by Frank Hughes
“It’s all an act. Even I can’t stand me.”
“Come over here and sit next to me.” She patted the mattress.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“Oh, don’t be a poop. I’m tired of poops. Come over here. You must be cold. It’s nice and warm in here.”
To prove it, she threw back the sheet to reveal that she was naked and aroused. The light from the fireplace threw her prominent breasts into sharp relief. The dark nipples were thick and engorged. Dear Penthouse, I never believed your letters before…
“Look, Mrs. Canfield.”
“Cory.”
“Yeah, that helps. I may have sent the wrong message yesterday.”
“On the cable car?”
“Yes.”
“It didn’t seem wrong to me. It felt like a strong message.” She smiled lasciviously. “Kind of a long message, too.”
“Yes, well, I’ve been working on my communication skills. However, I have a rule against sleeping with the wives of sitting U.S. senators.”
“Oh?”
Right then the phone rang. I snatched the cordless handset from the night stand and backed away.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Craig?” It was Kohl.
“Yes.”
“I am sorry you were unable to make dinner. Mrs. Canfield was most disappointed.”
“That’s likely to continue.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Never mind. What can I do for you?”
“You are to be at the cable car station at six o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Cory was staring at me, caressing her breasts with one hand, while the other drifted languidly across her stomach and between her legs. I turned away and realized Kohl had said something.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” I said.
“A car will be waiting at the bottom to take you to the airfield.”
“Thank you.”
“Good luck on your journey tomorrow.”
“Good night.” I broke the connection.
I turned to put the phone down and found that Cory had left the bed and was walking slowly towards me. I was mesmerized by the way her hips moved, and found my gaze focused on the small triangle of hair between her legs. For some reason, I remembered I hadn’t shaved in two days.
She walked right up to me until her nipples touched the robe. Heat radiated off her body like a furnace. Whatever fragrance she was wearing made my head spin. She placed her hands behind my neck and pulled my mouth down to hers. Her lips were warm and full. Then her tongue was in my mouth, and I realized my arms were around her, feeling the warmth of her skin. My hand traced down her spine and caressed the small of her back. She moaned and pushed herself against me, rotating her hips, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, grinding against me until a violent shudder ran through her whole body.
She broke the kiss and whispered into my throat. “What is all this about a rule?”
“Well,” I said, “rule might be overstating it.”
“I see,” she said.
Then her lips were on mine again and we kissed long and hard. Her hands dropped from my neck, and went to the belt of the robe. I grasped her by the upper arms and pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length. Through the tousled hair that fell across her face, the dark eyes gleamed with desire, and her mouth was wet and half open.
“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry, but I just can’t do this.”
There was no flash of anger, just an enigmatic smile. I let go of her and dropped my hands.
“I’m sorry.”
She said nothing, just stood there watching me.
“Okay, then, well, it’s been great,” I said. I motioned over my shoulder at the bathroom. “I’ve got a thing I’ve got to do.”
Once the bathroom door was closed and locked, I stepped into the shower and turned the cold water on full.
Ten minutes later, I checked. She was gone.
38.
The following morning I sat in plush comfort as the little G5 banked around to land at a small airstrip in the Chihuahua Desert. The single runway and small hangar were situated about a half mile from three large industrial buildings. A paved single lane road led from the airfield back towards the complex.
The plane touched down and taxied over to the tower building. A red fuel tanker and a battered green taxicab sat waiting. When the plane came to a halt, I undid my seatbelt, but stayed where I was. The cockpit door opened and the copilot squeezed through.
“We’re here.”
He undid the hatch and lowered it, kicking the metal steps into place.
“Where exactly is here?” I said.
“Chemical plant. Twenty miles outside of town.”
I followed him out the door and down the narrow steps to the tarmac. The desert air was cool, but after a few December days in the Colorado Rockies it felt positively balmy. The copilot fished a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and lit one.
“What’s the temperature?” I said, refusing the offered pack.
“About sixty. Typical for this time of year. Might want to keep the jacket for later.”
“Thanks for the tip.” The liner of my parka doubled as a windbreaker. I zipped it out and tossed the Gore-Tex shell back in the plane.
I heard the chunk of a car door closing. A lanky guy with long, dirty black hair was walking towards us from the taxi. His stained khaki shirt hung outside his belt on the right side, and the blue work pants were about three inches too long.
“Señor Craig?”
“That’d be me.”
He swept his right hand back at the taxi. “I am Joaquin, your driver.”
“Okay, be right with you.” I turned to the copilot. “What’s the schedule?”
“I’m waiting on you. We get the plane fueled, and you bring the package back here. Of course, if we don’t hear from you by nine tonight, we leave. This company,” he said, jerking his thumb at the complex nearby, “has mucho juice down here, but it doesn’t pay to overstay your welcome on these unofficial visits.”
“Gotcha.” I started over towards the taxi.
“Hey, pal,” said the copilot.
I stopped and looked back.
“Not that I give a shit,” he said, “but outside of a war zone, this is the most dangerous city in the world. Don’t dawdle.”
