Wyrd Gere

by Steve Curry

  Pedro checked us into a five-star hotel in Mexico City under the name, Velasquez. Apparently, the credit card matched the name and paired admirably with several large denomination American currency notes. I did a mental double-take when the total cost for three nights came to more than some car prices. There was also a certain amount of skepticism about why we needed three nights.

  I asked him in the elevator. “So, Senor Velasquez, is there a reason we’ll be sleeping alongside movie stars and politicians tonight? Or a reason we need to be here for three nights?”

  Pedro tossed me an irritated glance and then gestured to an elderly couple sharing the elevator with us. By gesture I mean he gazed rather pointedly and pursed his lips in their general vicinity. I shrugged and waited for three more hotel floors to get his explanation.

  We exited the elevator with a casual smile from the gentleman and a pleasant nod in return. Before I could repeat any questions, Pedro gave me a palm-down gesture encouraging patience. I hate that kind of gesture. Patience is not my norm unless on a stalk or in an ambush position. I managed to bite my tongue and hold any acrid remarks until we were in the room.

  “Okay, so we good for explanations now secret agent man?” In retrospect, I might have kept a little condescension and sarcasm out of my voice.

  His response was an annoyed glare and another gesture to be quiet. This time there was a knock at the door which he opened to admit a bellboy pushing one of the ornate brass luggage racks. That was somewhat surprising since I had seen no luggage in the vehicle nor a place to hide the half dozen bags and trunks Pedro Perro tipped for. When the door was closed again, I helped the smuggler arrange the trunks on an incredibly comfortable looking king size bed that overlooked the terrace.

  He tossed me a good-sized duffle and gestured to the bathroom. “Got some stuff delivered for you. Get cleaned up and dressed. We don’t have anywhere to be for a couple of hours. As for why here? Nobody will expect any escaped prisoners here. Nobody is looking for you anyway since there is a mostly incinerated body in your cell with your prison greys folded on a cot nearby. Everyone who knew you were in that torture room is dead or not talking. That doesn’t mean we take chances. And finally, people do not check into a five-star resort for a one night stay. This ain’t a pay by the hour hooker hotel.”

  That much information delivered rapidly and with a shove to get me started towards the shower left me with a number of questions but I decided to think a little bit before letting fly. That self-restraint surprised me almost as much as the flood of info.

  Maybe twenty minutes later I exited the shower in an outfit I might have picked out myself. Charcoal cargo pants, a navy sweater and combat boots over thick weatherproof socks seemed sinfully decadent after my recent wardrobe choices. The best part is that the boots weren’t used but someone had very thoughtfully rubbed them with saddle soap or some other leather treatment to make them supple. Somehow they even felt broken in, though the tags were still inside and there was no sign of any use. In my eyes that was as impressive as any runework.

  When I did come out of the bathroom, my guide pointed to a table bearing an assortment of gourmet offerings from room service. I immediately stacked together manchego cheese and mortadella with spicy mustard and sundry vegetables on thick rustic bread. There were hot coffee and a variety of sweeteners and even a tiny silver pitcher full of cream. This was perhaps almost as good as divine mead and roasted haunches served by immortal beauties. Ok, not quite as good, but almost.

  I got one mouthful of gustatory inspiration before a quiet knock sounded on the door joining our suite with the conference room next door. I released the coffee cup I was about to raise and instead used that hand to palm a sharp-looking steak knife from the room service tray.

  Pedro grinned and gave me a “stand down” motion with one hand while he turned the lock in the doorknob. As he did so a slightly harder knock rattled the door just enough for the barely engaged door chain to flop out of its track by itself. The door swung open to reveal a suspicious-looking visage that seemed familiar.

  The suspicion lingered as he scanned the room before entering then marched around checking behind doors and drapes. He even ducked into the bathroom and might have looked behind the towels for all I know. He was pretty thorough whether that was the case or not. Finally, assured that we were alone, he whistled a short trill of notes that might have been some bird impersonation.

