Mateo grabbed the bottom of the metal doorway and pulled himself in after her. The hold was so tightly packed that there was barely room for them to stand side by side.
“Now you see why Mr. Vega needs your help.”
“Because I’m small enough to squeeze between this stuff.”
“Exactly. You’re like his little mouse, digging for cheese.”
“Even if I can wiggle in there, there’s no way I can drag one of these things out,” she said, tugging on one of the pallets.
“You won’t have to.” Mateo pulled a folding knife and a small flashlight from his pocket and handed them to her. “Use the knife to cut off the plastic and any support straps. Then carry the cargo out to me one package at a time.”
She looked at the knife and then back up at him.
He smiled. “What’re you going to do, little girl, stab me?”
She returned a nervous smile before turning to study the hold.
“What exactly am I looking for?”
“A pallet stacked with bags of coffee. It will be labeled Negro Perla.”
“You guys came all this way for coffee?”
“What can I say? It’s very good coffee.”
“I guess it must be.” She shined the flashlight into the hold. It was going to take a while to find anything. “What’s Negro Perla mean?”
“Black Pearl.”
She cut her eyes at him.
“As in the Black Pearl?”
“What’s the Black Pearl?”
“You know…” She pretended to tip her hat. “Captain Jack Sparrow at your service.”
He made a face that said he had no idea what she was talking about.
“I hope you’re not wasting my time in there,” Vega called up from below.
“No, sir.” Mateo turned to Samantha and whispered, “You’d better get busy. Mr. Vega’s not a patient man.”
“Right.” She stuffed the knife into her front pocket and began squirming between the pallets.
As Mateo disappeared from view, it occurred to her that she might indeed have to stab him with his own knife. No doubt Tanner was already working on a plan to rescue her, and like all of his plans, it would involve people getting hurt.
Having dispatched Geraldo, Tanner considered his next course of action. At most, he had a few minutes before the men became concerned about their missing comrade. Once that happened, all bets would be off. They might flee, taking Samantha as a hostage. Or they might come looking for him as a well-armed group. Neither of those scenarios bode particularly well for him or Samantha.
He retrieved his shotgun and flashlight before heading further into the terminal. The doors to the next two gates were both locked, and he saw no easy way to get through them. The door to the third gate, however, had been propped open with a suitcase.
Tanner swung it the rest of the way open and hurried down the jet bridge. It was identical to the previous one, except that there wasn’t a plane at the end of the ramp. Instead, the movable platform opened out onto the tarmac. The service door was on the side facing the men, and Tanner doubted that he could sneak down the stairs without someone noticing.
He stepped over to the open platform and looked down at the tarmac. It was too far to jump, but not so far that he couldn’t lower and drop. He sat down and turned around, hanging onto the metal framing. Then he lowered as far as his arms would allow and dropped. As soon as he hit the ground, he ducked behind the steerable wheels that were used to propel the jet bridge.
Peeking around a large power box, he saw two guards and the man in pink standing beneath the 747’s cargo hold. Their attention was firmly fixed on what was happening inside. Samantha and the man who had captured her were talking. He handed her something, and then she disappeared behind a large pallet.
The Mexicans must be using her to retrieve something from the plane, most likely drugs. While it could have been some other valuable, perhaps gold or gems, those items no longer held the same intrinsic value that they once had. Drugs, on the other hand, might be even more valuable. Not only were they very hard to come by, they were also incredibly addictive.
The men on the ground were so focused on the recovery operation that Tanner suspected that if he could get close enough, he could probably drop all three with a few quick blasts from the shotgun. The problem with that plan was the man in the hold. No matter how quickly Tanner dropped the others, he would remain a threat to Samantha.
This was one of those rare times when Tanner thought that it might actually be better to negotiate. And that meant getting his hands on something valuable. His eyes settled on the Piper. Presumably, it was to be their ride out of D.C., and he doubted they would give it up without good reason. If he could gain control of the airplane, there was a good chance they would be willing to trade it for Samantha.
An abandoned fuel truck sat on the tarmac, centered about halfway to the Piper. It couldn’t have been more than fifty yards from where Tanner knelt, and it felt like a reasonable gamble to make a run for it. But a gamble is what it was. A quick turn of the head by any one of the men, and the game would be up.
Willing himself to appear smaller than he truly was, Tanner darted toward the truck, never once taking his eyes, or his shotgun, off the men. He was too far away to win a gunfight, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t send them ducking for cover.
Thankfully, it didn’t come to that.
Tanner let out a sigh of relief as he darted in behind the refueling truck. The unmistakable odor of jet fuel permeated the air like a bottle of Caron Piovre perfume. Hiding behind something loaded with thousands of gallons of combustible fuel probably wasn’t the smartest thing he had ever done, but it did at least shield him from view.
He rose up and peered between the hose and the tank. The Mexicans were still focused on retrieving their cargo. None of them had even glanced in his direction.
He turned and looked at the open stretch that lay between him and the Piper. Halfway there; halfway to go.
Surprisingly, it took Samantha only a few minutes to find the pallet piled high with bags of Negro Perla coffee.
