand.
Juan looked ahead; they were approaching a tunnel.
“Can this bench be any narrower?” Sam grumbled. “My ass barely fits on it. Feels like I’m about to fall off the front every time we hit a damn bump.”
“Quit whining,” Juan said.
“Seriously. All they had to do was make the bottom come out just another couple inches, and people like me wouldn’t have any problems.”
“Yeah,” Juan said as if he didn’t want to fight.
“Yeah? Come on Paul, back me up here.”
Juan stood up. “Can you just stop complaining for one second? This isn’t a luxury train. And I’m sorry I can’t be who I used to be, but would you please stop whining? I’m really getting tired of your constant bad attitude.”
People’s heads turned to face Juan, and he had to step aside as a woman holding a young girl against her chest tried to walk past. The girl stared questioningly at Juan from over her mother’s shoulder.
“Is that really how you feel?” Sam said, not the least bit concerned if people were watching them. “You think I’m a whiner?”
“The worst,” Juan said.
The thuggish man sitting across from them watched with interest, his hand over the bulge of his gun.
Sam stood up, stooping a bit so his head wouldn’t hit the ceiling. “Got anything else to say?”
“Um. Your breath stinks?”
Sam clenched his fists.
The train was about to enter the tunnel when Juan shoved Sam back a step. Sam scoffed and raised his fist as the train entered the tunnel, the interior of the train car growing dark. There was a moment where everyone’s eyes needed to adjust to the darkness, and Juan and Sam seized it.
Sam’s palm flattened against the thuggish man’s forehead and slammed his head backward against the metal of the wall as Juan grabbed the gun from under the man’s shirt. With a soft moan, the thuggish man slumped over in his seat, and then the train was through the tunnel.
A middle-aged woman in a uniform approached Juan and Sam and urged them to take their seats, and they did.
Juan tilted his head at Sam while he watched the thuggish man’s body slumped back on the bench, his cap pulled over his eyes as if he were sleeping.
“Nice hit.”
“You get the gun?” Sam said.
“Yeah.” There was a pause, then, “I didn’t mean any of that stuff I said.”
“Me neither,” Sam said. “It was a good strategy. It worked.”
“Are we good, then?”
“We’re good.”
Juan noticed that one of the thuggish man’s shirt sleeves was rolled up just enough to reveal a faded tattoo on his skin. It appeared to be a crude image of an elephant’s head encircled by a snake trying to eat its tail.
“ELEPHAS?” Sam said.
“Looks like it.”
22
The Talk
Juan sat in Rockwell’s office at the joint ops center behind a desk cluttered with papers and folders. He’d been expecting a mouthful from Rockwell, but the man had mostly listened and said little. When Juan was done debriefing him on everything that had happened, Rockwell reclined back in his chair and closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he reached below his desk and drew out a whiskey bottle and two glasses. He poured whiskey in both and held one out to Juan, who shook his head. Rockwell poured the contents of Juan’s glass into his own and downed it. Although his eyes were red, his gaze focused easily on Juan. “ELEPHAS, eh?” he said, pouring himself another glass.
Juan nodded and told Rockwell about the man on the train with the elephant and snake tattoo.
Rockwell put his hand to his forehead, cursed under his breath, and threw back the whiskey.
“At least now I know what Paul was doing while he was undercover,” Juan said. “I just wish I knew how you’re connected to it.”
Rockwell reached for the bottle again, but then thought better of it and put it back into the drawer. “I thought it was just a myth. I hoped it was. This Kingsnake, though. Can you describe him again?”
“Large man in a black robe. Strong voice, walked with authority. Had white markings on the side of his hood.” Juan looked at Rockwell. “How are we going to write this up? I mean, Paul. And Anita. I can’t just put that in my after-action report.”
“No. I’ll . . . I’ll think of something. I’ll figure it out,” Rockwell said. His eyes were glazed over as if lost in thought.
“Well, look. I’ve got to type something up for my report.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Rockwell said. “I said I’ll figure something out.”
“What about Sam? He knows most of what happened.”
“I’ll have a talk with him after we’re done.”
“What about the team?”
“I don’t know. Lie. Say you hit your head.”
“Are you okay?” Juan said.
“Just a lot on my mind.”
“What about Paul?”
“What about him?”
“I thought you might know what to do. He’s obviously been injected with the ELEPHAS serum and needs a cure.”
Rockwell gave Juan a sober look. “The mission remains the same. You find Paul, and you bring him in. Then we’ll deal with fixing him up. One problem at a time.”
“Bring him in? If he comes at me, I might not be able to bring him in. He’s trying to kill me.”
“You’ll figure it out. Now send in Sam.”
As Juan left the office, he saw Rockwell stuff a few sticks of spearmint gum in his mouth.
