by Ben English
Jack took out his own phone, but didn’t bother checking for the symbol. His eyes had gone distant, his expression flat. “Steve, I need you to—oh great, good job. Good for you. Listen: are there any vendors in the vicinity of the Mercado Nocturno using RFID tags to track merchandise?
“Aside from the pharmaceutical plants?”
Alonzo listened, impatient. They were exposed on the street, police notwithstanding, and he wasn’t sure how quick he could reach his gun without spilling all the food.
Jack pressed a button on his phone. “I just sent you the frequency. What are we looking at?” Then he smiled at Alonzo. Broadly, but it never touched his eyes. “Buddy, you’re bugged. Someone is tracking you, and broadcasting on one of the RF frequencies that our phones can read.” He took a breath. “We need a Margaret Dumont.”
“We need a Dumont,” Alonzo agreed, preparing to dump the bags. He’d probably picked up the tracking device in the restaurant with the food. At this point, the idea of drawing his weapon was much more than a theoretical abstract.
He scanned the crowd.
A good Margaret Dumont was a short con, extremely short, requiring a particular kind of individual. Someone loud and obnoxious, who didn’t mind being looked at, and oblivious to the fact that they were being used to distract whoever it was that needed distracting.
Every good Marx Brothers’ movie was made great, thanks to Margaret Dumont.
Jack spoke quickly into his phone. “Can you spoof the signal, broadcast from both our phones? Good. Go.”
And fate, faith, or the inimitable Cuban night provided them a Dumont. An entire gaggle of Dumonts. A loose-limbed group of college-age tourists, all dressed identically in Postmodern Fashion Gangsta, ambled into view. Locals drew back slightly from the crew, who’d drunk enough rum to make them bold but not enough to keep them from spending dollars at the market. The local authorities would be nearby, ready to intercede but not yet impeding the one-way flow of cash. Alonzo looked around. The police had vanished. “This is going down right now,” he whispered to Jack.
They stepped right up behind the touristas and passed into the night market. The security post at the front, normally occupied even in off-hours, was empty. Jack traded his phone for Alonzo’s bags of food, dumping them in a fire bin, and headed for the nearest shadow.
For his part, Alonzo pushed right through the gnarl of college boys, nudging or elbowing each as he passed by. This elicited the expected amount of vague threats and comments regarding the nature of his relationship with his mother, but he persevered quickly, emerging from the front of the group with empty hands. Baggy pants and layer upon layer of ridiculously unnecessary clothing provided all sorts of places in which to stash a phone. Once free of the group, he circled back toward the entrance. Jack was easy to find, admiring the merchandise of an artwork vendor.
“They’re lit up,” he said. “Mrs. Dumont is singing.”
“Here they come,” replied Jack, and by they, he definitely did not mean the unoriginal gangstas. Five thick-necked men entered from the street, dressed in government construction fatigues. The lead had some kind of scanner, and after consulting it, waved the other men toward the long aisles and rows of stalls that gave form and function to the night market.
Alonzo dared a glance at Jack. His friend watched the progress of the hired thugs obliquely, from the corner of his eye, as he pretended to examine a painting of Earnest Hemingway in some kind of tiny boat. Jack didn’t bother to hide a weird, eager grin.
The band of hunters, separated but intent on their target, moved deeper into the market. Jack and Alonzo left the shadows, striding off quickly at right angles from each other.
*
From his window in the restaurant across the street, Rogiberto Revillame watched the hired men submerge into the fleshy riot of the night market, and smiled as he drained his cup. They would provide a fitting comeuppance to the little pale man who spoke like a Cuban, the bastard who’d denied his military promotion and denigrated his tactics during the test. No tiene dos dedos de frente.
And his new foreign friend, the Eastern European, would be pleased as well. He’d made it clear to Rogiberto that he hated the little blond gringo-who-wasn’t-a-gringo, and that he and anyone with him must be avoided at all costs, at least for a few more days. Rogiberto could read between the lines, though. He was a man of action, and he understood his new friend’s real meaning.