“Found it,” she called back over her shoulder.
“Good,” said Mateo. “Now use the knife to cut away the plastic.”
Samantha opened the knife and gingerly tested the edge. It was well used, but sharp. She sliced through the plastic and pulled it aside, careful not to nick the burlap sacks beneath. When she had enough of the plastic removed, she grabbed the corners of one of the sacks and pulled. It was about the size of a small pillow but much heavier.
“They’re too heavy!” she shouted.
“You can do it,” he said, sounding more like a coach than a captor.
She slid her arms around the bag and lifted. To her surprise, it pulled free of the pallet. She would never have been able to lift it a few months earlier, but things had changed since she’d first met Tanner. He was constantly pushing her to be stronger. Tougher. Meaner. More like him, only cuter. Even the thought of Tanner made her load seem lighter. It was as if he were standing right next to her saying, “Come on, darlin’, put your back into it.”
The gap between pallets was so narrow that several times she had to set the sack down, climb through the crevice, and then drag it through after her. When she finally made it back to Mateo, her arms were aching.
“Good girl,” he said, taking the sack and turning around to lower it to the man standing below the cargo door.
It was in that moment that Samantha knew how to defeat Mateo. She wouldn’t have to stab him at all. She would simply give him a good shove, and out he’d go. The fall probably wouldn’t kill him, but it should at least put him out of commission for a while.
As soon as the man below caught the sack, he set it on the tarmac and used his knife to cut it open. Mr. Vega stepped closer to have a look. The guard shoved both hands into the dark coffee beans and fished out a brick-sized package sealed in plastic. It looked like a block of Play-Doh after someone
had mixed all of the colors together.
“This wasn’t about coffee at all,” muttered Samantha.
Mateo looked back at her but said nothing.
The guard showed the package to Mr. Vega.
“Take it to the plane and make sure it’s still good,” he directed.
“Yes, sir.”
The guard turned and hurried off toward the Piper.
“Go on,” Mateo said, motioning to Samantha. “Get the next one.”
“But there are like fifty of those sacks. I can’t carry them all.”
Mateo’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t say things like that. You don’t want to make Mr. Vega angry. Now, go get the bags. When you get too tired, I’ll let you have a short rest.”
Staring into Mateo’s eyes, she realized that the situation was as beyond his control as it was hers. He was a man used to doing what he was told, no matter how awful the task.
“All right,” she said, nodding. “I’ll try.”
Tanner’s plan changed the moment he saw one of the guards running toward the Piper. The man’s face was pocked with acne scars, and he reminded him of Danny Trejo’s incarnation of Machete. He carried a small package in both hands, which Tanner assumed was some kind of illicit drug.
Even during his time of slumming it with the hippies, Tanner had managed to avoid the seductive call of drugs. He held no malice for the people who used drugs, as he considered them a crutch for those too weak to face a reality that could at times be pretty shitty. But this empathy in no way extended to the brutal pushers and drug lords who caused mothers all over the world to bury their children.
Machete’s path would take him directly in front of the fuel truck, affording Tanner an opportunity to intercept him. Taking the man out shouldn’t be too difficult, but doing so quietly was going to require a bit of luck.
Once again, Tanner laid his shotgun aside. If he didn’t use it soon, the damn thing was going to rust. He quickly surveyed the fuel truck to see if there was anything on board that might be used as a weapon. The only thing he found was a three-foot metal rod with two prongs on the end—obviously some sort of tool to open panels or turn valves. The prongs were dull, certainly not suited to poking someone, but the rod was heavy enough to be used as a cudgel.
He hefted the metal tool and squatted down at the corner of the truck. He could hear the steady pat of feet coming toward him. As they grew louder, he readied himself, playing out the swing like a batter awaiting a fastball. As soon as the man’s dark clothes came into view, Tanner stepped out and swung the rod with both hands.
The blow caught Machete in the mouth, shattering teeth and tearing deep wounds along both cheeks. As he stumbled back, Tanner grabbed his shirt and pulled him behind the truck. Machete’s hands came up defensively, but Tanner kept the rod pressed tightly against the back of his throat. Pinned against the driver-side door, the man gagged and flailed, dropping the block of drugs at their feet.
Tanner drove a knee up into his groin. Machete grunted, but the rod kept him from doubling over. A second knee sent his eyes rolling back into his head. He tried to collapse, but Tanner held him firmly in place, driving the knee up again. There was very little reaction to the third blow, a sure sign that the man was unconscious.
He lowered him to the ground, never once removing the rod from Machete’s mouth. The metal had ripped the sides of his cheeks all the way back to his molars, and blood now dribbled down his face and neck. Bloody bubbles pulsed from Machete’s nose, confirming what Tanner already suspected.
He wasn’t dead.
Not yet, anyway. While every life had value, he didn’t see it as an acceptable risk to leave an enemy still breathing.
“Better luck next time around,” he said, delivering a sharp karate chop to the man’s trachea. Machete jerked once, and that was it. No fanfare. No singing of angels. Just a slight gasp and then… nothing.
