"I don't recall you being a standout armorer, Shepard. This gun shot good when we tested it. I don't see any reason for you ripping into it. Just clean it a little. Spray on some gun oil and put it away."
Bravo said, "This is a Mossberg 500 with its barrel sawed off to twenty-inches, Byrne. It will always function, and it is simple to breakdown—if you have skills like mine.
"I'll take care of our ONLY weapon. You work on your plan to get us safely out of this river with that speedboat climbing our transom."
Bravo stressed the ONLY. Don Byrne expected that no matter how well they succeeded, he would hear the same complaining from Shepard for the rest of their days.
Hell, worrying about looking suspicious to customs inspectors, he had barely thought about pirates. He was guilty as charged.
Byrne said, "Load with double or single ought buck, Bravo. If we shoot we want something to go down."
When he was finished cleaning, mostly with US Army gun oil, Byrne noted, Shepard filled the shotgun's magazine with double ought shells. He pumped the action feeding each shell through, making sure they fed and ejected properly. Bravo reloaded and operated the action, chambering one round. Then he topped off the magazine with a final shell and checked to make sure the safety was on.
Satisfied, Bravo slid the short-barreled gun into one of the balloon filled sailbags and closed the zipper.
Chapter 8
Wondering if both johnboat and wharf might not float away in the sluggish current, Bravo hooked a line to the rickety dock below the bridge. As Byrne stopped their engine and tipped it from the murky water, he hopped onto the flimsy structure.
Bravo felt the decrepit dock tremble. He turned to Alpha.
"I'm going to throw another line around this tree, Don. This is not the sturdiest marina we have ever put into."
They had assembled their hauling cart during the last miles of river travel, and Byrne rolled it onto the dock making sure that a wheel did not drop through one of the wide, between-boards cracks. He began handing balloon-filled sailbags onto the dock, and Bravo was ready to stack them within the cart. The top bag held the shotgun, and Bravo unzipped it— just in case.
Byrne pulled an ignition wire from the engine's sparkplug. That should delay anyone intent on stealing their boat. Everyone in Mexico was not a thief, but encountering one at this point could prove devastating.
Their two-day journey up the river had proven uneventful—for which both men were grateful. The boat travel had been relaxing, perhaps boring, with only occasional need to appear to be fishing. Byrne and Shepard were rested and anxious to get ashore and recover the money packs.
Their next tasks were to haul their two-wheeled cart up to the road, to cross the bridge, and to proceed to the turn off where Alpha had dumped the moneybags—simple enough, if they were not interfered with.
Bravo muttered that he would still like to have a pistol handy, and Alpha agreed—too late. They grabbed the towing bar and began dragging the light cart up the rugged path to road level.
At the top, they peered up and down the hole-pocked road. Bravo said, "All clear for the moment, and they sure haven't done any maintenance on this trace since we were last here."
Alpha began moving the cart along the road.
"Who cares? We want an empty road. Being neglected like this should mean that few come this way."
It was a short downhill to the bridge, and Alpha did all of the pulling. Stepping onto the bridge planks gave him a slight shiver.
"God, this thing doesn't feel as if it could have held anything as heavy as that Mercedes." He pondered. "Worn out planking and no safety rails at all. I hit this bridge so anxious that I didn't think about the thing collapsing under me."
The road slanted up for a short way beyond the bridge, and Bravo lent a hand pulling the cart.
"How far is this turn off, Donny? It's hotter than the hinges of hell. I'm already sweating like an ox, and a whole army is likely to come around the bend any instant."
Alpha was unsympathetic. "It isn't far, and you need to sweat. I've noticed fat around your belly, but I didn't want to mention it. As for an army, we are just a pair of ignorant gringos on our way to the nearest village to stock up on foodstuffs."
"What village, Alpha? There wasn't anything showing on the map."
"There is always a village. People live out here, and they have to have a bodega or some sort of trading post within walking distance."
They moved a hundred yards before Bravo grumbled, "I'll bet the village is the other way on the road. We'll be in a Mexican dungeon within hours."
