by Chris Lowry
Inside was worse. The small space had a toilet and two urinals in a length of five feet. It looked like any two people doing their business would be forced to stand toe to toe to get it done. The floor was an amalgamation of misses, near misses and deliberate soakings, combined to create a stinking cesspool of waste.
A small window above the back of the toilet offered the only potential relief.
It was edged open. He shoved against it gently and pushed the crack open two inches. Brill reached into one of the baggy pockets on the side of his cargo pants and pulled out a sleek pistol. From the other pocket he produced a three inch silencer he screwed on the end of the pistol.
He rested the pistol against the edge of the window and peered out at the road. He checked his watch and waited.
The bartender banged on the door.
“Why you got it locked? There's room in there.”
“Be out in a minute,” Brill called.
He turned his focus back to the window.
A long black Cadillac rolled into view. Diplomatic flags fluttered on the hood of the car. The windows were tinted, but one rear window was half way down. A cloud of cigar smoke filtered out in a blue smog.
Brill sighted down the end of the pistol and pulled the trigger twice. A misshapen head bounced against the car window and rested there. The car screeched to a stop.
Brill shoved the gun in his waistband and shouldered through the door.
“Ain't you gonna wash your hands,” the bartender asked in a thick accent.
“Sorry,” Brill moved past him down the hall.
CHAPTER THREE
Brill strolled to the table and grabbed a shot glass. He swallowed the tequila and set the glass down to a new spot on the board.
Johnson smiled as he swilled down a shot of tequila and set his piece in place.
“Checkmate,” he grunted.
Brill dropped a crumpled twenty dollar bill onto the table.
“Good game,” he said.
“Let's make it two?”
The front door crashed open and four giant thugs ran through. They were dressed in matching khaki uniforms, huge swaths of fabric stretched tight over giant muscles. They raced toward the back of the bar.
“Too crowded,” said Brill. “Maybe next time.”
He lowered his head and walked slowly out of the door. One of the thugs with a unibrow noticed him and moved to intercept.
Brill slipped past him and out of the door. He mingled with a passing crowd of tourists that skirted around the Caddy parked half on the curb. The thug tried to find him in the mass of people, but Brill kept his head low and blended in. He made the next corner and turned away from the people.
CHAPTER FOUR
The phone booth seemed like a quiet oasis in the crowded chaos of the tourist clogged city street. The side facing the sidewalk had two windows missing so the noise washed over and echoed inside the glass chamber.
Brill stood in the booth, dressed like a tourist. His beard had been shaved into a modified goatee and damp hair curled against his neck.
“I'm on a land line. Confirm. This is Shadowboxer. Target rendered ineffective.”
The glass above his head shattered. He ran from the booth, shoved open a shop door. A bullet thudded into his left shoulder. He spun into the room and kicked the door shut behind him.
The room was a crowed knick-knack shop full of cheap local goods mass produced in China. Mountains of tee shirts spilled off wobbly tables, stone and clay renderings of ziggurat, Mayan gods and sea creatures fought for shelf space.
Brill shuffled to one of the tables.
He grabbed a hooded poncho, an oversized straw hat, a blanket and tee shirt and carried them to the counter.
With one hand held close to his side, he fished a ten dollar and twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and set it on the counter.
“No bag,” he grunted in Spanish.
He used one hand to arrange the poncho over his head, and perched the straw hat on his brow.
“Is there a back way?”
The clerk ignored the register and pocketed the bills.
“Through the doors.”
He waved another twenty under her nose.
“I'm in the bathroom.”
She swiped the note, and secreted it with the others. Brill moved through the doors. He packed his shoulder with the tee shirt to staunch the bleeding.
“Hey!” said the Clerk.
Brill turned, a small 9mm in his hand. She glanced down at the gun and tossed him two more shirts, her finger crooked toward a handwritten sign above the table that read, 3 FOR $10.
“Special.”
She winked. He smiled, slipped through the door, hidden under the poncho and a hat.
CHAPTER FIVE
Brill walked down the alley close to the wall. He stopped at the street, and did a scan. Everything appeared normal. A large group of tourists waddled past on their way to a bus. Brill fell in step with them and eased into the center of the crowd.
The group bottlenecked at the bus, but Brill moved past them to the next corner and disappeared.
CHAPTER SIX
Someone watched the hat and poncho disappear around a corner. Two men stood on a rooftop several blocks away. One lay prone on the roof, a rifle butt pressed to his shoulder, his eye against the scope. He was in his thirties, thick muscles with a layer of a few years of comfortable living around them. He had sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. The second man stood next to him.
It wasn't the most inconspicuous spot to be in, he presented a good target silhouetted against the sky. He held himself with confidence, legs wide as if braced on the deck of a ship. His hair was gray with flecks of black, his eyes were blue, and once upon a time, he may have been handsome, though gravity and gravitas conspired to darken his glower. He was trim to the point of being built like a long distance runner. Corded muscles stood out on his arms and flexed as he tracked with binoculars.
