“Let’s get on with it,” Tony said.
“Yes. First we must go to another room. Please follow me, gentlemen.”
Tony realized that the second foreigner had not spoken. Probably knew no English. Damn fucking Spanish assholes.
“This way,” the Colombian said. He went first through a door into a normally lit room, then through that and up a stairway with no lights at all except at the top.
On the second floor, the four men stood in a bare room except for one table, a sturdy type, four feet wide and over six feet long.
The Colombian frowned. “You have firearms?”
“Damn right,” Tony said. “Don’t even get out of bed without my shooter.”
“Suggest we all lay weapons on the table,” the Colombian said. “Then no one tempted, all even-Steven.”
“Hell no,” Tony snapped.
“Easy, Tony,” Puchini said softly so the others couldn’t hear. “We put the pieces down and wait. Don’t blow this. These guys are touchy sometimes. We never have any trouble.”
Four automatic pistols soon lay on the table.
“What’s your name?” Puchini asked the talker.
“Yes, confirmation. I am Pablo Ernesto. Yes, two first names. What name do you use?”
“Puchini is enough. I have the cash. Where are the goods?”
Puchini lifted the briefcase to the table and laid it down.
Pablo and his friend lifted a suitcase from the shadows and placed it carefully on the table. He unstrapped it and lifted the lid.
Puchini couldn’t see inside.
“Come take a look, test it, one hundred percent.”
Puchini made a small move with his head for Tony to stay near the money, then walked slowly toward the suitcase. He watched the man beside the cocaine.
The second man shot Puchini in the heart before he made it halfway to the suitcase. The silent Colombian jolted his weapon toward Tony, but he dove under the table, clawing at his right ankle for his hideout. He shot three times at the men’s legs, had one hit above the knee on the first shooter before the man dove to the left and fired four times, drilling a line of lead slugs down Toni’s right arm and across both legs.
The Glock fell from the Mafioso’s hand, and he wailed in pain.
The two Colombians jabbered at one another a moment, then the one who spoke English bent and aimed his weapon at Tony.
“So, you do not want the goods. Fine with us. Your friend has made himself dead. We will take the money and slip away before anyone comes, no?”
“Bastards. Puchini said he trusted you shitheads. Why do you do this now? We have the money for the goods.”
“Stupid. You are stupid. We make some money selling, true, but we make ten times as much stealing your two million dollars. Easy to figure. With two million, we could quit the drug trade, but when we go back with the money and the goods and tell our boss how you tried to double-cross us, we get big bonus and promotion. The Cali people are most generous.”
They made Tony struggle out from under the table and put him on the table so they could treat his wounds. Instead, they tied him down to the table so he couldn’t move. It happened quickly and before Tony’s pain-dulled reactions could prevent it.
The two Colombians talked again in Spanish, then took a bottle of whiskey from the suitcase they had lifted to the table. They had glasses, cheese, crackers, a whole array of snacks. The man who hadn’t talked downed his whiskey neat, then took out a switchblade knife and five inches of cold, sharpened steel and waved it at Tony.
“Oh, now you’ve made Rodolfo angry. He can be muy malo, when he gets riled up. His knife, his cuchillo, it can make you cry like a small niño. You should not shoot him in leg.”
Rodolfo hovered over the helpless Tough Tony. The knife slashed, and moments later, the heavily muscled New Yorker was naked on the table, his cut-apart clothes in piles on the floor. The four gunshot wounds showed on Tony’s arm and one leg.
Rodolfo grinned at Tony and sliced down his arm. The cut wasn’t deep, but it brought a gout of blood. He sliced the other arm and then lifted his whiskey glass and drained it. The two Colombians watched Tony writhing on the table.
“Bastards. Fucking shithead motherfuckers. Gonna do you both good when I get off this table. Gonna cut off your gonads and make you chew them up and eat them.”