Alpha said, "It'll be cool in there. You will like it."
The dirt side road appeared on schedule, and they turned into it with relief. Alpha moved faster.
"Luck is going our way. We've got less than a half a mile to go. Let's get beyond view of the main road right now." Bravo pushed on the cart's tailgate rumbling it along at a swift walk.
Alpha saw the dead tree poking its broken trunk above the jagged thorn thickets. "There's the tree, and the bags will be almost under it." His voice sounded relieved. There really could have been fire or some improbable brush clearing.
Bravo studied the intervening thorns with trepidation. "It'll take two days to cut through that tangle."
Alpha responded. "It will take an hour, if you get your back into it." Still, the thicket was ancient with finger-thick ropes of vines intertwined like a Gordian knot.
They parked the cart opposite the ruined tree and attacked the spiny growth with both of their tools. Alpha used long-handled limb trimmers. Bravo had a machete.
It was worse than Alpha had remembered. A chain saw would have helped. Sweat dripped, then ran in rivers. Needle-like thorns stabbed, and many had barbs. Progress was in inches because each severed vine was thoroughly wrapped by others and needed a dozen cuts to begin to loosen. When a thorn encrusted length of vine was freed, Alpha had to cut it into short sections to heave aside, allowing them room to edge ahead.
They lasted a half hour then gasped to an unspoken halt to survey their limited progress.
Alpha said, "Let's forget it, and just go home."
Bravo's laughter was pure irony. "Look, Byrne, you are the idiot who threw the bags a mile into the jungle, so don't be talking about not getting them." He added, "Let's switch tools before our hands wear out. As sure as I am learning to hate brush cutting, we are going to end up with huge blisters."
They went back to cutting, chopping, and swearing. Bravo claimed he was bleeding to death from thorn punctures. Alpha speculated that the many pricks and slashes were slowly poisoning them, but the hole in the brush got deeper, and when they could, they got the cart in behind them where it would not be seen sitting in the middle of the road.
The morning passed in struggle and misery. The sun was at high noon when Alpha said, "I can see the bags, Tommy. They look in good shape."
Bravo's question displayed his feelings. "How much longer?"
Alpha's estimate was encouraging. "Maybe half an hour, pardner, maybe less. If I can make a hole to crawl through, I can throw the bags out to you."
Bravo's voice was lighter. "Now that's a sensible plan. Start hacking again." Alpha did.
Six of the bags were strong and appeared able to stand another throw. The seventh was badly ripped, and money was strewn about. Standing in the middle of millions of dollars, Alpha found his voice a bit coarse. There really was a mountain of money, and wealth affected everyone—Byrne was discovering.
Alpha said, "The best way will be for you to throw me the empty bag. I'll fill it with the loose money and throw it back out to you. You can be busting the balloons in the other bags. That will take a few minutes, but the next six bags will go fast—as long as we don't hang them up in these pickers on the way out."
The money went into the cart as planned with the shotgun in the torn-money sailbag, but crawling out, Alpha became seriously stuck in the small tunnel he had opened. After minutes of battling cli
nging and piercing thorns, Bravo got in as close as possible and clipped more vines until Byrne could free himself.
Finally clear, they wasted no time resting, treating their many punctures and scratches, or attempting to disguise the great gash in the jungle.
Although much heavier, the cart moved well, and the team headed back to the main road. Their talk was limited but Bravo asked, "Did you leave any money in the jungle, Don?"
Alpha's answer was confident. "Not a dollar, Pardner. No one will know why that trail was chopped in to that tree. The bills are in packets of about ten thousand dollars' worth each, I would guess. They were easy to gather, and most stayed in the plastic bag, anyway."
At the main road, they again peered each way. The bridge could not be seen because of the road's swell, but nothing showed in either direction, and they moved swiftly back the way they had come.
The bridge was just coming into view, when Bravo said, "By God, we are going to make it."
Then they saw the figures struggling almost at bridge center—one flat on his face, the other using his feet on the downed man.
