The Amazon Job

by Vince Milam

  Rifle laid down, the .45 pistol pulled. I slid the phone from a battle vest pocket, turned it on. No cell phone service for miles, but overhead a communication bird hovered in geosynchronous orbit. The phone gained a signal. The satellite would act as a cell tower and forward my call. I found what I wanted in the device’s contact list, pressed dial.

  The William Tell Overture sounded. Opposite me, on the other side of the large boulder. The dumbass had kept his phone active. He shut the ring tone off and now sat freaked and trigger-happy. With my quarry located, I reverted to primitive deception, tried and true. Grabbed a nearby stone and chucked it downhill toward a small copse of trees and brush. The stone landed, rolled, and drew his fire. He emptied a half-magazine of ammo toward a ghost. I flung myself around the boulder’s uphill side, the .45 leading the way.

  He stopped firing and heard the rough scrape of fabric against rock at his rear. Within the split-second moment, he understood it was over, finished. Death knocked on his life’s door. Sitting up, back toward me and AK aimed downhill, his head turned, sufficient to display the raised-lip sneer.

  “We should talk, my friend.”

  Whether he suspected it was me or had merely tossed out his habitual opening statement would remain unknown. But I ensured his executioner was revealed.

  “I don’t think so, you son of a bitch.”

  I put a bullet into the back of his head. The .45’s unique retort echoed across the area. A signifying boom as opposed to the loud crack of the Colt or AK rifles. Marcus knew it well.

  “Report.”

  “Target terminated.”

  My shot also sounded as an escape signal for the two MOIS agents remaining inside.

  “We got runners,” Marcus said.

  I scrambled back around the boulder, holstered the pistol, and retrieved the Colt rifle. Flipped the scope to daylight operation and leaned back against the boulder, steadying my aim. Below, the SUV blazed as black smoke funneled upward. Bodies were strewn across the front drive gravel. And two MOIS agents ran toward an available SUV, which was parked facing the entrance road. The passenger side target never made it as Marcus’s shot cut him down. The other attained the driver’s side door, blocked from Marcus’s aim by the bulk of the vehicle. He wasn’t blocked from mine. A trigger squeeze, the Colt barked, and he died extending a leg into the driver’s side. His body collapsed alongside the black SUV, a foot resting on the vehicle doorsill. Amsler and Archer remained the sole survivors.

  “Repositioning west,” I said.

  Amsler and Archer wouldn’t attempt a back door escape. A dash into the hills behind the cabin didn’t fit their profile. No, they’d hole up. Marcus and I would flush them out.

  “Roger that. Maintaining position.”

  Marcus assessed the situation and concurred with my belief that cabin front was action central. I side-hilled at a fast pace, remaining covered among trees and brush and rocks with the exception of short sprints across open ground. No telling if Archer kept a scoped deer rifle inside. I took a position behind a jumble of rocks, forty yards from the cabin’s front.

  “Got you visual,” Marcus said.

  He could see me. I searched the hillside across the entrance road, spotted him as well. He sat on knees, pressed against a large tree trunk, rifle aimed toward the cabin.

  “You too.”

  I lifted a chin in his direction; he returned the favor.

  “I’d bet on hands raised, don’t shoot,” he said.

  A scenario where the two exited, hands high, a surrender. Followed with a BS story of their kidnapping by foreign agents and, from their perspective, more than a fair chance of getting off scot-free. A viable path if you were in their boots, but I couldn’t see it. It didn’t fit Amsler’s style and didn’t matter. They were both walking dead.

  “Nope. Bet on batshit crazy. Something dramatic.”

  On cue, the loud grind of an electric garage door lifting sounded across the area and mixed with the torched vehicle’s heat-generated pops and cracks.

  “Here we go,” Marcus said.

  One set of feet were revealed, wearing house slippers. Long thin legs in PJ bottoms. Behind, another set of boot-clad feet and jeans. Archer, standing behind Amsler. The curtain rose on this final vignette.