Pablo slapped Tony’s face one way, then the other, then spat in his face. “Now you are making even me angry. I’m the calm one. I won’t be able to hold back Rodolfo. He understands English; he just doesn’t speak it so well. You in trouble, badass.”
The knife came again and again. The slices were precise, so they would bleed but not seriously wound Tony. The two Colombians drank and laughed and sliced and drank again. When Tony passed out after a half hour of torture, they slapped him awake.
“You are missing all the fun, amigo,” Pablo said. “Stay with us. You are not nearly ready to meet the angels yet.” Rodolfo’s knife came down again, and Tony wailed in terror and agony. Never had he hurt so much, never been so frustrated and helpless.
Later there came a time when he wanted it to end. He could see part of his body. It was totally smeared with his own blood. Slices and cuts on every part of his body bled. No one cut was severe enough to kill him, but over another hour he would surely bleed to death.
His voice was raspy from screaming. At last he swallowed and watched Pablo. When the man looked at Tony, he whispered his request.
“Slit my throat. Do it now. I can’t stand anymore. Kill me quickly.”
Pablo held up his hands. “Cannot do that, mi amigo. This is Rodolfo’s party. I promised him two, but we have only one. It will be over soon.”
A half hour later, the two drug traffickers sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, singing in Spanish. They hardly looked at the turkey meat of a man who lay on the table. The floor around the edges of the table was red and slippery with blood. They tipped the bottle again and sang another song.
It was two hours later that the two Colombians roused themselves and stood. Pablo had checked the briefcase of money and found the two million dollars in crisp $100 bills. They kicked aside the box that they had brought the booze and food in.
Pablo Ernesto turned at the door and saluted the two dead Americans.
“Vaya con diablo!” he said and guffawed as he and Rodolfo staggered out the door and down another set of stairs to the street below, a block away from the entrance that the Americans had used. Three blocks away, the two Mafia men from New York waited in their rented car.
7
NAVSPECWARGRUP-one
Navy SEALs Training HQ
Coronado, California
Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock looked up from where he sat at his desk.
“Sure, Senior Chief, come in, sit.”
Dobler had his floppy cammie hat in his hands, and that triggered a frown from Murdock. He killed the frown before it showed and put down the pen he had been writing with. Over the years he had learned patience when dealing with the personal problems of his men, and this sure looked like one.
Senior Chief Dobler sat on the hard wooden chair, squirmed a moment, then slapped his hat on his knee.
“Commander, you’ve met my wife, Nancy.”
Murdock nodded.
“Unless you dug deep into my personnel file, you probably don’t know that for years she’s had some mental problems. Sweetest little lady you’ll ever find, when she’s feeling good. Lately she’s been on a tear.
“I had to leave training yesterday to get home. When I got there, I was too late. I knew she’d been feeling terrible. Yesterday afternoon she tried to kill herself. She’s in the Coronado Hospital.”
“Anything I can do, Chief, just name it.”
“She hasn’t tried anything like this for four years. They pumped her stomach, sewed up her wrists, but will keep her for three days for observation.”
“Your kids?” Murdock asked.
“I asked M
aria Fernandez to help. The kids went there after school and stayed the night. I don’t know about tonight.”
“Nancy wants you to quit the SEALs,” Murdock said.
Senior Chief Dobler looked up in surprise. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve seen it happen before. The JG’s woman goes up and down that same ladder, and they aren’t even married.” He watched Dobler a moment. “How old are your kids?”
“Helen is fourteen, and this is tearing her up. Chuck is eleven, so he isn’t so affected, as near as I can tell. I just don’t know what to do.”
“You probably do, Chief, you just don’t want to admit it. What’s the first decision you have to make?”
Dobler took a deep breath, stared out the door, and fiddled with his hat. “Oh, damn, you’re right again. I have to decide which is more important, my wife and my family or the SEALs.”
