by Glen Carter
Juan spied the blood trail. “Radio the hospital,” he shouted back. “Tell them to expect a gunshot. Notify de Santo.”
He looked more closely at Mercedes as if to convince himself she was really OK. “Lucky girl,” he finally said.
Mercedes wiped perspiration from her eyes, stole a look at the patch on her rescuer’s sleeve. “Policia?”
“Park ranger,” the man replied. “I’m Juan Rodero,” he added. Then, pointing in the direction of the escaping bandits, “And that was Hercule Prado.”
Mercedes cocked her head questioningly – the name meant nothing. The face she would never forget.
“Raped and murdered a British hiker near Guachaca,” Rodero reported grimly. “He would have done the same to you.”
Mercedes quivered at the memory of his filthy hands tugging at her, the rifle stuck in her face. She had been lucky all right. “That’s horrible. Why isn’t he in prison?” she stammered, trying to slow her breathing.
Rodero’s jaw tensed. “We’ve been hunting him and his crew for months now but he continues to find ways to evade us.” Rodero looked back to confirm his partner was working the radio. He then walked over to Mercedes’ car. “We were on our way back from Taganga when we spotted you,” he said, seeming more interested now in the vehicle. Rodero stopped at the trunk where the Louis Vuitton case was ripped open. Lace panties caught his eye. Respectfully, he pretended not to notice, walked past. “What the hell you doing out here alone, senora?”
“Mercedes Mendoza,” she said. Embarrassed, she walked briskly to her bag, stuffed its contents out of sight. “I’m…meeting a friend in the park…near Canaveral.”
Rodero lowered muscled shoulders and leaned into the back seat. He spoke as if he hadn’t heard her. “The fat one’s name is Aldo. Likes little girls mostly. First he gives them sweets. Afterwards he threatens to kill their parents if they talk. Usually they don’t.”
Mercedes wiped the back of her neck. Her stomach heaved as she thought of his slimy tongue and the sickening incongruous amalgam of odours on Mohawk’s breath. Cherry candy. Decay. She badly wanted to shower.
From the back window, Mercedes followed Rodero’s eyes as they locked on the satchel protruding from beneath the driver’s seat. She had foolishly neglected to replace the blanket. Shit.
She zipped the Louis Vuitton and dragged it noisily from the trunk. “Excuse me,” she said, impatiently swinging the bag against the back of Rodero’s legs.
The Ranger pulled back from the car, allowing Mercedes to toss her bag in. “The other two are new recruits,” he continued, making a show of closing the car door for her. “Real gentlemen.”
Rodero’s partner revved the jeep’s engine. Shouted above the roar, “Let’s go, hero.”
Rodero ignored him. “We’ll follow you to the park gates,” he told her, and for the first time Mercedes noticed the boyish shock of black hair that fell across his forehead, his sculpted cheek bones and soft green eyes. Sensuous lips. His last name was sewn above the breast pocket of his uniform. Rodero.
The cowboy, Mercedes thought, and for the first time she offered an appreciative smile. “You saved my life. Thank you. But an escort won’t be necessary.” What was she saying? A normal woman would have collapsed sobbing into this man’s arms, begged him for protection.
Juan Rodero looked at her quizzically. “But–”
“I doubt the man you shot will be back. You’ll probably find his body somewhere along the highway – if we’re lucky.”
Rodero stared at her, doubtful. “Prado’s a survivor.”
So am I.
Rodero placed his hands on his hips, seemed to swell in size with the gesture. “If you’re not at the park entrance in forty-five minutes I will send someone.”
Hopefully you, Mercedes didn’t say as she watched him walk away. He jumped into the jeep, fixed concerned eyes on her. Then they sped away.
SIXTEEN
Thirty minutes later Mercedes breathed a sigh of relief as she reached the main gateway to Parque Nacional Tayrona. The ranger who took her admission money looked her over and smiled. Mercedes didn’t doubt he’d be reporting her arrival to Rodero the minute she drove off.
Canaveral was only two miles away. Safety. A hot shower and a soft bed.
