“Just try some,” Ernesto said, motioning to the man serving the food. He spooned a heaped portion onto a plate and handed it to Al. “It’s on me,” Ernesto offered. “My treat, Alberto.”
Al took a tentative bite, making a face like he was chewing on live worms. “It’s not bad,” he conceded.
Five minutes later, both their plates were empty and Al had gone back to the market for a refresher of beer.
A guy had to keep up his strength, after all.
Chapter 14
Sam burst into his office, which had been commandeered by Richard, who was busy murmuring into the telephone, feet up on the desk as he reclined in Sam’s chair. Richard glanced at Sam and turned his head away so Sam couldn’t hear the discussion. Sam paced around until Richard hung up.
“What?” Richard demanded.
“The GPS signal from the cell shows them stopped in a small town on the Transamerican highway,” Sam said. “It’s about 40 miles south of here. La Loma. If we scramble your team you can intercept them and this will all be over.”
“Sam. Do I look particularly stupid to you?” Richard asked, conversationally.
That wasn’t the response Sam had been hoping for. He tried again. “The point is, sir, that we could be there in an hour, tops, and...”
Richard held up a dismissive hand. “Da, ah, ah, ah. I asked you if I look like a moron. Do I? I must,” Richard said, “because only a moron would consider sending a team into a situation they know nothing about, with no planning or information, at a moment’s notice. That’s the kind of whim that gets people killed,” he continued. “Just like your men were slaughtered when they went into the whorehouse with no intel or plan.”
“I...I just thought...” Sam stammered.
“No, Sam, you didn’t think. That’s the point. You didn’t think at all. You just wanted to act. But we don’t have the luxury of acting first and thinking later now, do we? You’ve seen how well that worked so far. I don’t think we want a repeat of the last disaster, do we?” Richard asked.
“Well then,” Sam blurted, “what are we supposed to be doing? What’s your plan?”
Richard regarded Sam as though he were a paltry specimen under a microscope – a distasteful speck of something foul. “Sam, I can see where you’re confused again. You apparently think I need to report to you, or include you in my thinking. Let me clear this up – nothing could be further from the truth. I will move to neutralize this threat and recover the item when, and only when, I’m satisfied I can do it with a hundred percent certainty of success, and not before. And I won’t be consulting you for your opinions when I do decide to move. If you’re lucky, you’ll be allowed to watch so you learn how a real operation is run. But your role will be limited to watching, hopefully in complete silence, and maybe bringing me coffee from that fancy gizmo you have in the outer office,” Richard dictated. “Do we understand each other?”
“I...yes, sir. I was just trying to help,” Sam explained. “I thought this might be the opportunity we were waiting for.”
Richard turned and reached for the phone. He dialed a string of numbers and resumed studying the flat screen monitor.
The discussion was obviously over.
Chapter 15
Carmen sat handcuffed to a chair at a metal table in a holding cell at National Police headquarters, wondering how long it would take for her to be charged – if she was going to be – or released. So far, nobody had questioned her or tried to take a statement. She was just placed in the cell, cuffed to the metal armrest and left to her own devices.
That struck her as odd, given that she was one of the few witnesses to the confrontation at Esperanza, not to mention she’d also shot one of the gunmen. All they had to do was ask and she would turn over the digital recording of the firefight. It was all there on her hard disk. Of course, they’d probably never figure that out if she didn’t volunteer it because the cameras she’d installed were the size of pencil erasers – skillfully incorporated into the decorative moldings of the ornate ceilings. Patrons obviously wouldn’t be thrilled at the idea of being recorded, so discretion was in order. But Carmen also needed to be able to watch over her flock, as well as monitor security, so she needed eyes everywhere. It was her little secret, and also her insurance policy – she had virtually every government official in the current administration on tape, so she was confident she’d be able to resolve any issues and get back to business soon enough.
By the time she had made it downstairs the shooting had been over, except for outside the front door. When she’d poked her head out to see who was shooting, the man with the pistol had turned the gun on her. She’d had no choice but to shoot him – a simple case of self-defense. Carmen didn’t think she’d have any problem convincing whoever was running the investigation of that.