“That’s the big one, Senior Chief. Absolutely one of the hardest choices that you’ll ever make. I imagine that you’ve been considering this choice for some time. You’ll need some more time right now to get it worked out. I want you to take seven days’ emergency leave. I’ll have the master chief get your papers drawn up right now.”
He reached for the phone and dialed. He gave the order in one sentence, cut off any question, and hung up the phone.
“Stop by at the quarterdeck. Your papers will be ready.”
Dobler made a move to get up.
“Stay a minute if you can, Senior Chief. When the time comes, I’d say that Maria Fernandez should talk to your wife. It should be easy and natural since she’s been keeping the kids there. If you can arrange it, I’d like to have Milly there, too. She’s the woman the JG lives with. Both have had the problem and worked through it.”
“What about the training?”
Murdock shrugged. “Anything a SEAL can do that you can’t do, Senior Chief?”
He let a thin smile brush his face. “Not that I can think of, Commander.”
“If you get this straightened out with Nancy and feel you can leave her with the kids, you’ll be on the flight to Colombia. If you decide that Nancy isn’t well enough to stay with the kids alone, and you don’t have any relatives who could live in, then you’ll be free to ask to be excused from the mission.”
Dobler sat there, turning his cammie hat around and around in his big hands. After what Murdock figured were two minutes of dead silence, the sailor nodded. “Yes, sir, Commander. I’ve never heard of anything in the Navy that was fairer and straight arrow. I appreciate it. Like I said, I have a decision to make.”
Murdock stood and held out his hand. “Senior Chief Dobler, I’d hate to lose you. You’re getting this platoon whipped into shape. But I know what a tough decision you have to make. It involves the three most important people in your life.”
Coronado Hospital
Nancy Dobler sat up in her hospital bed in a rush. Her eyes opened and she looked around. A small nod, and she eased back on the bed and tried to relax. Her hands had been unstrapped from the railings. They trusted her a little. There was a TV camera watching her all the time. She knew it was there. It didn’t bother her.
She knew they had her on some kind of relaxing medication. She couldn’t work up a good mad at anyone, not even the nurse who took three stabs to draw her blood earlier.
Nancy blinked back tears. She had blown it again. What the hell was the matter with her? Yes, a bitching childhood, but that was over long, long ago. She was an adult now. She had to act like it. Partly the booze. Earlier that morning, she started feeling sorry for herself, and had one drink, and then another one, and before long she had blown the whole thing all out of proportion.
That’s what the shrink told her earlier that afternoon when he stopped by. Procedure, he had told her. He said suicide failures were his meat. She had laughed at that. At least he didn’t try to hide the S word.
Helen.
She thought of her daughter, and tears sprang to her eyes. Oh, God, she hoped that she hadn’t traumatized her wonderful Helen. Why? Why? Why?
She pulled the sheet up over her head, closed her eyes, and cupped her hands over her eyes so she could see absolutely nothing but blackness.
Damn it to hell.
Yes, she knew why, but she would never admit it, never even think about it. She had tried to forget it for so long. There must be something or someone who could help her remember it one more time and accept it for what it was and put it forever behind her. Who?
“Hey there, sleeping girl. Are you in there somewhere?”
It was Will.
She let the sheet down gently, then uncovered her eyes.
“It’s so damn bright in here,” she said, flailing out, covering her eyes again.
“True,” Will Dobler said. He reached over and snapped off the room lights.
“Better?”
She looked at him and smiled a yes. Will sat down beside her bed. The side railings were gone. He picked up her hand and held it.
“Missed you, sweetheart. We all have. The kids have been staying with the other married SEAL in our unit, Maria and Miguel Fernandez. Wonderful lady.”
“Good. The kids deserve—”
He cut her off. “Now stop that. Hey, we love you and want you home soon. Day after tomorrow, the nurse says. They have made some recommendations.”
“A shrink?” Nancy said with more anger than she felt.
“Matter of fact, yes. Seems they got your chart from Balboa Naval Hospital.”
“In all its ugly reality. Oh shit.”