Mercedes drove past the park’s administrative centre and campground and five minutes later she saw it. It was a small wooden bridge she immediately recognized from the picture Selena showed her. The narrow paved road on the other side of the bridge was the way in.
The car rumbled across the loose planking of the old bridge and disappeared behind a wall of gargantuan trees and undergrowth. Mercedes was plunged into darkness until a moment later when the canopy thinned. Sunlight splashed on black macadam which rolled beneath the car. The narrow road turned and twisted for another mile until the first cabin came into view. An old couple relaxed on a small porch, taking in the dregs of the day while sipping tall drinks. Husband and wife, tourists, Mercedes guessed. Strangely out of place. They waved and smiled as she passed.
Mercedes winced at the stiffness in her lower back and legs. Her stomach growled and she prayed Selena had made dinner. She’d shower first. Hot steamy water and luxurious creamy soap to soak away the day’s grime. The scum who had touched her. It was going to feel wonderful.
She was still savouring the thought when she spotted Selena’s car in front of the bungalow and exhaled in relief.
“They could have killed you,” Selena gasped, refusing to release her friend’s hand.
They were in the kitchen beneath a rack of hanging copper pots. Mercedes was sipping rum, straight over ice. Selena had dinner on, but she demanded Mercedes hold off on the shower until she told her everything.
Selena couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Jesus, Mercedes.”
“Guess I got lucky.”
“Lucky, si. Thanks to your Romeo.”
“Rodero,” Mercedes corrected, raising the amber liquid to her lips.
Mercedes hadn’t had a chance to look around yet, but she knew the bungalow came with three bedrooms, a sizable living room and a den that served as an office. It was owned by one of Selena’s well-to-do clients who had kindly offered his getaway for as long as she needed. He’d e-mailed a map and a photograph of the way in.
For the moment, neither of them was interested in the satchel that Mercedes had unceremoniously dumped on the kitchen table. Mercedes talked, Selena listened. The day from hell was recalled from its beginning. The deadly run from Montello, the bandits. Rodero.
Selena shook her head. “So much for well-laid plans.”
Mercedes nodded. The plan had gone immediately to hell.
The plan was to raid the safe while Branko took his morning coffee on the patio. Then she’d grab one of the Range Rovers and tell the armed guard at the foot of the driveway that she had an early appointment. She’d dump the Range Rover in the same spot where Nestor had hidden the little car. That way they’d be looking for the wrong vehicle. The plan. Nothing happened the way it should have. Almost nothing. Montello must have returned to the study and discovered the safe looted because everything went to hell really fast. Mercedes had the satchel and only one way to escape: out the back of the estate and across the lawn where she disappeared into the trees.
She’d been lucky all right. That was one way of looking at it.
For a full five minutes neither of them spoke. Then Selena pulled the satchel to her. “My god, it’s heavy.”
Mercedes shrugged. “Back-breaker.”
Selena slowly unzipped the bag and pulled it open. She let out a gasp. She took a moment before she reached in with both hands and removed the bearer bonds. Gently she placed them on the table.
They saw two things immediately. Bank of Zurich and the denomination of the first bond. Ten thousand dollars US currency.
Selena couldn’t believe her eyes. A stack of bonds nearly three inches high, hundreds of them. Her math failed her.
“How
much?” This time it was Mercedes asking the question.
“A lot more than we thought.”
“How much?” Mercedes asked again.
Selena went to work. She divided the pile in half and began silently to count. All the denominations were the same. The arithmetic was astounding – too much to comprehend. Twice she looked into Mercedes’ expectant face, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Five minutes later she re-stacked the pile of bearer bonds and looked at Mercedes coolly. “Would you believe fifty million dollars?”
Mercedes inhaled sharply and extended a shaking hand to touch the stack. “Some art dealer,” was all she said.
SEVENTEEN
Hernan Suarez enjoyed the sound. A powerful destructive thump that splintered wood. It took only one kick to bust her door in. No one screamed. No one home. It was a disappointment to Suarez that neither of the bitches was there, since cap-toed Corduras made an even sexier sound when they struck female flesh and bone. Too bad. The pleasure would be denied to Montello’s man that night.
