Caribbean's Keeper

by Boland, Brian;

  Cole suddenly became concerned. The thought of things going bad on land had not crossed his mind, but he knew this was likely contested turf. He exhaled with force when he heard David’s voice from the beach. The panga dug her bow into the coarse sandy bottom and Cole killed the engines after what had seemed like an eternity. The silence was a welcome relief from the past 11 hours. Having set off well before sunset, it was still nighttime as Cole grabbed his things, waded ashore and rubbed his eyes. Around him were at least four men he could see, each with a rifle close to their chests. They were 20 or so yards back from the beach and evenly spaced to form a good perimeter as Cole’s two crewmen helped offload and carry the two packages to shore. Loading each into a separate truck, David hurried Cole into the back of one of them and the driver made quick work of speeding away, the back tires spinning up dust and rocks as he accelerated.

  As they pulled onto one of the main roads, both trucks slowed down a bit to blend back in with the light early morning traffic. In Cole’s truck, there was a driver and one of the men with a rifle sitting shotgun. Cole sat in the middle of the backseat of the truck with David to his right and the other guard to his left. Cole looked down and saw that the guard held some short barreled version of an M4. From the looks of both the gunmen, they seemed to be able to handle themselves. Neither paid any attention to anything inside the truck as they scanned the passing traffic for any signs of trouble.

  David wanted to know how the trip had gone.

  Cole wasn’t sure where to start. “Well, I got it here. But we ran into a problem about halfway through. I’m pretty sure they were Coast Guard.”

  David’s eyes sharpened and he asked, “What happened?”

  “I couldn’t shake them, they were faster than me, so I emptied a magazine behind me and they broke off the chase.”

  David shuffled in his seat. “You shot at them?” His eyes were bigger now.

  “No, not at them, just behind me to give the impression I was. I figured that might shake them and it did. I’m pretty sure they were going to shoot the engines out and that wasn’t gonna work out too well for you or me.”

  David sat back and looked ahead. He pulled his phone out and patted Cole on the knee twice saying,“OK, my friend. You did OK.”

  Cole couldn’t pick up much of the conversation that David had on the phone, but it seemed like David was answering a lot of questions. Cole didn’t like to think of who was on the other end of David’s phone calls. He hoped that the trucks weren’t taking him somewhere like they’d taken that kid on Cole’s first night. Mad at the situation, Cole did his best to hide it, but he was not happy.

  When David hung up, Cole couldn’t hold back anymore and he opened up. “What the fuck, David. You didn’t tell me I couldn’t use the gun. Some ground rules would have been a fucking nice thing to have.”

  No one in the truck seemed to notice or care that Cole was pissed.

  David stopped him before he could continue and said, “No, no, no, you are OK, Cole. We are all right; you are all right. We take you back to the hotel. You need some rest. Everything is OK.”

  He patted Cole again on the knee. Over the next hour, not much was said. As Panama City appeared in the distance, Cole dreaded the next 20 minutes as they drove through the worst parts of town. He wondered if they were going to pull into some empty building and drag him to a room. Shuffling a bit in his seat, Cole realized he still had the Glock tucked under his shirt. It reassured him since if he was on his way to get a bullet in the head, someone probably would have taken the gun from him already.

  Nevertheless, Cole was uneasy about his prospects and resigned himself to fight it out with the 13 rounds in the gun if it came down to it. Knowing he wouldn’t win against the guards, Cole sure as shit wasn’t going to let them just walk him into a room, tie his hands behind his back, and watch him squirm.

  Fortunately, it never came down to that. Three hours after he’d beached the panga, the trucks pulled up to the Marriott and offloaded Cole. David said he’d be in touch and with that the trucks were gone, leaving Cole by himself in front of the main doors. It was mid-morning by then. Above the buildings and the noise, Cole could see the sun creeping skyward. He took a long breath and exhaled, the stench of the city a welcome relief and much more preferable than the stench he recalled from the room where the kid had been killed. The thought rattled his nerves.

  Cole walked inside and up to his room. From the bag, he pulled one more round from another magazine and dropped the magazine out of the gun, loaded his back to capacity and reinserted it, leaving it on the nightstand. Fourteen rounds now. It did little to comfort him. Standing by the window for some time, Cole looked down at the city beneath him. Perhaps I’ve done enough. Perhaps I should get out while I still can. The truth was he didn’t know if he could get out. The thought of quitting anything so soon after Delaney gnawed at him, but at the same time he realized his decisions always seemed to leave him in a tight spot. There were no good answers and he had no one to blame but himself. Such was life, and with that he crawled under the blankets of his bed and soon fell asleep.

  Chapter 10 – Wheels Up

  COLE WOKE LATER in the afternoon and stepped back into his regular routine as best he could. With no messages from David and nothing to do, he worked out then ate at the sports bar downstairs, finishing off a few Panamas with his Cuban sandwich. With the afternoon sun starting to fall, he headed to Habana’s and lit a cigar before taking a prime seat for the nighttime show. Sipping a Dos Equis, he put his feet up on the railing in front of him and crossed his cowboy boots over each other, then pulled the brim of his hat down low.