She heard the echo of footsteps approaching down the concrete hall. The heavy metal door swung open and a man in a lightweight suit entered, a manila folder clasped under his arm. The uniformed officer who had opened the door for him remained outside the room until man in the suit nodded. He closed the door. Carmen heard the bolt slide back into place.
The man studied her face for a few moments before speaking. “Miss Ortega – Carmen. My name is Jenkins. I have a few questions for you, and it would be best if you cooperated with me and told me everything you know.”
“Mr. Jenkins, I would like my attorney present before I say anything,” Carmen responded, smiling sweetly at him.
“That won’t be necessary,” Jenkins stated. “This is an informal discussion we’re having, and nothing you say will be used against you.”
“That’s all very nice, but I’d still prefer to have my attorney here,” Carmen insisted.
“Why don’t you listen to what I have to say, and then you can decide if that will be necessary, hmm?” Jenkins suggested, and before Carmen could respond, he continued. “Tonight was a regrettable and horrible slaughter. My concern, however, isn’t with the shooting, nor with your role in the killing of the Colombian gentleman on the street. No, I’m here to seek your cooperation in a different matter,” Jenkins explained.
“I don’t understand. But I still want my lawyer,” Carmen said. “This interview is over until he arrives.”
“Yes, I see your point. And I understand. So now maybe you’ll take a moment while I tell you a story, and then perhaps we’ll both be on the same wavelength,” Jenkins said, his fluent Spanish tinged with just the slightest Gringo accent.
“Do whatever you want,” Carmen declared. “I’m not talking.”
“The Colombian man you shot was a powerful cocaine trafficker. He was in Panama illegally. His name was Don Tomas Salazar, and he’s reputed to operate one of the most brutal syndicates in Colombia. He’s also believed to have a rather extensive operation in Panama, as well as in Costa Rica. If that wasn’t enough, he’s also rumored to have partners here who are Chinese Triad, and also extensive reach within the Mexican Cartels in the Yucatan and in the U.S. border states.” Jenkins paused, watching her reaction.
Carmen was emphatic. “I have nothing to do with any of this.”
“Oh, we know that,” Jenkins said. “We also know you’re one of the ‘go to’ people in Panama City for undocumented trips to Colombia and Costa Rica. Which brings me to the reason I’m here. You had a patron in your establishment tonight at the time of the shooting who I need to find, in the very worst sort of way. In fact, I’m so anxious to locate this man that I will do almost anything.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you. Now I want my lawyer,” Carmen demanded.
“That’s a shame, Carmen. Because if you won’t help me find him, I can see ugly rumors circulating around town that you not only cooperated with a rival faction and set up Don Tomas and his boys for execution, but you finished the job yourself. That would make for an extremely short life expectancy for you, not to mention destroy your source of income – Esperanza would be a ghost town within an hour of the story hitting the s
treets.”
“But...that’s not true!” Carmen protested.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, regardless. The Triads tend to be extremely sadistic in their retribution – even more so than the Colombians, if you can imagine that.”
“Who...who are you?”
“Ah, Carmen, I’m your savior.” He lightly touched her forearm. “I’m prepared to single-handedly prevent that story from leaking out. And all I need is for you to look at a photo and tell me what I need to know.” Jenkins flipped open the folder and slid a black and white photo of the cook across the table to Carmen.
Carmen regarded the picture. It was Ernesto. Her expression didn’t falter in any way. Jenkins watched closely for any tell-tale giveaways – ticks, rapid blinking, sidelong glances. There were none.
He waited for her to say something. She refused, and merely studied the photo.
“This man is a cook. We know he was in your establishment when the gunfight started,” Jenkins probed.
“Mr. Jenkins, with all due respect, there were a lot of people there. It’s Saturday night. How can you expect me to know every man who passed through the door looking for a little relaxation?”