There were the three of them. Suarez and two louts he had rousted from bed in that part of the villa where the crew bunked. “Get up. Got a job to do.”
“Night off.”
“No nights off when you work for Montello. Get your asses out of bed, fuckers. Work to do.”
It took them an hour to find the place.
The noise from the broken door got some attention. A neighbour poked her head out to see what the racket was all about. Eyes wide with fear she ducked back after seeing them standing there in a cloud of wood dust. “Nosy bitch,” Suarez said, stepping across the threshold into the dark apartment.
There was no need for a flashlight. Suarez slapped at the light switch and waited for his eyes to adjust.
The apartment was small, five rooms at the most. The living room was cramped and trendy. Plain white furniture with blue cushions. A woman’s place, with discount store wall hangings of ocean vistas at sunset. The window above the small sofa revealed an unremarkable view of the old city, a few twinkling lights from the love hotels and brothels of Getsemani.
Light work, Suarez thought. “Either of you want to piss out the beer you drank tonight, bed’s in here.” Suarez was standing at the door to her bedroom, sniffing to catch the scent of her. He spotted something on the dresser and walked over to it. A framed photograph. Everything else he swept onto the floor in a crash of broken glass and debris. There were two people in the picture standing next to a small airplane. Smiling. An older man with his arm around a younger woman. Both of them black. It had to be her. The older nigger didn’t matter. Suarez sniffed again, tried to fix a scent to the woman in the picture. Something else reached his nostrils. He turned around and saw lout number two pissing on her bed.
Suarez looked again at the picture, paying close attention to the airplane before he smashed the frame and gingerly removed the photo which he placed in his breast pocket. Her closet was next.
It took no time at all for Suarez and his louts to destroy her little home. The furniture broke apart like kindling; the kitchen came apart in an explosion of shattered glass and china. Lout number one was having a good time using his new blade to lay open anything with foam or feathers. They didn’t find what they were looking for, which was her, but then again Suarez didn’t expect to.
There was a room at the back of the apartment, a small den where lout number two was about to deliver a killing kick to the only electronic device that was still working. Suarez shouted at him to back off.
The computer blinked at them.
Suarez circled it for a moment and then sat.
When he touched the keyboard the screen came to life and Suarez smiled like a new father. A few minutes later he was still getting nowhere. The more he pounded the keys the more frustrated he became.
Hernan Suarez was computer illiterate.
When lout number two realized this he said, “Ricky’s good at it.” Suarez looked at him like he was stupid. “Ricky?”
Lout number two jerked his chin in the direction of the kitchen where they could here the tinkle of breaking glass. “Computer school. Lots of bitches on the internet.”
“Get him.”
Ten minutes later Ricky was working the keyboard. There was an e-mail from someone named Orlando.
Suarez smiled. “Print it,” he commanded, already heading for the door.
EIGHTEEN
BOGOTÁ.
Neil Braxton was pretty sure he knew what happened to his guy from the Darien Peninsula. He had a bad feeling about him. Like a jammed M-16, or an RPG in your tailpipe when you’re bingo on fuel and two of your men are bleeding out on the deck. Bad feeling all right.
Rudy hadn’t been heard from since he crossed over from Panama nearly a week ago, which meant he was either on a protracted drunk, which was unlikely, or dead, which was probably the case. Braxton knew it wasn’t because union organizers had a lifespan shorter than a fruit fly in Uraba. Not this time.
Braxton stabbed at his keyboard and waited for his password to kick in.
It was Sanchez, the mule, who called him with the heads up. Sanchez, who ran paste to coke labs protected by the insurgents, told him Rudy Orilio had likely been whacked by the paras. Murieron. That’s how the food chain worked in the Darien. Especially if you were a union man.
Sanchez said he’d spoken to Orilio’s wife. “Said two big ugly fuckers came to the house looking for him. Broke both her arms when she didn’t tell them what they wanted to hear.”