  The cool drizzle continued as the scene entered the big strange. A burning vehicle, dead bodies sprinkled across the gravel turnaround, blood washed with rainwater soaking into the ground. Amsler wore a jacket, her hair disheveled, eyes wild. Clutched against her chest was a three-gallon container more than half-filled with pinkish liquid. Viscous, it sloshed in slow motion as she walked forward. The lid appeared as some type of vacuum seal with a plastic hinge and clasp. Their prize, their hopes and aspirations delivered from the bowels of hell.

  Archer, midfifties, remained at her heels, his brought-from-home .357 pistol held at his side. His appearance lacked Amsler’s fevered zealotry. Fear, panicked fear, washed across his face and body movement.

  “Is it glass?” Marcus asked.

  Helluva good question. If plastic, we wouldn’t sweat her dropping it as she died standing.

  “Don’t know. Let’s keep her moving forward. Get her off the concrete.”

  Concrete extended seven paces from the garage entrance. If it was a glass container, a kill shot sent it onto a rock-hard surface. Bad news.

  “I know you can see me!” Amsler’s voice, loud and emphatic with a Swiss-German accent. “Can you hear me?”

  “You might as well,” Marcus said over the earpiece, an indication I should talk with her. His voice bordered on desultory, bored. I knew why. Every fiber of Marcus Johnson was focused on keeping his rifle’s crosshairs on Amsler’s head, finger resting against the trigger.

  “Yeah. I can hear you.”

  She twisted her head toward my voice, a snap move, birdlike. She stopped her forward progress, now on gravel, and stood still. Archer remained behind her and stared wide-eyed toward my general direction. Again it struck me how otherworldly this scene was. Mist, drizzle, the dull light of overcast daybreak. Bodies sprawled, and a vehicle burned and crackled while a Swiss scientist in slippers, PJs, and jacket held distilled evil.

  “Do you know what this vessel is? This container?”

  “No.”

  My voice was sufficient to carry the thirty-odd yards separating us. At last—Dr. Ana Amsler. The endgame. I had a perverse urge to stretch this out. Engage while she still lived. Gain insight or knowledge or a semblance of rationale. Or perhaps relish the moment—I had her. Finally had her. She lifted the large jar higher, the lid underneath her chin.

  “‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds!’”

  Spittle formed at the corners of her lips. She clearly hadn’t slept for days. I had a close-up view, the Colt’s crosshairs steady on a spot between her eyes. Amsler waded the deep end of crazy. Her efforts—conjured, planned, coordinated—now brought to fruition and held tight against her chest. Madness, absolute madness.

  “Okay.”

  What the hell else do you say to an insane wingnut? Her head tilted at my reply.

  “Did you really just say okay?” Marcus asked, his voice a monotone.

  “Gimme a break, Marcus.”

  “If I spill this, if I drop this container, we all die!” Amsler screamed. “You cannot escape its effects. It will mix with the atmosphere, the air. And it will drift. It will move! A vast area of death!”

  “Do you think she’s BS’ing?” Marcus asked. “She may not have had enough cooking time. It could be pink gelatin for all we know.”

  “No. Between her and Archer they cooked. That jar contains the real deal.”

  There was a strange comfort to holding a near-silent conversation with Marcus. An electronic sounding board for the weirdness before us.

  “Do you think it will break on the gravel?” he asked.

  “I know where it won’t break. I’ve got this.”

  Marcus trusted me, trusted whatever action I’
d concocted. A trust indicated through his silence in my earpiece.

  The hellish scene presented an opportunity. A just-crafted plan driven by circumstance, sure, but also one affording a close-up with Amsler. My quarry. A wild ride through a twisted body-strewn trail. I ached for face-to-face closure.

  “Hey, lady! I’m coming out. Unarmed. You and your magic potion hang tight. And tell your friend not to shoot at me.”

  Confusion crossed both their faces. I laid the rifle down, removed the .45 from its holster, and slid it into my back waistband. Stood with palms extended. Not a hands-up, but rather an indicator I intended no harm. The idiot Archer raised his pistol and aimed in my general direction.

