by Matt Rogers
Slater started to bring the Glock up to blast Malvado’s face apart but the man was too long, too nimble, too agile. He lashed out with a shin and caught Slater in the chest as he went past, planting him on the tarmac, crushing the breath from his lungs. Slater rolled with the impact but it winded him all the same. He sprang back to his feet and brought the Glock up and fired a single shot but he missed.
By no more than an inch.
Malvado’s ponytail flapped as the displaced air passed him by, the bullet coming within a hair’s breadth of tearing half his face off. But Slater didn’t get the opportunity for a second shot, because Malvado had already changed direction and he spear-tackled Slater in the mid-section, dropping him once again to the tarmac. He made a lunging sweep with the switchblade on the way down and Slater used the gun to batter the knife away. He pressed the barrel to Malvado’s forearm, catching it on a limb on the way to his head.
No matter.
I’ll take his arm off.
Slater went to pull the trigger but a staggering blow caught him in the ribcage, and he was already winded, so somehow he missed the trigger pull as he lost his grip on the Glock and then everything went to hell. The gun disappeared underneath Malvado’s giant frame and the man slithered on top of Slater and drove down with the knife — Slater deflected the stab with his forearms by shoving Malvado’s wrist aside. He wouldn’t get a second opportunity.
So he smashed his forehead into Malvado’s already broken nose and the guy tumbled away, howling, in more pain than anyone could possibly imagine, his broken bones grinding against each other inside his head.
Perfect.
Now you know what pain feels like.
Slater couldn’t quite believe what was happening. He snatched up the Glock, but instead of finishing Malvado off he grabbed two handfuls of the man’s shirt and hauled him up the rear ramp of the Hercules, leaving the old man behind to fend for himself. This was a ruthless, amoral game, and Slater wouldn’t survive if he showed compassion to everyone he came across. It simply wasn’t logistically possible. The convoy of cartel sicarios surged ever closer to the runway, each individual headlight now clearly visible. There were four or five pick-up trucks in the procession, big Suburbans painted black with tinted windows.
Not good.
Not survivable.
Slater hustled the weeping Malvado into the fuselage of the Hercules, staggeringly big and empty. He waved both arms in the air, signalling down the length of the plane. A solitary figure leaning out of the cockpit nodded acknowledgement and the floor underneath Slater lurched — they weren’t wasting any time. The crew probably knew what the approaching convoy symbolised. If they were caught aiding the escape of a traitor, they would be tortured mercilessly for their betrayal.
The Hercules roared and the fuselage shuddered around them. Slater noticed Malvado still had the switchblade in his hand and he thundered a boot into the man’s solar plexus, knocking him back into one of the thinly cushioned seats. His nose was a godawful mess, and Slater couldn’t muster up a shred of empathy for the man. The rear ramp began to ascend, and the elderly man on the runway raised a hand in farewell, as small as an ant against the backdrop of the airfield.
Behind him, the convoy of Suburbans approached.
Slater closed his eyes and hoped the man escaped without harm.
Not that it was likely.
This is Mexico.
When the fuselage sealed, Slater breathed relief. He doubted the cartel sicarios had RPGs or weaponry capable of taking down the Hercules. Small arms fire would achieve nothing against such a behemoth.
He crossed the metal tube and crouched down in front of Malvado. The man’s nose was already swelling to three times its usual size, sealing his eyes shut in the process. All Slater had to do was reach out and pluck the switchblade from his hands. He offered no resistance. Slater hurled the blade across the fuselage and peered into what was left visible of Malvado’s eyes.
‘What the hell was that?’ he said.
‘Change of plans,’ Malvado mumbled. ‘I didn’t want to go to America.’
‘You thought they’d fly you … where?’
‘Don’t know. Anywhere. Not America. I’ll die there.’
