“Jesus, you’re like a freaking owl,” marveled Abel.
“What is an owl? I’ve not heard of this thing.”
“A big bird. It doesn’t live in this part of the world, but it’s got eyes like that seeing machine I left on our island. They can magnify things that are far away, can see things in the dark, stuff like that,” answered Abel.
“My eyes can do those things as well. I will watch the road far ahead of us. You just continue driving,” said Rimi.
“Fine with me.” Abel shrugged. He pulled the Jeep back onto the highway and continued, driving a good deal faster. Rimi stared ahead with her super-eyes. Abel glanced down at the jeweled bracelet on his wrist. As advertised, the center clear crystal emitted an intense but small, rapidly flickering light, and its sharp end was turned toward Rimi beside him. He wondered what other marvels his new companion had in store for him.
“I heard that,” Rimi said with a smile. “You shall see plenty!”
***
Back at the Rio Palma Inn, Faviola and Javier had patched themselves up enough that they could at least walk. Javier, who was the more mobile of the two, went and got a maid’s cart for them to put the duffel bag on, and they both set out for Guesthouse Number Two, Javier walking ahead while Faviola hobbled along behind, carrying her pistola that she’d threatened Monti with.
“This is good.” She grimaced. “I can watch to make sure there’s no funny stuff going on with that man’s woman while you’re inside.”
Javier approached the beach house as if he were just coming to change the towels and linens. He tried to walk naturally, but both kneecaps were horribly bruised by Galvan’s giant’s police wand, so it was hard. Javier winced, thankful that he had the maid’s cart to lean on. He pushed it up to the back door of the beach house, the one by the outdoor shower that opened into an entryway and then the kitchen straight ahead, and the master bedroom down a small hallway to the side. Because this beach house was set somewhat back from Guesthouse Number One, its backside was not in ready view of the porch or open windows of Guesthouse Number One.
He left the cart outside, grabbed a handful of towels, and kept the charade of delivering linens as he went in and diverted toward the master bedroom. Opening the door, he instantly saw the black duffel bag that had been so heavy for him to move earlier in the day. He dumped the towels on the king-sized bed, then went for the duffel bag and hauled it up off the floor. It seemed every muscle in his body ached, especially his back and arms, which had also taken their whacks from the giant. He heaved the duffel bag’s shoulder strap around his neck and shoulder so that his hands would be free, then staggered along the wall to the door he’d just come through. Then suddenly he heard shots and bullets ripped through the walls of the hallway he had nearly stepped into.
***
“Stop!” yelled Rimi.
Abel swerved the Jeep sharply off the highway and under some trees.
“There are five men ahead who have guns,” cried Rimi. “Three are hiding in the trees on this side of the road, the other two are in a big car like mi madre’s Jeep, only bigger. There is a big gun on the top, and a man standing in a hole in the roof ready to shoot it. There is also a driver.”
Abel said, “Here, give me the gun.” Rimi passed over to Abel his Mk 16, and Abel stepped out of the truck, drew up the weapon’s shoulder stock, aimed it down the road, and peered through its sniper scope. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled. “You’re right, and so was I.” He sat back down in the Jeep. “We’ve got to make a plan. If you’ve got any more surprises for me, now’s the time to let me know. My gun can’t hit them from this distance, and if we moved into its range, there’s a chance they’d see us, and that machine gun they’ve got could take us out.”
“I can hit them from here,” said Rimi. She pulled out her little knife that glowed a soft blue color. Abel nearly laughed out loud—the look was like that of a child pulling out their little toy gun and saying they were ready to go blast the enemy—but he was glad he didn’t. Rimi was dead serious.
“My knife will fly to whatever I am looking at. It is made of a very dense material not found on Earth. When my parents came here first, they showed the people how to use blades made from this mineral to cut huge stones to exact specifications for building impressive structures. When I throw it, it will fly at nearly the speed of one of your bullets. I guide it with my eyes, and it will go through whatever I want it to destroy. Then it will return to me, or usually, I am there to get it. It does not get sticky or dirty or dull because its outer covering sheds debris, and it is so much harder than any material on Earth. I am your plan! I will destroy these men and their guns who lurk like crocodiles beside the road waiting to hurt you.”
