by Ryan, Chris
They carried on for another mile and then took a back road and continued west along the trail, on a parallel course with the Arauca River. Clusters of armed guards patrolled the side of the path, dressed in jeans and designer polo shirts, clutching their rifles and looking hard. Reyes waved at them as they passed and got a nodded greeting in return. A loose line of people plodded along the side of the road, lugging empty containers and backpacks. Early risers, heading for the river, said Reyes. They would head into Venezuela to purchase goods, then cross back into Colombia and sell their merchandise at a mark-up.
‘What’s left over there to sell?’ Bald wondered.
‘Gas, mostly. They nearly give that stuff away in Venezuela. You smuggle it across the border, make a good profit.’
‘At least that stuff’s harmless,’ Porter said. ‘Not like the load of coke we’re carrying.’
An amused smile crossed Reyes’s lips. She nudged Bald. ‘Your friend is not a fan of our business?’
‘He’s a moralist, lass. Sees everything in black and white. Believes in right and wrong.’
‘And you don’t?’
Bald laughed. ‘I’ve seen too much of the world to be that daft.’
‘What do you believe in?’
‘Rules of the jungle. There’s no good or bad in this world. Just the weak and the strong. In this life, you’re either the sheep in the pen, or the wolf prowling it.’
‘And which one are you?’
‘The wolf,’ said Bald. ‘Always be the wolf.’
He winked at her, hoping she would be impressed.
She smiled fondly. ‘You’re not like any man I met before.’
I’m in here, thought Bald. She’s up for it.
‘My boyfriend would like you,’ she said. ‘Maybe one day, I introduce you.’
Bald tried to mask his disappointment and surprise. ‘You’ve got a fella?’
‘In the camp.’
Bald grinned. ‘We’re a long way from there, lass.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘You should try a bit of Scottish while you’ve still got the chance. See what it’s like to be with a real man.’
‘Sleep with a capitalist pig.’ Reyes laughed at the absurdity of it. ‘Never. I rather die.’
She moved ahead of him, shaking her head. Bald watched her walk on with a hungry look in his eyes.
Half a mile later, they reached some sort of checkpoint operated by the guerrillas. A pair of guards stood beside the track, stopping each person in line and extracting wads of cash from them before allowing them to continue. Bald and the others breezed past the guards and continued along the path as it coursed north through patches of forest and swampland. At almost six o’clock the trail was busy. He saw grizzled blokes in sleeveless tops and baseball caps lugging jerry cans of petrol and sacks of freshly slaughtered meat. There were tired-looking families carrying suitcases, mothers cradling their babies. Most of the people were heading in the opposite direction, crossing over from the Venezuelan side of the river. No one paid any attention to the heavily armed foreigners. Bald remembered what Uribe had told them, back at the camp.
You won’t stand out. Not on the trails.
Everybody using them is breaking the law.
Nine minutes later, as the sun rose above the trees, they reached the southern bank of the Arauca River.
Bald and the others followed Reyes across a curved patch of sand strewn with rubbish. A thin crowd of people had gathered higher up the bank, some sitting on upturned plastic crates or standing beside their bags while they waited for their turn to cross by boat.
More armed guards stood among them, scanning the water for any sign of a threat. Several brightly painted canoes with outboard motors were moored alongside the bank, their bows resting on the shingle. The boats were considerably longer than a standard kayak. Fifteen metres from bow to stern, Bald estimated. Enough space to accommodate a dozen smugglers. Or four armed ex-Special Forces operators and a couple of backpacks stuffed full of coke.
Bald squinted at the river. It was no more than a hundred and fifty metres wide. On the far side he could make out the opposite bank. Venezuelan soil. There wasn’t much to see. Just a long dull belt of land dotted with palm trees and huts.
‘This is the crossing point?’ asked Porter.
Reyes nodded.
‘Where’s our boat?’
‘Follow me.’
