"I am authorized to extend apologies and offer amends. How can this unfortunate set of circumstances be made right?"
Bryne and Bravo sighed in obvious relief, and Byrne hesitated only a moment. "All we request is that those hunting us be stopped, and that all of this be buried forever by everyone involved."
April Santos grimaced. "We will immediately do all that can be done to halt all activities, even to the paying out of significant sums to end it forever."
She paused, and Byrne could have sworn she gritted her teeth. "Unfortunately, we have no immediate or even certain way of contacting those sent against you."
Byrne relaxed. They were not worried about those already sent. That team lay buried under Byrne's mine approach. The great effort had been to see that no more were launched.
April Santos said, "Two teams were employed. One leader is a professional mercenary. The other is led by a former employee of long standing."
Byrne almost groaned, and Bravo swore aloud. Their unexpected reaction confused and alarmed April Santos. Byrne judged that he had to explain.
He said, "There is a problem there. We have already met the mercenary and his men. They will no longer interfere, and there will be no need to make a final payment to them."
Byrne provided no descriptions, but April Santos understood the unspoken implications, and astonished understanding aged her features. Two ordinary, middle-aged Americans were not supposed to have wiped out the expert killer and his team.
Byrne disguised a small satisfaction.
"However, we know nothing of a second group, and we do not wish to encounter them before they receive your message. Please tell us how to identify and avoid them."
The attorney sputtered, cleared her throat, and struggled to regain her composure. April Santos was a trained professional, but violent deaths were not part of her training or her personal experience.
She organized her thoughts and explained.
"Jesus Christus was a part of the Santos businesses for most of his life. When the family occupations changed direction," (Byrne thought that smoothly handled), "Jesus moved to Los Angeles and there was no contact. However, when needed, he was found, and employed. Jesus Christus is an experienced jungle fighter. He has gathered similar men that he has known, and I am told, they have gone to Idaho."
Bravo said, "Damn!" and he was loud.
The attorney's lips drew even tighter, and her voice was pained. "I am told that Christus has the same two objectives as those of the mercenary."
Those undefined missions were, of course, to find and kill Don Byrne and Tom Shepard.
"An immediate search for him will begin, but Jesus Christus is a long time member of MS-13. That group has little organization, but it is wide spread. We may not be able to locate Christus or his men for some time."
Few gangs were as vicious and hate-riddled as MS-13. Byrne wished to curse.
April Santos said, "If you have assets on your side, please use them to find Jesus Christus. Although he is an older man, Jesus was once the best of many very hard men who were part of the Santos organization. He will not have changed."
Alpha asked for a description, and it was given. Christus looked Mexican. He was dark skinned and flat faced with high cheekbones. He was thick bodied, short, and had bowed legs. His hair was black and still thick. When last seen, he had worn his hair very long, but that could have been easily changed. English was his first language, but Mexican was as natural.
Alpha could imagine Bravo declaiming that the description narrowed the hunt to half the able bodied Mexican Hispanics north of the border.
The Santos were all business. There was no small talk and no further apologies.
Almost quickly, Alpha and Bravo were outside, in their car, and driving away.
Bravo said, "Holy hell, we're alive."
Byrne did not feel like joking about it.
"The question is: What do we do now?"
Bravo said, "I guess we go look for this Christus guy. There won't be that many newly arrived Mexicans up in your part of the woods. We can find them."
"And then what, Bravo? Will we stage some sort of OK corral shoot out?"
Bravo was short. "Sounds good to me."
Bravo said, "Find a Denny's or something. I could eat a steer."
Alpha was not done with the discussion.
Byrne said, "Of course, that is not what we are going to do next, Tommy."
Bravo said, "Don't tell me. It won't be good, I can sense it."
Byrne said, "There's the money, Shepard. No one has found that car. I got what was in the backseat, but I never thought to look in the trunk."
Alpha was driving, and Shepard was in his usual passenger seat. He said, "Let me out here, Byrne. I'm sick of all of this. We don't need more money, and guys always get caught because they are greedy and always hunting for more. We're clear. Forget the money. Let's go up to your place and dig out those bastards looking for us."
Byrne did not answer, and there was silence in the car.
Bravo broke it asking, "Do you think she was right, and that car still has millions in the trunk?"
"She seemed to believe it."
"That car's been stuck in the jungle for more than twenty years. The money has probably rotted away long ago."
Byrne said, "All that we saw was bagged in strong plastic, and that car is cased in armor half an inch think. Unless it is underwater, it ought to be fine."
There was again silence.
Byrne said, "The smartest thing we can do is stay far away from Idaho until the Santos locate Christus and turn him away."
Shepard could not argue against that, so he was quiet.
Alpha said, "It would take a couple of weeks to get the Noisy Oyster out of her cradles and freshly rigged, but since we used her together, I've increased the fuel tankage by a hundred gallons and reduced the fresh water she carries. I rarely go far off shore, so I bring aboard what extra water I think I'll need in gallon jugs. That's easier and safer than to lug aboard a skillion gallons of diesel."
Bravo said, "I hate Mexico, and I'd sure as hell get sea sick again."