Not even Orilio’s wife knew he was in the Santa Marta Mountains asking around. Anything he could find out about the Russians. Only Braxton knew that. Today was Friday and Orilio was two days late making contact. Braxton admitted to himself that he’d underestimated Orilio’s vulnerability, and it pissed him off. He checked his e-mail again. Nothing.
Braxton swiveled his chair for a better view through the bullet-proof window of his embassy office and thought again about the phone call. “He had four kids,” Sanchez had told him. “His oldest is an assassin in Medellin. He sends home pesos in return for his mother’s blessings. She’ll survive.”
Braxton knew who was to blame for Orilio’s disappearance, and it wasn’t the paras. It was the “ugly fuckers” who broke his wife’s arms. They were Raspov’s freak show. The two brothers were on Montello’s dime. Montello, who’d lost seven drug labs because of Orilio, and that nice shiny DC-3 full of product. Braxton was sure that Orilio’s body was in a river somewhere with his fingers or hands missing. The Russians. Freaks, all right. Braxton wanted more than anything to neutralize the sick bastards. Raspov too. Fidel’s intelligence guru was dipping his beak into Montello’s business, big time. Braxton knew something was up. Moscow station too. They were having a hissy-fit because of what they were hearing through the pipeline. Raspov was up to no good and everyone was working overtime trying to figure it out. Langley had ordered Braxton to find the bastard, and the brothers grim. That’s when he’d sent Orilio because Orilio was the best he had.
For a moment Braxton fixed his eyes on one of the marine guards at the embassy gate – a kid from Chicago who’d just been red-flagged because his father had a fresh narcotics conviction on his rap sheet. He’d be going home. Couldn’t have the son of a convicted drug dealer guarding the US embassy compound in Bogotá, Colombia, cocaine capital of the world. No, my friend, you could not.
Braxton thought about his men and the stuff that happened in the Gulf, Panama, and Afghanistan. Iraq. Some tight spots where good soldiers earned their pay. He smiled and remembered that when you were bare-ass in places like that, you didn’t panic. Panic got you killed. That’s what happened in Mogadishu, when Operation Gothic Serpent became the pig fuck of the century. It was the politicians who panicked and called the Rangers home before the job got done. Fucking cowards calling the retreat of brave soldiers.
The agency had treated him well. After ten years he ran the show here, but he never lost touch with his past. Braxton shi
fted his gaze to the framed photograph on his desk. There were ten of them, faces blackened, eager for fresh kills as they knelt in front of the Black Hawk helicopter. He would never forget the mission that followed the snapshot. Two of his men were killed – Murphy and Richards, family men. He had to write the letters to their wives. Brave men who died defending their country, he had told them. In truth, their lives had been wasted.
The insertion into Baghdad had gone according to plan and surprisingly the Iraqi informant had been dead on. Hussein was exactly where he had said he would be. The bunker was located beneath one of Hussein’s palaces in the centre of the city. It could have gotten him killed but Braxton demanded that he laser the target that guided the bombs onto the building. There wasn’t much left for Braxton’s men to clean up, a few stragglers who stumbled into the Delta’s line of fire and were cut down like weeds. Twenty minutes later they found the maze of tunnels that led them to Hussein’s private quarters. Reese, the explosives man, made short work of the reinforced steel door, and when they broke through they ran into Hussein’s last line of defense. There were two Republican Guards and one of them got lucky, fired the shots that killed both of Braxton’s men.
Braxton returned fire and wounded both of them, then personally delivered the killing rounds at point-blank range. He would have emptied his weapon into them except there wasn’t time.
The Deltas bundled up their prize and got the hell out of there.
Three minutes and thirty-six seconds later Braxton was calling in the helo for extraction when his headset buzzed with an order he couldn’t believe. It still angered him to think about it. “Mission abort. I repeat, mission abort.”
“Fuck! You kidding me?” It was Reese saying exactly what Braxton saw in the eyes of the others.
“Eagle One repeat.” Braxton held up a hand for quiet.
“Washington says leave the merchandise. Come on home.”