  “My friend and I were paid to eliminate a group of Iranian spies,” I said. “Our contract doesn’t include killing civilians. Are you German?”

  I continued a steady stroll in their direction, toward flame and death and insanity. Amsler frowned, perplexed. Unkempt hair now matted with rain, Archer assumed a wide-legged stance, pistol still aimed.

  “We want to ensure we got them all. So we’re going to inspect the house. You got a problem with that?”

  “Who do you work for?” Amsler asked. Her eyes glistened with madness and confusion.

  “Not going to tell you that. But my buddy on the hillside has you in his riflescope.” I pointed a finger toward Archer. “So stop aiming the pistol at me.”

  Amsler and Archer exchanged looks. Archer lowered his pistol. I sidled closer, hands on hips. Lifted a chin toward the spread-out scene as if inspecting our handiwork. The urge to disclose, to reveal both my identity and intent, burned strong. Tell Amsler of Kim Rochat and the base camp slaughterhouse. Bernie the pilot and Vampire and the dead favela soldiers. I was hard-pressed to keep the moment a large lie.

  “We’re private contractors,” I continued. “I’d suggest you two haul ass. Now. We never saw each other.”

  With a deeply furrowed forehead and crazed eyes wide, she shot quick glances toward the hillside where an unknown person aimed a weapon their way. She shot a quick glance my way, then shared another look with Archer. Her head movements were rapid, jerky. The jar of distilled toxin wasn’t the object of everyone’s attention. Her great discovery, her fantastic accomplishment, was no longer center stage.

  “This vessel.” She lifted the bottle a few inches. “This container holds the deadliest substance on earth. Do you understand?”

  “Sure, lady. Whatever.”

  We exchanged unblinking stares. I’d failed to deliver the appropriate respect, the requisite awe toward the leashed terror within the container. A high-risk option presented itself: edge closer, pull the pistol, kill them, and catch the jar before it hit the ground. I weighed the risks and stuck with my original plan. Mist and raindrops collected and flowed downward on the outside of the oversized glass jar—and it was without question glass. Amsler twitched as the burning vehicle’s engine compartment sounded several loud pops.

  “Look,” I said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about some crazy German lady and her special elixir. What I do care about is you two getting out of our hair. So vamoose. Scoot. Get the hell out of here before we change our minds about killing you.”

  Face contorted with confusion and anger and insanity, she shot a rapid glance over her shoulder toward the cabin, back to me, and scanned the hillside for Marcus.

  “We must get a few things,” she said, brow furrowed.

  “You’re not listening, lady. Leave. Now.” I quit my inspection of the burning vehicle, the dead bodies, and the cabin’s front windows. Turned their way. “You’re making me upset. When I get upset, my friend with the rifle pointed at you gets very upset.”

  The urge to shoot her, end it then, was powerful. But I hadn’t sidled close enough to ensure I’d catch the jar. And I wasn’t thrilled about handling the container without protection.

  The two exchanged glances again. Archer was more motivated and eased past me. He headed for the SUV with the dead body draped near the open driver’s door. He stood for a moment alongside the MOIS agent, then used his foot to lift the dead man’s leg from the doorsill, letting it drop on the ground. Archer shot Amsler a let’s-get-the-hell-out-of-Dodge look and climbed into the SUV. A key ring sat on the dashboard, and Archer shoved home the ignition key as the open-door alarm pinged. Driver’s door shut, he waited for his partner.

  Amsler and I still hadn’t faced each other. She stood toward the SUV, while I continued viewing our handiwork. Side to side, I turned and addressed her.

  “Remember, lady, you never saw us. I’ll return the favor.”

  Hesitancy, a frown, and wild eyes—bright green eyes—locked with mine. She started toward the SUV. I followed. The low rumble of distant thunder sounded, her footsteps flat as if walking through a dream. I stayed close behind as she opened the door, one hand clutching the glass container.

  She slid into the passenger seat. I placed myself in the line-of-sight between her and Marcus. Marcus had the clear shot, but I wouldn’t let him take it. My mess. My cleanup. Archer waited, his pistol on the console between them. The door remained open as she buckled the seat belt, strapping it across her body and the container, locking the precious cargo tight against her belly. The rain’s intensity increased. Large droplets smacked vehicle rooftops while the car fire still raged nearby.

