The Caribbean Job

by Vince Milam

  “I regret the onset of another battle. It is most unfortunate. Yet it is my time to draw my own cold steel.”

  He removed his reading glasses and placed them on his open manuscript. “Is the cause noble?”

  “I am protecting my castle, filled with personal Peruvian silver. My family.”

  “Ah. A righteous battle. I would hope your opponent holds close an element of virtue as well.”

  “None.”

  He stood. “Then swift, sure, and final the appropriate manner. Perhaps I can help.”

  “It would be most appreciated, Don Costa.”

  He first locked the front door of his shop. Then produced a key ring and eased past stacks and shelves full of books. Another thick oak door, narrow, tucked in a far corner of the small room. The centers of the stone steps leading down showed concave under the cellar stairway’s naked lightbulb. Worn down through hundreds of years of foot traffic.

  There was nothing haphazard about the display of firearms. A vast array of weapons from manufacturers across the globe—each hung from wall-mounted brackets. Rifles, pistols, and shotguns. Originating from the US, UK, Czech Republic. And Austria, Italy, Israel, Germany—the list long and expected.

  I’d first visited here years ago with Marcus. Delta was assigned a dicey mission on the Colombia-Venezuela border. Elements of the preparation were spelled out for us—outfit our team with weapons untraceable back to a US operation. Not so much for having one of us killed or captured along with our firearms. But rather ensuring the small piles of spent cartridges we left behind could not be traced to Delta. For my current mission, this bit of cover also didn’t hurt. What with whacking a CIA operative and all.

  “May I enquire if you had anything special in mind?” Don Costa asked.

  “As my opponent is without honor, engagement at a distance is a possibility.”

  “Of course.”

  “And this shall take place at night.”

  Don Costa crossed his arms, a forefinger to chin, and considered the requirements.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “It is most fortunate I have the exact weapon. Of Hebrew manufacture.”

  He shifted position within the confined cellar and pointed toward an Israeli Tavor assault rifle with a night vision scope.

  “And be most assured my friend,” he continued. “It is both well suited and well prepared.”

  He meant sighted in, accurate. I removed it from the wall, inspected the mechanisms, and threw it to my shoulder. A fine weapon. I selected four extra magazines, loaded, and placed my choice on a small central table.

  “Yet a possibility exists,” I said. “A possibility I may face my opponent in a more honorable manner.”

  Up close and personal.

  “Ah. Perhaps we should consider a weapon for such an event.”

  He led me toward a wall full of pistols. I chose a Taurus 9mm semi-automatic from Brazil. Along with an extra loaded magazine. I declined the offer of a suppressor. Big bang on this mission might hold advantages. Stinnett’s armed guards might duck and run.

  “A thought,” Don Costa said. “A passing thought, and perhaps one not worth mentioning.”

  “I stand in your debt for the wisdom you have shown in the past.”

  A slight bow of his gray-haired head as response. “Perhaps a weapon or two with—how shall I say this—less finesse.”

  Explosive weapons. Fine and dandy. A waist-level drawer slid open and exposed a selection of hand grenades. I chose four Ruag fragmentation grenades, Swiss-made. I appreciated the concept of people who made fine watches were less likely to manufacture a grenade that blew up in your hand.

  “And a final thought,” he said. “As you may face this man at a distance, a man with no honor, the possibility exists he will hide. Hide as a coward and refuse facing you.”

  “The possibility does exist.”

  A corner hutch was opened and displayed a small selection of grenade launchers. I glommed onto an old M79. Why not? A Vietnam-era single-shot, shoulder-fired, break-action weapon. It launched a 40mm soda can-sized explosive charge 350 yards. Old school. I added it to the cellar’s tabletop collection along with four high explosive rounds.

  It was appropriate to stand with Don Costa and consider the selection. A perusal, an assessment—serious business. A full minute passed in silence. At last we exchanged grave expressions followed with eyes-closed tight nods.

  “A fine selection,” Don Costa said. “Sadly, an expensive one as well. And I hesitate mentioning the price of the extraordinary manuscript you have selected upstairs.”