“I run this one errand, see the donkey sex show, and, I swear, I’m right back here.”
The driver held open the rear door of the cab. I took a piece of paper from my pocket and unfolded it.
“You know where this is?” I said, showing him the address.
“Sí,” he said, after a moment’s study.
“There a problem?”
He shrugged. “Es muy peligroso.”
“Is there a part of town that isn’t dangerous?”
He smiled. “No,” he said, “en todas partes es peligroso.”
“Everywhere is dangerous. I hear that’s the slogan for the new ad campaign.”
The road from the airstrip angled around the chemical plant and through a guarded gate onto a well-maintained blacktop. Within a quarter mile we were on a major highway, heading straight for a brownish cloud of smog that marked the city. The landscape gradually changed from brown desert dotted with industrial buildings and factories, to greener areas that mixed residential and commercial structures. Zoning was either haphazard or not enforced, and the architecture ranged from old, dilapidated crap to sleek and modern. Off to my right, I caught glimpses of El Paso and the green swath of land that marked the course of the Rio Grande.
Once in the city, our pace slowed due to the chaotic traffic. We veered away from the city center into a tired, unsanitary slum that reminded me of the worst parts of Tijuana. The driver seemed to know his way around, negotiating a bewildering series of turns through winding, narrow streets, until we rounded a corner to find the road partially blocked by a rusted car with no tires and a boulder that looked
very out of place.
I leaned forward and rested my arms on the back of the front seat. I caught sight of Joaquin’s eyes in the front mirror, and he seemed briefly startled.
“What seems to be the problem?” I said.
“The road, it is blocked.”
“I can see that. Why is it blocked?”
“It makes it muy dificil for the secuestradors.”
“The what?”
“The men who take peoples for money.”
“Oh, kidnappers.”
“Sí, kidnappers.”
“Can we go around?”
“There is no need.” He pointed. “The clinic is right down there.”
“Wow, you are a great driver.”
“Sí.” He smiled at me in the mirror. “Gracias.”
“Of course, I never said anything about a clinic.”
His eyes widened and his right hand went for his hip, but my forearm was already around his neck. A properly applied choke hold cuts off blood flow to the brain, resulting in nearly instant unconsciousness. Done improperly, it can kill just as fast, which is why many police departments in the United States no longer use it. Joaquin’s eyes fluttered and closed. He slumped in his seat. I lowered his head to rest on the steering wheel and took the keys from the ignition. I checked the pulse in his neck. Still alive. This meant I was now batting around .900 now on proper chokeholds.
Under his greasy shirt I found an old, but well-maintained Para Ordnance .45 automatic, a heavy, no nonsense gun, which was fine by me. In my days as a Customs agent I was far more likely to hit somebody with my Beretta than shoot at them. You would be surprised how many skels just beg for a little attitude tune up. Sigs and Glocks, with their composite frames and annoyingly large trigger guards just don’t cut the mustard when it comes to sapping someone down. You need a steel gun with some heft.
I slipped the safety off and press checked the chamber. A round was loaded. I dropped the double-stacked magazine to confirm it was loaded. It was, with hollowpoints. These guys didn’t kid around. I replaced the mag and stuck the pistol behind my right hip, leaving the safety off. Carrying a single action automatic that way wasn’t the safest thing in the world, but I was used to a double action Beretta, and I didn’t want find myself squeezing a useless trigger because I’d forgotten to thumb the safety down.
I got out and opened the driver’s door. A quick search of my new friend netted a Gerber Mk II fighting knife strapped to his left forearm and a Walther PPK in an ankle holster. I stuck the knife in my belt and kept the Walther handy.
I slapped the driver’s face a little to bring him around. Soon he grunted and his eyes opened slightly. I jammed the PPK up under his chin. His eyes opened wide.
“Good morning, Sunshine.”
His eyes hardened with hate, but he said nothing.
“Let’s talk about who you are,” I said. I pushed the pistol deeper into the flesh of under his jaw. “Comprende?”
“No.” He spat the word out, and dared me to shoot him with a defiant stare.
“I like you,” I said. “You’re tough. But, let’s see if you have the juevos to walk to that clinic with me. Now get out. Vamanos.”
I kept the hand with the PPK in my jacket pocket and pointed in his direction as we walked down the street. I watched for the moving window curtain, the top of a head, the furtive movement in a doorway that could indicate an ambush. I had to balance checking behind me with keeping an eye on my companion. When you are alone you just have to leave some things to chance.
We stayed close to the buildings on the left hand side of the street, but not too close. You want to be near cover, but not too close to the wall. Ricochets don’t behave like billiard balls. When a lead bullet hits a wall, or any hard surface, it flattens somewhat, causing it to take off in a path virtually parallel to the surface it strikes. Hugging a wall might only get you killed faster.
There weren’t many people around, and those that were disappeared when they caught our vibe. Even the scrawny stray dogs took one look and skulked away. I saw a hand lettered sign for the La Vida Nueva clinic nailed to a power pole about fifty feet from the taxi. A crudely drawn arrow pointed the way. I noticed a few other markers were scrawled on the stucco walls of some buildings as we got closer.
