by J E Higgins
“Set!!” he called back.
“Moving!!” Dayan cried out.
“Move!!” Gabriel shouted.
Lowering his weapon, Dayan turned and raced past the Colombian to the next doorway on his side. Behind him, he heard the shots of enemy fire and the louder shots of Gabriel’s cover fire. Stopping at the doorway, the Israeli turned. Issuing the command that he was set and ready, the Colombian called out and started down the hall.
Aiming, Dayan ignored the growing barrage of fire, as he blasted three shots. He watched the end of the hall as the head of one of the assailants exploded with a cloud-like mist and another suddenly grabbed his stomach. Dayan continued to hold his position as he waited for the command from Gabriel. There was nothing. Turning his head slightly, the Israeli looked down to see the Colombian sprawled out on the floor. Blood streamed from various wounds across the back of his body forming deep red pools spreading onto the floor.
Now on his own, Dayan began moving backward firing a shot with every other step. His Makarov only held eight rounds, counting the additional one already in the chamber. Knowing this, he conserved his ammunition as he sought to slow down the approaching attackers. The hallway seemed endless as the Israeli continued backing up. Each time he stepped back, he hoped he would finally reach the damned fire escape. His attackers were doggedly catching up to him. They were proving to be hardened professionals using a similar cover by fire method of movement Dayan and Gabriel had attempted to employ. This allowed them to steadily gain ground, closing the distance.
Dayan was startled by the familiar voice of Oskar Perez. “I’ve got you!!” The ex-legionnaire came up beside the Israeli firing rapidly. Down to his last shot, Dayan quickly changed magazines. Jumping back into action, he relieved Perez who had burnt through his ammo. Dayan’s fire was equally rapid but directed. Between him and Perez, they managed to slow the movement of the pursuing aggressors.
Together they fired rapidly at the pursuers, as they backed up. Raizza had the door open and was screaming for the two men to hurry up and follow her. The breeze coming in from the outside was a relief for the two men, who were desperate to end the deathmatch they were locked in. Slipping outside, they quickly made their escape down the concrete staircase. Dayan knew they had to move fast to avoid being caught by the overhead fire they would run into when the attackers got outside. Luckily, there was only one flight of steps.
They were almost to the ground floor when they were met by another barrage of gunshots. However, the gunfire was not coming from above them. It was coming from the same level. Checking everywhere, they saw a team of four men approaching them from around the building. It was an easy guess they were a backup team to the first group. Like the first team, these attackers proved equally proficient as they took cover along the corner of the building and behind some parked cars.
Ducking behind the staircase, the trio were pinned down and cornered. Assessing his position, Dayan realized that while they were protected from this new ground team. They were completely exposed from above. Soon, their original aggressors would be upon them, and then they would be cut down.
Shots were still being fired, but they were no longer coming in their direction. Looking around, they saw the other Colombian mercenary, who had been left to guard the vehicle, coming up behind the ground team. He had already killed the two men hiding behind the building and was now directing his efforts against the two wedged behind the cars. Taking advantage of the moment, Dayan and Perez jumped to their feet and commenced shooting at the two aggressors from the other direction. Unable to hold against both sides, the gunmen slipped out from their positions and took off running.
Dayan and the others raced across the parking lot toward their car. They ran past the Colombian who caught up with them. Gunfire crackled behind them. Bullets whistling through the air felt like they were only inches from their heads. The original pursuers were back and attacking them again.
Less than twenty feet from the car, Dayan urged everyone to keep running. At the car, Dayan flew across the hood to get to the driver’s seat. The doors were all unlocked. The Israeli looked over to see the attackers in close pursuit. He didn’t need to order it; Perez and the Colombian were already returning fire as they reached the car. Raizza was sliding into the backseat on the driver’s side.
Dayan’s initial instincts were to join in the gunfight, but he knew his men were almost out of ammo, and they needed to escape. Fumbling for his keys, the Israeli found the one for the ignition. Jamming it in, he was half expecting to have engine trouble that always seemed to come in tense situations. But he was relieved when the car roared to life immediately. By now, the other two men were sliding into their seats. Keeping the doors open, they continued to fire.
Dayan shifted the car into drive and hit the gas all the way to the floor. Suddenly, he felt covered all over in warm liquid. He didn’t have time to study it as he squealed out of the parking lot onto the main street. He nearly crashed into a small white pickup driving by.
The passenger side doors were wide open as the car sailed down the road. Dayan’s attention was now focused entirely on escape. It was his great fortune that the roads, at that moment, were virtually empty with the exception of a few service trucks which the Israeli expertly weaved through.
“Oh shit!” a voice cried out. Immediately Dayan’s attention was drawn back to the vehicle. The entire front cab was awash in blood and brain matter. Turning to the passenger side, he saw the blood-soaked corpse of the Colombian mercenary. He had taken a bullet right to the temple ─ most likely a hollow point. Now the merc’s half-exploded face was oozing out the man’s vital liquids across the front seat and leaving a trail along the road.