Slater paused, then smirked. ‘I was going to kill you before we got there anyway. But now I might not. Now I might let you rot in solitary confinement for fifty years. That’s true punishment. And it doesn’t matter how insane you are — that’ll drive you even crazier. You might even like it. You seem to have an attraction to pain.’
Now it was Malvado’s turn to smile, even though he could barely see. ‘That sounds nice. I need some downtime.’
‘I’m sure you do. You’re an impulsive little shit, aren’t you? Seems like you change your plans every ten seconds.’
‘Keeps my enemies guessing.’
‘You almost had me. Couple of inches extra on that lunge and you would have cut me right open.’
‘I know. Believe me, I know. That’s just the way life goes.’
They lapsed into silence as their stomachs dropped, the plane arcing away from the ground and entering the skies above Baja California. Slater stared down the length of the plane and out the front windshield, watching the Hercules aim toward the North Pacific Ocean, leaving Mexico’s landmass behind. Leaving the jurisdiction behind.
From there, they could head north up to California, and land at any number of the military airstrips in the state. Slater would have no problems getting clearance.
‘I’ve got calls to make,’ he said to no-one in particular.
He got to his feet and strode toward the cockpit, figuring he should introduce himself to the crew and make it clear where things stood.
But a few feet from the entrance, he heard raised voices.
And crying.
And then a scream.
23
It was the sound of torment, and amidst the outcry Slater heard low voices speaking Spanish, almost like they were urging the panicking man not to go through with whatever he was about to do. Slater had the Glock in his hand, ready to fire, but something made him hesitate. He feared if he burst into the cockpit right now he would catch the entire crew in the midst of something he wasn’t privy to.
It seemed ludicrous, holding back because of some kind of social stigma.
Especially given the circumstances.
But he trusted his gut. He balanced in the middle of the fuselage, taking each patch of turbulence as it came, listening to the argument reach a fever pitch in the cockpit. Their voices — and there were a few of them — rose and rose and rose, almost endlessly. Slater wasn’t sure when it was going to end. Then someone audibly shouted, ‘No!’
Slater burst off the mark. He couldn’t hold back any longer. Maybe they were debating whether to return to the airfield and hand their precious cargo over to the cartel. If so, he would need to have a word with them about…
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Silence.
Slater brought his gun up, but there was no use. Something told him he was far too late. He circled into the cockpit, a workstation packed with electronic displays and screens displaying various patterns and flight paths. It didn’t take much detective work to figure out what had happened.
Only one member of the four-man crew was still breathing.
Three bodies populated the seats assigned to the navigator, the flight engineer, and the second pilot.
Slater trained his Glock on the sole survivor, but realised within milliseconds that there was no threat. Not to Slater. Only to the man himself. The guy was mid-fifties and balding, using both his hands at once — there was a satellite phone pressed to one ear and a sleek gunmetal grey pistol jammed against the other side of his head. His eyes were bloodshot and tears ran freely down his cheeks.
Slater lowered his own weapon, figuring there was no point intensifying the stress the guy was feeling. He chanced a look out the windshield and saw nothing but d
arkness, interspersed with brief glimpses of the calm ocean surface far below. It was a cloudless night. He turned his attention back to the pilot and said, ‘Put the gun down.’
The guy shook his head, his tears flowing faster. ‘I can’t.’
He went quiet, listening intently to the satellite phone, then he nodded and said, ‘Okay. I understand. I’ll make sure it happens. Tell them I love them.’
He ended the call and gently placed the phone in his lap. He kept the gun planted against the side of his head, his finger hovering half an inch away from the trigger. He stared up at Slater, shaking his head from side to side, horrified that he’d found himself in such a precarious situation.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I truly am sorry. I have to do this.’
‘Do what?’
The pilot coughed and wept. ‘They have my family.’
‘Who does?’
‘You know who.’
Slater didn’t know how to respond. He kept his own Glock pointed toward the ground — this man would harm nobody but himself. He didn’t want to expedite the process any faster than necessary. He tried his best not to appear threatening. ‘You have a choice. You don’t have to do it.’