She threaded her way across the bank towards a boat with a yellow-painted hull, tied to the trunk of a tree leaning over the edge of the riverbank. A fisherman in bright pink shorts and a Taylor Swift T-shirt was kneeling beside the stern, checking the motor, while a skinny guy with an unkempt black beard folded up a tangle of fishing nets. At the sight of Reyes and the others approaching Black Beard said something to the bloke in the Taylor Swift shirt and the latter promptly stepped out of the boat and padded up the sand to greet them. Reyes said a few words to him before she turned to the team.
‘This is Freddy Vargas,’ she said. ‘He’s going to take you across the river.’
Bald looked at the guy. He was barefoot, with a lazy left eye and the worst teeth Bald had ever seen, yellowed and crooked and stubby. When he smiled, it looked like the guy was chewing on a mouthful of cigarette butts.
‘You sure that thing will get us over, mate?’ Bald asked, gesturing towards the boat. The paintwork on the hull was filthy. There was less than six inches of freeboard.
The fisherman’s smile widened. ‘I work this river for twenty years. Boat never let me down yet.’
‘Freddy will take you to his place,’ Reyes said. ‘Miguel will meet you there.’
Bald frowned. ‘Miguel?’
‘Our Venezuelan contact. From the cartel. He’ll deliver your vehicle.’
‘You’re not coming with us?’
Reyes shook her head quickly. ‘Our job is done. We have people on the other side of the border who move the product on for us.’
Bald checked his watch again and made a quick calculation. If they left now, they’d reach the fisherman’s home at around 06.30. From there, they were looking at an eleven-hour car ride to the mansion. Taylor had told them to be in position at their LUP by midnight.
We need to be on the road before midday, he thought. Absolute latest. Any later, and we won’t have enough time to carry out the assault.
‘Your mate had better not keep us waiting for long,’ he growled. ‘We’re on the clock here.’
Reyes said, ‘Miguel has orders from his own bosses. They’ll want the cocaine to be moved on quickly. He won’t mess about.’
‘You’re sure he’s on the level?’
‘We’ve worked with him for years.’
Vargas squinted at the river. ‘We need to move now. Before the patrols.’
‘Patrols?’ Porter repeated.
Vargas clicked his tongue and nodded. ‘Navy. They sweep the river, looking for smugglers. Got fast boats.’
‘What happens if we run into them?’
‘We can’t outrun them. This boat not fast enough. We see them, we run for the shore. Hope for the best.’
‘And if they catch us?’
Vargas made a throat-slitting gesture.
‘What the fuck are you boys waiting for, then?’ Hulk said. ‘Enough talking. Let’s get a move on.’
Reyes unhooked her backpack and handed it to Black Beard. Zapata did the same. Black Beard loaded the packs on to the boat, placing them on the floor in the stern sheets. At the same time Vargas took up his position at the tiller and motioned for Bald and the others to climb aboard. Bald went first, then Porter and Hulk and Dudley, the canoe rocking from side to side as they stepped around the fishing gear and crowded the floor beside the backpacks near the stern. Once they were seated Vargas yanked on the starter cord until the motor eventually fired up. Then Black Beard untied the line from the palm tree and Vargas operated the tiller, manoeuvring the boat away from the riverbank. Reyes and Zapata stood on the sand for a mom
ent, watching them leave before they made their way back up the bank towards the trail. Bald looked on ruefully as the shag of a lifetime disappeared from view.
‘I think your magic’s fading, mate,’ Porter said.
‘Just a matter of time. Another hour or two, she’d have been all over me.’
Porter laughed. ‘I thought you were supposed to be irresistible to women.’
‘Fuck off.’
A few minutes later they were gliding across the water, heading away from San Vicente. Towards Venezuela and the stronghold. As they carried on down the river Porter looked towards the distant bank.
His stomach muscles automatically tensed as he ran his eyes over the dark line of the horizon. He forced himself to shut out the dark thoughts in his head. The ones telling him that Jock was right. That his best days were behind him. That he didn’t know how to soldier anymore. He told himself to focus absolutely on the mission.