Abel looked at Rimi and the little knife and could say nothing. They both seemed so small and so unthreatening. Probably like what David of the Bible, armed with his sling and stones, must have looked like to the Philistine giant Goliath. So small, so vulnerable. Yet the boy David had felled Goliath with one precisely hurled missile to the giant’s head. Could Rimi be such a warrior as well? Seriously?
Rimi, reading his thoughts, groaned. “Why do people of this world always think that someone small is also weak? I shall go. You watch through your eyeglass. These crocodiles shall be dead before they know what has killed them.”
With that, Rimi stepped out of the truck and motioned Abel to do the same. Somewhat startled, he grabbed his Mk 16 and stepped out of his car again, training it on the three men on their side of the road, who, though standing or lying down with their assault rifles at the ready, were talking and chatting rather than vigilantly watching the road. Suddenly, the head of one man literally exploded, only silently, and before the others could even react, another’s head blew up, and the other looked down at the enormous hole in his gut before falling to his knees, and then onto his face.
A second later, Rimi was there and caught her dagger, then threw it like a missile at the truck. Its windshield immediately exploded into tiny pieces, and a great red splat filled the front seat. In the next second, the other man collapsed through the moonroof, apparently eviscerated, and a second later, the knife, flew into Rimi’s hand on the other side of the road. She caught it as if she had simply been playing catch.
***
Faviola stood behind the tree where Rimi usually kept her clothes buried in a particular hole that she’d dug. Faviola could feel the hard cover of the hole underneath her high heels as she stood there.
Estúpido, she railed at herself. You can barely walk, and you’ve still got these ridiculous shoes on! How foolish!
She hadn’t thought of anything else except helping Javier get the things Abel needed since they’d talked with him on the phone, and now, it was too late to be thinking about shoes. She was about to kick them off when she saw her—Galvan’s little woman—creeping out from Guesthouse Number One like some disgusting spider. She even carried a weapon, a pistola with a suppressor on its end.
Faviola felt like spitting but didn’t want to give herself away.
Faviola and the spiders that lived around her inn actually had an unwritten rule that they all followed. As long as the spiders behaved themselves and didn’t come out to scare the guests, they could continue to spin their webs and rid her inn of cucarachas and beetles and mosquitos and flies and whatever vermin they caught in their webs. But if a spider violated the rules by coming out in plain sight somewhere, well, then it was fair game and it had to go. She or her staff would punish it for its ill behavior, which always resulted in a smashed spider. Faviola had killed many rule-breaking spiders, and she knew that you couldn’t kill a spider if you were not careful as you approached it. You must be silent, patient, and then, when all is ready, pounce like lightning.
And so Faviola watched as the woman—the spider—crept to the side of Guesthouse Number Two, then skittered along the wall toward the open door and the linen
cart. Her eyes were looking at nothing but her prey.
Faviola stepped from behind the tree, planted her feet so she could partially lean against it to steady herself, aimed her gun with both hands, and fired, one shot after another after another.
The first three shots missed high. The woman whirled in shock and tried to shoot back but was caught by the next two bullets, which hit her squarely on both sides of her chest. She fell back against the wall and dropped her gun, then took two more shots to the gut. She finally fell to the ground. Faviola could tell that this spider was still alive, but not for long.
“You may come out now, Javier!” she called.
Faviola limped toward the back door of the beach house. She needed to grind her shoe into this spider to kill it. Javier appeared, threw the duffel onto the linen cart, then turned, took one look at the gasping, flailing, bleeding woman next to the wall, and vomited into the linen cart’s garbage bag.
“I’m sorry you had to see this, mi amigo,” said Faviola. “This spider was a messy one to smash, but I got it. Go, take these things to the beach house parking area. Find Señor Forrest’s Jeep and take them to Pablo’s just down the highway, you know, the one who runs the scuba school. That’s where Señor Forrest’s boat is. He says the keys are in the Jeep.”
Javier, looking pale, nodded, then looked back at the woman. “But she’s not dead yet,” he said.
The woman seemed to be mounting a pathetic attempt to regain her gun, which was lying on the ground a couple of feet away from her.
“She will be,” said Faviola, “once you are gone. Quick. Go now. Señor Forrest could be at his boat any minute.”
Javier shoved the cart back up the pathway, and Faviola looked down at her victim, who was bleeding out all over the back-door area of Guesthouse Number Two.
