Of course, there was nothing that said the Bible was definitely here. Sister Grace only said this was the closest Víbora camp. One of the gang bosses, Victor Ibarra, was rumored to be here as well. The way the sister figured it, El Tigre killed Father Ferguson and stole the Bible, and then he’d bring it to his father, which meant bringing it here to Ibarra.
Now, he just had to get in.
Chapter 17
His hiding spot was up the hill from the complex. Looking down through the trees, it took him a good forty minutes to get the lazy pattern of the guards. They weren’t so much walking the perimeter as they were killing time to give themselves something to do. They were bored, and they showed it. Made sense. Nobody ever went up against the Víbora. They didn’t have anything to fear from anybody. So why worry?
Zack was going to give them a reason.
A lot of people would be tempted to wait for a gap in the guard’s pattern. That was always risky in Zack’s experience. No telling if the gap would last as long as you hoped it would or if the next guy would come through at precisely the wrong moment. Better to sneak up behind one of the guards, like this, and render them unconscious with an arm bar locked around their neck, because now you knew you had lots of time before the next guy walked through.
Dragging the limp form of the guard back into the trees a distance away from the patrol patterns of the guards, Zack took off the man’s green fatigue jacket and his hat and quickly slipped into them. He found a pair of sunglasses in a side pocket of the pants and put those on as well. Unless someone was looking right at him, it would make a passable disguise.
He took the rifle, too. The guy was carrying zip-tie cuffs on his left side, and although Zack didn’t want to guess what they were meant for, he made good use of them now to secure the guard’s hands behind his back. Two more kept his ankles together and hooked hands and feet up behind his back. There wasn’t anything in the pockets that he could use as a gag. Working as quickly as he could, he took off the guy’s right boot and stripped off a sweaty gray sock and stuffed it into the guard’s mouth. Then he tied it in place with the lace from the boot.
The guard started to stir.
A smack to the back of the head with the butt end of his own rifle put him back to sleep.
Just as he finished the next guard passed through, and Zack had to crouch down to keep from being seen. He held the rifle up, ready to use it if he needed to. The first shot he made had better count because it would attract the entire camp, and he’d lose the element of surprise.
The guard passed without even so much as looking in Zack’s direction. When he was far enough into the trees, Zack popped up from his crouch and shouldered the rifle and walked straight into camp, keeping his head bent a little so the cap would keep his face in shadows. Act like you belong somewhere, and usually no one questions you. That was how he got into most places he didn’t belong, and that was how he was going to get into the Víbora encampment now.
Chapter 18
Zack shouldered the rifle and strolled into the storage building with one hand gripping the checkpoint guard’s gun at the small of his back. Quickly, he looked left and right, and blew out a sigh of relief.
The building was empty.
It appeared to be nothing more than a break room. A pool table stood in the middle, next to some baseball equipment. Three wooden bats, a couple of gloves, and a bag filled with balls.
To the left of the equipment was a small folding metal table with decks of cards.
As he continued to survey the room for possible Bible hiding spots, footsteps approached. There was just enough time for him to slide under the pool table. But as he did, he knocked down one of the bats. He managed to reach back mid slide and catch the bat before it hit the ground.
The two guards entered the room and grabbed a couple of beers from an old refrigerator at the far end of the room.
A moment later, the larger of the two guards returned to his duties with the beer in hand.
The shorter guard turned on an old television set and made himself comfortable in the only chair in the building. “Vamos!“ He shouted at the screen as he opened his can and took a long sip.
A crash sounded next to Zack, and the remaining bats fell to the floor.
The guard followed the sound and moved to investigate.
Zack couldn’t take a chance of being seen.
He had to act.
As soon as the man was within reach, Zack swung the bat under the pool table and connected with the back of the man’s right knee.
The man fell backward to the floor, landing badly on his back with an audible yell.
Zack slid from under the pool table and grabbed the guard from behind, locking his arm around the man’s neck. The man clawed at Zack’s arm but was rendered unconscious before he could do any damage. Zack used the guard’s zip-tie cuffs to secure the man’s lifeless arms and legs and then pushed him under the pool table.
Break time was over.
Zack avoided the barracks and moved to the fourth building.
The building was smaller than the others. It contained a couple of desks, a few chairs, and a desktop computer that had been left running. Three filing cabinets were set against the far wall. A little old-school for a modern gang but great places to hide things.
Zack set his backpack on the ground and allowed himself a smile. Maybe something was going to go right for him after all.
There were four drawers in each cabinet. He found guns, paper files on several politicians and police officials, even a list of phone numbers for private cell phones belonging to different gang members. That piece of paper got folded up into his front pocket.
What he didn’t find, in any of the drawers, was the Bible.
“Sure,” he grumped silently. “That would have been way too easy.”
When was it ever easy?
The desk next, he guessed. Nowhere else in this room to . . . look . . .
Turning around from the filing cabinets, he saw the quick flash of a fist hurtling toward his face before everything went black.