Realizing they couldn’t go any further in this condition, Dayan pulled the car onto a small side road. Believing they had placed enough distance between them and their assailants, he intended to focus on the immediate problem. The neighborhood was a collection of small adobe houses clustered tightly together. Everything was quiet and, aside from some elderly people going about their business entirely oblivious to the world, the street was deserted.
Pulling into an enclosed parking shed, the three exited the car. Raizza was clearly shaken as she clung to her knapsack as if it were a lifeline. Perez and Dayan, however, accustomed to violence and death of this nature, maintained their composure.
They started walking down the old dirt road, their eyes scanning for any trouble and another mode of transportation. They found an old farming truck parked along the road surrounded by thick bushes that masked it from any nearby houses. They decided it was their best shot for transportation. Within seconds, they had cracked the lock and slid inside. A little creative wiring and the truck started up immediately. Pulling onto the road, they slowly drove back the way they had come to the main road.
Surriman assessed the situation with a mixture of anger and vindication. He had been right in his prediction that the young Negress would make contact with these troublemakers. His men had followed the young lady to the remote hotel. When it became clear she had checked in, they set up an observation post inside the hotel. The elderly couple who ran the place thought nothing of the strangers coming into their establishment and hanging out reading newspapers in the lobby or dining in its tiny café. To the couple, they were no different than all the others who spent their time congregating in their hotel. As long as money was spent, all was well.
The observation team was comprised of a couple of former members of the Policía Nacional de Colombia or Colombian National Police intelligence operations unit. They had been hired to monitor the facility and watch for anyone who tried to contact the woman’s room. When three men, who clearly looked and behaved like professional soldiers, called her room, they knew they had found their quarry.
The trap had worked, and Surriman was elated that he had another chance to engage this enemy. However, he had failed to capture or eliminate them. And worse, he had lost his only link to finding them. He
fumed bitterly and was completely oblivious to the first several minutes of Keppa trying to tell him they needed to escape.
It was the high-pitched screams of the police sirens that snapped him out of his angry trance. Looking around, he became aware of the carnage left in the wake of the gun battle that had taken place. Waving his hand Surriman shouted out his commands for the men to move out. Hiding their weapons under their coats and in their innocent looking backpacks, the gunmen casually dispersed through preplanned escape routes.
“These were professionals, Keppa. I’m sure of it,” Surriman’s voice was low and intense. “We have to find them. They could seriously fuck up our operation.”
“Nouri,” Keppa replied nervously. “We lost five men in the fighting.”
Surriman stopped cold in his tracks, and for a moment he was frozen. Then he looked over at his compatriot. “This is war, my friend. We lose people; they lose people.” Turning to give his friend a cold stare, Surriman’s face was forceful. “This is not over.”
Nervously, Keppa nodded.
Chapter 44
Oskar Straudner nearly salivated over the news about another violent confrontation between police and student protesters. It seemed that the police had lost all restraint when a lit bottle of a highly flammable liquid hurdled from the protesting crowd. It landed on a phalanx of shielded police. Though protected with the thick padding of their riot gear, the sight of police officers being set ablaze had caused panic among the leadership. They responded by authorizing the use of tear gas and firing volleys of it into the crowds. The result had been chaos ─ thousands of students crammed into a tight space suddenly were trampling each other and charging the police line in a desperate attempt to escape.
Straudner could only offer his thanks to Ulbrict Laudman, who had arranged for a dangerous incendiary liquid to be thrown from an open window of the university’s second floor. It had been timed to be thrown at the height of the turmoil when tension and nerves were at their very worst. The campus now had the appearance of a battlefield. Everything had been done in such a way as to ensure a deepening rift and growing hatred between students and police. When the politician took control of the country, he wanted an angry and frustrated police force working for him. He would need a good secret police and cops who were unconcerned about using violence and brutality to curb any future political adversaries.
Pouring a small glass of Scotch, the politician circled the sofa as he contemplated his next move. Earlier in the week, he had met with one of his conspirators from the army on his smaller yacht. Pressured to initiate the coup at once, Straudner had convinced the man that the powerful elite of the country, whose support was vital, was not yet ready to back an all-out takeover. It had, of course, been a lie. The elite was pressuring him for the coup.
It was the Iranian support he needed and was waiting for. In the next couple of weeks, members of the support militia would slowly infiltrate into the city and countryside. He didn’t relish the idea of having gunmen not completely loyal to him walking about the country. But, he didn’t completely trust his enlisted conspirators either. In the end, having two powerful armed bodies vying for the same goal, but with different masters, gave him protection against any double cross from either side.
In the meantime, Straudner’s ex-Stasi operative had been quite successful filling in for the recently destroyed leftist insurgency. The riots had gained so much attention, no one noticed the virtual disappearance of the terror wave that had started it all. It also helped that an underground leftist newspaper had magically appeared and was quickly gaining a considerable following. The newspaper was reporting on all sorts of atrocities and violent acts being carried out by right-wing vigilantes and, possibly, the police. The fact that the paper had been indirectly setup by Straudner had been easily overlooked.
