Renegade 23

by Lou Cameron

  Captain Gringo in a gunman’s graveyard in Guatamala!

  The curvaceous blonde twins named Flora and Dora need a troubleshooter to “shoot some trouble.” Gringo’s their man—in more ways that one—only now these two luscious lovelies have got him trapped between the Mexican army on one side and the black-hearted rebel leader El Caballero Blanco on the other. But even worse, Gringo is boxed in next to a lava-spewing volcano! The molten rock is hot, all right—but not nearly so hot as the nympho nurse who really knows how to make a man’s temperature rise!

  RENEGADE 23: VOLCANO OF VIOLENCE

  By Ramsay Thorne

  First Published in 1983 by Warner Books

  Copyright © 1983, 2017 by Lou Cameron

  First Smashwords Edition: May 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  The three thugs who saved Captain Gringo’s neck that night in Punta Carreta were hardly out to do him any favors as he slugged it out with them in a dark alley near the waterfront.

  He’d been on his way back to the schooner when he’d been jumped by the usual three-man team in a fairly professional manner. Their basic mistake had been the assumption that two of them were about to pin the big soldier of fortune’s arms and hold him long enough for the third thug to pat him down for goodies.

  He’d proven them wrong by throwing the first one who’d grabbed him over his shoulder, kicking the next in the nuts, and putting the third on the ground with a nice right cross. But then, as he’d tried simply to leave it at that and walk away, the dumb sons of bitches had gotten back up and come to him again. So by now it was starting to look like they really wanted a serious argument.

  The tall blond American was in pretty good shape to offer them one. He was packing a double-action .38 in the shoulder rig hidden under his linen jacket. But he didn’t want to draw attention to his presence in Punta Carreta if it could be avoided. A knock-around guy with a price on his head and no understanding with the local law could attract more attention than he really wanted to by shooting up the local citizenry.

  As the one he’d decked with the right cross moved into range, the big Yank proved how some guys never learn, by dropping him again with the same punch. But, before he could stomp the idiot, another bored in, windmilling, and had to be stopped with a left hook. It stopped him pretty good. So now there was only one left on his feet, and if he’d had any sense he would have been scampering off by now. He was the smallest of the three.

  The remaining thug didn’t like the odds, either. So he whipped out a six-inch blade to give himself a literal edge as he dropped into a knife fighter’s crouch, slowly waving the blade from side to side, as if he thought he was an alley cat and the knife was his tail or something.

  Captain Gringo shook his head wearily and said, “You’d better put that thing away before one of us gets hurt, muchacho. I’m not carrying enough dinero to justify a killing.”

  The knife fighter minced closer as he purred, “I do not wish for to cut you for your money now, Yanqui. There is a saying in my village. When the tree refuses for to bend for the wind, one must cut it down!”

  “Hey, that’s really neat. Did you ever hear what the Mexicans say about the open mouth attracting flies?”

  The ladino didn’t answer as he braced himself for the final rush.

  Captain Gringo braced himself, too. Like most knock-around guys, the big American had learned by now, the hard way, that a man seriously intent on stabbing someone seldom waved the blade about for inspection or announced his intentions in advance. On the other hand, none of these guys was acting too sensible this evening and there was always the chance of meeting, a jerk-off who didn’t know the rules of the game.

  In the dim light, Captain Gringo tried to read the other man’s eyes. He could just make them out. The knife waver’s face was blank. But his alley-cat eyes betrayed expectancy, as if he was waiting for something to happen before he made his move. So Captain Gringo didn’t move. A tense million years went by. Then a familiar voice behind Captain Gringo snapped, “Dick! Hit it!”

  So Captain Gringo dove for the dirt, just in time, as another knife spun end over end through the space his back had just filled.

  The thug he’d been facing didn’t move fast enough. He caught the thrown blade to the hilt with his chest, gasped, dropped his own knife, and followed it down.

  Captain Gringo rolled over, drawing his own .38 as he growled, “Enough of this shit.” But then he saw he didn’t need his less-silent weapon after all and put it away. He rose to his feet, nodding, as he said, “Thanks. Last time I counted, there were three of the pricks. I only see two now.”

  Gaston Verrier finished wiping his own blade clean on the shirt of the thug he’d stabbed, slipped it back in its sheath under his collar at the nape of his neck, and shrugged as he replied, “One must assume he no longer wished to play, hein? The last I saw of the species of insect, he was running away as if the devil incarnate was after him.”

  That sounded reasonable. Old Gaston didn’t look scary, normally. He was much older and a lot smaller than Captain Gringo. But he looked dangerous enough, and was, with a knife in his hand. He fought pretty good with his feet or a gun, too.

  Captain Gringo saw that both of the thugs on the ground would never bother anyone again and said, “I must be getting old. I should have known that one, there, was trying to distract me as his buddy was coming topside again.”

  Gaston said, “If I had not seen what was happening before you did, we would not be having this trés amuse discussion, Dick. But if you wish to discuss it further, may one suggest we do it somewhere else, tout de suite?”

  “Good thinking. Let’s get back to the schooner before the one that got away comes back for a rematch, with company. That’s where I was heading anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted.”