PART III
FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT
— 1 Timothy 6:12 (TYN)
A phrase that was first introduced into the English language with William Tyndale’s translation of the Bible
Chapter 19
The fun and games were over.
Zack awoke sitting in a chair, staring down the barrel of a very large Smith & Wesson stainless-steel revolver.
This was definitely not part of his plan.
His eyes slowly focused on the finger on the trigger, then the hand attached to it, and then on the person who belonged to the hand.
She looked vaguely familiar in the kind of way terrorists did when you saw them on the news. She was shorter than him by a foot or better. A red beret sat at a rakish angle on her dark hair that flowed freely down past her shoulders. Her ribbed tank top was the same khaki color as her pants, and her gun belt was slung low on her hips. Zack guessed his captor to be in her mid-thirties. She was muscular and deadly looking, with a snake tattoo that wrapped several times around her right arm, ending at her shoulder. She was everything Zack would have expected in a Víbora. Everything except the crystal blue eyes. He hadn’t expected those, or the little smile on her lips.
He wasn’t dead yet, so that was a good sign.
“Uh, hola?“ he tried.
“You are not one of my men,” she said in heavily clipped English.
Her men? Not Victor Ibarra’s men?
The Víbora was even more socially advanced than he’d initially thought. Slowly it dawned on him. He had seen her. An online news site ran a full story on her last year after one of the bosses of the Víbora was arrested in London. She was his girlfriend and rumored to be the head of the Víbora kill squad. She was notorious for posting pictures of herself on social media sites holding a pink AK-47 and wads of cash. He couldn’t remember if he’d read her name, but her eyes, those he remembered.
Z
ack shifted in his seat. The checkpoint guard’s pistol was no longer at the small of his back. “Uh, no, I’m not one of yours,” he said, choosing his words wisely.
“But you are in his jacket.”
“Yeah. The hat, too . . . and the glasses.”
“His rifle too.”
“You want it back?”
She took a double-handed grip on the revolver and said, “I could just take it off your corpse.”
“You haven’t shot me yet,” he pointed out.
“I think we search for the same thing. You may be useful.” She shrugged. “I can kill you if I find out you are not.”
Zack relaxed, just a little. He was still in the middle of a gang encampment, being held at gunpoint. The woman holding the gun was pleasant to look at, to be sure, but that didn’t make up for the rest of it. “Glad we could be reasonable,” he said. “So, you’re looking for something, too?”
“Do not be coy with me, Mister Cole. We both seek the Bible.”
He nodded, keeping his expression as neutral as he could. The Tyndale Bible was supposed to be here. He’d been counting on it. If she was looking for it, too, that meant it could be anywhere in Guatemala or even already shipped out of the country to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. More importantly, at least here in this moment, was the other question burning in his mind. “How do you know my name?”
She lowered her gun and set it on the desk that stood between them. She leaned over, hands on the flat desktop, gun between them. “I know who you are, Mister Cole. I’ve done my research. You made quite the impression in El Pollito and again in San Pedro.”
Zack’s mind assembled the pieces in an instant. “So the police in San Pedro . . . those were your guys?”
“La Víbora has eyes and ears everywhere.”
“Except where it counts,” he snarked. “Your man El Tigre took the Bible already. Killed a friend of mine while he was at it. That’s a score for another time. Right now, I think we both have to ask the important question. Why didn’t he bring the Bible here, to you?”
Her mouth turned into a frown. “That is an important question, yes. He was supposed to deliver it yesterday. I fear our Tigre has slipped his leash.”
“Going to sell the Bible, you think? On the black market he might get seven digits for it. Six, easy.”
She stared at him as if there was more than just a language barrier between them. “You don’t know why the Bible is so important, do you?”
“Well, it’s the Word of God, after all. There’s a lot of power in those words.”
“The Bible is a lot more than words.”
Zack didn’t know if she meant the Bible in the general sense, or if she meant this Bible in particular. Either way, this put a whole new spin on things for him. The Tyndale Bible was more than just a precious book. Apparently it was worth running afoul of the Víbora.
Zack’s captor pushed off from the desk and grabbed her gun. She walked one slow step at a time around the corner of it to stand close to him. She looked into his eyes and said, “I know El Tigre. He has only so many safe places to run. He will be holed up in one of them for now. If we leave right now, we can find him in whatever one he has scurried to. You will help me secure the Bible, and then you will help me discover its true worth.”
Zack stood and picked up his backpack. “Now? Me? Why?”
Her smile showed teeth. “Which question to answer first? I am taking you with me. You have a . . . certain . . . reputation, Mister Cole. My men are thugs. If I need someone to disappear, I will send them. This job will take finesse. Intelligence. Brains. Things you reportedly have.”
“Things your guys don’t?”
She stepped closer. “There is a reason I am still single among so many men.”