The stories were bogus, which meant little in the current fervor of political turmoil. People were reacting to stories that amounted to pure gossip. Still, they were readily believed and stoked the rage among the right elements of society. In time, the politician would emerge as the master of a country that would praise him for bringing order. He would have a security force to do his bidding and destroy his enemies. At the same time, he would secure and protect the lands and fortunes of the wealthy elite against the communist menace and enjoy their admiration. It was even possible he would be loved by those who would oppose him by being the leader who would restrain security men anxious to exert personal forms of retaliation for dead comrades and family members.
Leaning back on his sofa, Straudner lazily reached for his oak humidor. Producing a long Meduro wrap Churchill Excalibur, he clipped the end, then moistened it with his tongue. He applied the blue flame from the lighter with sword-like precision as he rotated the cigar. The first puff permeated the air with a sweet aroma. Taking a sip from his glass, he felt the golden liquid wash down his throat with a strong burn. His only thoughts were that everything was now coming together perfectly. In a few days, the militia would start coming across the border, and the final work on the plan would be complete. Uruguay would soon see the era of Straudner and the dawn of a golden age.
Solomon Gold stayed back in the shadows. His dark leather coat and wool beanie helped protect him from any onlookers. As he had done every third night, he watched the building across the way. It was always the same ─ the convoy of sleek black Suburbans pulled up alongside the front of the building of Bolivar Investments & Acquisitions. The times varied, often by a difference of several hours. But the routine never changed. The convoy would not set more than five minutes before the doors of the building opened and out walked the company CEO, Elloy Mendoza. He was always flanked by his in-door security detail ─ three athletic looking men ─ and would quickly slide into the backseat of one of the awaiting vehicles. Once everyone was inside, the cars would cut into whatever traffic was on the road and speed down the street.
Each time the convoy moved in an unpredictable pattern by changing routes of travel and even destinations. The Cuban had two or three houses throughout the city from what Gold and his boys were able to find out by tapping into their connections among the Jewish community. The Cuban also belonged to a couple of elite clubs that allowed for overnight lodgings as well as the unpredictable desire Mendoza had to stay in some of the city’s finer hotels.
Gold had a few of his friends troll around the different houses belonging to the Cuban pretending to look for yard work as instructed by the Israeli commando. The watch reported back that the armed security patrolled the property around the clock. The irritation of having to deal with all these complications was not lost on the young radical. All these measures had been put in place by Mendoza as a result of the botched attack by the Guardians of Israel.
It didn’t matter though. He had made a horrible mistake and people he cared about had suffered for it ─ he needed to make it right. If he wanted the commando’s help, he needed to make sure, they didn’t miss a second time. Gold kept his guys on a tight leash and threatened violent repercussions to any of his people who were discovered or who thought to take a chance on their own. His orders were final. We will wait for the professional help to arrive before taking any action. There would be no more amateur adventurism this next time around.
When the convoy departed in the same swift fashion it always did, Gold waited until they had long since passed. Sure that they were gone, he pulled the beanie tightly over his head and started across the street in the direction of Bolivar Investments & Acquisitions. The Israeli’s had not been disingenuous in their promise to assist. They had maintained contact with the Guardians over the last few weeks. They had received the reports from the Jewish radicals through the agreed upon weekly meetings in remote locations prearranged by use of disposable phones issued after each meeting then thrown away.
Once across the street, Gold continued walking past the building in a nonchalant manner. He had been warned by the old katsa and Dayan to use the corner of his eye to observe. Gold
practiced this technique for several days before he felt comfortable enough to attempt this evening’s recce. There were no visible signs of any guards or any other notable security in the front. He had been reminded before not to look for the obvious. A person such as Mendoza would not use such an overt means of protection. In his mind the young radical kept reiterating the words spoken by the two Israelis ─ think like a spy, think like a spy.
Walking up the street adjacent to the building, Gold reached a small alley that led to the back of the structure. Maintaining his calm casual manner, he slipped into the alley and began walking. The alley was poorly lit, leaving most of the walkway enmeshed in darkened shadows. He could see that the concrete flooring had been greatly neglected. Wild plants, growing up between the large cracks, were high and full enough to practically whip the young radical as he maneuvered between the buildings.
Reaching what Gold was sure was the back of Bolivar Investments & Acquisitions, he walked up to what he assumed was the back entrance. He fumbled with his shoelaces, pretending they were untied. He had practiced this routine several times and was hoping his actions didn’t look too phony. He wanted to give the impression of being slightly exasperated. Leaning down to where he was now completely enshrouded in the building’s shadows, he pretended to tie his laces. He looked around with irritation as if he was lost. In reality, he glanced at the higher areas, trying to catch any gleam that might indicate a camera lens.
Gold had nearly finished when his eye caught the slight flash of a tiny red light in the far top corner of the building. Assuming it was the lighting for some sort of surveillance camera, the radical did his next exercise. Rising to his feet, he turned to face the building. Unbuttoning his jeans, he leaned over as if preparing to urinate. He had only just started when the door he was near, was flung open.