  All things considered, he felt good. The sleep had cleared his mind, but the previous night still hung heavy on his conscience. He had escalated and figured out quickly that David had to answer a lot of questions. The drug trade was a tricky thing, and Cole felt isolated without any information beyond David’s facial expressions. As with anything else, not knowing was gnawing away at him. Taking a long deep drag from his cigar, Cole blew the smoke up and over his head and tried to think of something else. He spent several hours making light conversation with the girls before heading back to the Marriott and falling asleep again.

  g

  Several days, each the same as the first, passed before David caught up with Cole. They met at the coffee shop across the street early one morning and David explained at length. He spoke with his hands and seemed to use very deliberate words in finding a delicate way to explain Cole’s predicament. “There is an understanding down here among the different families that we like the status quo.”

  Cole let David continue searching for words for some time before he cut in, saying, “I get it, David. Just tell me what you need to tell me.”

  David shrugged his shoulders before taking a long sigh. “Cole, for my boss, you did good bringing the money in—but for the other bosses, it’s not so good. There are more boats now, more planes, and a lot of people think you made things worse. Trust me. Everyone, and I mean everyone, knows about it.”

  David was back to talking with his hands. Cole could tell that despite trying to hide it, David was concerned.

  “If there is more pressure from the United States because of this, that means more drugs will be caught and less money to be made. You see?”

  Cole knew that already. “Well, what the fuck was I supposed to do?”

  “No, no, you did OK. There is no good answer. Some guys would not shoot, some guys maybe they do. You, you’re a damn cowboy, so you shoot.” David laughed a bit and pointed at Cole’s boots with a smile. Cole looked away, partly amused, but still mad at the situation.

  “So what do I do now?”

  David shifted in his seat and leaned in a bit. “You take it easy for a bit, let things calm down, and everything goes back to normal in a few weeks. OK?”

  The thought of sitting around his hotel room for a few weeks with nothing to do wasn’t particularly pleasa
nt. Cole wanted to make money and more importantly, he wanted to push the throttles up as the sun faded and feel salt spray against his face as he roared north with a load of cocaine.

  “This is shitty, David, but there’s not much I can do, is there?”

  David shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my friend. You sit tight. Things will be OK.”

  g

  Days passed and Cole could do nothing but sleep in, lounge around the hotel pool, and spend his nights across the street at Habana’s. He kept waiting for a call or message from David, but nothing came. No one at the hotel or across the street seemed to act any differently, but Cole couldn’t help but be tense. The heat and the smell of the city bothered him more with each passing day. Even with the heat, he always wore his jeans after sunset to blend in with the locals, and would take short walks around the surrounding blocks most nights before turning in for the evening. He usually left his cowboy hat in the room to avoid standing out too much. His hair was a blond shaggy tangle on his head, and he knew he drew enough attention as is.

  Almost a week after he and David had last spoke, Cole was once again on the last inches of a cigar when he smashed it out on an ashtray at Habana’s. He shared a few drinks with Maria and as she sat across the table from him, Cole smiled at how pretty she looked with her long dark hair and light blue dress. She laughed at him for it. It was only nine o’clock, but the night was slow. Cole smiled to say goodnight and stood up to take a walk. They kissed each other on the cheek and she held his hand for just a moment with a flirtatious smile before walking back into the crowd. Ever the businesswoman, Cole thought as they parted ways.

  Cole walked down the concrete steps and onto the sidewalk, heading left towards a casino. With his boots on, a button-down shirt only half buttoned across his chest, and well-worn jeans snug against his waist, Cole blended in as well as he could. His Glock in its holster felt natural now that he’d been carrying it for over two months.

  The night was warm and he meandered past the casino, up a quieter street, then down towards a main drag. He knew the city streets well enough to explore them and still find his way back to familiar parts. No one paid any particular attention to him on his nightly strolls, and it gave him some time to stretch his legs and gather his thoughts.

  The city was chafing him and Cole was getting restless, just like he had in Key West. Perhaps it was time to cut his losses and find something new. He’d made a good deal of money, enough to keep him living well for the next few years, provided he picked back up with Mickey running the straits. He thought and walked and went back and forth with his ideas for some time. Maybe David was right and things would settle down, but he had been dormant for more than a week and there were no indications of things picking up again any time soon. Cole had no way of knowing what conversations were going on about him.

  Cole walked farther than normal when he finally turned for home. Continuing down a main street amongst the bustling Panamanian night life, he zig-zagged his way back up to the Marriott. Up a side street, he saw the main road for the hotel two blocks further up another smaller side street. Cole turned and walked, his mind now settling back down as he thought about one more drink before turning in for the night. The street was dark with no traffic on its narrow two lanes. He could see people up ahead on the cross-street two blocks in front of him in the street lights, but it was close to total darkness where he walked and the tall buildings on both sides blocked most of the sky.

  Cole heard a car behind him and instinctively turned to look for just a second. It was a dirty white sedan, no different than the million other cars that clogged Panama City. As he turned back and continued walking, something didn’t sit right. He thought about it again and looked behind once more. The car was driving too slowly, even for a side street. It was 30 yards behind him. No one drives that slow in Panama, he thought. With his second glance, he knew whoever was driving had seen Cole look twice. Keeping his same pace, Cole saw a set of elevated cement steps in front of him leading to a doorway. Beyond the steps was a driveway with a few trash cans tucked against a low concrete wall. As he passed the steps, he side stepped to the right and into the driveway before turning around to see the car still approaching.

