by Harper Lin
The men turned, drawing guns from their pockets or shoulder holsters.
Thirteen
The first shot clipped a small branch above me, making it drop right on my head. The second bullet whickered through the nearby underbrush, clipping leaves as it passed.
I dropped to the ground, ignoring the protest in my back. A bullet through the gut would be a lot more painful.
All five of the Panamanians had drawn pistols and spread out to take cover. Ricardo, the old man, and one of the young men got behind the engine block of the four-by-four. Another ducked behind the remains of a brick chimney. The other two dove behind the wall of the house.
And all five of them blasted away at us like nobody’s business.
I adjusted my glasses, aimed at both vehicles, and took out a tire on each of them. Gary busied himself by chipping away at the brick chimney.
That got them to put their heads down for a second. We used the opportunity to shift position a few yards to the right. Remarkably, my back didn’t lock up. That would have been seriously bad news.
Then they opened up again. From the direction of their shots, I could tell they weren’t sure exactly where we were. They searched for us with their bullets, and once or twice they nearly found us.
The two who had disappeared behind the house didn’t fire. That worried me.
“I think the rear two are circling around to flank us,” Gary said.
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“Let’s head them off.”
“Wait a second.” I raised my voice. “Ricardo Pretto! The police are on their way. They know who you are, and they know you and your men killed Sir Edmund for the Volcano Stone. Give yourself up and the CIA can help.”
All that got me was another fusillade, this time closer. They had sensed the location of my voice pretty well. These guys had obviously had some training, probably from one of the older exiles. Most had been in the police or military.
“I tried,” I muttered. “Let’s go.”
We fired a few more times, smashing the windows of the four-by-four and perforating the side, then crawled back a bit, Gary wincing from his knee wound and me wincing from my back. The two of us were in a real fix. Once we put a few more yards between us and them, we got up and moved to the right, hoping to head off whoever was coming at us from that direction.
We didn’t have long to wait. The guy had moved fast, or at least fast from the point of view of someone who by all rights should be at home quietly drinking tea and petting her kitten.
He came creeping up a dry creek bed that gave him some cover.
Unfortunately for him, it was the obvious route, and Gary and I were waiting on opposite sides of the opening. When he came out, he got a quick warning and two guns pointed at his head.
I was right. They had been trained well. Most people would either freeze or immediately fire in that situation. If he froze, he’d get all of one second to drop his gun or I’d be forced to shoot to protect myself and my old partner. If he fired, we’d have to kill him.
Luckily, he did the smart thing. He might have gotten one of us but not both of us. Not at the angles we were at.
He dropped his gun and raised his hands.
His fear was quickly replaced by annoyance when he saw a grandmother wearing a pair of reading glasses and a limping middle-aged man come out of the bushes.
“Guns are guns no matter who wields them,” I said by way of reassurance. I said it in Spanish, trying to lay on a Panamanian accent.
He frowned at me, stepping away from his gun without having to be asked.
When Gary bent to pick it up, the Panamanian kicked a small stone into the side of his head. He followed this with a kick to the head then a karate chop to my hand that made my gun go flying.
He had done it all so fast I hadn’t had time to react.
At least he had been gentlemanly enough not to hit me hard. With his level of skill, he could have broken my wrist. Instead, he put just enough force into it to make me drop my pistol.
In a flash, he grabbed both guns and held them on us.
“Dad! Grandpa! I got them.”
“Grandpa?” Gary asked, trying to get to his feet.
“You don’t know half of what you think you know, gringo.”
As the young man said this, he turned a bit away from me, giving me a chance to retrieve my pepper spray. When he turned back to me, he got a full dose in the face.
Pro tip: never underestimate your enemy, even if your enemy is a sweet little old lady.
Especially if your enemy is a sweet little old lady.
He staggered, choking and coughing, guns firing, the bullets whizzing to either side of me as I did an unhappy dance.
Then Gary laid him out with a bit of karate of his own.
The young man was probably better at hand-to-hand combat than Gary was at this stage in his life, but it’s hard to fight when your eyes feel like two eggs frying in a hot pan.
Gary scooped up the pistols and handed one back to me just in time for us to hear the sound of running feet coming in our direction.
I aimed my gun at the moaning form on the ground.
“It’s over.”
Ricardo was in front. Our eyes locked. I held my gun steady, aimed right at the young man I took to be his son. I saw the calculations go on behind Ricardo’s eyes.
Would I shoot? If I hesitated, he could kill me. But then Gary would fire and at least one of them would die before Gary went down too.
But if I didn’t hesitate, if I carried through my threat…
Ricardo cursed in Spanish and tossed his gun to the ground. The others, one by one, slowly did the same.
“Thank you,” I said after taking a deep breath. “I didn’t want to do that.”
“Would you have?” Ricardo asked, helping his son up.
I didn’t reply. I wasn’t sure myself.
We herded the Panamanians back to the cars, keeping well behind them and covering them with our guns. The old man stood by the car, a weary look on his face. He was unarmed. I noticed a livid old scar across his neck.
And suddenly it all became clear.
“Police Commander Carlos Pretto, I presume?”