  Right after that, a more familiar face came in. Her current makeup made her look old enough to be out of high school but too young to be in a graduate program. This time she wasn’t wearing pink fatigues. Instead, she had on a white sleeveless dress with a bold red and black floral pattern. It was just long enough to swirl above some very appealing knees and calves. I saw her toss a speculative glance my way, but that ended when she stepped in and waved at Pedro and then me. “Hola sleaze weasel and Mr. Moose.”

  The fellow with her was dressed all in “Hollywood bodyguard” with a black turtleneck and a black leather bomber jacket over dark pants and dark sneakers of some sort. He pulled out a chair which she dropped into with a completely unselfconscious poise and ease at odds with her very youthful appearance. “Pass me a cup of java please gringo prisoner.”

  The mocking smile and her own barely tan skin made the “gringo” a joke. I was still thinking about that while my hands seemed to obey her of their own volition. I guess my hands are suckers for sundresses and nice legs.

  Pedro seemed made of sterner stuff. His tone was flat and matter of fact when he asked, “You found the adjoining suite and conference room without difficulty?”

  She eyed him over the lip of her coffee cup and nodded. “I got lucky. We’re set up in the conference room. Thought we’d take a chance and see if you made it in earlier than expected. Aren’t we all glad I was right?”

  What sounded vaguely like a low growl told me that her companion wasn’t as glad as the rest of us apparently were supposed to be. He looked unhappy or perhaps annoyed. Then again the lines in his face indicated a pattern of frowning that had left its mark on him. He walked over and looked through the open doorway into the larger room that I assumed sat between two suites. Once he was satisfied there he adopted a stiff stance glowering from behind his female charge. When he crossed his arms I spotted the lines of a hidden shoulder holster as well as a couple of bulges that might be magazines or a knife at his belt.

  Okay. That made him my top priority if the balloon went up. He was better armed, but I had a knife palmed and half ready for use. Given even a split second of warning, I figured I could have arterial blood spraying while he was still fishing for a weapon under his stereotypical costume. If the girl was armed I couldn’t figure out where it would be in that short skirt and form-fitting dress.

  A cough from the conference room abruptly dragged my attention away from our current guests. I let my best brooding glare slide from bodyguard to vixen to the smuggler. “Who’s in the other room?”

  It was Pedro who answered. “Ah, my merchandise specialist is here! I told you we didn’t dare bring any weapons on the road with us. But I also told you I had saved some of the cash from your patrone with the yacht. We have some samples for you to look over next door.”

  He switched his attention from me to the girl while managing to act like the lurking guard wasn’t even in the room. “You have the diagrams and everything else set up too?”

  At her nod, he gathered us up with a glance and headed into the next room. Being of sound and paranoid mind, I palmed the knife and then jockeyed back and forth with the other guy in black to be the last person through the door. That was when I recognized him as the other prisoner that had been in the hallway when I was brought to visit Pedro in prison.

  I pushed that to the back of my attention while I scanned the room for new threats and surprises. I got a surprise first. Not only had I now identified the bubblegum barbie commando, but another mysterious escapee from the prison. But the surprise was that I knew the ot
her fellow in the room.

  I hadn’t seen Franco for years, maybe even a decade or more. He had of course changed but he was still recognizable. Maybe part of that was because he’d been one of the youngest guys in our group guarding Nigerian oil refineries. He looked like a very tough kid back then. Now he looked like an even tougher man close to my own apparent age.

  That was saying something because he must have been in his forties at least and looked a decade younger. Of course, I look a thousand years younger than I am, so take that. Franco looked up and noticed me as quickly as I identified him. It was probably easier for him. I hadn’t changed much at all.

  “Mon Frere!” He stepped around a table laden with cases and boxes to give me one of those effusive “continental” greetings. Fortunately, he stopped just short of some awkward cheek kissing.