“Oh, speaking of that.” He tried to back up, but she pressed herself against him again. “Um. The guy I borrowed this coat from is up on the hill that way. I left him gagged and bound, so you might want to get someone to him quickly. Oh, and there’s another that needs attention in the break room.”
“Do not worry about them, Mister Cole.” She turned away from him and went to the door, waiting for him there. “They’ve been dealt with.”
Zack didn’t need clarification. Nor did he think this was an offer he was going to be allowed to refuse. She was asking with a flirtatious smile, but he knew better than to mistake that as a request.
Where did that leave him?
Up a creek without a paddle.
Chapter 20
So far, Zack was not loving Guatemala.
Either he helped this woman or ended up with a bullet in the head. He worked up some bravado. “So. Do I get to know your name?” he asked her.
Her smile turned hungry. “They call me La Cobra.”
That explained the snake tattoo.
They walked out through the camp to one of the waiting vehicles. Zack drew a few stares from La Cobra’s men, but no one in the camp said anything to them. There were nods and a few salutes for La Cobra but nothing more. She directed him to the passenger seat of one of the pickup trucks. He tossed his pack in the back and they started out down the main road.
It wasn’t long before Zack lost track of where they were. Somewhere south of Las Montañas, he knew that much, but after winding up and down the jungle road with no clear view of the sky, he soon lost his sense of direction.
“Tell me, Mister Cole,” La Cobra said to him after ten or fifteen minutes had passed. “Why are you so intent on recovering the Bible? Surely your part in this was over as soon as the priest was killed.”
“Father Ferguson was a friend of a friend.”
“Ah, yes, friendship.” She made the word twist around her lips. “That simplest of coin. Easily spent, like pocket change. It is here today and gone tomorrow.”
“Not between true friends, it’s not.”
“Perhaps, then, I have never known a true friend in my life.” She shrugged.
“I doubt there are a lot of close buddies in a gang like the Víbora. Pretty much every man for himself, isn’t it? Or, every woman, in your case.”
She kept her eyes on the road as she said, “You would be surprised, Mister Cole.”
“Would I? Doesn’t seem like El Tigre cared much about his fellow gang members. Gang people. Gang . . . persons. However, you say it.”
“We just say, familia.” The vein at her temple pulsed. “El Tigre has sinned against the family. He will be dealt with.”
“Shouldn’t you have brought more men with us, then?”
“No se preocupe,” she assured him. “He will not fire on me.”
“Oh really? What, your guys won’t hurt women?”
She shifted gears on the pickup like a pro and sped up. “Hardly. We hurt who needs to be hurt, man or woman. No, Mister Cole, El Tigre will not fire on me for another reason entirely.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m his sister.”
Chapter 21
El Tigre’s sister? Sure. Why not?
La Cobra brought them to a little shack well off the beaten track back in among the trees. Not as well hidden as the encampment where she had secured his help, but probably not known to any of the local authorities except those in the good graces of the Víbora.
Zack thought they would try to make a quiet, stealthy approach. Instead, Miss Cobra drove up at full speed nearly to the front door before slamming the brakes on and skidding to a stop on the dirt drive.
She got out of the truck, slamming the door behind her, hollering at the top of her lungs in Spanish for her brother to get his useless face out where she could see it.
Zack raised an eyebrow. This woman had spirit. She was unlike any of the women he usually dated. If she didn’t get him killed before nightfall, maybe he’d ask for her phone number.
He shook his head at himself. He always seemed to attract the wrong type of women.
He refocused and got out to join her.
“He’s not answering,”
Zack told her when she had finally run out of breath. “Maybe he wasn’t expecting us.”
She let Zack step close enough and then stroked a finger down his cheek. “American humor. So hard to get a handle on.”
La Cobra called out for her brother again and stomped up the crooked wooden steps to the front door. Without knocking, she pushed the door open. After a moment, when he was sure there wasn’t going to be any gunfire, Zack followed.
He found her standing just inside the door, one hip thrust out, her arms crossed over her chest. She was swearing in her native language.
He followed her gaze and saw the body on the floor.
Chapter 22
The shack had all of two rooms. The first one served as the living room and kitchen and apparently general dumping ground for everything from boxes of energy bars to bags of old clothing.
On the floor, the body of a man lay face down on an ugly brown rug. A stain of red spread out and dried around his chest and arms. He was a good-sized man, bulky with muscles, wearing tan pants and a dark blue uniform shirt. Was this the same police officer the sister saw?
“You didn’t tell me your brother was a police officer.” Zack tried to figure that one out. “How does that work, exactly? He works for you, but he works for the police?”
She pulled her foot back and kicked the dead man as hard as she could. “Not my brother. This one is un chonte. Was un chonte. One I knew.”
“So why is he dead? Why is he here, and dead?”
“I do not know,” she told him. Kneeling down, just beyond the reach of the blood, she began searching the pockets of the dead man’s pants. “I suggest you do your part.”
The Tyndale Code: An Action-Packed Christian Fiction Thriller Novella (An Armour of God Thriller Book 1) Page 5