‘I do. If you and your friend live, my family die.’
‘I’ll shoot you in the head if you even think about turning that gun on me,’ Slater said. ‘No hard feelings.’
‘I wouldn’t expect anything less. I hear you are the best of the best.’
‘From who?’
‘The Sinaloa cartel says you have proven difficult to pin down.’
‘That’s what I do best.’
‘Yeah…’
‘Is there any way I can help you? Think hard. I have a lot of resources.’
‘What would you do for someone like me? I’m a nobody.’
‘I spend my life helping nobodies. Who you are doesn’t matter to me.’
‘You can’t help me.’
‘I can try.’
‘Trying isn’t enough.’
‘In my case it usually is.’
‘You don’t understand. They have my family. And they are horrible, horrible people, but they are true to their word. There is a code in Mexico. If the cartels break that, they are public enemy number one. So I know my family will be released and taken care of if I do what they say.’
‘Turn this plane around and land it on the runway and I can fight to get your family back.’
‘No. You can’t.’
‘Then what do they want you to do?’
‘Eliminate the crew. And then myself. Neither of you can fly a C-130. The plane will go down and that’ll be the end of you both. That’s what the cartel wants.’
‘Why don’t you just shoot me? I’m standing right here.’
‘Because before today, I had never fired a weapon in my life. I always carried one. Just in case. It is dangerous business being a private contractor. But I am not trained. I know if I pull this trigger that’ll be the end of my life, but if I try and beat you to the draw you’ll shoot me. And I want to do it myself.’
Slater paused, mulling it over. Then he shrugged, conceding the point. ‘Okay. But there’s ways around this.’
‘This is terrible money,’ the pilot said. ‘I bust my balls, for what? Maybe this is for the best.’
‘Put the gun down,’ Slater said.
His heart rate rose, his senses fixated on the man in front of him. The only thing separating him from certain death was the half-inch of space between the pilot’s finger and the trigger of his weapon. He was right — without a competent crew, they wouldn’t be able to fly the plane. It would steadily drift downward until it smashed apart on the surface of the ocean, sending Slater and Malvado sinking to a watery grave.
‘Put the gun down,’ Slater repeated. ‘There’s another way.’
‘There is no other way.’
‘I can help you.’
They were stuck in a flat circle, drifting around the same key points, getting nowhere. Slater sensed the futility in the air. The dread. The acceptance. The resignation.
He sighed. ‘Your family will be taken care of? You’re sure?’
‘Positive. The cartels honour their word. And I have done good work for them.’
Checkmate.
Slater had nothing to offer. Nothing to give. Drawing it out would only maximise the suffering. Best to get it over quick. Best to shorten the angst.
‘Do what you gotta do,’ he said. ‘But I offered you help.’
‘And I am grateful. But that is not the answer.’
‘Do me a favour. Open the rear ramp.’
‘Why?’
‘I have no allegiance to that piece of shit out there,’ Slater said, jerking a thumb out into the fuselage. ‘He can burn in hell as far as I’m concerned. But I’m selfish enough to want to spare my own life. It’s not me the cartel wants dead. It’s Malvado.’
The pilot shook his head. ‘I’ve already locked the controls. You can’t get out of this plane. If you did, my family would burn.’
‘The Sinaloa cartel will never know what happened to me. I’ll disappear. That’s my job.’
The pilot stared at him. ‘You are a good man?’
‘I like to think so.’
‘Then why are you working with the cartels?’
‘I’m not.’
‘You wouldn’t lie to me…’
‘I’m a man of my word. I do good. Your family will be safe.’
‘Swear it.’
‘I swear.’
‘Good luck, then.’
Slater didn’t respond. He thought, What now?
‘There’s a chute attached to the wall near the rear ramp,’ the pilot said. ‘I assume you know what to do.’
‘Part of the training for the job,’ Slater said.
‘Then godspeed.’