This is it, he thought. Twenty-four hours from now, we’ll either be heroes or dead.
TWENTY-TWO
They cruised west for half an hour, the motor sounding like a chainsaw as they skimmed along the grey surface. Vargas was a steady hand on the tiller, skilfully navigating a series of sharp bends in the river. Bald and the other passengers kept an eye out for any sign of an approaching patrol, but the horizon remained blissfully clear. They passed a handful of canoes along the route, loaded down with people and contraband as they shuttled back and forth across the banks. An entire underground economy, right in front of their eyes.
The sun climbed higher into the sky, beating down on the passengers in the boat. By six thirty the heat was oppressive. They cleared another bend and then Vargas eased the throttle, slowing the motor down as he angled the canoe towards a small wooden jetty extending from a bank on the Venezuelan side of the river. Higher up the bank Bald spotted a pair of thatched-roof shacks surrounded by trees and bushes. Several fishing nets had been left out to dry, hanging from long wooden poles supported by branches driven into the ground beside the shack. A middle-aged woman in denim shorts and a loose-fitting T-shirt sat beside the poles, repairing another net. Two kids, a boy and a girl, played in the dirt beside the shack. A bare-chested guy in a pair of orange shorts was busy inspecting the drying nets.
As the boat drew closer Black Beard called out and the guy in the orange shorts scrabbled down the side of the bank and approached the jetty. The canoe bumped gently against the post and Black Beard snatched up a rope from the floor and tossed it across. The bloke in the orange shorts grabbed the end of the line and secured it around a stout post, and then Vargas switched off the motor.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘We’re here.’
Black Beard clambered out of the boat first. Hulk followed him, and then Dudley disembarked, followed by Porter and Bald. Black Beard unloaded the two backpacks from the wet floor of the canoe and passed them to Orange Shorts, while Vargas guided the four ex-soldiers across the jetty, the worn timbers groaning under their Gore-Tex boots. They climbed the bank and passed the woman repairing the fishing nets – Vargas’ wife, Bald guessed. She spared the men a quick glance before she went back to her sewing. The kids ignored them, giggling and laughing as they kicked around an old tennis ball. None of them seemed bothered about a bunch of armed guys showing up on their doorstep. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal around here, Bald thought. When you lived on one of the main drug-trafficking routes, you probably saw a lot of blokes packing heat.
Vargas stopped in front of the larger of the two huts, pointed to a set of upturned crates outside. ‘You wait here, okay?’
‘Anyone likely to bother us?’ asked Hulk.
‘Not here. No one else for miles. Just us.’
Vargas swept his arm in a broad arc around him. Bald instantly saw what the guy meant. They were in an isolated area of the riverside, nestled amid screens of tangled bushes, trees and grass. To the north, beyond the huts, a rutted path ran like a lizard’s tongue between slabs of dense forest. The only route to and from the Vargas property, other than the river. If anyone tried approaching, the inhabitants would hear them from a mile off.
‘Miguel, the cartel guy, he’ll be along soon. Bring your ride.’
‘We need to be out of here in five hours,’ Hulk said. ‘Maximum.’
‘He’ll come before then. Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time.’
Vargas left them to it. Made his way back over to the jetty, chatting in Spanish with Orange Shorts and Black Beard.
The four ex-soldiers set down their weapons, sat on the crates and ate a light breakfast. Fresh fruit and stale bread from their daysacks, washed down with mouthfuls of water. Outside, the kids played tennis-football while Black Beard and Orange Shorts carted the coke-filled backpacks over to the smaller shack. Which was little more than a thatched roof supported by four poles, over a bare dirt floor. They dumped the backpacks outside the hut, next to a stack of spare car tyres and a machine that looked like a mechanical lathe turned on its side. A metal turntable rested on top of a large box-shaped unit fitted with a pair of foot pedals. A metal head shaped like a duck’s bill was fixed to the end of an adjustable arm above the plate. The unit was rigged up to a small generator outside the shack. Bald had worked with vehicles long enough to know what he was looking at. A car tyre changer. Specialist equipment, usually found in commercial garages. He briefly wondered why the fishermen owned one. Maybe they had a tyre repair business on the side.