“Carmen, this isn’t a game. We know you’re helping him out of the country. We don’t even care that you’re doing so – everyone’s entitled to make money however they can. Same for Esperanza. Judge not, and ye shall not be judged. But this man is extremely sensitive for me, and I absolutely will find him, whether you tell me or not. Your cooperation will simply accelerate the inevitable, which is why I’m here,” Jenkins explained. “Oh…and, of course…ensure your survival in the process.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Carmen said. “You’ve made a mistake.”
“Carmen, this is your last chance to save yourself. We’re tracking him, and it’s only a matter of time until we have him. We know he’s moving south, down the Transamerican. My only questions relate to where he’s headed.” Jenkins watched her reaction. Nothing. She was very good. Figured, given her line of work. “We know he’s headed for the border, so the only question is whether he’s going all the way to Yaviza, or is he stopping in Santa Fe or Meteti and cutting over the mountains.”
Carmen had blinked when he’d said Yaviza. Subtle, but it was there. And it was enough.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Jenkins – or whatever your real name is. Maybe this man was at my place, enjoying the charms of one of my girls, but as to the rest of your story, it’s way off base. I don’t know what this man has done, but I have nothing to do with helping him get to Colombia. So you’re barking up the wrong tree.” Carmen folded her arms, eyes narrowed.
Jenkins clapped, slowly, appreciatively. Carmen glared disgust at him, not bothering to disguise it. “I never said he was trying to get to Colombia, Carmen. I just said you were helping him get to the border. That could mean Costa Rica, too, couldn’t it? But you said Colombia.” Jenkins grinned, confident now.
Carmen frowned. “You said they were going south, and mentioned three villages near the Darien Gap. I put two and two together and figured you think they’re going to Colombia.”
“And I never said anything about ‘they’. I only asked about the man in the photo.” Jenkins reached over and slid the photo back into his folder, then pushed back from the table and stood up.
“It probably won’t be safe for you to stay in Panama, Carmen, given the nasty rumors which will soon be circulating. A shame, really. I hope you make it out before someone gets you. You’re a beautiful woman – I’ve seen what these characters do to beautiful women before they kill them.” Jenkins held her gaze.
Carmen seemed deflated and her eyes filled with tears. She looked up at Jenkins, and said, “Meteti. Ten miles south of Meteti.”
Jenkins smiled again, and turned to leave. He’d seen her blink when he’d mentioned Yaviza. He was almost certain she was lying now. He didn’t blame her. He’d lie too, in her position. It merely confirmed his understanding of human nature.
“Good luck, Carmen. I think you’re lying. I think you know ‘they’ are going to Yaviza and you’re trying to throw me off the scent.” He walked to the door, and knocked twice.
“You’re wrong,” Carmen insisted tearfully. “Absolutely wrong.”
“Sure I am. Goodbye, Carmen.”
Chapter 16
Al wasn’t feeling particularly good. He had heartburn from the goddamned sheep sphincter soup or whatever the hell it was, and he had to pee away the three liters of beer he’d knocked back while they were waiting. Ernesto seemed content to stare at the jabbering on the TV, and he’d declined Al’s generous offer of a frosty beverage to mitigate the heat.
Al stood, sweating from the humid night air, and told Ernesto he was going to take a leak. He wandered down the road about fifty yards and turned down a dirt track, moving towards the concrete wall of an industrial building – some sort of abandoned warehouse or storage facility.
Unzipping his cargo pants, he almost moaned aloud at the glowing sensation of relief. He urinated for over a full minute, focusing the flow on a crumpled beer can and hiccupping occasionally – the flavor of his nocturnal meal rose in his gorge each time, triggering a gag reflex.
Fucking monkey brain stew.
Finished, he retraced his steps down the dirt trail towards the main road, pausing by the corner of the building to light a cigarette.
A police cruiser screeched to a stop next to him and an officer leapt out, gun drawn. Startled, Al dropped the cigarette on his shirt, burning a small hole in it. He yelped. The policeman wrenched his arms behind him, and cuffed him expertly, then slammed him against the car, knocking the wind from Al’s lungs. He threw the door open, and wordlessly stuffed Al into the back seat, then moved to the driver’s door and climbed behind the wheel. The cop looked at his captive in the rearview mirror.