  With his hands on both of my shoulders, he stepped back and gave me a quick scrutinizing glance. “Mon Dieu, you look magnificent! Especially for an old worn-out relic!”

  I saw a tightening around the eyes of everyone else in the room. It seemed that perhaps they weren’t comfortable with the familiarity of two newcomers to whatever conspiracy they had going.

  I stepped back myself and offered Franco a hand to shake instead of a cheek to kiss. He obliged with a sideways smile for the others in the room. Compared to our dark and intimidating disguises, Franco was a study in alternative style. His waist-length coat was form-fitting and looked like it was made of reddish silk or something similar. He had on blue jeans and hiking boots. The carefully groomed vandyke and handlebar moustache showed just a sprinkle of silver as did the waved dark hair falling just short of his shoulders.“So you are the unknown quantity, my old friend. What are we calling you today?”

  “Let’s stick with Magnus. Eh, mon ami. Et tu?” I wasn’t a native speaker by any means but I could sling a little french to keep in step with an old friend. Of course, I had to concentrate to keep old or middle french terms from popping up. Then again he’d probably just assume I was mistaking a modern word.

  “Moi? I am...as always, Franco. Franco the magnificent, the jovial, the lover and beloved. But why would I want to be anyone else?” His enthusiasm was almost as contagious as his sense of humor. Fortunately, I was inoculated against enthusiasm by a justifiable paranoia concerning my current “assignment”.

  “Why indeed? Perhaps to save money on antibiotics for a number of social diseases. I’m guessing you got used to nude women since we first met. I seem to recall some acquaintances mentioning a number of romantic exploits that sounded unlikely at the time. Weren’t you a virgin in Nigeria?” We were grinning like war buddies in a bar. A cough from the other escaped prisoner in the room brought us back to the current situation.

  “But of course! Business first my friends. Business always comes first.” Franco cast a speculative look at the only female in the room. His glance also seemed to linger on what I had already appraised as very comely calves. “But we can discuss pleasure later, non?”

  His business apparently consisted of the packages on the conference table. A second table had a number of folders and papers on it. From across the room, I’d guess several of those papers were maps. I didn’t get a chance to investigate though. Franco guided me with an arm around my shoulders while he unlocked cases to show off his products. “They didn’t give me much to go on so I brought along a variety.”

  I stopped at the second case he opened. Inside laying across padded racks were over a half dozen AR-style rifles. I recognized the FN, a trio of Heckler and Koch 416s, and a brace of Colt carbines. There were a couple of others that I couldn’t immediately place. None of them looked in other than pristine condition. I picked up an HK and tried the action. It was smoother than twenty-year-old single malt whiskey. I put it down and moved on.

  “The HK’s are good non? But look here. If you want long-range I have some truly inspired choices. There is a Mcmillan in fifty cal and another in .338. For Creedmoor, I have a Springfield M1A and a Browning X-bolt. There is also an M24 in .300 Winchester.” He opened a case with more rifles. These were longer and heavier looking than the deadly AR’s. Beside it was a smaller box, this one revealed a number of optical accessories.

  He pointed from one to another while listing. “Zeiss, Sig Sauer, Leupold, Vortex and a Hensoldt. You have low light and thermal options too.” He flipped open two hard-bodied cases to show the bulkier powered scopes made for use in near-total darkness.

  The others moved over to the separate table and began organizing maps, photos, and documents. The last to go was the bodyguard slash escapee. His glance at the weapons expressed both interest and longing. Maybe I’d be nice and get him a gift too.

  After another half hour or so of looking over a master wishlist of mayhem, we were called to the other table. Our compatriots had gotten things organized enough to finally give me the briefing I’d been wanting for days now. A few minutes into it, I stopped wanting any briefing at all. For that matter, I didn’t really want to be in Mexico City, or the country, or even Central America. Back home in Austin had never sounded so good after they started giving me details of the insane plan apparently cobbled together by Pedro and the young lady.

