by Vince Milam
A large fat iguana worked its way toward me. No stealth, an utter lack of concern regarding its environment. With no natural predators other than local dogs, it sashayed through the brush, its path marked with the sound of low brush scraping its tough hide. The distance from the posse was too great to draw attention. Until it came upon me. Insects buzzed, a few mosquitoes hummed, and the large lizard assessed the creature stretched before it. Me. For reasons I’d never know, the reptilian synapses fired danger and the stupid critter took off. Ran its waddling side-to-side gait and whacked against stiff brush during its exit. Which brought plenty of noise and the attention from the gang below me. This exercise wasn’t going well. First the kids and now a stupid oversized lizard.
Maybe they’d never fired the automatic weapons Stinnett provided them and wanted to cut loose and give them a try. Or maybe they half-way knew what they were doing. Either way, the ridgetop became a hot fire zone. Bullets slammed into earth, ricocheted off rocks. They peppered my general area. A few bee-buzzed over my stretched-out body. Meanwhile Stinnett’s house lights turned off. First the main room then the others. He’d make a dash for his personal arsenal. Given the CIA background, ownership of an assault rifle with night-vision capability was a strong possibility. It was time to vacate the current situation and reposition. Change assault tactics.
First, work fast and clear the area, then move. I didn’t relish the idea of Stinnett scoping my position with his night-vision weapon. And doing so from a superior vantage point. It would take him sixty seconds or so to acclimate his vision and focus on the battle area. I produced three of the four Swiss grenades and rolled onto my back, allowing for a decent throw. Pulled the first one’s pin and heaved it downhill toward the steep ravine bottom. Pulled the second pin and released it as the first one blew. Big bang, baby. The second one followed suit. The handful of Stinnett’s men flushed like quail and hauled it up their side of the ravine, scrambling. A couple of them crashed through ravine brush toward the village, exit stage left.
I tossed the third grenade toward a different section of the brushy draw. Just to be sure. And to draw Stinnett’s eye. The third explosion gave me one second, maybe two, for a scoot over the top of the ridgeline and a drop to the other side. Out of Stinnett’s line-of-sight.
A quick flip onto my knees and a mad scramble the few yards uphill. I flung myself over the sharp-edged ridge and heard the wicked angry whine as a near-miss bullet whipped past. Immediately followed with the sharp crack of a rifle. A snap shot from the house. Well, it answered the question whether the enemy held a weapon with night-vision capabilities.
It was a new ball game. His stooges were out of the picture but the element of surprise now lost. So it was just him and me. And he knew who came after him. The grenades, the quick dash over the peaked ridgeline. He knew. Death stalked him in the night. And wouldn’t quit.
A nighttime sniper-on-sniper approach was off the table, with its hours of waiting, scoping. I wasn’t playing that game and would take him at short range. Inside his house, up close and personal.
Traversing below the ridgeline, I dropped into the ravine and up the other side. Then repeated the maneuver and followed another spine uphill, past his house. The plan—enter through the back. Stinnett would defend 360 degrees of potential assault. I planned one attack angle. Straight at him. Advantage, Case Lee.
Freakin’ kids. Freakin’ stupid iguana. The unexpected. Count on it. I pushed those thoughts away and focused on the approach. Scoping the rear house layout, several options presented. The most appealing—the structure’s nearest back corner. A pinpoint route straight for it held the poorest view angle for anyone inside. I could nestle against the corner and slide along the wooden exterior toward several back entry points. A plan developed, odds in my favor. Execute, move, terminate.
I didn’t know the guy’s background but high odds he lacked great marksmanship. I counted on it. Three hundred yards behind and above the house, I moved fast and made a beeline toward the rear corner. A low jog, dodging dwarf trees and oversized scrub. The final twenty yards were across open ground—a high-risk stretch. I accelerated approaching the open area, headed downhill, and sprinted across the danger zone. Then pressed against the corner’s exterior clapboards. No response from the enemy. Stinnett focused elsewhere—toward the front or off to either side. He’d cover the back at some point, seek his target. Too late, Stinnett. Nightmare time, baby. I’m at your doorstep. Say your prayers and prepare for Case Lee’s stamp of Expired on your birth certificate.