  “It is painful but necessary to ask such a question, Don Costa, but what might be the sum total?”

  He provided the amount and laid hands, palms down, on the table. He gave a slow shake of his head while staring at the weapons. An exhibit, expected, of how it distressed him so, asking such an exorbitant price.

  Lips pursed, I hefted the Thumper and a Swiss grenade, followed with a heavy sigh.

  “Perhaps it is best if I left without these inelegant choices.”

  Still focused on the tabletop, he too sighed. “I cannot allow a friend to march afield on such a noble mission as yours without adequate protection. No.” He slapped his hands on the tabletop, raised his head, and we shared stares, unblinking. “I cannot and will not.”

  He lowered the price twenty five percent. Hands were extended across the small table loaded with lethal merchandise. We shook. Done deal and good to go. He tossed in a large bag of fine Colombian leather which held my purchases with room to spare.

  Cash was transacted, and I slid the pistol into a front pocket, slung the bag over a shoulder, and followed him up the stone steps where he added the manuscript to my collection. At the front door, he turned and addressed me.

  “May you vanquish your foe and protect your silver. If you fail, my friend, fail as a warrior of olden times. Valiant to your last breath.”

  I wished him well, hustled back toward the tourist section of the old town, and caught a cab for the airport. My pilot stood outside the small jet. As I boarded he said nothing about the large and loaded leather bag I’d acquired in the old walled city of Cartagena.

  Chapter 34

  The Caribbean Sea shimmered black and unknown through the jet’s window. This small part of it represented enemy turf. While Providencia held Fortress Stinnett, the approaching island of San Andres might contain emissaries, early warning players. Arrival under darkness and obscure movement mitigated this advantage.

  The airport sat alongside the main cluster of inhabitants, houses, and tourist hotels on the north side of the island. The San Andres airport was closed for business, the runway approach and taxiway lights unseen. But the airport, as my pilot well knew, was equipped with PCL—Pilot Controlled Lighting. Standard set-up at many lonely airports across the globe. It allowed aircraft pilots control over the lights through radio frequency. Tune the correct frequency, key the mike the appropriate number of times at a set interval, and—voila—runway lights turn on.

  Both the sudden landing lights and the sound of a jet would draw attention. Not the best stealth approach. But dark night and an active drug trade in this part of the Caribbean were temporary friends. The locals would pay little heed to a late night landing and ask few questions. But still, enemy turf. And entry points were high risk.

  The pilot kept the engines running, and I bailed near the airport terminal. My transport turned for immediate takeoff. He wasn’t hanging around. I took cover near a line of baggage carts and waited for quiet. It came soon enough. The jet roared away, the runway lights flicked off, and calm restored for this middle-of-nowhere island airport.

  I considered pulling the assault rifle but quiet and calm prevailed. So I skirted the side of the terminal structure in time to see an old and well-used vehicle pull up. The driver stopped at the small terminal and exited his car, hair unkempt. A small magnetic illuminated Taxi sign was slapped on the rooftop. The jet’s noise had clearly woken him. He’
d tossed on clothes and made an airport hustle for a potential fare before the competition could beat him. I admired his moxie.

  I exited the shadows and waved his direction. A broad smile was returned along with a question in broken English. He’d sussed me as a Norte Americano.

  “You need taxi?” He used both hands and straightened his hair, smiling.

  “I do.” I kept it Spanish, although I appreciated the attempted catering for a customer’s preferences. And having exhibited this much get-go, the driver could prove invaluable. A potential provisioning of more and much needed services. Taxi drivers world-wide were a font of connections.

  “You like hotel? Girls?” He kept to English as I approached.

  “A place to sleep.” I kept to Spanish. “Not a hotel. Away from town and private. Any ideas?”

  “No hotel?” His brow furrowed.

  “No hotel.”

  He returned to his native tongue. “I know of such a place. A friend. But it is quite primitive.”

  “I have a hammock.”

  “As you wish.”