Knowing that he was winning, Alpha was cooperative. "Look, pardner, with all of the fuel I've got aboard we will power most of the time—nothing really to do, no sails to trim, no tacking back and forth. We will travel a lot faster than we used to, and hell, Bravo, we know where to go and how to do this. It'll be a piece of cake."
Bravo snarled, "A piece of cake? Another cliché, Byrne. You are boring to listen to."
Alpha spoke more firmly. "Look, Bravo, we've got to disappear for more than a month while the Santos are locating their assassins and firing them. What better could we be doing? When we get back, we will inquire. If the Santos haven't found this bozo, we'll cap him ourselves. Period."
He grinned. Bravo should rise to that bait.
And he did, "Cap him? What was that out of, The Bourne Idiocy? You people from Idaho talk like cheap movies."
Later Bravo said, "This time I'm taking guns, big guns, and a lot of them."
Chapter 21
Of course, it was not that easy. Launching and rigging the Noisy Oyster took far longer than Alpha's guestimated two weeks. Despite the boat's lengthy Cayman residence, almost since the boatyard had opened, the Oyster had to get in line for fresh bottom paint, new batteries to spin the big diesel, and the riggers discovered corrosion that required replacing two lower shrouds, an upper shroud, and even the roller furling forestay.
Lashing local sail makers into Yankee-style urgency proved impossible, but eventually a new mainsail emerged and was raised—only to discover a measurement error that required lengthy explaining and considerable blaming as well as almost complete recutting.
Not that Byrne and Shepard were personally involved. Marina employees did the actual work with the owner only occasionally looking on.
It was somehow disclosed that Doctor Don Byrne was a respected (and successful) graduate of the island's medical academ
y, as Shepard termed it, and the good doctor willingly lectured special classes. Shepard described that service as—performing.
A few female students caught their eyes and accompanied the sailboat owners on numerous short motorings to exotic and isolated beaches—while checking out their engine's operation.
Following one such exploration, Bravo nodded admission of an error in a long savored opinion. Watching their guests' scantily clad and deeply tanned departure, Bravo said, "You were right to stay down here for your schooling, Alpha. It's clear you didn't learn a great deal, but the fine weather makes up for some of that."
Bravo purchased and shipped the guns and ammunition he had demanded. The touristy and European oriented Caribbean islands did not like guns, and getting them through customs had taken weeks. There was an infamous and often referred to case of a visitor found with a couple of .22 caliber cartridges forgotten in the bottom of his luggage being jailed and requiring State Department intercession to free him from a local bastille.
They zeroed, tested, and enjoyed their weaponry by sinking bottles and cans tossed overboard on sojourns beyond sight of land. When satisfied with their personal competence, the pistols (one suppressed), a pair of 12 gauge shotguns, the two AR15s and the bolt action 30/06 with a 3 ½ to 10X scope mounted and zeroed were packed away with the hard-to-acquire papers authorizing their retention—but allowed only aboard the boat.
Byrne and Shepard turned to the banker they had relied upon to absorb and distribute their money back in 1985. The man was now elderly and planning retirement in England. Byrne spoke of the probable deposit of some very large sums of very old American dollars, much like the last time, and the banker's interest was piqued.
The banker explained that times were now different, and banks could no longer accept large sums of cash from out-of-the-system sources. Drug money, he informed them, had been washed in multimillions of dollars, but international law had clamped down in a coordinated effort to halt such nefarious dealings.
Doctor Byrne who, after all, had gone to school on their island, who had been a valued customer for decades, and who spoke for both men, was understanding of the difficulties and inconveniences of such exacting regulations.
He mentioned that if an exception were possible, he and Mister Shepard would be agreeable to extraordinary "Discovery and Processing" fees that alone would guarantee anyone a comfortable retirement in his country of choice. In passing, Byrne mentioned southern France as a destination every Englishman dreamt of but usually found too expensive.
Merely as interesting speculation, of course, Doctor Byrne supposed that if the sums they expected were forthcoming, a fair compensation for someone able to safely and unremarkedly deposit and distribute the money to accounts in other banks might be . . . oh—one million dollars sounded fair.
The banker was used to dealing with very large sums, but a personal profit in a single transaction of one million American dollars raised his heartbeat. The rather stately and dignified, very English-looking man, nodded sagely and suggested that he was, of course, willing to investigate such possibilities—all within the law, of course.
Everyone nodded their understanding of the obvious, and the banker mentioned that further recompense—to insure absolute confidentiality and one hundred percent security for services rendered—might be necessary to other participants.
Byrne and Shepard again nodded awareness of the possibility of such added expenditures and their acceptance of such inroads into their hoped for deposits.
The banker requested a probable timeline. Byrne responded that it would be weeks, not months. Hands were shaken, and the banker departed. Bravo watched the man tooling away in his conservative but fine motor vehicle.
Shepard said, "A million dollars, Byrne? Why didn't you just give it all to him, and we could do the job for the pleasure of it?"
Alpha understood his partner grousing for the sake of complaining, and a million was huge money even in this era of the American dollar falling in value as if there were no bottom.