Chapter 37
Cut and run was a possibility for my quarry. But he didn’t know my position, and performing a hasty exit left the possibility he’d run into me. Bad news for my opponent, and he knew it. I gave his runaway low odds. He might move about, creep in the darkness and seek me through different vantage points. Or the most likely scenario—he would stay put. One spot where he felt safe, protected. A place which afforded him a strong sense of self-defense, forcing me to seek him. An activity that tilted odds more toward a level playing field. To hell with level playing fields. I wanted him moving, active. Inside a dark house, his movement and sound posted the highest vulnerabilities. I’d force him into both activities.
Four windows spaced across the back of the house. A door, centered, closed and likely locked. A poor choice for entry. Another option would become available soon enough. The key—aggression. Force Stinnett into a mindset of being under extreme attack. Create a mandate of movement. Maybe get the guy talking, open negotiations. Pinpoint his location. And take care of business.
Once the assault kicked-off, the key was speed and terminal violence. Move fast, hit my target. Start with the farthest window. I ducked low and dashed across the wide back wall. Settled in a squat under the glass windowpanes at the far corner. I lifted the assault rifle over my head and fired on full automatic. A short burst as glass imploded, the weapon’s firing sharp and explosive. Then waited three seconds for a response—returned fire or the sound of movement. Nothing.
I pulled the final hand grenade’s pin, tossed it through the window, and flew along the back wall, stopping under the window closest to my original corner position. The grenade explosion blew a chunk of wall outward and sent metal fragments throughout that corner of the house. Pretty much guaranteed it grabbed Stinnett’s rapt attention.
Next the window above my head. The opposite side of the back wall from the grenade toss. I pulled the pistol and blasted five quick shots into the room, then hauled ass back toward the aftermath of the grenade explosion as glass shards collapsed to the ground behind me. Hit the blown-out wall area and entered the killing floor. Sought my target, the assault rifle shouldered.
“Lee! Lee! Listen up.”
The voice was steadier than anticipated. It came from the left side of the house, near the front. Near the large great room. The room I’d entered, minus most of its back wall, was a spare bedroom. The doorway hung on one hinge. A splintered armoire lay on its side.
“I know you can hear me.”
I avoided crunching across broken glass and edged toward the grenade-shattered doorway. Led with the weapon’s barrel, sought my prey.
“What you’re doing is murder! You can paint a pretty face on it, Lee, but it’s still murder.”
I focused on the sound source, not the words. A spook, playing head games, working me. A short hallway showed empty. Eased my way along it. It opened on the great room. The voice came from a space near the large living area.
“The reasonable thing is a discussion. We can talk this out. I can issue guarantees. Solid guarantees. You won’t get that from anyone else.”
I could issue a guarantee as well, you dumb bastard. Guarantee your sorry ass would not be among us much longer. I pressed against the doorjamb, focused on pinpointing his voice. The night vision scope sought movement or a portion of his body. Any target facilitating a trigger squeeze. A wounding shot, a hand or leg. It didn’t matter. Punch flesh, keep firing, attack. Foll
ow up with a kill shot.
“And money. Money like you can’t believe. No more work, no more danger. You could retire. Think about it.”
A quick scan of the floor for debris and a silent step across the opening. It allowed for a better firing angle and less body exposure. The large sliding glass door of the great room—opened to a small overlook porch—let in a Caribbean breeze. It ruffled long light curtains. Hillside insect sounds, silenced when my grenades went off, returned full chorus. Distant Caribbean waters glistened under moon and star light.
He’d show soon enough. Run out of one-sided dialogue. He knew I was close but had no clue of my location. He’d given his position away for the running soliloquy but held a plan close to his vest. A short-term plan—kill me. My existence held nothing but downside for Stinnett. He might blabber for hours, but sooner or later he’d try and kill me. One of us wasn’t walking out of here.