Sam was not happy about how his talk with Rockwell was going. He wasn’t even sure the man was hearing what he was saying. Rockwell seemed lost in his own thoughts, as if he was trying to figure out a solution that only he could come up with. Finally, Sam stood up. “I’ve had enough of this.”
“Huh? What?”
At least Rockwell was paying attention now.
“I’ve had enough of you and Paul hiding stuff from me.”
Rockwell cocked an eyebrow. “Care to explain that, son?”
“Where to start? Oh, how about the fact that Paul is not Paul.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He’s just not. He’s my best friend. Don’t you think I’d be able to tell?”
“He’s been through some trauma,” Rockwell said. “The concussion . . .”
“Damn the concussion. I’ve seen my share of concussed people during my time in the service, and none of them are like Paul.”
“Every case is different. And doctors will even admit they don’t know everything about the brain. It’s a complex—”
“See, this is what I’m talking about. You’re always covering for Paul when he does or says something he wouldn’t say.”
“Because I vouch for him. If I say he’s Paul, he’s Paul.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Were the medical tests bullshit?” Rockwell said.
Sam looked Rockwell in the eyes, trying to determine if the man might be lying. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “You tell me.”
“Son, I don’t like where this conversation is heading.”
“And I don’t like the smell of alcohol on your breath.”
They stared at each other.
“What are you trying to say?” Rockwell said.
“I’m done with this team. Ever since Paul came back and I rejoined your crew, things have been wrong. You and Paul have some secret, and if I can’t be let in on it, then I’m gone. I don’t trust you anymore.”
Rockwell sighed. “Is that really how you feel?”
“It is.”
&nb
sp; “Fine.”
“You’re not going to fight to keep me?”
“It’s your life. A man has to make his own choices. I only ask that you consider staying until after the current business is resolved with the Vaquero trial and this ELEPHAS thing.”
“The trial, sure. This ELEPHAS thing . . . I can’t make any guarantees.”
Rockwell studied Sam for a few moments. “I understand.” He extended his hand. “I appreciate your candor and your hard work over the years. I’m sorry things haven’t been going well for you in your life—both in and out of your career.”
Sam shrugged. He didn’t need the man’s sympathy.
“What’s your future look like, then, if I may ask?” Rockwell asked.
“I’ll start by checking if there’s an open slot on my old team. Also, there’s plenty of freelance companies out there. I’ve got options.”
“Yes. I guess you do,” Rockwell said. “Are you going to tell the team?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Sam left.
23
The Account
Juan left the joint ops center at lunch to run an errand—at least, that’s what he told his team. It wasn’t a lie. He’d finally found a phone number for his accountant and had been able to arrange a face-to-face meeting. Juan had never actually met the accountant in person—he’d conducted all correspondence through email as Juan Santiago—so he hoped the meeting would go well.
“Diego, right? I must say, I almost didn’t come,” the lean man said from under his perfectly tailored suit. They were walking down a street in a wealthier part of Cartagena. Brightly colored apartment buildings lined one side of the street while high-end department stores made up the other side.
“Why not?” Juan said.
“I take my orders from Juan Santiago alone, and that business relationship has been severed.”
“Severed? What do you mean?”
The man kept looking over his shoulders. So far, Juan had seen no sign of Paul or the other mystery person who was stalking him.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve never met you before. Just because you appear to know a little about Mr. Santiago’s operations, I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“Juan Santiago sent me because his business is in turmoil at the moment.”
The man laughed, but not in a funny way. “That’s not how I interpreted the situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the Cayman account . . . He withdrew all the money.”
“What?”
“Didn’t Mr. Santiago tell you?”
“I am—” Juan started, but caught himself. “No. How?”
“He sent an email request as per our protocol. Coded, of course. He gave me another account to transfer it to.”
“All of it?” Juan said.
“Yes. Like the man requested—”
Juan took hold of the man’s suit in both hands and slammed him back against the store window they were walking past. A woman shopping for dresses looked up at them from inside the store and walked away. “He didn’t request that.”
“I’m telling you, he did. Now take your hands off me. I’ve got a family, and we’re about to go on a long holiday.”
The implications of him having no more money except for what he had on hand were almost too staggering to comprehend. In his Cayman account, Juan almost had enough saved up to buy a coffee plantation to retire to someday. He had enough so that the homeless of Cartagena would have money to support them indefinitely. All the time and energy he had invested in his business over the years . . . Was it all gone?
He adjusted his grip even tighter on the man’s shirt collar. “What about the families living on the streets that no longer have money to support themselves? To even just buy food each day? Or a roof over their heads?”
“I can’t help it if the boss changed his mind about his priorities,” the man said.
Juan huffed, trying to control his anger.
“Besides, those people should just get a job. They shouldn’t rely on the charity of other peop—”
The man’s words were strangled off as Juan pressed his forearm against the man’s throat, shoving him against the shop window.
