The Unending Chase

by Cap Daniels

  Pablo closed one eye and looked toward the sky with the other. I could almost see the wheels turning.

  “No, I think I do not like that idea, amigo. I think I only sell you the boat, and you do not bring back to me. Is for you to keep for two thousand dollars.”

  I mirrored Pablo’s eye-closed, thoughtful posture, and I paused for dramatic effect. “Okay. Two thousand, and I keep the boat, but you’ve never met me, never heard of me, and you have no idea where the La Seguridad boat went.”

  I placed twenty hundred-dollar bills in Pablo’s hand.

  “What boat?” he said. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  I smiled in appreciation of his understanding. I knew playing by the rules was not the way to get things done in Central America.

  “You top it off and put it in the water, and we’ll grab our gear,” I instructed.

  Pablo furrowed his brow. “Do you mean you want to buy petrol for your boat and for me to launch your boat for you, señor? That will be one hundred dollars to launch and one hundred dollars for petro . . . U.S. dollars, of course.”

  “Fifty for the launch and fifty for petrol.”

  “For one hundred you can have petrol or launch. Which do you want, señor?”

  I handed Pablo two more bills and admired his negotiating skills.

  He smiled and went to work.

  Clark and I requisitioned an old flatbed mule, a Korean War–era motorized cart used by the military to haul munitions and almost anything else that would fit on the bed. We unloaded our Pelican cases from the Huey and motored back toward our new boat.

  Pablo had kept his word and hefted our boat, tubes now fully inflated, into the water and was filling the tanks with petrol. We loaded our gear aboard, and Pablo finished with the tanks. He sat down on the bank as if he were waiting for something else to happen.

  I gave him an obvious look of curiosity, and he got the hint.

  “I am waiting for you to start your boat. Everybody is happy customer.”

  It took several tries for the engine to fire, but when it did, it purred like a kitten. Well, like a large, powerful, angry kitten.

  Clark keyed the mic on his handheld radio. “Leo, we’ll meet you back at Bona after a little reconnaissance.”

  13

  Don’t Make Me Hurt You

  Our boat was perfect. She hopped out of the water and onto plane in seconds and skimmed across the surface at over sixty knots. It was two thousand dollars well spent.

  I decided we’d run up the creek at Corozal where Leo and Clark had seen the second workboat tie up with the load of explosives. I wanted to make sure it was still there and loaded with the cargo we’d expected. We quickly made the two-and-a-half-mile trip to the mouth of the creek.

  I pulled back the throttle and slowed to just above idle speed, staying as quiet as possible. I’d much prefer arriving undetected than to garner the unwanted attention a high-speed boat in the creek would surely receive.

  Clark pointed into a bend in the creek where a small slough cut off to the east. “There she is.”

  The workboat sat well-camouflaged beneath a canopy of overhanging trees. We idled by the boat, trying to appear uninterested. There seemed to be no one aboard. All of the hatches were secured, and there was no air conditioner that I could see. If anyone were closed up inside the boat, they’d be roasting in the Panamanian mid-morning heat. Even as resilient as the Panamanian people are, I couldn’t imagine anyone choosing to be in that oven.

  I continued up the creek until I found an inlet into the trees that was barely big enough to stick my boat in. I ran the fiberglass hull onto the rocky mud, and Clark quickly tied us to the trunk of a small tree. I pulled open the engine hatch, snatched the coil wire from the top of the engine, and pocketed it. I didn’t need anyone making off with my new boat while I was out sniffing around for explosives.

  We made our way through the thick brush and trees until we came to a spot where we could easily see the workboat. We watched in silence, hoping that if anyone were aboard, they’d move enough to cause the boat to sway, but it lay perfectly still in the calm, murky waters of the stagnant creek.

  “If there’s anybody on board, they’re either asleep or dead,” Clark whispered. “Either way, I think it’s safe to board.”

  I nodded, and we made our way toward the boat, never taking our eyes off the deck. When we were less than two steps away, Clark whispered, “Shake or storm?”

