Final Target

by John Gilstrap

  “No, it wasn’t a lie. I do, in fact, have retirement papers that show I was a chief petty officer, but my corner of the Navy was, shall we say, different from what most people think of when they think Navy.”

  “What, were you, like, a SEAL or something?”

  “Not a SEAL, but a something. I can’t tell you much more than that, but I can assure you that I followed orders and was good at what I did.”

  “You killed people?”

  “I solved problems.”

  “Problems that were solved by killing people.”

  Davey sighed. “Problems that were solved by preventing bad guys from killing good guys. How’s that?”

  Truth be told, Jesse wasn’t sure how that was, wasn’t sure how he felt about having a father who killed for a living. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  That one earned him a deprecating scowl. “Really?” Davey said. “Two reasons. One, you had no need to know until about a half hour ago, and two, it’s not the kind of thing that comes up during normal conversation.”

  “So you chose to lie to me for all these years.”

  Davey laughed. “Oh, don’t start playing victim now. Give the whole thing about thirty seconds of thought, and I think you’ll agree that not telling you was the better move. I was covert. Look, I know I was not anybody’s definition of a good father, but at least I didn’t run out on you like your mother did. I saw to it that you were cared for and that you thrived. I paid closer attention than you may think.”

  “And what about those foster families you sent me to while you were out killing people? Did they know what you did?” Even in the dark, Jesse could see that he’d pressed a dangerous button.

  “What do you bet that that’s the last time you speak to me that way without consequence?”

  Jesse’s ears went hot. “Sorry,” he said. “That was out of line.”

  “A little bit,” Davey agreed. “And as for your question, some of them did, and some of them didn’t. I think they all knew that I was doing spooky shit, but in that community, everyone knows not to ask too many questions. I’m forever grateful to all of them for how they helped you.”

  In the silence that followed, Jesse tried to make all the dots connect. His twenty-seven years on the planet had certainly been different than those of his contemporaries. He’d checked off more blocks on the life-experience list than most, and now he’d learned that his father was a hit man for Uncle Sam. He had to admit that there was a certain coolness factor in all of that. As he watched Davey pilot the boat across the bay—really just a silver-tinged silhouette against the moving background of the shoreline—he saw a serenity in the man, a quality that perhaps he had improperly interpreted as aloofness.

  When he juxtaposed that serenity to that homicidal glare he’d witnessed when Davey confronted and killed the watchman on the dock, he realized that his father was more Jekyll than Hyde, but that both personalities resided within the same body. But the transformation seemed to be a controlled one, the violence boiling to the top only on command.

  “You’re staring at me,” Davey said.

  Jesse looked away, started back to his seat.

  “I know this is a lot to digest,” Davey said.

  “I’m fine,” Jesse replied.

  “That’s probably a lie,” Davey said. “But for the next few hours, it’s a good lie to perpetuate. I’m going to need your head one hundred percent in the game.”

  “I’ll do what I have to do,” Jesse said. When he was halfway back to his makeshift seat, a thought occurred to him and he turned. “Hey. You don’t suppose that Uncle Paul Boersky knew what you did for living, do you?”

  Davey grinned. “Why don’t you make that phone call to Mother Hubbard? Find out where the hell we’re supposed to go.”

  Jesse made the call. When he hung up, he relayed what he’d been told by Mother Hen. “They don’t know yet. Not precisely. Somewhere along the coast of a place called Isla del Carmen. Our exfiltrators won’t know an exact point until they’re there.”

  Davey pointed ahead and to the left. “That bridge up there is the gateway to the gulf. Once we get through there and put some miles behind us, I’ll look at the charts and find out where Isla del Carmen is. Did Mother Superior tell you how much time we have?”

  “She guesses about an hour. Maybe two.”

  “That means maybe five,” Davey said. “Okay, I’m going to go out four or five miles to get us beyond the visible horizon, and then we can do some planning.”

  He turned the wheel hard to the left and increased the speed just a little. Five minutes later, they passed between two towering pilings and under the bridge deck far above.