  Gaston shook his head and said, “Mais non! Not that way, mon hasty youth! Follow me. I have better cockroach instincts at times like these, hein?”

  Captain Gringo didn’t argue, at first, as he chased the little Legion deserter around a couple of corners into the dark maze of the waterfront slums of Punta Carreta. But as he started to get completely lost he grabbed Gaston’s elbow and reined him to a walk, asking, “Hey, we should be clear by now. So where in the hell are we going? The docks are over that way, Gaston.”

  Gaston said, “Unhand me, you rude child. I know where the waterfront is. That is why we must go this way if we don’t wish to be caught and hanged by our adorable necks, hein?”

  “What are you talking about? Those local toughs we just tangled with didn’t know we were off the Nombre Nada. But the one who got away has to have more friends in town than we have. So the schooner has to be the safest place for us to run for, right?”

  “Wrong. The reason I was looking for you just now was to tell you not to go anywhere near that ugly little boat or your pretty gunrunning girlfriend, Esperanza! It’s a good thing I found you playing with those other children before you made it back, non?”

  The hairs on the back of Captain Gringo’s neck began to tingle. They’d been doing that a lot since the day a U.S. Army court-martial had tried to put a hangman’s noose around said neck. He fell back in step with Gaston, wherever the hell they were headed, and sa
id soberly, “Okay. Tell me exactly what happened, without all that amusing French bullshit! Have Esperanza and her crew been grabbed, and by whom?”

  Gaston growled, “Merde alors, he tells one to come right to the point and then he won’t shut up.”

  “Damm it, Gaston—”

  “Wait. Before you strike a man old enough to be your father, your big Basque beauty and her ugly little schooner are in no danger. They are not wanted by anyone along this particular stretch of the Mosquito Coast. I wish one could say as much for the unruly child at my fond side, hein?”

  Captain Gringo frowned and said, “I told you to cut the wisecracks. I’m not wanted here in Costa Rica either, dammit. That was the whole point in asking Esperanza to sail this way with us.”

  “Really? I thought the two of you had other things in mind. But perhaps it was merely the motion of the vessel that’s been making her bedsprings sound like that and …” Captain Gringo broke stride, spun Gaston around, and said, “Get to the fucking point.”

  So Gaston replied, “The U.S.S. Maine just dropped anchor in the harbor. Is that plain enough for you?”

  Captain Gringo whistled softly. Gaston nodded and said, “It is a bare possibility your moody Uncle Sam sent a U.S. Navy battleship into this remote banana port because their shore patrol is interested in picking bananas. But do you want to take the chance?”

  “Not if I don’t have to. You’re sure Esperanza and the others are okay?”

  Gaston tried not to look evasive as he asked, “Why would even your trés fatigue former country be after Esperanza and her crew? Merde alors, half the guns she runs are for people your President Cleveland and his secret service seem fond of, for some reason that escapes me.”

  “I didn’t ask why they might be after our pals, dammit. I want to know if Did Esperanza tell you it was okay for us to just take off like this, or are you being practiqué again?”

  “We turn right at the next corner, Dick.”

  “You worthless little rat!”

  Gaston snapped, “Fermez la bouche! You are not that much bigger than me, and, for a species of idiot who persists in telling me I talk too much, you certainly do listen well! I know the Maine is not after anyone but you, because we are on our way to meet the rogues who tipped me off in the time of Nick. One of them contacted me earlier this evening as I was scouting the paseo for a species of pussy who admires older men. They told me to warn you and meet them later at the posada I am leading you to. One assumes they have a deal to offer that has to be more enjoyable than returning to the States in irons, non?”

  Captain Gringo came to another complete stop, one eyebrow raised, as he said, “I think I liked it better back there in that alley with guys I understood better. These guys contacted you over on the plaza. Have you even seen one guy in U.S. Navy whites in town tonight? I know I haven’t!”

  Gaston frowned and asked, “Are you suggesting I would be dumb enough to lead you into a trap, Dick?”

  “Why not? I’ve been dumb enough to lead you into a couple. Tell me some more about these helpful pals of yours—and, by the way, have you any idea who the fuck they are?”

  Gaston said, “Picky, picky, picky. A person is good enough to warn you of danger and you insist on a formal introduction?”

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer. It was just light enough to make out a drainpipe running down from a tile roof. Better yet, there were no windows on the streetside wall of the stucco house in question.

  As he started hauling himself up, hand over hand, Gaston shrugged and followed. They couldn’t discuss what they were doing until they’d both made it to the crunchy terracotta tiles of the low-pitched roof. Then Gaston asked, mildly, what they were doing up there.

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer as he gingerly rose to his feet for a better look across the rooftops between him and the harbor. He was more worried about cracking a tile than falling. So he told Gaston to stay put, once he spotted what he’d hoped he wouldn’t see.

  Then he dropped down beside the lighter Frenchman to spread his weight on the tiles before he sighed and said, “I can’t swear it’s the U.S.S. Maine. But there’s a fucking big battlewagon for sure in the harbor right now. It gets worse. They’re sending a steam launch ashore.”