  Shaking the boat would mean giving up the element of surprise if there were, in fact, anyone aboard.

  I said, “Storm.”

  We leapt to the deck and headed straight for the cabin door. The crate of explosives that we’d seen on deck the day before was gone, but we soon discovered another surprise I couldn’t believe we’d both missed on the recon pass. The door into the pilothouse was secured with a hasp and padlock. If there was anyone inside, they were securely locked in from the outside.

  “How did we not see that?” said Clark.

  I shrugged and drew my pick set from the pocket of my cargo pants. I soon had the lock picked, and we were inside. There was no ventilation, and the boat smelled like a pigsty. There were four sets of foul-weather gear hanging from hooks on the forward bulkhead, and heavy rubber boots sat on the deck beneath each. Beyond the bulkhead were two neatly stacked sets of dive gear, including rebreathers and sophisticated dive computers. The gear and what lay just beside it were the only things in the pilothouse arranged in anything resembling order. To the left of the dive gear was a dilapidated wooden shelf with a stack of blasting caps and several coils of wire.

  “Looks like they’re planning to make a little noise,” said Clark.

  I pulled at a hatch in the deck of the cabin, hoping to find the plastic explosive. Before I could get the hatch fully open, I heard a sound that is unmistakable and impossible to ignore: the racking of a pump shotgun.

  In angry Spanish, the voice behind the shotgun said, “Get on your knees and put your hands on top of your head. Now!”

  Clark bore his eyes into mine. I knew he was asking himself the same question beating around in my infuriated brain. Why didn’t one of us post at the door for security?

  We had no choice but to obey. We hit our knees and laced our fingers together atop our heads. Mosquitoes swarmed through the open door and played at our noses, eyes, and ears. The urge to swat was almost irresistible.

  The gunman pointed the barrel of the shotgun at Clark. “You, lie down. Facedown, with your hands on top of each other in front of you. Do it now!”

  Clark obeyed, and the man powered the heel of his boot down on Clark’s hands, causing him to yell out in pain. Then he stuck the shotgun barrel inches from my nose.

  It was an American gun; a twelve-gauge Mossberg. I owned a nearly identical one, but I’d never seen it from that particular perspective. It’s easy to be brave in principle, but it’s a little tougher when you’re looking down the barrel of a weapon that could instantly turn your head into Swiss cheese. Beads of sweat rolled down my face and the back of my neck. I swallowed hard and tried to keep breathing. I didn’t know if the man intended to kill me, but based on how he’d chosen to subdue Clark, I believed he was well trained and potentially dangerous. I briefly considered grabbing the barrel and taking my chances in a wrestling match for the gun, but I was afraid I’d get Clark shot in the melee.

  Before I could develop a plan to overpower the gunman, he tossed a pair of handcuffs onto the deck in front of me. “Put these on. Do it now!”

  Shit. This guy isn’t just well trained; he’s a pro. We’re in more trouble than I thought.

  I lifted the cuffs from the deck and clasped them first onto my right wrist, and then my left. I took my time, careful to make no sudden moves that might make his trigger finger twitch. I was working out a plan, but it wasn’t a good one.

  The man raised the shotgun and hammered the butt into my shoulder in an obvious attempt to break my collarbone. I rolled my shoulde
r forward to deflect the blow, and I was knocked to the deck. Never removing his foot from Clark’s hands, the man planted his knee on the back of my head, forcing my face against the ground. While I was pinned down with blood pouring from my nose, the man grasped the handcuffs, clinching them tighter until my hands tingled and paled.

  It occurred to me that the man had just given me a vise—a pair of metal rings with a solid steel chain between them.

  He placed the muzzle beneath my chin. “Get up slowly.”

  Perfect. He’s playing right into my hand . . . cuffs.

  I raised my right leg and put my foot on the deck. Placing my cuffed hands on my right knee for leverage, I stood as he’d ordered. As I started upward, I thrust my hands skyward and laced the chain of my cuffs just behind the slide while forcing the barrel of the shotgun up and over my right shoulder. With Clark on my left, there would be no way the gunman could hit him even if he did panic and squeeze the trigger. The positioning of the chain on my cuffs would prevent the gunman from racking the slide to chamber another round, but he’d have no choice but to take his foot from Clark’s hands and dance with me.