  “Welcome to the Gulf of Mexico,” Davey said.

  * * *

  Jonathan had no idea that children snored so loudly. They’d been driving for three hours, and it seemed as if every one of the kids was asleep within five minutes of finding a seat. Asleep as in unconscious. He longed for a day when he might sleep so peacefully. He’d tried, and maybe he’d caught a few winks sitting there in the front bench, but he didn’t think so.

  They’d opted against blacked-out travel in favor of headlights, in part to look like every other school bus on the road—though Jonathan doubted there was a single one—but mostly as a safety issue. They didn’t want other drivers colliding into them.

  Gloria had gotten into Jonathan’s head. He wasn’t sure that he’d mentioned Isla del Carmen specifically, but he knew they’d mentioned Laguna de Términos, and Isla del Carmen was too easily deduced from that. They’d changed their approach route, too, again, just to be unpredictable. The new location was about fifty miles from the old one, and they were betting that the Jungle Tigers could cover only so much real estate. The updated route took them down Route 259 and through a place called Sabancuy. According to the map, the town was urban, by local standards, but much smaller than their other options.

  He’d radioed the information to Mother Hen so she could relay the coordinates to the exfil team. The change added distance for the boat drivers, too, rendering impossible whatever chance they’d had of a simultaneous arrival to the shore. Fifty miles was fifty miles, and even with a fast boat, they were talking an extra sixty minutes or so.

  What they needed most now was shelter while they waited—something that would provide more substantial cover than the sheet metal and glass of a flimsy school bus. Jonathan pulled up a commercial satellite mapping program to search for a suitable location, and he believed he found the perfect spot. It was a rich man’s hacienda right on the water’s edge, surrounded by gated concrete security fences. Jonathan hoped that given the money that had clearly been invested in the property, the construction would be heartier than most of what rural Mexico had to offer.

  He relayed the specific grid coordinates for the house to Venice. If the rescuer was any kind of decent navigator, he’d be able to pull up directly behind the house to make the exfil.

  “Hey, Boss, we’ve got company,” Boxers said. “Behind us. He’s been on my tail for about ten miles now. We picked him up at the last intersection.”

  Jonathan turned to look down the aisle and through the back window. He saw headlights, but nothing more concerning than that. “Is he showing aggression?”

  Dawkins rose from his seat opposite Jonathan and joined them up front.

  “Nope. Not even following that closely. Could just be other traffic. But I thought you should know.”

  Jonathan watched through the window as the follow car, well, followed. It looked like a pickup truck, but it was hard to tell from this angle.

  “What’s wrong?” Angela said from a seat not far from him. Jonathan saw her lift her head from Tomás’s shoulder, and he awoke, too.

  “What?” Tomás said. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing’s happening yet,” Jonathan said. He didn’t believe in sugarcoating the truth, but on the other hand, he didn’t want the kids to get too stressed too early. “There’s a vehi
cle behind us, but we don’t know yet if it’s a problem.”

  The other children stirred, and within thirty seconds, it looked like everyone was awake. Their expressions of curiosity, followed by their expressions of fear, ramped up the noise level quickly.

  “Everyone, be quiet,” Jonathan said, loudly enough to make them jump. “For all we know, the vehicle behind us is just another vehicle on the way to the beach.”

  “We’re coming up on Sabancuy,” Boxers announced.

  Jonathan turned away from the follow car and the kids and resumed his seat in the front. Sometime when he wasn’t looking, the jungle had given way to the scrub growth, patchy grass, and scrawny trees that were so common at the outskirts of beach communities. Lights glowed on the right, and soon they passed a low-rise hospital that looked more like an automotive assembly plant than a medical facility.

  A block later, the highway divided for the first time since they’d started out. Streetlights down the median revealed the beginning of tourist shacks and restaurants, all of them painted in those same damned faded pastels.

  “Take a look up ahead at the next intersection,” Boxers said without pointing.