Whatever was going to be done to the little man and his friends required distance and discretion.
To save money and provide the necessary insulation, Rogiberto decided to use some of the men that his friend brought into Havana for that other job, which was almost completed, anyhow. All the heavy lifting for the other job was finished, and the five bone thugs were getting bored and dangerous. They stuck together, all five of them, all the time, and Rogiberto had a feeling they’d come from the same barrio. He could read that in people.
He looked at his watch, then waved for a waiter. The barman quickly approached—he’d already earned one hundred dollars by adding the tracking device to the American’s take-out—and Rogiberto had both the time and inclination for one more drink. He wasn’t due to go on-duty at air defense until late the following afternoon, after the inauguration.
*
The apple vendor shrank back and into herself when the large, tatooed man paused in front of her stall. He noticed immediately how she attempted invisibility, and he sneered. She wasn’t the target, not tonight, but he so enjoyed making the inconsequential people feel afraid. Everyone should learn her place in this world.
He selected the prettiest piece of fruit from her stack, examined it, and let it drop to the dust. There was a bigger one. Now he grinned, enjoying her reaction. There was always a bigger one. He took a little bite and felt the sharp taste snap against his tongue, then opened his mouth for a larger bite.
Jack punched the apple clean into his mouth, slapped both his palms against the man’s ears, and kicked him in the side of the knee. His wallet contained three forms of ID Jack wasn’t familiar with, so he kept the entire thing, along with the cell phone.
He kicked the thug over onto his side, so he wouldn’t choke on the mess of applesauce, blood, and broken teeth. Jack gently set the man’s roll of cash on the apple cart, and moved on.
The apple vendor decided to close early that night.
*
The syringe in the hand of the hired thug gave Alonzo pause. The man carried it close to himself, but as he readied it for use Alonzo saw it. Who were these guys? If they planned to tranquilize him in an open crowd, the night looked less and less like a simple hit and more and more like a snatch-and-grab. He wondered if the syringe contained a sedative, a toxin, or a radioactive beacon of some kind.
Fine, sure, okay. A slight change in tactics.
The target was watching the band of gangsta tourists so closely he didn’t see Alonzo until the shorter man was within an arm’s reach, and by then it was really too late. Alonzo plucked the syringe away, reversed it, and plunged it in fast, driving his weight in close, behind the needle. The other man had time for a single breath, then his legs went and he sat down hard. Alonzo kept the syringe, and was ten seconds away before someone tripped over the unconscious man.
Through gaps in the multicolored canopies and breaks in the crowd, he kept an eye on Jack’s progress, matching the speed with which the other man closed with his targets. Jack moved towards them at angles, never directly. He was doing his little walking disguise trick, where he changed his gait every few dozen steps, walking with a shorter stride, now hunched a bit, then appearing taller, varying his speed and a dozen other little mannerisms. Alonzo could only follow him because he knew what to look for, more or less. Also, his expression didn’t change much. That goofy smile was gone, his expression showed he was completely riding the moment. Hunting.
Jack stepped between two of the hired hitters, close enough to brush them with each shoulder. The instant he was so
mewhat concealed from the milling crowd, Jack unleashed two nearly identical sets of quick, bursting blows into each man, staggering the first one immediately. A gun came up; before it cleared the ground Jack ran his hand over it. He seemed to barely stroke it, yet he dropped the magazine, racked the slide to clear the bullet from the chamber, and brought the rest of the metal briskly into the other man’s face. The bullet from the chamber popped high into the air.
To the casual onlooker, Jack would’ve appeared to barely slow down as he passed between the two thugs, and he continued past them in a straight, grim line, never looking back. Something in Jack’s posture made Alonzo uneasy. There was no forgiveness in him.
Both men hit the ground at nearly the same time as the ejected bullet.
Alonzo joined Jack in the middle of the market as they closed on the last man. “Not pulling any punches tonight, are we?” he asked. Jack responded by quickening his pace.