The Americans were seen as soon as they saw. The man doing the kicking looked their way, and flipped his slung Kalashnikov rifle into both hands. It was too late to hunt cover or retreat. Alpha forced himself to keep pushing the burdened cart.
Alpha said, "Oh hell!"
The bridge held two small men. One was an obviously poor peasant, and the man kicking him around had the rifle. Bravo plastered an idiotic smile on his face and softly asked, "Do you see any more?"
Alpha's eyes were already searching the surrounding jungle. "I don't see any." His lips tightened. "I hope there aren't a dozen or more down below checking out our boat."
Bravo groaned. Then he said, "We'll have to take him, Don. He won't just let us go by."
Alpha did not nod, but he answered. "Let's spin the cart around. I'll pretend to be holding it back. When he stops us, I'll step to the side. If he turns toward me, drop him."
Bravo laughed aloud, but Byrne could hear the tension in his voice, "And if he doesn't turn?"
Alpha was aware of his own heart rate jumping. "Why then, just shoot him anyway."
Bravo repeated their main concern. "I hope his pals aren't taking a break just up the road."
They were close, but Alpha wanted them right on top of the guy. Bravo's shotgun had no choke, and it would spread the buckshot widely. Closer would put more into the target.
He spun the cart around and pretended to lean back against the pull of its weight. Bravo walked alongside, his hand brushing a sideboard. Alpha wished his partner would quit grinning so broadly. It looked phony—as though it had been plastered onto his face.
Byrne figured the armed man was some sort of guerilla. He had no identifiable uniform, and he showed only the single magazine in his rifle. Alpha wondered how many rounds he might actually have in the magazine? More than he would need in this firefight, Byrne expected.
Incredible! As cold as ice they intended to kill a man they had never laid eyes on before. The guerilla probably needed shooting, but they weren't even considering that detail. The poor slob was in their way, so he would be dropped in his tracks—unless it all went wrong. Then it would be Byrne and Shepard, two fatheads who got in beyond their abilities, dying here on this godforsaken wreck of a bridge.
Not for the first time, Alpha's mind asked, "Who in hell do we think we are?" The answer was always the same—two ordinary guys willing to do what they thought necessary, or was it whatever they wanted to do—necessary or not? Two idiots, Alpha's sensibilities told him, who were too often involved far deeper than they were supposed to be. The self-doubts passed as they always did, and Alpha studied their current problem.
The peasant huddled almost beneath the armed guerilla's feet, but he would not be in this fight. There was blood on the planking, and Alpha figured it came from the peasant's battered head. The man had his face buried against the planking and was gripping his body to protect from kicks as much as he could.
The rifleman stepped away from his victim and raised his left hand indicating stop. His hard eyes were glued to Alpha's face—which pleased both Americans. When Bravo moved, it would have to be fast. Alpha suddenly wondered if Bravo had a round chambered in the pump gun and if the safety was off or on? Chee!
Making his features confused, Alpha gained more ground by making work of dragging the cart to a halt and stepping widely clear of the push bar with his hands rising above his head. The guerilla's eyes stayed on him, and Alpha fought to keep from looking toward Bravo. He was pleased to detect a contemptuous sneer on the guerilla's features. Well, they did appear harmless with no guns showing, and who worried about gringos anyway?
Still, it seemed an eternity before the bandit's eyes jerked away, and his face twisted in shock and astonishment. The Kalashnikov began to swing toward Bravo, and Alpha started for the gun holder.
Then Bravo's shotgun roared.
Bravo's buckshot struck high on the rifle wielder's chest. They ripped the rifle away and tore into his unprotected body.
Alpha heard the pump shotgun's action work, and the bandit's collapse had barely begun when Bravo drove a second double-0 load into the almost dead man's body. This one struck a bit lower, and if any life had been present it was driven away forever.
The Kalashnikov rifle had fallen onto the planking, and Byrne wanted that rifle almost as much as he hungered for his next breath. He snatched the weapon from the planking and immediately popped the magazine to determine how many rounds he had available. A lot, he judged— probably a full magazine.