  Excellent. We drove south along the western coastline. Town lights disappeared, a yellow haze across the northern horizon. Movement, isolation, safety. So far so good. The driver introduced himself as Paco.

  “Are you here on a visit?” he asked.

  The headlights illuminated the empty road ahead and moonlight reflected off Caribbean waters fifty yards on the right. Small collections of thatched-roof pueblos passed on the left, most of them dark, asleep. I sat in the front seat, leather bag between my legs, rucksack on the back seat.

  “A tourism photographer. Canadian.”

  “I am taking you far from the tourists.”

  “I like solitude when I’m not working.”

  “This is clear. Will you require a ride during the day?” Paco asked.

  Time for a mining expedition. Test the waters for this guy’s other acquaintances.

  “Yes. A ride and other things.”

  He turned, lower lip extended, a serious expression. And nodded as an opening gambit for a business opportunity.

  “I can help. Be certain, I will find what you require and take you where you wish to go.”

  I took the plunge.

  “I wish to travel tomorrow. To Providencia. On a boat. At night.”

  He nodded again and considered the request.

  “You can fly during the day. Perhaps. It depends upon the schedule and the pilot. He is known to have problems.”

  “No. A boat. At night.”

  He shrugged, having done his good deed of presenting a better choice, and steered me toward his personal solution.

  “I have a friend who can do this.”

  “A fast boat.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, it is a very fast boat. And very expensive. Are you sure you do not wish to fly?”

  “Will you take me to your friend?”

  A lift of his hand from the steering wheel. “Of course. Mid-morning.”

  We pulled over among a group of thatched shacks near the sea. Not a light on. He parked and asked me to wait. With a silent approach, he bent over and whispered into one of the shacks then straightened as a man emerged and walked toward me. The rucksack over my shoulder, leather bag in hand, I greeted him and asked if I might stay the night. I would, of course, pay. He pointed toward a thatched shack without walls, a local bar or restaurant now empty and dark. Perfect. Hammock strung between two support poles, I settled in.

  The lonely quiet did little to dispel the mission’s torn structure. A quest to ensure the safety of my family, and myself. Fair enough. But a quest tainted, overlaid, with aspects of a stone cold killer. I couldn’t shake it, even weighing Stinnett’s multiple attempts on my life. But while my concerns held sharp moral shards, commitment never wavered. I slept with the assault rifle loaded, safety off, as the Caribbean breeze blew and small waves lapped at the rock coast.

  “Coffee?”

  Daybreak. A man, the small open-air establishment’s proprietor, stood at the edge of his own place and politely asked the question as I packed the hammock. His teenage son stood alongside him. Both wore shorts and T-shirts, no shoes.

  “Coffee would be excellent. Thank you.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “If it is not too much of a problem.” I’d save the energy bars for later.

  He turned and addressed his son. “Fish.” He lifted his chin toward the open waters a few yards away. The two of them moved behind the crude counter—created from driftwood—and assumed separate activities. Dad turned on the propane and began coffee preparations. The son pulled a five foot homemade steel spear from behind the counter and strolled toward the water. I followed—a morning show not to be missed.

  The kid pulled off his T-shirt, threw a “Watch this” look my way, took a deep breath, and jumped in. This section of the coast was rugged rock and formed a small subterranean ledge over the sea. The kid swam under the rock overhang and, while out of sight, he must have waved the spear about. Stirred things up. In seconds, multiple small Barracuda darted into the open sea. As one escaped its overnight sanctuary, the spear tip shot into view and pierced it. The kid swam into the open with his catch and rose for breath. He treaded water for a few seconds, smiled, and lifted the speared fish for my perusal.

  “Will this do?” he asked, strutting his stuff.

  “It will more than do,” I said and smiled large.

  Hot coffee served, Barracuda steaks frying, I checked the satellite phone and laptop. No messages. Good. As far as my brothers knew, the Ace and I sat in Charleston. If Jules had any additional information it would have appeared. It raised the confidence level of Stinnett’s continued presence on Providencia.