The final thug frowned, looking back and forth between the scanner and the listless group of erstwhile gangstas. He’d caught on to the fact that none of them matched Alonzo’s description. The man was well groomed; obviously familiar with the technology in his hand, but his muscles spoke of a lifetime of heavy, practical use rather than a gym membership.
Alonzo decided he’d better step forward before Jack had a chance to eviscerate anyone. “Hi there,” he began, switching immediately to Spanish. “Did you put a tracking device in my empanadas? Very inconsiderate. I could have chipped a tooth. Now, all your friends are unconscious and you’ve cost me a meal.”
The man before them sneered, but spread his fingers. By the tension in his shoulders and back, he was getting ready to pull a weapon.
Alonzo tried for a smile, mentally measuring the space between them, wondering what kind of gun the man carried. The man might actually make the draw before they could get close enough.
Then again, it didn’t really look like he had any kind of weapon, other than the scanner and his smugness. Something wasn’t right here.
Jack made an impatient noise. “Who are you with? How was it set up, what was the deal, who’s your connection? Don’t lie to us.” Jack’s hands balled into fists, and he squared his shoulders. The body language was unmistakable; this is a man getting ready to fight. It was so unlike Jack, so alien to his style, that Alonzo was momentarily taken aback. What the hell was he thinking? So far, no one had noticed them. That would change quickly. The aimless tourists in front of them were still intent on the paintings, but would turn around at any moment.
The hired man ignored Jack. “Eres un bocón,” he said. “Se da mucha coba.” Then he gasped. And began screaming at the top of his lungs.
The scanner dropped from nerveless fingers as the man stiffened, gurgled, and screamed again. His eyes went deep and then shallow with terror, and every muscle and tendon in his neck bunched spastically. He had magnificent lung capacity.
Jack’s expression matched Alonzo’s shock as the man began to shiver and jolt before them, screeching and twisting as he staggered on powerfully cramping legs. The muscles under his clothing writhed and lumped. Alonzo’s first thought was, irrationally, werewolf? A hole appeared in the crowd around him as surprised onlookers began to panic. The crowd widened, then receded wholesale, leaving Jack and Alonzo with space to move and act. But do what? As they stepped forward, the man’s wails suddenly took on a liquid note, and with a rush of air he vomited a fine spray of blood. He dropped to his knees and clapped both hands over his eyes. Almost instantly, dark fluid burst from between his fingers.
Nerve agent, thought Alonzo, but the facts just didn’t add. He and Jack were still moving forward when the man cried again, quietly, and sagged completely into himself. They’d both seen enough of death to recognize the careless relaxation that came when only the empty shell remained, but Jack checked for a pulse, regardless.
The fine red vapor of blood hung in the air above them, suspended, and someone else screamed. This seemed to unlock the crowd, and the snarl and noise of open panic rose around them. Terror wicked through the air, a physical thing. A stall was pushed over, and everyone began jostling toward the exit. Due to the sheer noise of the market, the screams only carried a few rows; the shoppers outside of earshot only reacted to the oncoming wave of terrified humans, and greater chaos ensued. The pack of human flesh was so tight that the marketgoers at the edge of the wave actually pushed back in force.
Alonzo and Jack stood in the inviolable space near the body, which seemed to form a natural eddy in the mob.
“What did he say?” Jack shouted, “The last thing he said, to you?”
“Nothing. Nothing important. I have a big mouth, I think I’m a hotshot.” Alonzo wavered between a desire to run with the crowd and a need to understand what had happened. It was too fast, and too weird.
Police sirens blared from the street. Whistles sounded and a bullhorn blared as the authorities began to attempt to impose order.
Jack scooped up the scanner and the man’s other personal effects. “He went fast, like the others that Raines had killed back in the States.”
“Something in their blood, wasn’t it?” His mind roamed over Irene’s preliminary medical report from the Armsign killing, and the odd balance of chemicals in the victim’s circulatory system. Then he remembered he had a syringe.