The rifle's safety was off, so he flicked it on. A Kalashnikov was a machine gun, and worn rifles had been known to unexpectedly become full automatic or fire without the trigger being touched. Old guns could do strange things, and this one had just been hammered by one or more buckshot. Kalashnikov's were tough. Byrne judged this one would still shoot.
Alpha again studied the road and surrounding jungle. Nothing showed and nothing moved. He turned to the dead man.
Bravo stood over the body his shaking fingers stuffing live shells into the Mossberg's magazine tube. His eyes were on the kicked and beaten peasant—who had moved not a hair. The man clearly wanted no part in this firefight.
Bravo toed the beaten man to his feet while Alpha found the empty shotgun shells and flipped them over the bridge edge. In a moment, the dead guerilla would follow.
The beaten peasant did not raise his eyes above their knees, but he appeared steady on his feet, and although his face and head were bloody, his wounds were not leaking badly.
Alpha's side pocket held coins—change from larger purchases. He grabbed all that his fingers encountered and shoved the coins into the beaten man's single pocket. He would have given the poor devil a few hundred-dollar bills, but they would be far too much money for a poor man to possess and would only cause him misery. This way, the peasant might wisely know nothing about a dead guerilla or the Americanos that shot him.
Alpha turned the peasant so that he faced across the bridge. He was interested to see which way the peasant chose to march.
Alpha said, "Vaya con Dios, hombre."
The man stood unmoving until Bravo nudged him with the shotgun. Then he turned and trudged past the cart and off the bridge.
Bravo said, "He still expects to get a bullet in the back."
This jungle area was brutal to all things, and Alpha agreed.
"I'm glad he is going that way. It is a long way to anything civilized, I think."
They turned their attention to the dead guerilla. Alpha said, "Let's get him over the side before he bleeds all over the bridge."
They got grips and levered the slack form to the bridge edge. Bravo paused, and said, "Maybe we should search him for intelligence materials, Pardner."
Alpha snorted. "Yeah, like secret maps and battle plans. You're nuts, Shepard. Heave him over"—and they did.
Alpha had not forgotten Bravo's shaking
fingers. His partner had not taken the shooting lightly, but his return to grisly humor indicated that Bravo had his emotions in hand.
There was blood, and they hastily scuffed dirt around until little was noticeable. Bravo said, "If anybody sees it, they will think someone gutted a fish."
Alpha was in a hurry. "Fine, let's get off this bridge and down to our boat. What we need now is a lot of distance."
He grinned to himself and added aloud, "I hope that peasant doesn't happen onto a motorized Mexican army patrol. He might just . . ."
Bravo groaned, "Now I remember why I never liked serving with you Byrne," and they hustled the cart across the bridge and followed it downhill to the wharf with their boat tied alongside.
They worked silently. Byrne reattached the ignition wire, and Bravo heaved the seven sailbags into the boat bottom. He edged the cart to the boat's gunnel, and together they planted it atop the moneybags.
Bravo untied the boat, and Alpha cranked the engine. The worn motor's gassy rumble was music to their heightened senses, and Alpha eased on the throttle heading them out into the river.
Sitting backward, Bravo watched the bridge for activity. All appeared empty of life—including the guerilla's body that floated soddenly face down in the current.
Bravo said "Oh hell," and pointed out the floater.
He added, "That thing is going to follow us all the way to the sea. Get alongside, and I'll drag him. When we get around the bend and out of sight we can pull him ashore where he won't be visible."
Little disturbed and beginning to feel safer, Alpha said, "I thought small bodies without much fat on them didn't float."
Bravo was curt. "I'll look that up when we get back to civilization.
"Ok, I've got him. Give this thing a little gas will you."
Pedro Estabo did not go far. As soon as he was beyond sight of the gringos who had rescued him, he chose a twisty escape route into the jungle. Then he scurried back the way he had come until he could see the men on the bridge.
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