  As she extended a hand to pull the door shut, I stepped into the gap and prevented its closing. Pulled the .45 from my back waistband. Her hand still gripped the interior door handle. We locked eyes, and she knew. A feral realization, a moment balanced on the razor’s edge. She knew who and what I was. The guy who’d chased her through jungles and slums and needless death. Her executioner.

  “Ana Amsler, my name is Case Lee.”

  Then I put a bullet in her head.

  Archer, with her blood and brain matter splattered across his face and body, stared wide-eyed. A second shot blasted and it was over. The entire damn thing, over. I felt a hollow, borderline indifference toward this inevitable outcome. Stunned with anger at the entire job, at Amsler and the entire bloody chain of events. Raindrops splatted against my head and shoulders, the burning vehicle hissed in protest, death and blood were strewn across the landscape. Helluva way to live.

  Chapter 38

  Gravel crunched as Marcus strode toward me. I didn’t turn and acknowledge him, which prompted a gentle shoulder squeeze.

  “I’ll go check the cabin,” he said. “What about the jar?”

  “We’ll wrap it in plastic layers. Tape it like a mummy. Head into the mountains.”

  He didn’t reply and headed for the front door, rifle ready. I snapped out of it and followed, covered his back. The inside was a mess but no more targets, no enemies. The garage contained a formal lab setup. Glassware, burners, a small centrifuge, and electronic equipment beyond my understanding. Several beakers held liquid, which we left alone.

  “Have to risk burning this entire mess down. Don’t know what else to do,” I said, my voice flat inside the garage. The large overhead door stood open and framed a view of the last hour’s actions.

  “Agreed. I don’t see another option.”

  Time to haul it. First, go Roman on the area—burn it to the ground, scatter the stones, salt the earth. Then haul it.

  “We have to clear this area, Marcus. Rain and clouds and isolation will help, but fair odds the cabin fire will draw attention at some point. Let’s sweep the area and hit the road.”

  “I’ll go get our vehicle.”

  “I’ll start at the perimeter and work inward. Start with spent brass.”

  Our semiauto weapons ejected empty brass cartridges when fired.

  “Why?”

  “Fingerprints. Yours mostly.”

  He shot me a hard stare, a quick headshake, and took off toward our hidden SUV. I worked the Kirmani area first, found the spent brass, and dragged him downhill and into the open garage. Such a strange and over-practiced process—grab ankles and pull dead weight acr
oss pine needles, rocks, and gravel. I didn’t blink an eye doing it, but the passage of time and place emphasized how bizarre it was performing such duties. And a painful acknowledgement that once again I was walking within such a dark world when my best efforts had been to back away from it.

  The rain lessened, my mood worsened, and my anger toward Amsler and what she’d wrought boiled. I returned to my initial firing spot and collected more ejected brass casings. Headed downhill and crossed the killing floor. It struck me again that Marcus shouldn’t be obligated to help sweep away my mess. I’d brought him into it. So while he retrieved our vehicle, I took over body collection. I opted to leave Amsler and Archer where they were. I’d collect the toxin, torch the vehicle. The MOIS agents, including Marcus’s two kills behind the cabin, joined Kirmani inside the garage. Quite the collection. There were several cords of wood stacked along the back side of the garage. I’d construct a one-time-only crematorium. Build a funeral pyre for the lab equipment and MOIS agents. With added gasoline, it would burn white hot.

  I headed uphill to Marcus’s original position and found his spent casings. Side-hilled toward my Amsler contact spot to retrieve the Colt rifle and start prepping the bonfire. Wrap and seal the toxin container using rubber gloves. Then bury it within the remote wilderness. The final act. I bent over to retrieve my rifle and froze at the sound of a known voice.

  “Leave it, my friend.”

  Hirsch. Uri Hirsch, Mossad.

  “And turn only to the right. Please do not force me to shoot you.”