“There he goes,” said the standing man.
“I swear I hit him Foster.”
Foster dropped the binoculars to the roof deck.
“I've no doubt, my friend.”
“I must have winged him. Or, he's got a vest. Did he wear a vest with you?”
“I believe you, Wallace. If you say you hit him, then he is indeed hit.”
“But not down.”
“No. A wounded animal becomes much more dangerous, yes. But wounded we may stand a chance. He will go to ground in a safe house.”
His voice was cultured and elegant, tinged with a slight British accent. Foster pointed to the crowd below.
“After you make a shot, watch the crowd. When you shoot someone in public, the crowds going to do two things. Either they will duck and run for cover, or they’re going to run for a look. You do what the rest of them are doing. If you walk away calmly, someone’s going to notice. And if they notice, they might tell.”
The rooftop stairwell door burst open and four soldiers rushed through. They had assault rifles held high and screamed in Spanish.
Foster whipped a pistol from behind his back and dropped them with one shot each.
Wallace glanced up at his mentor.
Foster shrugged and held a satellite radio to his ear.
“Secured transmission. This is Killjoy. Hut location?”
“Confirmed,” said a tinny voice over the speaker. “Will deliver.”
“Pack up, we're moving north.”
Wallace broke down the rifle and stored the components in slim black backpack filled with cut foam.
“How confident are you he will go there?”
“What else can he do?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
There are a few vehicles that are iconic in Third World countries. Toyota Land Cruisers crisscross the African Savannah with reliable regularity, Nissan Pick Up Trucks dot the Middle Eastern landscape like automotive camels. In Mexico, it's the VW. The VW Bug and its counterpart, the VW Bus putter along Mexican highways and clog
up side streets due to huge mass production two decades ago and an interchangeability of parts in the easy to repair engines.
One of those iconic buses puttered along the edge of a jungle on a dusty highway. Veronica James had one hand on the steering wheel, one leg crossed under the other in the seat and a perpetual smile. She was dressed in khaki shorts, a button up shirt, and looked like what she was, a free spirited archeology student, still dirty from a dig.
The van was packed with the debris of long travel, clothes, a sleeping mat and bag, food wrappers and a couple of beer bottles that rolled around on the back floor.
Ron sang off key to a song on the radio. She rounded a corner and swerved left to avoid a man on the side of the road. He weaved along the edge, but stuck his thumb out in the classic hitchhikers pose.
Ron slowed down and watched him in the rear-view mirror for a moment. She pulled over to the side of the road and waited. While she waited, she opened the glove box and pulled out a small dull silver .22 and stuck it under her leg so it was hidden from the door.
The passenger door swung open and the man used one arm to haul himself in to collapse on the seat.
“Thanks for stopping,” he grunted. “I thought I might have to walk awhile.”
Brill glanced over at her. She studied his clean shaven face and short preppy haircut that contrasted with cut off cargo pants and tourist trap tee shirt under the poncho. He holds a blanket tightly in one arm, the shoulder bunched and stiff.
Ron dropped the van in gear and turned the radio volume down by two.
“Where you going?”
“North.”
She nodded.
“That's the direction I'm going. Feel like talking or wanna ride?”
He leaned against the door and grimaced.
“You mind?”
“So long as you don't care about my singing.”
She reached out, cranked the radio and belted out off key rock and roll.
CHAPTER EIGHT
An original Matisse adorned one wall of the office on the fiftieth floor. There were windows on two walls that looked out over the city and the Sea beyond. The water below was an emerald shade of green close to the shore that deepened to a blue hue as it went into deeper water.
The desk faced one row of floor to ceiling windows.
It was monochromatic and industrial.
The woman behind it was five seven, trim and muscled. Her hair was meticulously coiffed to highlight strong cheekbones and a delicate neckline. Her lips were full and right now, pursed in anger. She clenched a phone in a white knuckle grip.
“You didn't complete your mission?”
“We winged him,” said Foster through the phone.
Her eyes flashed in rage and she wanted to slam it against the desk.
“I didn't pay you to warn him. He's on alert now. He'll be impossible to reach.”
“Negative,” said Foster. “He'll move for Baja. We'll wait for him.”
Her voice cultured voice did not sound happy.
“I'm not a gambler. I don't play games of chance.”
“We'll finish it.”
She rose from behind the desk and move with a leonine grace across the floor to a set of shelves. She zeroed in on small four by six photo frame with two smiling hikers next to a gorgeous mountain vista. It's Maddie and Brill, arms around each other.
“I'm freezing the account until it's complete,” said Maddie.
“That's acceptable,” said Foster after a moment.
She disconnected the call and set the phone down on the shelf. She picked up the picture and started at it, her eyes lost and misty.