  The back window was rolled down as the car came within ten yards and slowed even more. Cole couldn’t see the driver or anyone else, but he felt his heart pound in his chest and he gritted his teeth, exhaling as he lifted his shirt with his left hand and postured the palm of his right hand against the backstrap of his Glock. As he methodically wrapped his fingers around the grip, his fears were confirmed. From the backseat, the barrel of a gun appeared with a dark figure sitting in the middle seat. Cole drew as the gunman opened up. From less than ten yards, the muzzle blast lit up orange inside the car three or four times in rapid succession and the sound was deafening. In the middle of those first shots, Cole dropped to his right knee and pressed his side against the low concrete wall, gripping the gun with both hands. The back of his left shoulder burned like a fire as he pressed it against the wall. Fixing his eyes on the white dot of the front sight, Cole steadied his aim for a split second, and he touched the trigger with the pad of his finger. Surprising even himself, Cole methodically returned fire at the car. His first shot rattled him a bit and he sent the next three rounds high over the top of the car.

  With the gunman still firing at him, Cole regained his composure and his next two shots silenced the gun in the backseat. He couldn’t see his target, but at such a close range, he had aimed at the center of the rear window and found his mark. The car’s tires smoked as the driver stepped on the gas for a quick getaway. Cole, now holding the advantage, swept his sights to the front passenger door as it passed by him. Still crouched, he sent four more shots in rapid succession at less than five yards through the window as it sped past him. At least one of the bullets also found its target as the car veered hard to the left and smashed head first into a light pole. Still running when it came to a stop, the brake lights were on along with the left blinker.

  From his crouched position, Cole looked back up the street from where the car had come and he saw nothing. It was quiet again. His ears were ringing and his shoulder still burned, as if he’d cut it against the wall. The faint smell of gunpowder quickly blended in with Panama City like nothing had happened. Cole scanned back to his right, then left again before standing up. Looking at his shoulder, there was blood. So much so that he felt it running down his arm. He couldn’t see it, but the thought sunk in that a bullet had caught him behind his shoulder. He held the Glock with both hands and kept it pointed at the car as he took a few steps towards it.

  “Damn it,” Cole cursed when he realized he’d lost count of how many shots he’d taken. Halfway to the car, the passenger door opened and Cole saw a man step out, seemingly unhurt until he turned to face Cole with blood all over the front of his shirt. The man seemed startled to see Cole approach and turned back to reach into the car. Cole took no chances and fired off two quick shots at center mass and the man slumped onto the pavement, one arm still reaching into the car. Cole raced to the trunk before swinging around to the rear window from where the gunman had opened up. Inside, Cole saw the shooter slumped over in his seat. He then looked up front and saw the driver’s head smashed partly through the windshield. Cole walked forward and kicked hard at the man on the ground. Seeing no reaction, Cole stepped over him and looked more closely at the driver. Cole couldn’t tell if he had shot him since the impact of the crash had done so much damage to the driver, but he was also clearly dead.

  Cole looked at the guy in the backseat who was not moving and took a moment to release the magazine. There was one round left in it. With one in the chamber, he had two shots left. The Marriott was not far away, and the street was quiet. Pain was setting in and Cole could feel his shoulder muscles tightening. Blood stained the back of his shirt. He saw people a block ahead on the main street, and none of them seemed to know or care that there had just been a sh
ootout 50 yards away.

  Cole reholstered his gun, and realized he was panting. He tried to swallow, but couldn’t. His mouth was dry. Sweat covered his forehead and he felt it running down his chest as he crossed the street back to the sidewalk and walked quickly towards the busier main street. He wiped his eyes and tried to swallow again, but still couldn’t. He shook a bit and his ears were ringing even louder now than they had before.

  When he hit the main intersection, Cole scanned all four corners, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his right hand and then against his jeans. He turned right on a sidewalk congested with people. It was just after ten when he saw the lights from the casino and he knew the Marriott was close. He felt more secure on the busy street among the pedestrians and heavy traffic. No one seemed to notice the left side of his shirt was stained with blood.

  As he walked, Cole processed. Whatever had just happened wasn’t good. It wasn’t a robbery—it was an attempted murder. Someone wanted him dead. Cole’s mind raced as he played scenarios in his head. Was it another cartel? Was it his cartel? Was it David? His first reaction was disbelief, but he shook that from his head and scolded himself for thinking he was any different than anyone else in the business.

  He again tried to swallow but couldn’t. Needing a drink in more ways than one, Cole turned for Habana’s. A few of the regulars smiled at him with no idea what Cole had just done. This fucking city, he thought. The music thumped, still not loud enough to drown out the ringing in his ears. His breathing had slowed and he could no longer feel his pulse in his chest, but his nerves were still on edge. The pain in his shoulder was a dull, constant ache and wasn’t going to fix itself anytime soon.