  Another pickup truck sat at the upcoming cross street. It clearly was occupied.

  “They’ve had a chance to pull out yet haven’t,” Boxers said. “If they follow, I think we’ve got another data point.”

  As they passed the pickup—this one was green—Jonathan saw at least three silhouettes of people inside. He pivoted to see what came next, and watched as the green pickup fell in behind the red one that was already on their tail.

  “Take the next right at the hotel,” Jonathan said, pointing to the two-story yellow, white, and orange prisonlike structure whose wall had been painted with the word Hotel.

  “Didn’t we break somebody out of there once?” Boxers quipped.

  “If they follow, then we’ll know.”

  “Hang on!” Big Guy called out to the bus. He let off the gas but barely touched the brake as he whipped the right-hand turn.

  For a second, Jonathan thought for sure that they were going to flip, but it didn’t happen.

  “They turned, too,” one of the kids called out. “They’re still following.”

  “We don’t want to wander too far afield here,” Boxers said. “There’s only one bridge across the bay, and we need to get on it.”

  “That’s fine,” Jonathan said. “Make a couple lefts and a right, and you’ll be back on the main drag. If they stick with us through that, then we’ll know everything we need to.”

  Boxers piloted the turns expertly, and a minute later, they were back on Route 259. And the pickups were still following. “So, that’s two data points,” Boxers observed.

  Jonathan waited for it.

  “One, we know they’re bad guys, and two, they know we know. This is gonna get real interesting real fast.”

  Jonathan leaned in close to Dawkins’s ear and said, “Get your shit on and be ready to fight.” Then he faced the back of the bus and addressed the children. “Okay, kids, listen up,” he said. “The people in those vehicles behind us are almost certainly Jungle Tigers.”

  He could almost feel the wave of fear as it passed over the occupants, and he chose to ignore it. “I’ve already made it clear what I intend to do. Big Guy, Mr. Dawkins, and I are going to do whatever it takes to get on a boat and get out of here. There will very likely be a lot of shooting, and Alejandro Azul and his men will see anyone—man, boy, or girl—as an enemy, and they will try to kill you.”

  In the flickering glare of the passing streetlights, all but one of the faces he saw showed wide eyes and gaping mouths. The other one belonged to Tomás.

  Jonathan continued, “There is no shame in quitting right here and right now. Pretty soon, in another ten or twelve miles, we’ll be pulling up to a house, and that will be our last stop before fighting our way to the boat that is coming to pick us up.”

  He chose not to mention his lingering doubts that the alleged boat would show up at all.

  “If you choose to stay behind—and I’ve told you all along that that is an option—stay on the bus and do not touch your firearm. To have a gun in your hand is to have a target on your back.”

  “Can we leave the gun behind and come with you, anyway?” one of the girls asked.

  Tomás shot to his feet. “So that others can fight for you?” he said. His face showed anger at a level that approached rage. His face glowed red, and veins swelled in his neck. Jonathan found himself watching the kid’s hands, in case he decided to go to guns. “Alejandro Azul burned my father to death in front of my eyes. He put a bullet through my brother’s brain, and his men raped and killed my mother and sister. And you all have stories like mine. Who knows what will happen—”

  “Tomás,” Jonathan said. “I think you’ve made your point.”

  “I will tell you when I have made my point!” Tomás yelled.

  The loudness and severity of the rebuke startled Jonathan.

  Tomás pivoted back to the others. “Do what you want. Girls, know that you will be raped and God knows what else. Boys, if you’re close to my age, they will make an example of you and kill you in the most gruesome way. If you’re younger, maybe you will be spared to become one of the cartel’s slaves. Maybe you can do great things and become a murderer yourself.”

  He let his words hang for what Jonathan observed was precisely the right amount of time to earn maximum impact. “Scorpion is offering you America. You can put all this shit behind you and start over. Some will hate you, and some will protect you, but no one will try to own you. Isn’t that right, Scorpion?”