“True. Now, I have a decision to make. I want you to help me.”
“About the shrink?”
“No. About SEALs.”
Nancy looked at him. The tears had dried on her cheeks, leaving little splotches. Her eyes squinted for a moment, then her brows lifted. “Meaning what, Will?”
“Meaning you and I and the kids are going to decide whether I stay in the SEALs or go back to regular Navy service.”
“Wouldn’t they ship you out right away on a carrier?”
“Par for the course. I don’t have enough years in to have much clout.”
Someone came to the door and stood there. Will looked at her. She was a nurse in her forties. She checked his rank on his sleeve.
“Chief, I’m afraid that visiting—”
He turned suddenly. “Ma’am, this is a top secret discussion, and unless you have top secret clearance, I’ll have to respectfully ask you to retire and close the door.” Then he grinned.
The nurse smiled. “Chief, I did my twenty-five and sometimes don’t quite feel that I’m out. This is as near as I can come. Take all the time you want.”
She closed the door.
When Will looked back at Nancy, she had her old cockeyed grin on, and he relaxed a notch.
“We’ll decide over the next week. The commander gave me a week of emergency leave time. We can drive up the coast or go down Baja and hunt for clams or just mess around in the apartment. In the end, we decide what we’re going to do for the rest of our lives.”
Nancy twisted some strands of hair around her finger. “Now a six-month tour of duty overseas on a carrier, that I could understand. I could plan for it and deal with it. This home and gone and home and gone is something that always takes a lot of adjustment.”
She held up her hands. “Hey, I’m not arguing one way or the other. Just getting some facts on the table.”
“Yeah, we’re going to be kicking a lot of facts around. For right now, how about some rummy?”
“No cards.”
He pulled a pack from his pocket and broke the seal. “Brand-new and never been stacked. I’ll shuffle, you deal.”
Nancy smiled softly, wiped at the dregs of new moisture in her eyes. They had met playing rummy, so long ago. He had remembered. It touched her in an important way. Her smile brightened.
Navy SEALs Trainings HQ
Third Platoon trained hard the next four days. The third day, their new s
upply of ammo and the three new Bull Pups arrived. They went on a special night maneuver in the mountains of the Navy Bomb Range in the desert. They dropped the weapons, skidded them through dirt, simulated rain on one for two hours. Through it all the Bull Pups performed flawlessly.
The second night after Nancy Dobler came out of the hospital, Maria Fernandez and Milly stopped by for a talk. Will had told Nancy they were coming, and she welcomed them. It was a frank and tough discussion. Will was booted out to watch TV in the kids’ room.
Two hours later, the three women were crying when Dobler checked. Milly waved him in.
“Will, I think we’re about done. We’ve had a good cry. We’ve ripped the male species apart and torn him limb from limb, but then tenderly put him back together again.”
After the women left, Nancy and Will talked.
“Yes, Will. I want to go to Balboa to a psychiatrist there. I’ve been approved for two sessions a week starting tomorrow. I’ve made your decision for you. I don’t want you to quit the SEALs. I see you more this way than if you were on a damn cruise.”
He sat beside her and kissed her cheek, then her lips.
“Now that you mention it, why don’t we get to bed early tonight and get all naked and see what happens?”
Her face glowed. “Maybe, but only two or three times.”
8
Airborne Over the Caribbean Sea
Commander Blake Murdock leaned back in the first-class type airliner reclining seat. He could get used to this. The Third Platoon of SEAL Team Seven had been pulled out of station a day earlier than planned. The situation in Colombia was getting worse. More of the troops loyal to the former president were deserting to the new, fraudulently elected man owned by the drug cartels.
Murdock looked around at the aircraft. He knew it was an Air Force C-22, an adaptation of the Boeing 727 passenger liner. It had been set up for twenty-four occupants and was used mostly for VIP passengers in staff movements and getting vital military and high-level civilian personnel to the proper location quickly and with a minimum of danger.
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