Byrne said, "It'll be a lot more than that, Tommy. Our man will have to offer some pretty fat money to whomever he has on the string. That won't come out of his million. We will have to hand it over, and it won't be small."
Alpha pretended irritation. "What are you growling about, anyway? If the money is there, the way the Santos believe it is, we will each be millions richer." He smiled grimly. "Spread the wealth, that's my opinion."
Bravo remained outwardly unconvinced. "Fine, spread your own, Byrne. I'll try to keep mine."
Alpha again opened the compartment in the Noisy Oyster's belly. He again removed the foam filler and replaced the fiberglass cabin floor. The old sailbags used to transport the money seemed strong enough, and a vast quantity of penny balloons was purchased. A cart similar to the one dumped after getting the money aboard the motorboat was purchased from a private owner who used it to move yard trimmings. Alpha replenished their supplies of epoxy, expandable foam, and fiberglass cloth and believed they were ready.
Before they sailed, Alpha composed a flyer. He printed two hundred copies and mailed them to a teenager who sometimes helped out around his medical clinic. His instructions were simple. They said, "Staple all of these in public places where passersby will see them. Use one fourth of them in my woods and stick some on my house and one on the mailbox post out front." Alpha included two twenty-dollar bills as payment. The flyer said:
Jesus Christus
There has been a mistake.
Do nothing. Return home.
Immediately contact your employer.
Bravo liked the idea, but he could not admit it. He said, "You sucker. The kid will throw them in a dumpster and pocket the forty bucks."
— — —
Weather favored them, but fearing seasickness, Bravo listened anxiously to NOAA's periodic reports. No tropical storms were forming anywhere, and winds and currents remained reasonable. The Noisy Oyster motor-sailed comfortably at eight knots. Byrne steered a compass course through the narrows between Cuba and Central America and the sometimes-rough Yucatan current pushed them along. The river delta appeared on schedule, and their adventure began.
Alpha said, "Man, things have changed." The route across the treacherous and always changing flats had been dredged and buoyed to international standards.
Bravo said, "Yep, 'Red Right Returning,' right out of Chapman." Then he grumbled, "I'll bet the United States gave them the money, dredged the channel, and probably provided the buoys."
Byrne could suspect the same. "Money well spent, pardner. I'm for anything that makes our job easier."
There were other changes. A factory town that lay near the river inlet had grown like an evil fungus. What the small city produced was unclear, but tall iron stacks belched smoke, and the jungle had been cut back to allow unpaved streets and a multitude of shacks with an army or two of children and women moving about. There were large docks, and ships of two or three hundred feet could be accommodated. None were tied alongside, but there were warehouses that appeared functioning with small cranes and a pair of forklifts in view.
Bravo, of course, chose a negative outlook.
"We might as well turn around, Byrne. Civilization has arrived. There is probably a tourist hotel where you dumped the car."
Alpha remained unperturbed. "You don't understand how things work, Bravo. When primitive peoples are around, the forests are well traveled. When civilization moves in, few venture off the roads, and the forest, or in this case the jungle, becomes deserted. Only people who can't avoid it go out into the jungle. I figure our car is waiting undisturbed, right where I so cleverly hid it."
They motored upriver, and found the land beyond the few booming entrance villages unchanged. Bravo made a show of organizing fishing gear and dangled a hook and line in the water to make them appear recently used.
Night caught them still well below the fishing camp they had used years before. They anchored out of the channel before complete
darkness and the mosquitoes arrived. With the first buzz of what would within minutes become a droning horde, the men buttoned up the cabin and sprayed DDT to kill any insects that had gotten inside.
Alpha marveled. "At home we can't get a drop of this stuff, but if you want it, it is all over the rest of the world."
Bravo said, "Yeah, environmentalists did us in again. If you want to kill insects, you use DDT. There's nothing like it. Remember when we were in Panama back in the day? DDT was hard to get even then. Without it, we soaked in DEET. Life was miserable without DDT. Fevers struck us non-natives like lightning."
Alpha said, "Spraying DDT inside our cabin we will probably be dead from cancer before dawn, and all of the bird life will be gone for miles around."
Shepard added, "Did you ever wonder why old Noah didn't just slap the female mosquito when he had the last two of them on his ark? He would have saved us a lot of misery."
Their fish camp looked little changed. A new dock had been extended, but it appeared little stronger or more professionally built than the old one. Alpha chose the new dock to tie against, and as they drew close, a badly limping dock handler came to help. The handler wore a monk's robe and a tossed-back cowl. A knotted rope acted as a belt, and a large wooden cross dangled from his neck. He was an older man, gone to fat with almost no hair remaining, but the monk, if that was what he was, had no feet. He quite handily stumped about on heavy leather pads that fitted tightly over his shortened calves and protected his stumps from harder knocks.
With his lessened legs, the priest easily bent to tie off the boat, and Bravo noted that his wraps around the dock cleats were professional, and if strained, the dock lines would not tighten or loosen themselves.
Bravo thanked the shortened man, "Gracias, padre."
The man answered, "Por nada, my son," and stumped away. An interesting mixture of Mexican and English languages, Bravo believed.
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