Tanner donned the guard’s vest and hat. The vest was a little tight and the hat a little loose, a fact that he was confident Samantha would not have let pass without some clever barb. He also picked up the Spectre submachine gun and the fallen package of black tar heroin. While he had no use for the drugs, it too was a part of the costume.
Once he was presentable, Tanner stepped out from behind the truck and raced for the Piper, mimicking Machete’s run and pace as best he could. He figured that the man had been out of sight for twenty seconds, long enough for someone to notice, but only if they were really paying attention.
To his relief, no one shouted or sprayed him with machine gun fire. The hard part was over. All he had to do now was figure out how to trade an airplane for a little girl.
As Samantha hauled the second bag up to the open cargo door, her shirt was damp with sweat.
“This would be a lot easier if I cut the bags open and brought you those little packages. It’s not like they’re a secret anymore.”
“What do you think, Mr. Vega?” he said, lowering the sack down to the remaining guard. “Should we have the girl cut out the packages? It might go a little quicker.”
He nodded. “Fine. But tell her if she doesn’t hurry up, I’m going to cut off her pretty little ears.”
“Yes, sir.” Mateo turned to Samantha. “You need to hurry.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she said, turning around. “Mr. Vega doesn’t like to wait.”
Mateo grabbed her arm. “Are you stupid or something? Don’t you see how much danger you’re in?”
Samantha’s hand tightened on the knife in her pocket. She paused, looking out across the tarmac as a figure emerged from behind a fuel truck and ran toward the Piper. There was no mistaking his size or gait. Tanner Raines had entered the picture.
Mateo saw her staring out the door and turned to look.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said, tugging her arm free. “And, yes, I understand the danger I’m in.” She squatted down and hurried back into the hold. When she was out of earshot, she whispered, “The question is, do you?”
When Tanner arrived at the Piper, he hurried up the steps and entered the cabin. Inside were three rows of leather bucket seats. The front row was for the pilot and co-pilot, and the other two rows faced one another in the fuselage. At the rear of the plane was a small cargo area, empty except for a box of food and a case of Bohemia Obscura beer. A tray had been pulled out between the passenger rows, and several glass ampules and wooden stir sticks sat upright in an acrylic stand.
Tanner picked up one of the ampules. The lower portion was filled with a clear liquid, and the top had a white plastic cap. He assumed that a small amount of heroin was stirred into the liquid, and then the ampule in the cap was broken to cause a chemical reaction. If it was the good stuff, it probably turned one color, and if not, it turned another. Drug lords were notoriously careful about ensuring the quality of their product.
He set the ampule and block of heroin on the tray and squeezed his way up into the cockpit. Despite his size, the seats were reasonably accommodating. He examined the controls, looking for an ignition key. There wasn’t one. There were plenty of buttons, gauges, and fancy computer screens, but nothing that looked like it could be easily removed.
Disabling the plane permanently would have been easy enough—a few bullets to the windshield or controls would do the trick. But if he did that, he’d have nothing to bargain with. His plan had hit its first snag.
Tanner stood up and made his way back to the passenger area, looking for anything that might prove vital to the Mexicans. The heroin was an obvious choice, but he doubted that a single block would be much of a bargaining chip. He looked out through one of the small windows and saw that the man in the pink shirt and his one remaining guard were now staring in his direction. Clearly, they were wondering what was taking so long.
It gave him an idea. Maybe good old-fashioned violence wasn’t off the table after all.
He stepped out onto the stairs and waved for the men to come to him. Before they could g
et a good look at him, he ducked back inside, settling into one of the plush leather seats to watch them. It took two full minutes for the man in the pink shirt to finally become frustrated enough that he sent his one remaining guard to check on what was causing the delay.
Tanner watched the man run toward the Piper, wondering what would be the best way to fight him. He had never fought inside an airplane but figured it lent itself to choking, biting, and maybe a little eye gouging thrown in for good measure.
He grinned. This would be his kind of fight.
As the guard approached, Tanner hopped up onto the seat and squatted, ready to explode into action as soon as he entered.
“Que demonios estas haciendo?” the guard said as he stomped his way up the stairs.
Tanner wasn’t sure of the exact translation but figured the gist of it was “What the hell is going on?”
His answer was quick in coming. As soon as the man cleared the doorway, he dove at him, sending both men bouncing off the seats and tumbling awkwardly to the floor. Unfortunately, Tanner landed on his back with the big Mexican on top of him—hardly the preferred position for any fight.
The guard was as merciless as the famous Lucha libre wrestler Gory Guerrero, raining down an endless barrage of fists. Many of them struck the floor and bulkhead, but a few landed solidly enough, leaving him with a swollen lip and fresh bruising to one eye.
He reached up and grabbed the guard around the neck, hoping to quell the onslaught. It helped, but only until Gory head-butted him. Skulls clacked, leaving both men dazed. Tanner swung a leg up and hooked it around Gory’s head, tipping him back and then crossing his other leg behind the first to set a triangle choke.
The big man continued to punch, and when that failed to break the lock, he used both hands to try to pry off the choke. Rather than fight back, Tanner tucked his chin and braced the choke, cranking the man’s ankle back to lock the other leg in place.
Finest Hour Page 24