  I wrapped my hands around the receiver of the shotgun and forced the man backward, then waited for the inevitable echoing report of the gun. It would temporarily deafen me, but that was the least of my worries. I was far more concerned with the gunman getting away than getting off a shot. If he dropped the shotgun and ran, I wouldn’t be able to get a shot off in time to stop him. I needed him to stay and fight.

  Before the man could make his primordial fight-or-flight decision, Clark grabbed the heel of the man’s right foot and yanked it forward with incredible force. That threw the man off balance and sent him falling backward. I continued pushing him, hoping he’d release the shotgun as part of his natural reflex to catch himself. Instead, he clung to the weapon with all of his might. The force of his weight falling backward pulled me with him as I gripped the gun even tighter. I wasn’t sure where the muzzle would fall when we finally hit the deck together, so I lunged, thrusting from the balls of my feet to force the muzzle higher, and hopefully, over the gunman’s head. I didn’t want the gun to go off, even if the shot flew harmlessly through the pilothouse door. A shotgun blast tends to draw a lot of unwanted attention, even in Central America.

  We crashed to the deck with a thundering collision of my weight dropping solidly on top of the gunman. He let out a breathy grunt and finally released his grip on the weapon. Clark jumped from the deck and landed a knee squarely in the man’s crotch. That little gift sent more than a grunt through the man’s throat. Before the echo of the man’s cry had left the cabin, Clark landed a chop to the side of his neck, rendering him immediately unconscious.

  I knelt beside the man’s limp form and searched his pockets for the handcuff key. I found it and quickly removed my cuffs, rubbing my wrists and hoping to restore the circulation and feeling in my hands.

  Clark stepped over me, picked up the shotgun, and stepped through the door. I watched him scan the tree line and then reenter the cabin. “He’s a single. I don’t see anyone else out there.”

  “Good,” I said, pulling the man’s body toward a makeshift wooden seat. I cuffed his right hand to a pipe on the starboard gunwale and slapped at his face, trying to wake him up.

  Clark stood in the doorway, dividing his attention between the exterior and the interior of the boat. He wasn’t going to let another surprise visitor show up unchallenged.

  The man showed signs of waking up. To help ease him from his siesta, I found a bottle of water and threw it in his face. He gasped and spewed, then finally opened his eyes.

  He focused on me and then on Clark holding the shotgun. The man shook his head in obvious self-disgust. Even though he’d been well trained, armed, and had the element of surprise, his expression showed he knew he’d chosen the wrong duo to face single-handedly.

  I slapped his face twice more. “Look at me! Focus. You’re going to answer some questions.”

  He responded in rapid-fire Spanish, saying he wasn’t alone and that his team would be there any minute to rescue him and kill both of us.

  I didn’t sense conviction in his tone; I heard desperation and fear. If his team truly had been coming, he would’ve waited for them before attempting to overpower us and take back his boat. Maybe he wasn’t quite the professional I’d pegged him to be. We’d soon find out.

  I switched to Spanish. “What’s your name?”

  He spat in my face and thrashed against his restraints.

  I smiled, wiped the spittle from my face, and threw an elbow to his left temple. His lights went out again.

  “This guy’s got a glass jaw,” I said. “I don’t know how we’re going to keep him conscious.”

  Clark found green peppers beside a propane single-burner stove and bit the tip of one. He immediately spat the small piece of green pepper from his lips, and I watched a tear form in his eye.

  “Oh, yeah. This’ll do it.” He handed me the pepper.

  I forced it past the man’s lips then slammed his mouth closed. He came sputtering and spitting back to life, tears streaming from both eyes.

  “Stop passing out,” I demanded.