  Jonathan found the kid’s soliloquy to be inspiring. “Yes,” he said. “There are no guarantees, but there are limitless opportunities.”

  “And they will allow us to enter?” That question came from a boy about Tomás’s age. Jonathan thought his name was Santiago.

  “Eventually,” Jonathan said. He didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to go into the details, either. In part because he wasn’t entirely sure what those details were.

  Tomás picked up his M4 and held it high—as high as the roof of the bus would allow. “So, are you coming with us, or are you being a coward?”

  “That’s not fair,” Jonathan said, intentionally throwing sand into Tomás’s gears. “That is not the choice. It is not cowardly to choose safety over danger. Some people would say that a decision like that is smart.” He didn’t want a bunch of reluctant warriors going through the meat grinder out of shame. If they weren’t committed to the fight, then they would just be a burden to everyone.

  Santiago said, “I’m going with you.”

  Angela was next to agree. Within fifteen seconds, all the children had said they were on board with the plan.

  “A kindergarten army,” Boxers mumbled in English, loudly enough for Jonathan to hear.

  “Remember the rules,” Jonathan said. “Safeties on until your rifle is pointed at a target, and fingers off the trigger until you are ready to shoot.”

  “And remember that those targets are human beings,” Dawkins said, earning himself a glare from Jonathan. “I’m just telling them to be sure.”

  “If the human being is shooting at you, that makes him a target,” Jonathan said. “If you’re not sure, or you find you’re unwilling, just keep your head down.” He had no idea what had prompted Dawkins to stir the pot, but he really preferred his pep talks to be solo routines. “But nobody shoots at anything until I tell you to. Is that clear?”

  Heads nodded.

  “I want to hear the words,” Jonathan said. He went to them one at a time and made them repeat the promise. “You will also have to do exactly what I say, when I tell you to do it. This is not negotiable. Are there any questions?” He saw a lot of fear and a lot of wonder, but no one had questions. Or, if they did, they didn’t have the courage to ask them. Which was just fine.

  Jonathan continued, “You older kids, I expect you
to keep an eye out for the younger ones. There may come a time when Big Guy and I get very busy, and Mr. Dawkins will be staying with us. Tomás, you and Angela and Santiago will have to protect and support the others. Are you up to that?”

  Tomás nodded enthusiastically. The other two a little less so.

  It would be what it would be.

  “Hey, Boss?” Boxers said.

  Jonathan moved to the front. “Whatcha got?”

  “We’re on the bridge now,” Boxers said. “If they are going to engage, this is the place to do it.”

  “But they didn’t have manpower at the beginning of the span,” Jonathan said. The bridge wasn’t a bridge at all in the traditional sense, but rather a paved ribbon of sand that was nearly a mile long. It traversed the inlet that led to the strip of beach that kept the Gulf of Mexico at bay. Their good luck continued with no traffic, and as they approached the terminal end of the bridge, Jonathan found his hand tightening around the grip of his M27. If he were planning this ambush, it would be in the patch of real estate that lay ahead.

  “This is the T intersection right up here,” Boxers said, pointing. Ahead lay the intersection with Route 180, the beach road. An elevated sign gave them the choice of heading left, toward Isla del Carmen, or right, toward Campeche.

  “Right,” Jonathan said.

  “Yep.” It was a very First World turn—a merge, really—onto the otherwise deserted beach road.

  “We’ve got about ten miles on this,” Jonathan said. “They clearly don’t have their resources gathered yet, but now they know our general direction. They’ll be coming from all over to box us in.”

  Big Guy’s foot grew heavier on the gas. “If we can beat them to shelter, we’ll have a better chance than if we do this business on the road.”

  “So, why are you going so slowly?” Jonathan teased.

  “Nobody loves a smart-ass insect, Scorpion,” Boxers replied.

  * * *

  “They are on the road leading out of Ciudad del Carmen, heading north,” Orlando announced. He still held the phone up to his ear. “This guy on the phone says he doesn’t know how many there are, but they are all on a bus.”