“Jack, look out.” Alonzo felt for the dead man’s rib position, then stabbed the needle into his heart and worked the plunger. The needle seemed to take forever to fill.
The whistles were drawing nearer.
“Good idea.” Jack nodded at the syringe. “Feel like explaining this to the police?” The crowd had thinned considerably, but they had no cover, no backup, and no explanation for spending so much intimate time with a corpse.
“We need a distraction,” Alonzo said.
Rising, Jack said, “We need a Margaret Dumont. Meet you back at the crow’s nest.”
When the first policeman broke through the crowd, telegraphing his approach with his whistle and brandished club, Jack was ready. He squashed the man’s grey beret down hard over his eyes, took his baton away, and launched it end-over-end at another policeman. Turning and yelling at the top of his lungs, Jack dashed down a long aisle, shoving booth supports down as he went. The last Alonzo saw of him, there were a half-dozen police in pursuit through the section of the market reserved for women’s undergarments.
Alonzo finished with the corpse and retreated into the crowd. The bottleneck at the exit was exacerbated by the police attempting to check each and every person with a facial recognition device, and the ripples of mob panic continued to play across the crowd. He had time to walk a bit, check for another follow team, perform a standard evasion pattern in the aisles, and pick up a replacement dinner from another market vendor before it was his turn to process out of the Mercado Nocturno.
As he walked through the gate he passed the group of merchants whose booths Jack had demolished in his escape. They had surrounded a police officer, who was beginning to perspire as the argument grew more voluble.
“He was tall—”
“No, he was short and obese—”
“And he ran with a limp, but his shoulders were broad—”
“You’re both wrong, he had a scar and was heavily jaundiced—”
“I’m sure he was Mexican—”
At the far end of the market, the police whistles shrilled, sounding foiled and frustrated. Mrs. Dumont was still singing.
*
Miklos Nasim lowered his binoculars and checked their recorded images. He carried a little notebook, quickly filling with notes on Jack Flynn. He’d need a new notebook after transcribing this evening’s observations.
Rogiberto acted stupidly, using the men like a blunt instrument, nearly exposing the entire group. It was a challenging situation for a handler, but Nasim knew that at the heart of every difficulty lay opportunity.
Rogiberto was manageable as a front-line operator, but as a tactician he was worse tha
n an idiot. Impatient for his own revenge, he used the men ineffectively. Miklos would have to take that up with him. He’d known that the Cuban was intent on using the men against the shorter American, that he hated him. Blamed him for his demotion. Miklos had helped that anger and bitterness fester, after all. It made Rogiberto useful, malleable.
Of the many agents Miklos ran for Raines in Cuba, Rogiberto was almost as difficult to direct as Lopez, and for nearly the same reasons. Both deeply felt their hatred for others but neither could fully vent it, so they nurtured it into a slow burn. Was this a Latin proclivity? It kept their minds active, less so in the case of Lopez. Miklos suspected the scion of the drug cartel had begun to sample his own wares.
Raines didn’t understand how delicate and dangerous the plan was, or maybe he did. The man enjoyed chaos.
The nanodevice was effective, as well. Raines had given him an older version of the weapon, and while it lacked many refinements and features of the current design, it still ended life with a minimum of effort.
He’d terminated the workers a few days earlier than scheduled, but really, their usefulness had reached an end. Having them in police custody wasn’t in anyone’s best interest.
The lost men all had been exposed early to the device. None of them knew what it was, or that Miklos held the kill switch. And they couldn’t be traced directly to anything important. Miklos didn’t regret losing such men. In fact, their deaths had been helpful. Every second spent watching the Americans move and react only further exposed their weaknesses and strengths.
Still, the Cuban risked betraying even a small part of the plan early, and he’d have to be reminded of his place. He’d soon enjoy his revenge against the American, as Miklos would take pleasure in meeting Jack Flynn again, face to face.
He was fast. He was very fast. His hands, particularly. He didn’t fight frozen, using any one particular style. At the end, even after Miklos activated the device, the two Americans seemed intent on administering first aid for some reason. He would think on that.