  Paco arrived at the appointed time, más o menos, and I enquired about the whereabouts of this fast boat he’d arranged.

  “The other side of the island,” he said.

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  I would avoid the northern tip—the most populated portion of San Andres—if possible. The island’s main docks were situated near there as well. High odds my proposed ride wasn’t anchored in public view.

  “The east side. South of town,” he said with an expression of bemusement. “Why would it matter? This is a small place.”

  “Let’s head south. Fewer people.”

  He shrugged. I left my rucksack and leather bag and handed the proprietor a hundred dollar bill, along with instructions neither were to be touched. He assured me they would remain unmolested and slid both behind the bar counter. His personal turf.

  The narrow two-lane road hugged the coast around the southern tip, passing small villages along the way. A classic Caribbean day—bright, mild, stunning. Several miles up the east coast, Paco turned right toward the water. A two-track dirt path wove past dilapidated shacks and abandoned marine equipment and general refuse. This wasn’t the yacht club.

  A collection of boats were pressed inside a small cove against the thin sand beach, bow first. Lines trailed onto the beach, boat anchors as terminal points across the sand. The boats held a common theme. Low, long, and fast.

  The low profile made for a poor radar reflection. The hulls, aluminum, light weight, long and narrow. Unloaded, one of these would ride high in the water. Loaded with drugs or other contraband, the freeboard would consist of but a few inches. Each was equipped with massive engines. Most with pairs of powerful outboards. Two boats held an automotive engine mounted amidships with a coupled driveshaft extended through the stern. Steering for those required dual rudders—you couldn’t turn the engine as with outboard motors so the driver turned the boat. A bit of a downside, but for a screaming nighttime run across calm open water—uncatchable. I eyeballed the flotilla of drug-running and piracy vessels. All they lacked were individual Jolly Rogers flapping in the breeze.

  Paco asked me to wait in the vehicle while he finalized arrangements. Miscreants, murderers, drug-runners and hangers-on wandered about the small cove. Th
e Taurus pistol in my waistband pressed a comforting coolness against my belly.

  Paco returned with a squat dark man, head shaved. He wore loose-fitting gray cotton pants, an unbuttoned sleeveless shirt, and no shoes. Scars were evident across his torso. Knife fights. A machete, sheathed, hung from his waist. A quick nod of acknowledgment between the two of us was sufficient as way of introduction. This was a business transaction and personal identities were not required. We strode toward the beach.

  The squat man pointed toward his vessel. Over thirty feet long with twin 150 horsepower outboard engines. With Case Lee Inc. as the sole cargo, not much of the keel would touch water at full speed. I nodded agreement toward the smuggler and cast a head movement toward Paco, indicating we should step away. Time for negotiations, the routine well-practiced. Paco the intermediary, ensuring his cut of the trip protected.

  “How much?”

  “Five thousand US,” Paco said.

  “Roundtrip?”

  “Of course.”

  “Two.”

  “He will not take two.”

  “Fifty miles one way. Hundred miles round trip. That’s fifty dollars a mile.”

  “He will not take two.”

  “Tell him two.”

  Paco sighed and lifted both palms toward the heavens. Then turned and shuffled the dozen steps between us and the smuggler. He relayed my offer. The squat man spit, crossed his arms, and provided a counter offer. Paco returned, smiling.

  “Four.”

  “I’ll go three. No more.” I waved my arm toward the other vessels and ensured the smuggler viewed the display. “I could find others here who would take three thousand for such a trip.”

  And present the potential of cutting Paco out of the deal. Which wouldn’t do. So my taxi driver girded his loins and delivered my BAFO. Best And Final Offer. The smuggler spit again, bitched and moaned, and accepted the deal. I’d arrive at dark, the fifty miles covered in an hour, more or less. The smuggler insisted he wouldn’t linger at Providencia more than two hours. Not a problem. A two by two mile island. Find Stinnett before he fled. Before the Chinese became aware of the situation. Find Stinnett and protect my silver. Find him and end it.