“I know about the bounty.”
Frozen. Movement and focus and intent—all frozen.
“And I know who funds it.”
The one operational Hail Mary the guy could throw that would seize my attention. The sponsor of the bounty. Identify the sponsor—a Yemeni sheik or Chechen mafia boss or South American drug lord. Hunt him down. And cut loose the burden, at long last, on my family, Marcus, Bo, Catch. And me.
But I dealt with a spook. A spook who would say anything, do anything, to save his hide. I opted for a short Q&A. A stay of execution. Clemency was still off the table but facts delivered, hard facts, extended Stinnett’s life a few more minutes. But only a few.
Speaking identified my location, so I slid further from the great room’s doorway. I had no idea what type of weaponry Stinnett held.
“Tell me.”
The great room’s lights flicked on. And pinpointed his location. A half-wall between the kitchen and large room held light switches. I’d scoped the area seconds ago. He’d reached around the interior wall and threw the switches, exposing just his hand. He now stood behind the same wall, in the kitchen.
“Simply tell you?” A low chuckle followed. An affectated, ballsy move. This guy raised the bar on fatal game-play. “It’s my hole card, Lee. Let’s work out a few details first.”
“Such as?”
“Such as how this ends. Then work backward to the information you want.”
“This ends how and when I say it does.” I launched a quick probe. “How many of us carry the bounty?”
“Five.”
His answer lent credence to a claim of paymaster knowledge. My CIA dossier did contain information about myself, Marcus, Bo, and Catch having a bounty on our heads. As well as Angel. But Angel lay buried in Montana. A fact unknown to anyone but us remaining four.
Marilyn Townsend, a few months earlier, claimed the Company didn’t know the sponsor. She may have lied. A leverage point for future use. But Stinnett could have other knowledge. Maybe. Maybe not.
“What part of the world? Give me that. A sign of goodwill and brotherhood, asshole.”
If this little chat went sideways quick, at least I’d have acquired a morsel. Anything to narrow the sponsor search. Otherwise, it was a big world and neither I nor my brothers knew where to begin.
“No can do.” Another chuckle. “Let’s first talk about how we both walk away from this. The end game.”
The explosive boom shocked the crap out of me. A single shot from a high-powered pistol. What the hell? On the heels of the deafening gunshot, two concurrent sounds. The rattle of a weapon dropped on a hard surface. And the thud of a dead body. I slapped the assault rifle against my shoulder, heart rate soared, senses cranked.
“What the hell was that, Stinnett?” My voice loud, demanding, although my gut told me I wouldn’t hear anymore from Stinnett. Ever. I applied trigger pressure, sure of immediate gunplay. The adrenaline pump redlined.
“Relax, Lee. It’s over.”
Mind reeling, I tried piecing the immediate together. I knew the voice. Not the inflection or accent or rhythm. But the sound of the voice.
“Paco?”
“Yeah. Whatever. Step out. My pistol is in my right hand. Pointed at the floor.”
My taxi driver. Speaking perfect English. With a Midwest accent. Iowa, or Indiana. What the hell?
“You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“No you moron. I’m not shitting you. Get out here and lower the high-caliber hackles.”
The Company. Played me like a freakin’ Stradivarius once again. Pissed, relieved, confused—and the adrenaline pump still fired on all cylinders. First things first—a visual assessment of the situation.
“Coming out.”
I dropped to a knee and, leading with the Tavor assault rifle, popped a partial view of my body around the doorjamb. Locked the weapon’s sight on Paco’s chest. He stood at the edge of the illuminated room, pistol pointed down. Breath blew rapid through my nostrils. Son of a bitch.
“I’m going to place this pistol in my front right pocket. You got that?”
His voice was calm, sure, and directive. He’d occupied this position more than once. A CIA wet work operative.
“Yeah. Got it.”