The whole time, the pilot didn’t take the gun away from his head. But he wasn’t crying any longer. He seemed resigned to his fate. His family would be taken care of if he honoured his word, and there was nothing more important than that.
Slater reached out a hand to shake the pilot’s.
The guy didn’t budge. He’d dropped the satellite phone minutes ago, freeing up a hand, but he didn’t buy into the shtick.
‘You’ll try and wrestle the gun off me,’ he said.
‘That will put your family in danger. I wouldn’t do that. I respect your choice.’
It was enough. The pilot reached out and clasped Slater’s hand. They shook. They said nothing, but the silence said everything.
‘I’m sorry you’re in this position,’ Slater said. ‘I wish it could have been different.’
‘Me too.’
‘There’s still a chance.’
‘I just killed three men. Men who trusted me. And I did it because the cartel told me to. Whatever happens, I deserve to die. But if my wife and my baby girl are safe … well, then I can die peacefully.’
‘Eloquent,’ Slater noted. ‘You should have been a poet.’
‘In another life, maybe.’
‘You’ll open the rear ramp? Let me off this thing?’
‘Make sure Malvado stays where he is. I know what he’s done. I don’t want him surviving this.’
‘You and me both.’
‘Okay.’ The pilot reached forward and tapped a series of controls on the display panel by his side. A deep groan sounded from the rear of the transport plane, gears shifting and automated mechanisms whirring.
Then the wind came howling in.
‘The satellite phone,’ Slater said. ‘Please.’
The pilot bent down, retrieved it from the footwell, and passed it across. ‘It’s waterproof.’
‘Good. I’ll need it.’
Slater nodded once to the pilot, turned, and headed straight back into the fuselage.
The screaming night wind drowned out the gunshot.
24
Before he died, the pilot must have gently lowered the nose of the Hercules towa
rd the ocean floor. The metal underneath Slater’s feet shifted downward, almost throwing him off-balance, and he knew there was no alternatives left. He couldn’t fly the plane. He could only throw himself out of it.
The gaping maw at the rear of the fuselage beckoned, showing a cloudless sky. Slater put himself on autopilot. Emotion would only make him hesitate, and hesitation would kill him. He was leaping out of a military transport plane above the North Pacific Ocean at night, but he treated it like a walk in the park.
He crossed to where Malvado sat slumped in one of the seats, the man’s broken nose a mess, his face a swollen pumpkin. What little vision he had left he was using to stare in disbelief at the open rear ramp, one of his hands wrapped feebly around the nearest handhold with white knuckles. Maybe he feared falling out of the plane.
Slater slipped into a life jacket and surveyed an assortment of parachutes loaded into their khaki containers hanging on hooks above Malvado’s head. He snatched one down and stepped into the leg straps, bracing himself against the icy wind screaming into the fuselage. He pulled the harness up over his back and tightened the chest strap across his pectorals.
Now, the pressing issue.
The Glock would either need to be used, or discarded.
He looked at Malvado. The man who had inflicted so much suffering with such confidence was a shell of himself. He cowered away from Slater, shoulders slumped and nostrils bleeding. Slater didn’t pity him. He also didn’t consider a bullet through the head suitable punishment.
Then he had an idea.
He checked briefly for an altimeter hanging on the wall and found nothing of the sort. He’d be jumping blind, unable to check his height in freefall as he plummeted toward the ocean.
Oh, well.
I’ll just have to guess.
Chest and leg straps tightened, he gave himself the once-over and nodded, satisfied. He’d jumped dozens of times before his Black Force career, and the routine lay embedded in the recesses of his mind. He threw the Glock across the fuselage, making sure Malvado couldn’t get his hands on it if he tried. Then he hauled the big man to his feet and held him firmly by the collar, dragging him like a wounded dog over to the rear ramp. They stood on the shuddering metal, ten thousand feet above the ground, the wind battering them as if they weighed nothing.