“Hey now—”
“Not everyone gets born into a nice comfy life like you. Some people have to work for everything they have in life, and that’s hard to do when you start with nothing.”
“I understand, but geez . . . who do you think you are?” the man gasped.
“Juan Santiago did not withdraw the money. He sent me,” Juan said, “to figure out what happened.”
“I don’t see why he doesn’t come and ask me himself instead of sending a lackey like you.”
Juan looked down at his own disheveled appearance. He was wearing the clothing of a working man with a decent job but no excess of wealth. “He’s got other things to worry about,” Juan said, taking his arm away from the man. “You’re just one small part of the operation.”
“His operation is dead . . . He told me he’s moving to Venezuela to live a life of luxury. Who am I to question what he does with his money?”
“I can tell you that’s a lie,” Juan said, his voice rising. “The man barely touches the money himself. He doesn’t make a show of his wealth. He lives in an apartment . . .”
“You seem to know a lot about this man,” the accountant said carefully. “What do you think would happen if a man like you was taken in by the police? Would you rat out your boss?”
“No.”
“What if a business rival of his came to bribe you? Would you still not give him up?”
“No. He is a good man.”
“So you’d take lead? A bullet?”
“I wouldn’t get caught.”
“You know what I think?”
“What?” Juan said.
“I think maybe you are Juan Santiago.”
A homeless man who smelled of body odor and whiskey bumbled toward them, and Juan, fearing an assassin, spun out of the way just before the man stumbled against them. The accountant took the brunt of the impact, brushing off his suitcoat afterward and staring at Juan as if he was crazy. The homeless man muttered a drunken apology as he went on his way.
Juan turned back to face the accountant’s accusation. “That’s ridiculous.”
The man shrugged, and Juan wondered what he should do. He’d never been outed in public like that before. No one knew his identity besides Paul, Rockwell, and Georgi.
He could ruin any chance of starting the operation back up.
Juan realized his hand had gone to the gun under his shirt.
“Am I free to go, Mister? My son’s soccer game is this afternoon, and I’ve got to grab lunch and get a bunch done at the office still and pack for my holiday.”
Juan straightened up and took a deep breath. He didn’t want to do something he’d later regret, and besides, this man had served him well over the years and had never made a foolish financial decision with his assets. He’d simply been tricked by someone with enough technical prowess to hack into Juan’s email and figure out his method of contacting the man.
“Sorry. Yeah, go.”
“You got a family?” the man asked before turning.
“Family?” Juan said. Then, “No.”
“My advice is to find one. Or start your own. We all have to have people we can talk to. Of course, I’m a businessman and not a psychia . . . trist . . .”
The man reached up as if to feel his forehead, and then put his hand against the brick wall before sliding to the sidewalk. People started to gather around and point as Juan bent and checked for a pulse.
There was none.
Juan stood and eyed the street. He could see no visible markings anywhere on the dead man, and there was no reasonable explanation for such a fit guy to simply fall over dead on the sidewalk.
The homeless man.
Juan looked the way the homeless man had gone. He saw only a y
oung woman walking proudly down the street toward him. She was wearing pumps and a skimpy black blouse, a short skirt, and tights. Juan ran up to her.
“Get away,” the girl said as he approached, reaching into her purse.
“Did you see a homeless man come through here—aghh!”
Juan coughed and spat as he turned to the side and started to wipe the harsh liquid from his eyes and face. Now this was pepper spray.
“I will call the police if you don’t turn around right now.”
Juan blinked his eyes rapidly, unable to see. He took a step and stumbled down off the sidewalk and into the street. A car horn blared, and tires screeched right next to him. Juan felt the crunch of two vehicles colliding and then a fender bump into him, shoving him backward onto the sidewalk again. He lay there, carefully pressing against his hip and ribs to see if anything felt broken.
“Serves you right, pervert!” the woman said, and continued walking past him.
Juan continued to blink his eyes. He heard the woman’s clicking heels stop for just a moment.
Then she screamed.
24
Relief
“Damn, man. I don’t know what you think about curses, but being sprayed with pepper spray twice in one week . . .” CG said.
“Maybe I am cursed,” Juan said as he waited for the policeman that had responded to the scene to uncuff his wrists. He ran his fingers over his wrists where the cuffs had been latched over them. He had almost decided to run. What had he been thinking? Arguing with the accountant in front of everyone . . . There were more witnesses than he could count.
An unmarked police car pulled up, and Sam and Cali got out. Upon turning his head, Juan saw Rockwell still speaking with the woman who had called the police.
“That’s her?” Cali said as she walked up to where Juan stood. “She’s not even your type. Much too young. Why were you trying to get in her pants—”
“Very funny,” Juan said. “I didn’t try anything. I was asking her if she saw a homeless man who I think killed that man back there when she went all Chuck Norris and pepper sprayed me.”
The Colombian Rogue Page 16