CHAPTER NINE
A dark sedan cruised down a dusty jungle road driving on the edge of too fast. Wallace gripped the wheel in one hand as he lazily adjusted their trajectory.
“She happy?”
Foster set the phone down between them in the console.
“Not yet, but she will be.”
“I don't like this cleanup work.”
“Neither do I. But we should arrive in the next several hours and we'll be ahead of him. We'll make an easy job of it and move on.”
Wallace grunted.
They drove up on the bumper of a dusty VW bus chugging along. Wallace whipped out around it and punched the accelerator.
Foster glanced up at the driver as they passed.
Ron looked down and him and smiled while she waved.
He returned a curt two fingers and Wallace rocketed past them up the road.
CHAPTER TEN
Ron patted the steering wheel in time with the music. She fidgeted with the radio, the gearshift, her khaki shorts. She glanced over at Brill.
“Are you asleep?”
He was lump under the poncho, head lolled against the VW window.
“Do you partake? Mind if I do?”
She reached up to the sun visor and folded it down. A long thin joint was stuck in a rubber band.
Ron stuck one end in her mouth and flicked a lighter open. Brill sat up.
“Want some?”
He shook his head.
“You sure?”
She held the lit joint out to him, bumped his shoulder. He grimaced and gasped.
“You alright?
“Fine,” he said.
“You don't look fine. No way, you don't look good at all.”
She blew smoke out and it filled the bus like fog. He cracked his window.
“I'll live.”
She gave him the once over, twice.
“Are you one of those "macho adventure guys?”
“Not that I'm aware of.”
“Where are you going?”
“I thought we were going to ride.”
She shrugged and took another hit.
“Makes the time go by. You're the first person I've talked to in five days. I was on a Relic dig. Quixtapa.”
Brill shifted around trying to find a more comfortable position.
“Anything interesting?”
“Hieroglyphs we can't decipher. What about you?”
“Vagabonding.”
“That's cool. I did that in Thailand for a while. Particular destination?
“Small place in Baja. How far are you going?”
“It's your lucky day. I'm going to San Diego. Keep your cool and you can stay all the way.”
Brill held up his hand and showed her an empty palm.
“I'm ice cold,” he said.
“There's water in the canteen.
She nodded to the back of the bus. Brill took a deep breath and twisted around to reach for it. His shirt fell open to reveal a blood-soaked tee underneath.
“Oh my God, you're bleeding.”
She pulled the van off to the side of the road.
“I'm fine,” he grunted.
“You look fine,” she said. The sarcasm wasn't lost on him.
“It's a flesh wound-
She tried to move his arm to examine the wound.
“Come back here and fight like a man? Let me see.”
“I said I'm fine.
“I know first aid. Let me look.”
He pulled away, and leaned against the door.
“I'll be okay.”
She watched him a moment, her eyes calculating. He was pale, but breathing steady. Pain etched lines on his face, and he held his body rock still.
“Your funeral,” she said.
She dropped the van in gear and pulled back on the road. Ron watched him from the corner of her eyes. He licked his lips and grimaced again.
She reached back and fished up the canteen to pass to him.
“You're going to get an infection.
He took the canteen, unscrewed the top and guzzled a long slow sip.
“Thank you.
“Let me examine it. I'll clean it up, stop the bleeding.
He rested his head against the window again.
“It's fine. Really.”
She didn't believe him.
By the lo
ok on his face, he didn't believe himself either.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Foster pulled a pistol out of a shoulder holster and began cleaning it with a handkerchief. Wallace concentrated on the road, one hand casually draped across the wheel.
“I don't know why you got in this business. It's never pretty.”
Wallace shrugged.
“It's not so bad.”
“It's crap. But it's good money crap. I don't know if that justifies it. There are certain rules we follow,” said Foster.
“Did you know that? I bet you never would have guessed we have rules. You want to know what the number one rule is? Never tell anyone who you are.”
“What happens when you break it?”
“You expose yourself to a certain level of risk.”
“What kind of level?”
“The unacceptable kind.”
“So trust no one,” said Wallace.
“Exactly.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.”
Wallace pondered that for a moment as they drove.
“What about this guy? Do you know who he is?” he asked after a moment.
“Yes.”
“Did you bring him in?”
Foster shifted in his seat and sighted down the pistol as he aimed out of the window.
“I found him in Zaire, during the overthrow. He told me he was in the Peace Corps before that.”
“Peace Corp training isn’t what I thought it would be.
“He was with the Recce. They think he's dead.”
He stared through the window at the countryside that slide by inches through the glass and thought back to a different jungle.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A jungle stream cut through the thick vegetation. Clear water trickled and tumbled over the rocky bottom, moss covered rocks lined the edge. The stream was penned in by high jagged cliffs, gashed with shadows. There is something about the jungle, any jungle that sets a man's nerve on edge. Call it a primal memory, but the dark shadows and breeze rustled leaves speaks to the lizard brain and calls out a time when man was prey, hunted by apex predators.