He nodded. In a gravelly voice he said, “No one has called me that in many, many years.”
“I thought you died.”
“So did Noriega. They decided not to kill me by firing squad. They said that was too honorable for a traitor, so they cut my throat and dumped me in a field. Like an animal. Like a dog. Luckily a farmer found me and nursed me back to health.”
I glanced at Gary. He looked just as surprised as I was.
The young man I pepper sprayed was still moaning. I allowed Ricardo to fetch some water from the four-by-four to rinse his eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell the CIA? You could have gotten a visa,” Gary said.
Carlos Pretto spat. “Spend five years in Mexico living like a peasant, hoping to finally come to the country that cheated my family? No. I got a new identity, a Panamanian one, and then I went hunting for all the things Noriega stole from us. I have found some, and a few days ago I came here on a tourist visa and found another.”
“Why did you have him killed? Sir Edmund was an innocent man!”
“No one who buys stolen property is an innocent man.”
“He didn’t know it was stolen.”
“Yes, he did. We told him. He made his excuses, talking about the bill of sale my father made to General Noriega, all this nonsense. He knew it was all a lie, but he saw a pretty stone and he wanted it.”
“That doesn’t forgive murder.”
His eyes glinted. “I was a forgiving man once. I am no longer.”
“But why put him in SerMart? And why dump him on me?”
“He was a proud man. He deserved to be dumped in the place he hated. As for you, I wanted to send a message. It was only the first part of the message.”
“And the rest?” I asked.
“The rest is here,” Gary said. He had retrieved the tin box they had been looking at before the gunfight. Gary leafed through the papers and photos within.
“The Volcano Stone of Panama for one. But also documents, photos, signed affidavits. All the proof you need to show the CIA tried a third coup attempt,” Gary looked over at our captives, “and then let down the ones who risked their lives for us.”
“What were you going to do with this?” I asked.
“Sell it to the press. Shame the United States into doing the right thing for us. But you caught us, and now I am going to prison for murder.”
“You?” Gary said. “You don’t have the strength to drive a knife through someone’s head. You must be what? Eighty?”
“I did it, and I will tell the court so.”
I looked carefully around at the younger men, all with their hands up. All except for the youngest member of the Pretto clan, who was still having his eyes washed out with water. Was that a faint bruise I saw on his cheek?
I looked back at Carlos Pretto, who glanced nervously from his grandson to me.
Our eyes locked.
“I have died once for my country and my family. Let me do so again.”
I nodded.
Gary held up the papers. “I cannot let these be seen.”
“Go ahead and take them,” the old police chief said in his raspy voice. “It does not matter. We have copies in the hands of a trusted friend you will never find. Copies are not as convincing as originals, that is true, but they will still embarrass the United States.”
“Embarrassing us won’t help you,” I said. “What if Gary and I lean on the CIA to help you recover your property, or at least pay compensation? I cannot let a murder charge pass, but the rest of you I could get off without having to go to jail. As for you, Commander Pretto, I could at least keep you from facing the death penalty.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “I am eighty-two years old and have lung cancer. Death and I have been companions for some time now. Do what you can for my family, and I will not release the documents.”
“We need some reassurances,” Gary said.
Carlos Pretto looked at him. “You have my word of honor.”
I nodded. “That’s good enough.”
“Hold it right there!”
We all turned. Arnold Grimal emerged from the woods, a pair of policemen flanking him. All had guns drawn.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded.
Gary flashed a badge. “That’s classified.”
Grimal turned the color of a tomato. “Classified? You careen through town, have a gun battle in the forest, and tear up my front lawn, and you’re telling me it’s classified?”
I giggled. “That was your lawn we drove across?”
“Yes, it was!”
“And your garden gnome?”
“What’s that got to do with anything!” Grimal barked.
Gary and I burst out with laughter.
After we got a hold of ourselves, we told the police what they needed to hear, and let them lead away old Carlos Pretto. The rest got to go, although that took a great deal of convincing on our part. As I argued with Grimal, I saw Gary sidle up to Ricardo and slip something into his pocket, something small and round that flashed like fire. I gave him a wink.
At last we finished, and we headed back to our car. The Panamanian vehicles were wrecked. We made them walk. They should have to pay at least a little bit for all the trouble they caused.
Gary walked with the tin box under his arm.
“That was a good deed you did, Junior.”
He nodded. “Working the desk for so long, I forgot how complicated all this stuff can get, how you have to compromise some of your ethics for the greater good.”
“And it does get messy. The Panamanians were right. At least we have balanced that out a little today.”
“We’ll balance it out more,” Gary said. “You and I will get to work tomorrow pulling on the right strings. The Pretto family and all the other families deserve the compensation they were promised all those years go.”
“And I deserve a long hot bath. I better check in with Octavian. I said I’d call him. Let’s see if I can get a signal out here.”
I checked my phone, and then stared at the time and date in shock.
“Oh my God, I almost forgot!” I cried.
Fourteen
Gary stared at me, worry etched on his face. “What?”
“I can’t believe this,” I moaned. “I’ve been so careful, planned everything so well, and then I mess it all up at the last minute.”