Orange Shorts and Black Beard returned to the boat and began loading up equipment. Vargas made a call on a mobile phone so old it probably needed carbon dating. The woman just sat there, mending the nets with her needles and twine.
The team checked and re-checked bits of kit. They pored over their maps and waited.
Three hours later, a few minutes before eleven o’clock, they heard a low rumble in the distance.
Bald and the others snatched up their weapons and stood up from the crates. A hundred metres away, a pair of wagons came barrelling down the rough track towards the shacks, dirt spewing behind them. At the same time Vargas, Orange Shorts and Black Beard left the jetty and climbed the bank, hurrying over to greet the new arrivals, while the woman ushered the two kids inside the larger dwelling.
‘Looks like our ride’s here,’ Hulk said.
‘Took the prick long enough,’ Bald replied.
The two wagons hit the end of the track and skidded to a halt in front of the shacks. The lead vehicle was a cherry red pickup truck. A big beast of a vehicle, and nearly brand new. The car behind it was a white Toyota Land Cruiser, with a rounded body and square-shaped headlamps and rust spots on the front fenders. A late-nineties model, Bald guessed. Older than the pickup truck, for sure.
A fat guy wearing a gold crucifix got out of the pickup. A moment later, a second guy hopped down from behind the wheel of the Land Cruiser. He was medium height and build, with short black hair and gold-framed sunglasses, and a head so flat it looked like someone had dropped a piano on it. He had a pistol jammed in the waistband of his jeans. The polymer butt jutted out, digging into his slight paunch as he swaggered over to Vargas. He said a few brief words to the fisherman before turning towards the team.
‘This is Miguel,’ Vargas said, introducing him. ‘He’s the courier.’
Miguel peered at them above his shades. ‘You’re the friends of Commander Uribe, eh?’
‘Something like that,’ Hulk said.
Miguel paused as he glanced briefly at the weapons they were holding. ‘That’s a lot of fucking firepower.’
Hulk ignored the question. ‘Where’s our vehicle, friend?’
Miguel chucked a set of car keys at him and waved a hand at the Land Cruiser. ‘She’s all yours. Ready to go.’
‘Extra gas?’
‘Five jerry cans. A hundred litres. As promised. In the trunk.’ Miguel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Got a long journey ahead of you, bro?’
‘None of your goddamn business,’ Dudley said.
Hulk tossed the car keys to the redneck. ‘Go check the wagon, Brendan. Make sure it’s all in order. Any problems, holler.’
‘Roger that.’
Dudley trudged over to the Land Cruiser. Hulk reached for his CIA phone and started to walk away. ‘Where are you going?’ Porter asked.
‘To find a signal. Check in with Taylor. Tell him we’re across the border. See if he’s got any updates.’
He moved off towards the dirt track while Miguel sparked up a cigarette and stood to one side of the group, shouting occasional instructions. A few metres away, Crucifix grabbed a tyre iron from inside the pickup truck, circled round to the rear and inserted one end of the iron into a hole in the bumper. Then he started rotating the handle, lowering the spare tyre stored on the underside of the truck to the ground.
As soon as the tyre was free, Black Beard lifted it up and carried it over to the changer unit in the smaller hut. He placed the tyre on the turntable, swung the arm round and positioned it over the tyre, with the duck-bill-shaped head tight against the rim.
He grabbed a metal lever and began prising the rubber beading away from the rim, working the pedals until the tyre was halfway loose. Orange Shorts tipped the packets of cocaine out of the two backpacks and passed one to Black Beard. The latter crammed the first package inside the hollow of the tyre, placing it along the deeper middle section of the rim. They shoved the rest of the coke bricks inside, and then Black Beard moved the arm back into position over the wheel and pumped the pedal, pressing down with his knuckles and spinning the plate round until the tyre popped back into place. Sealing the drugs inside.