  The layout was a nightmare. We could use jungle thick cover to get within sight of the ancient structures dominated by a ziggurat. If I just needed to knock off a target and fade away it was excellent. That wasn’t going to find out if Gere was inside though. Nor would it get him out if he was indeed a prisoner.

  That was the extent of the good news. Some bright tactician had trimmed the jungle back for about three hundred meters all around the buildings. That even included a wide space around a handful of parking areas. We had considered using vehicles themselves as cover. The problem with that was, satellite images showed quite a few vehicles from open-air jeeps to large cargo and troop transports. Unfortunately, it showed a lot more open space than it showed vehicles for cover.

  That space was made doubly annoying by the excess of lights and a random disposition of guards. There were several guard towers, but only occasionally were all of them occupied. Just my bad luck that there was no set schedule or rotation to determine which would hold a guard at any given moment.

  To top off the list of my woes, there were big freakin jungle cats walking the walls. They marched right around foot troops like a Doberman, but bigger, meaner, hungrier. I was never really clear on which was which. Jaguar or leopards were all but indistinguishable to me. All I knew was that both of them had similar fur and markings, both were capable of powerful blows with big meaty paws tipped with oversized claws, and both had large unsightly fangs that probably craved chosen warrior meat.

  “Okay, how many snipers we got that can take out the cats or any guards that get too close.” When I looked up all I saw were heads rubbernecking around to spot someone else volunteering.

  “Okay, so no snipers. I take it I’m going in alone?” I was fully prepared for the bevy of agreements with that statement. Which is probably why I was surprised by an indignant voice from an unlikely source.

  “Hey now!” Pedro seemed to have gained an inch or two of height and maybe even girth as he bristled with indignation. “Don’t be a martyr Moose. We all gotta go in. I mean except for the gun guy. He’s just here to get you outfitted. But I’m going in for my own job. I just gotta know that my people are in there for me to get out. By the same token, Heather and her guy are going in for something she won’t tell me. They’ll be doing their own thing though. You and I, we stick together until we know for sure who is and is not down there. After that, you get your guy out and maybe start a diversion. If everyone is looking out then nobody will be looking in while I get my people out right?”

  I wanted to enquire about “his job” but didn’t get a chance. The barbie doll broke in with a voice that caught my spine in a wrench and jerked it around a few times. It wasn’t just a spoiled little rich girl voice. It was all of that of course, but so much more. There was a hint of a w
hine to her nasal vocalizations, and smugness, condescension maybe? And above all was the unmistakable lilt of a “valley girl” in her words and phrasing.

  “So like, we don’t need to know your business dudes, and like you don’t have to know ours? Capiche?” She looked like she started to cross her arms and thought better of it. I think there was an aborted foot stomp too. Finally, she settled for a suspicious glare though. “And what’s this about not knowing who is down there? Didn’t Luis tell you? He was in there just a week ago before he got picked up for questioning in that awful prison. If Luis said your folks were there then they’re there.”

  Pedro started to respond. “Yea lady but like you said, that was last week and now…”

  His cell phone went off and Pedro put up a hand to forestall anyone else from speaking.

  “Bueno?” He spoke into a cheap-looking phone that came out of his jacket pocket. We could barely hear a response in Spanish even before Pedro waved and indicated he needed to take the call. With another vaguely circular wave, he suggested we carry on while he went into the other room and shut the door. I didn’t like that very much.

  Apparently, neither did anyone else. I saw Franco purse his lips and take a long look at the door before cracking the door into the hallway and checking both for anyone out there and a longer look at the stairwell near the end of the hall. He shut the door and strode over to look out the window from far above a swimming pool and Mexico city spread out all around us.

  I might have done some checking myself but the girl and her guardian both stepped up to confront me.

  “What the hell is that about?” His voice was deep, it was gravelly, and it was surprisingly free of any hint of a Latin accent that his appearance would have suggested. I was expecting at least a Banderas level of Spanish, what I got was the west coast America.