He did. A seasoned, relaxed, smooth move. I lowered my weapon and stood. Kept the rifle battle-ready, finger on the trigger, barrel aimed knee-cap high. Moved toward him. He understood my immediate goal and backed farther into the kitchen, allowing me space for a quick view. Stinnett lay crumpled as blood pooled. A head shot.
I locked eyes with Paco or whoever the hell he was. His voice changed. No longer conversational, it was now flat, definitive, etched in stone.
“We take care of our own business.”
I nodded in response. Yeah, Paco. Yeah. I guess you do.
Chapter 38
“I need to collect a few things and could use your help,” Paco said.
The wheels turned but the gears didn’t mesh. The mental clarity this guy held wouldn’t arrive for me. Except for one thing. Paco was a hitter extraordinaire. A Company hitter. And I wasn’t releasing my rifle grip. Or turning my back on this guy. He sensed the attitude.
“If it will help, I’ll lay the firearm on the counter. So you can relax. And help gather a few items.”
Again, I nodded as response. He used thumb and forefinger, pulled on the pistol’s exposed grip. Then laid the weapon on the counter.
“You’re not in any danger.” He displayed a wry grin. “Unless you run into more pirates on the way back.”
“Okay.” I noticed he didn’t use the plural regarding the return occupants on the smuggler’s boat.
“You’ve got friends in high places.” The grin disappeared, replaced with dead seriousness. “I received specific instructions not to harm you unless necessary.”
Marilyn Townsend. Fine. But the caveat of no harm my way unless necessary drew a cold interpretive line in the sand. A line subject to this wet work specialist’s immediate situational view.
“Good to know. But I’m keeping a grip on my weapon.”
He shrugged, said, “Whatever,” and strode toward Stinnett’s body, flicking on more kitchen lights along the way. Paco checked his pockets, found nothing, and wandered down a hallway, turning on lights as he went. I followed.
He searched room to room. Banged walls, sought hidden stashes. In Stinnett’s office he dumped a laptop, thumb drives, and papers into a leather satchel he’d snatched off a doorknob.
“Lobbing those grenades into the ravine provided great cover.” He pulled open another drawer. “And blowing the back of the house off sure drew his attention. No one is going to accuse you of being subtle, Lee.”
“He might have told me something of value. Big-time value. You could have waited.”
I stood in the office doorway and watched him work. He was thorough, fast, professional.
“He fed you BS. Waited for his shot.”
“He knew things. The number five, as an example.”
“He had access to your dossier. Anything beyond that was p
ure conjecture. BS.”
Mr. Wet Work found a hidden compartment under the desk. Removed more thumb drives and rolls of cash. Everything was tossed into the leather satchel.
“What do you know?” I asked.
He glanced up, shook his head, and returned to rifling through drawers.
“If you’re talking about the bounty, I don’t know jack.”
The truth or a lie? I’d never know.
“So that’s it?” I asked. “Over and done?”
“You want a parade?”
I stepped aside and he returned to the kitchen. Eyeballing me, he reversed the two-finger process of pocketing his pistol.
“I’m out of here. Going to borrow his ATV for a little ride.”
“You’re not taking the boat back.” An affirmation we were parting company. He’d drive the ATV to a pick-up point. Maybe the small unlit airstrip. Or an isolated spot where a long-range night-capable helicopter would retrieve him. Either way, he would soon disappear.
“No thanks. Good luck, Lee.” He turned, satchel over one shoulder, and laughed. Switching back to Spanish, he said, “You might want to avoid turning your back on that smuggler waiting for you.”
I cast a glance around and turned off lights, remaining in the dark. In too damn many ways. The ATV started out front. Oh man. Alone and twisted and numb. The Company figured I would head toward San Andres. They placed their hitter there a couple of days ago. Long enough for him to get the lay of the land. Assume an identity and prepare for me. I took minor solace knowing he’d played the part well. Still. Should have picked up on it, sensed a vibe. I’d let my guard down. Then they used me as the prime distraction for Stinnett. Opened the door for a quiet, efficient hit. Great. Just freakin’ great.