  He raised his left hand to his mouth and clawed at his lips in a vain attempt to cool the burn Clark’s pepper had caused. I pulled another bottle of water from the crate behind me, opened it, and then held it in front of the man’s face. He reached for it, and I quickly squeezed, crushing the plastic bottle and forcing over half of the contents straight up his nose. He reached for my throat, and I captured his thumb with my right hand. I twisted his wrist outward and down, pulling the muscles, tendons, and ligaments to their limits. The man opened his mouth to howl, and I threw a half-speed uppercut to his chin. I knew a real punch would send him back to the spirit world, and I needed him to stay with me and have a little chat. Blood flew from his chin and mouth, and his body surrendered. Although his mind may have possessed the desire to fight, his body had lost the ability.

  “Now, let’s try this again. What is your name?”

  “Javier,” came his weak response.

  “Javier what?”

  “Javier Ramirez.”

  “Is this your boat, Javier Ramirez?”

  “No, it is not my boat. It is my boss’s boat.”

  “Who is your boss?”

  He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head side to side.

  “I’m not a patient man, Javier. Don’t make me hurt you. Tell me who you work for.”

  He pressed his lips together.

  I grasped his index finger and yanked his hand up in front of his face.

  “Do you like this finger, Javier?”

  He closed his eyes again and whispered a Hail Mary.

  “It’s a little late for prayers, Javi. Who’s your boss?”

  He inhaled and stilled himself for the punishment I was about to unleash.

  The psychology of interrogation is fascinating. It’s okay to lie. It’s okay to cheat. It’s okay to scream or whisper, but it is never okay to appear weak. I’d threatened to break his finger, and I had to follow through. Anything less would only serve to embolden my captive and strengthen his resolve to resist.

  I folded his left index finger across the back of his hand and felt it snap as the metacarpals succumbed to the force. He bellowed in pain, but I quickly shoved the water bottle into his mouth, muffling his scream.

  I’d established that I wasn’t going to tolerate his unwillingness to cooperate. Javier had just learned that I was a man of my word. If I threatened it, I would do it.

  “Tell me who you work for.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, spat out the plastic water bottle, and grunted. I yanked his broken finger forward, bringing it almost back in line with the remaining fingers. It felt like a sausage link in my grip.

  “Okay, Javi. You win. I don’t give a shit who you work for. Let’s move on. Where are the explosives?”

  Subconsciously, he cast
his eyes toward the deck hatch behind me.

  “Oh, is that right? They’re down there, huh?”

  I watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed hard. He took a long, full breath, and nodded.

  Clark flung open the hatch and shined a flashlight into the hold of the boat.

  “Yep, there they are. Looks like three or four hundred pounds, nicely bagged and stacked.”

  I grabbed Javier’s broken finger, pulling and shaking it as the swelling started to build. It was already turning black and had doubled in size.

  “Would you look at that?” I said. “Do you know what swelling is, Javi?” I paused for dramatic effect. “Swelling is God’s little splint. Don’t worry. The pain will be over soon. Your brain will accept the trauma and block out the pain in that finger, but lucky for me, you have four more on that hand I can work on. Are you ready for number two?”

  I wrapped my hand firmly around his pinky finger, and I moved in close. His breath stank of coffee, cigarettes, and jalapeno pepper.

  “What are you going to do with those explosives, Javi?”

  He must have found courage from somewhere deep within his soul, because the man turned to stone. His small, dark eyes stared straight ahead, and he didn’t breathe.

  I applied a few pounds of pressure to his pinky. His eyes bulged and his nostrils flared, but he still didn’t speak.

  “This is your last chance. Tell me what you were planning to do with those explosives.”

  He was silent, and I was once again forced to prove my resolve. I twisted the finger and folded it against the bottom of his hand. It snapped like a twig with remarkably little pressure. I wasn’t prepared for it to break so easily. Instead of returning the finger to its original position, I forced his hand downward and pounded it against the gunwale. His eyes wilted and sweat cascaded down his face. I dropped his hand from my grasp and slapped at his face again.

  “No, no, no, Javi. Don’t you pass out again. We’ve still got work to do. Tell me what you were going to do with the explosives, and I’ll stop breaking your fingers.”