  Gaston nodded and said, “Eh bien, one tends to doubt they are landing mere tourists. Would the rogues who tipped us off have done so if they were working for the U.S. Navy, Dick?”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “Guess not. Maybe we’d better go see who in hell they are working for. We can’t stay here all night, and if our pals aboard the schooner have a lick of sense they’ll be putting out to sea any minute!”

  *

  When they got to the posada they found out that the gang, or whatever, hadn’t merely rented part of it. They’d taken over lock, stock, and barrel. A notice nailed to the front door said, in Spanish, that the inn was closed for alterations. Another sign, in English, said less politely that the joint was off limits to U.S. military personnel.

  Since neither notice applied to soldiers of fortune, they went in. The main-floor cantina was dimly lit and almost deserted. A not-bad-looking ladina was reading a magazine behind the bar. A tough-looking bozo in a rumpled linen suit was seated alone at a table near the entrance, with a sawed-off shotgun and a schooner of cerveza in front of him. Four other knock-around guys were playing cards at another table across the room. They looked about as friendly as the thugs who’d jumped Captain Gringo in that alley. But Gaston recognized the two who’d contacted him earlier at the paseo. So nobody got tense when the guy with the shotgun got up to casually lock the door behind them.

  One of the gunslicks who knew Gaston said, “The big chiefs are waiting upstairs to talk to you. What took you so long?”

  Gaston muttered something about the crude manners in Punta Carreta and Captain Gringo said nothing as the two of them crossed to the stairwell and went on up.

  The hall above was illuminated even lousier. All the doors but one at the far end of the hall were closed. That one was open and spilling brighter light. So that’s where they went.

  It was obvious that two Anglo women—seated side by side on one of the leather couches by the beehive fireplace in the parlor of the suite they’d taken—were identical twins. They were both tough-looking but not unattractive blondes who could have been either side of thirty. There was a coffee table between the facing couches, and, better yet, there was a tray of glasses and a bottle of Jamaica rum to go with them. One of the women said, “Sit down. We’ve been expecting you boys. You can call me Flora, and this is my sister, Dora. Not our real names, of course. We work together for obvious reasons.”

  Captain Gringo waited until he and Gaston were seated and Flora was pouring drinks for them before he asked who they worked for. Dora said, “It’s such a bother to make up names. Let’s just say my sister and I are insurance agents.”

  “You’re out to sell us insurance, ma’am?”

  Flora laughed as she handed him his drink and said, “Hardly. You boys couldn’t afford the premiums our company would charge to insure anyone in your line of work. What my sister meant was that we’re, ah, troubleshooters for a big American insurance firm. We want to hire you to shoot some trouble.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer as he tasted his drink. It wasn’t bad. Gaston smiled and said, “Forgive me, m’mselle. I find it rather odd that an insurance firm would need our usual services.”

  Flora said, “That’s because you don’t know much about life insurance, Lieutenant Verrier. Our firm made the mistake of issuing a double-indemnity policy on what they thought was a good risk. A young lady from a good Chicago meatpacking family was on her way to Europe. Our underwriters assumed she meant to take the usual grand tour, of course, when they allowed her parents to take out a rather alarming but short-term policy on her continued existence. They had no way of knowing, at the time, that the girl was gaga, see?”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “I’m afr
aid I don’t see. We’re not in Europe. We’re in Central America.”

  “So is the nutty and over insured meat packer’s daughter,” said Dora adding, “She’s with the International Red Cross in Guatemala, trying to get herself killed. If she manages to do it, our company is out a hundred thousand Yankee dollars. Need we say more?”

  Captain Gringo said, “I wish you would. For openers, how did you two know Gaston and I were here in Punta Carreta, and what makes you think we’d be any help to you in Guatemala?”

  Flora said, “We were waiting for you in Limón, knowing you were on your way back to Costa Rica after that last job. We found out the U.S. Navy was keeping tabs on your career, too. So we rode clown the coast like hell, and fortunately got here faster than the Maine. Never mind how we read the U.S. Navy’s mail. As to your qualifications, do you recall the lady named Vera, who works for Lloyd’s of London?”

  “Very fondly. Is she the one who recommended us?” Dora giggled and said, “In more ways than one. We insurance agents work together now and again, and Vera told us how understanding you were that time in Nicaragua.”

  Flora said, “You saved Lloyd’s a bundle by taking out those crooks in such a delicate manner. This job we have for you may involve the same kind of work. Would you like to see the machine gun we bought for you now?”

  Since she was rising, Captain Gringo rose too. On her feet, Flora was something worth rising for. She had to be wearing a corset under that thin summer print. No mortal woman could have a natural waistline that slender if her other parts were real. She probably had some bracing for those big knockers, too. They were riding high, considering their size.

  She led him into another, darker room and struck a match to light a candle on a large round table in the center of the room. The candle was not alone. A Maxim .30-30 was perched on its tripod mount atop the table. It was covered with shipping grease and looked spanking new. He nodded approvingly, stepped over to it, and opened the breech to inspect it as he asked where the ammo belts were. She said, “Under the table. As you see, we haven’t cleaned it or messed with the head spacing. Our game is insurance. We leave weaponry to former weapons officers.”