“What happened? Did someone get away? Was the Volcano Stone switched with a replica? Tell me!”
“I forgot my grandson’s birthday party. It’s on right now!”
“A birthday party?”
“Yes! I’m going to be late! Oh, what an idiot I’ve been.”
“We just survived a gunfight, and you’re worried about a kid’s birthday party.”
“Come on. Drive me back to my house. I need to get his gift. Never mind the red lights, I’ll handle the chief of police!”
After a frantic race across town, me rushing in and grabbing his present, and then another frantic race to the skate park, we made it just in time.
The indoor skate park was a converted warehouse on the edge of town that had been filled with ramps and humps of concrete so young people who thought they were invincible could fly around on skateboards doing unlikely tricks and making spectacular crashes. The interior walls were all covered in graffiti (encouraged by the city council because it reduced the amount of graffiti elsewhere), and to one side was a burger bar. That’s where the party was being held.
We headed for it on a walkway around the outer edge of the skate park, protected from the skaters by one of those clear barriers they use in hockey rinks.
A good thing, too, because a teenager slammed into the barrier right next to us at a high enough velocity that his beanie flew off.
“Ouch,” I said.
“Oh, he’ll be fine,” Gary replied. Indeed, the boy was up, beanie and all, and shooting for a ramp before you could say “hairline fracture.”
All over the skate park, which was the size of a football field, teen boys and a few girls were zipping around on their boards, doing the most amazing things. It really was impressive to see, almost beautiful.
One girl of about twelve who caught my eye stood at the top of a steep ramp twice as tall as she was. She stood balanced on her board, only the back part of it on the lip of the precipice, the rest hanging over. With a snap, she brought it down and in the blink of an eye shot down the ramp, sped along an open part, hit another low ramp and flew into the air. Her board spun beneath her, and I thought I was going to see another bad crash, but it landed upright and she landed on it. She banked around another ramp and zoomed back the way she had come. It took me a second to realize that flipping her board in midair had been part of the trick.
“They should make agents do this in field training to learn balance and dexterity,” Gary said.
“And fearlessness,” I added. “Keep mum, Junior. I’ve never told any of my family what I used to be.”
“Smart move, mum. Mum’s the word.”
As we got to the burger bar, Martin waved from amid a crowd of his friends.
“Hey, Grandma!”
I felt a flush of pride and acceptance. Here he was, surrounded by other teenagers, and he acknowledged my existence! The carefully wrapped present in my hands probably didn’t hurt.
He got up and limped over, a fresh scrape on one knee.
“What happened?” I asked.
“He totally wiped out trying to grind the bowl!” one of his friends said. “It was epic!”
I had no idea what that young man had just said, but apparently Martin wiping out and drawing blood was a good thing, something to win approval. Bleeding got more points with your peers than an A-plus in English. Way more.
&n
bsp; “You’re just in time,” Martin said, his gaze straying to a pile of packages on the table.
“Well then, maybe I’ll have the honor of having my present opened first.”
“Sure!” He turned uncertainly to Gary. “Um, hi.”
“Oh, how silly of me. This is my friend, Gary Wycliff. He was in town, and I wanted to see him. I haven’t seen him in so long. I hope you don’t mind him coming.”
“No problem. The cake is huge. Pleased to meet you.” Martin and Gary shook hands. I felt glad to see Martin on his best behavior today, with the exception of bloodying himself.
“Here you go,” I said, handing over the present.
“Cool!”
Everyone gathered around as Martin sat down and started tearing at the paper. My son and daughter-in-law smiled at me from the other side of a sea of adolescent heads, all bent over to see what he got.
“Awesome! A FriendZip Bracelet Fun Pak!”
“Oh, hey!” The boy who had told me of Martin’s accident shouted. “Now I can give you a skateboard token.”
It was only then that I noticed he wore a FriendZip Bracelet on his slim wrist.
“We’ll trade a football one,” another boy said, pulling his own FriendZip Bracelet off his wrist and unzipping it.
Soon a bunch of his friends were trading tokens like Wall Street stockbrokers trading blue chip shares.
I basked in the glow of coolness. I had bridged two generations and picked the right gift.
“Hey, what’s this gunk?” Martin said. He had noticed one end of the box was crumpled. Some dried material was stuck on the corner, a deep red.
I nearly keeled over right there. Florence Nightingale had given me the very same box that got crushed by Sir Edmund. There was blood on my grandson’s birthday present.
“Looks like raspberry jam,” one of his friends said.
“Don’t touch that,” I said quickly. “It’s, um, makeup. I spilled some or… something. Better wash your hands before you eat.”
“Doesn’t look like makeup,” one of the girls said.
“It is. Um, for old ladies. You’ll know all about it one day, honey.”
“Uh, okay,” Martin said with a shrug. To my relief, he didn’t touch the bloodstain. Once he emptied the box and was distracted trading tokens with his friends, I surreptitiously grabbed the box and threw it in the nearest trash can. Only Gary noticed. He gave me a wink. I hadn’t told him about the present being crushed, but he knew a bloodstain when he saw one.