“Do you have to be such a dickhead? That was one of my last cigarettes, for Christ’s sake,” Al said conversationally, in English.
The cop chuckled. “You smell like a brewery, and smoking’s bad for you. You really should quit. It’s a filthy habit,” he responded, also in English.
“Bite me, you prick,” Al suggested helpfully.
“Not in this lifetime. Where’s your friend?” Sergio asked, starting the engine and opening the door again.
“Over by the market. You gonna take the cuffs off, or are you going to rape me, you Latino homo?” Al inquired.
“Still have those prison rape fantasies, huh, Al?” Sergio responded. “It’s a shame you’re still fighting it – at your age, I’d just give in and live my dream.” He opened the back door and playfully hauled Al out of the car before unlocking the cuffs. “Sorry. I just get all worked up whenever I see ‘COPS’ on satellite…and you caught me at a bad time when you called,” Sergio explained with a grin.
“No problema. Thanks for coming. I owe you one,” Al said, his tone serious.
“You damn right you owe me. Eight hundred bucks, I believe,” Sergio said, returning to the driver’s position.
Al moved around the car to the passenger side.
“Five hundred,” Al insisted. “That’s all I have.”
“Yeah, but you smell like a goat soaked in beer piss,” Sergio observed. “That costs extra.”
They continued bickering as Sergio drove to the main road and pulled up to the market.
Ernesto was visibly alarmed at the police car, and almost made a break for it until he saw Al get out and head into the market, muttering to himself.
“Ernesto, your chariot awaits. Meet Sergio. Don’t let him try to kiss you,” Al called as he walked through the door.
Ernesto looked dubiously at Al’s back as he entered the market, and then swung around to meet Sergio.
They shook hands and exchanged greetings. Sergio was the exact opposite of Al. Short, muscular, obviously athletic, mid-thirties, dark skin, thick black hair cut in a military style, white teeth
. His arms had almost the girth of Ernesto’s thighs. He obviously spent a lot of time around barbells and looked like he could strip a car apart with his bare hands. Not a guy to cross, that was clear. Al, on the other hand, was a tall, doughy bag of goo on legs. Soft, pink skinned, balding, puffy and overweight. Ernesto was willing to bet Al could do little more than walk into the market and back. Not exactly a confidence builder to have him as your escort into hell’s backyard.
Ernesto started to feel a little better about his odds. All Al seemed interested in was pounding booze and chain smoking. At least Sergio didn’t smell like someone had emptied a vodka bottle on his uniform – so their chances of actually making it to the rendezvous without crashing into a cow or a tree seemed to have picked up considerably. And he was a cop. A brilliant cover, Ernesto had to admit. He knew they’d be stopped at least a half dozen times on the way south, but they’d be waved through with little scrutiny in a police cruiser with a uniformed officer driving. Maybe Al wasn’t a complete idiot after all.
Al stumbled out of the market and tripped on the small rainwater curb, dropping his beer in the process, which shattered on the hard packed dirt with a percussive crash and tinkle. He did the classic drunk’s double take, as if staring at the offending flooring would somehow warn it to be more careful who it trips next time. Al cursed, spinning around to procure another one for the road.
Ernesto took it all back. Al was definitely a cretin.
God help them getting to the rendezvous point without further incident. Maybe they could just leave Al there and proceed without him? Ernesto gave it serious thought, for more than a moment. But no, Carmen had a method to her madness. If Al was her chosen instrument to get him safely to the meeting with the guide, surely there had to be a reason. Maybe he just didn’t show well late at night.
Anything was possible.
Sergio buckled in behind the wheel as Ernesto tossed his bag in the back and slid in after it, closing the door. Al weaved to the passenger side and wedged himself into the front seat, slamming his knee against the butt of the upright-mounted shotgun. He cursed again, and coughed alarmingly – his lungs wheezing like he had pneumonia.
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