The clinic had a little courtyard, protected by a low mud colored wall topped with a wrought iron fence. We entered through an arched gateway, where the clinic name was painted in faded black paint on the arch. The gate looked as if it was rusted in the open position. An elderly, couple sat on a stained and torn sofa in the courtyard, looking at us without much interest. As we passed I realized my first impression was decades off; they were meth addicts in their twenties. The deeply lined faces, tanned nearly black, only looked old. Both wore similar flannel shirts and paper thin jeans full of holes. The man had a red bandana tied around his head. A cigarette had burned down to a stub, seemingly unnoticed, between the leathered fingers of the woman’s left hand.
The clinic itself was a two story affair whose paint job, while not new, was years younger than the surrounding structures. The place had once been a small hotel or, more likely, a bordello. The front desk was now the reception area, complete with a pretty young nurse in a clean, starched uniform. She looked up as we approached.
“Buenos dias,” she said, smiling.
“Hablamos Ingles?” I said.
“Yes, of course,” she said, in English that was only slightly accented.
“I am looking for Mr. Boyd. Kenneth Boyd.”
“He is a patient here?”
“That’s my understanding.”
She pulled down a hardbound ledger from the shelf above her desk and consulted it. I looked at my companion, who was giving me a puzzled look.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the nurse, “but we have no one by that name here.”
“Can you check again? I was told he was here no more than three days ago.”
“I will check again for you.”
As she leafed through the book, Joaquin looked from her to me and back again with growing puzzlement. After consulting several pages, she closed the book with finality.
“I am sorry, sir. We have no record of a Mr. Boyd, not for three weeks back.”
“What about credit card receipts?”
She smiled. “Sir, we do not use credit cards here.”
With my left hand, I fished the photo of Ken from my shirt pocket and handed it to her.
“This is the man. Perhaps he is registered under another name.”
She examined it carefully, then, still looking at it, began to slowly shake her head. She handed the picture back to me.
“I’m afraid I do not recognize him.”
“And you are here how often?”
“Five, sometimes seven days a week. I have never seen this man. And no gringos have been patients here for many, many months.”
“I see. Would it be possible to speak to the director of the clinic?”
“Not at this moment. He stepped out for a few hours.”
Joaquin was startled. “Cuando?” he said.
The nurse seemed taken aback by the urgency of his tone.
“Hace unos minutos.” She looked at me. “A few minutes ago, after the police were here.”
“La Policia?” said Joaquin.
“Sí.”
“Shut-up,” I said to Joaquin. “Why were the police here?” I said to the nurse.
“They arrested two men who were here, how do you say, just waiting.”
“El doctor hablar con nadie antes de su partida?” said Joaquin. “Un paciente?”
“No,” she said, confused as to what the problem was. “He took his bag and went out, saying he would be back later.”
Joaquin muttered an oath and started past me, into the clinic.
I put my left hand in his chest and drew the PPK. “Whoa, Seabiscuit. Where do you think you’re going?”
The nurse stared at the gun, frozen in her seat.
“No time for what?”
“Do you wish to die?” It was not a threat. He was on the knife edge of panic. He shot a look at the front door, then back at me. “Shoot me or let me pass.”
I heard shouting and dogs barking outside. Joaquin moved quickly to the door, stepping halfway through. Then he turned and sprinted past me towards the back of the clinic.
I peered out. Five men, all wearing ski masks, were approaching the courtyard entrance. They wore flak vests over nondescript work clothes. Three of them, carrying suppressed MP5 submachine guns, entered through the arch. The remaining two, covered both ends of the street with FN assault rifles.
The first man through the gate casually shot the patients on the couch as he passed. He and the second man continued towards the front door, but the third stopped at the bodies and pulled a machete.
I stepped back into the darkness of the lobby and swapped the Walther for the .45. Five guys with automatic weapons would go through this place like a hot knife through butter. I needed to slow them down, make them hesitate, and buy time for me and everyone else in the building.
“Back door?” I said to the nurse.
She looked at me as if I were making no sense.
“Back door! What the hell, entrada trasera! Where is the back door?”
She pointed.
“Go now,” I said. When she continued to sit there I pointed the gun at her, and that seemed to work.
Fighting with a pistol is a lot harder than it looks in the movies. The short barrel, low stopping power, and poor sight radius make it far less accurate than a long gun. Add the panic, stress, and adrenaline of an armed encounter and, well, let’s just say I would have preferred a shotgun.
The best way to obtain accuracy with a handgun is to focus on the front sight, which is easier said than done. The natural tendency of human beings under stress is to focus on the danger. Highly trained anti-terrorist units spend endless hours mastering pistol shooting in pressure situations, but the rest of us don’t have that luxury. While a Customs agent I rarely had cause to pull my Beretta, much less shoot the damn thing. In my last government position, we were expected to avoid armed confrontations and retreat when they happened. The handgun training focused mainly on instinct shooting, a theory that states where your eyes look, your arms point, and the bullets go.