“You’re going to be a mess to clean up, you know that?” As she pointed her gun at the woman’s head, the woman made one last, desperate lunge for her weapon. Faviola re-aimed and fired, but she also felt her left leg go suddenly weak and then collapse. Faviola’s bullet had hit its target. The spider was as dead as dust. But Faviola’s ankle had been shattered by the spider’s last attempt to bite, and Faviola knew that there would be no walking back to the front office for her. She propped herself against the other side of the doorway from the dead woman, tore off a strip of cloth from her skirt, and wrapped it tightly around her leg just below her knee, hoping she wouldn’t bleed out before someone found her.
***
Don Vicente Galvan and Jumo had just heard a frantic cry from Alejandro, something about exploding heads and a woman, when there was a loud crash, and the radio suddenly went dead. This was cause for concern. The brief transmission sounded like Alejandro’s post was being attacked from afar by heavy-caliber weapons, the kind a SEAL sniper might use.
This ex-Navy SEAL seems to have brought some of his favorite toys, Galvan thought.
“Jumo,” he said. “Give me the radio.” Once he had it in hand, he raised his other ambush team. “Pedro, it’s Vicente. Our adversary is very clever. Move your team down the highway until you pass my position, then keep going until I tell you to set up a roadblock.”
“Set up a roadblock on the main highway? Is this wise, Vicente? There could be many tourist cars coming by.”
“Fuck the tourists,” Galvan answered. “Do as I say.”
***
Abel and Rimi continued down the highway. She had come back, seconds after her attack, and they’d gotten back into the truck.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Abel said. “You’re the most lethal person I’ve ever seen, and I worked with very lethal people.”
“You’re a very lethal person yourself, my friend,” Rimi replied.
“You’re right there,” Abel said.
Now, they passed the carnage that had once been Alejandro’s ambush team, and Abel didn’t slow a bit, just another pile of dead bodies and a shattered vehicle. Nothing new there. Where were the next targets? His SEAL sensibilities were returning right on time.
Rimi was peering ahead again and reported something curious.
“There is another group of men ahead, but they are getting into a pickup truck with a big machine gun in it and going down the road the same way we’re going. It’s like they’re running away from us.”
“The guys you killed must have had the chance to use a radio before you got them—a few seconds at least. They’re going to plan B.”
To Rimi’s confused look, Abel said, “It means they’re changing to a new plan. That’s good. You got them riled up, but I don’t think they’re scared actually.”
“They should be,” said Rimi.
“No argument there,” replied Abel through one of his crooked grins. Rimi managed a tiny smile in return. “They may try a roadblock somewhere down there and then see if they can box us in. They’d have someone hidden around here that will pop out from behind us somewhere once we get close to the roadblock.”
“But what about the other cars that passed us, and the two that are behind us right now?” asked Rimi. “They’re just tourists. Can they block the road for them, and what happens if shooting starts?”
Abel shook his head. “Sad to say, Rimi, but guys like these are so violent and crazy they’ll shoot someone even if they look at them wrong.”
“Then I shall not feel bad about killing such evil people,” she replied.
“That’s good,” said Abel. “They sure wouldn’t feel bad about killing you.”
They continued driving, other cars passing them from time to time. Rimi kept her eyes on the machine-gun truck (which tourist cars gave a wide berth to) as it traveled for another mile or so, and then, Rimi reported, they stopped in the middle of the road. Five men got out, she said, and went to either side of the road, and one stayed in the truck next to the big machine gun.
“That’s it, just like I thought,” said Abel.
Unbeknownst to Abel and Rimi, though, they were just a quarter mile from where Don Vicente Galvan’s bulletproof car was parked in the shade just out of sight on an upcoming side road off to the left, as was the other technical with its crew of five men and a driver. Rimi was fixated on the pickup ahead and hadn’t noticed, and Abel was concentrating on the right side of the road. He knew that the little drive down to Pablo’s scuba school was in the area somewhere near, and he was straining to see its little handmade sign along the highway.
“Rimi,” he said, “check along your side of the road just a couple hundred meters off to the right. Can you make out a sign that’s next to a little road entrance?”
Rimi replied excitedly, “Yes! You’re right, my friend! It’s the scuba school sign!”
Abel sped up a little, and within thirty seconds he was making a sharp turn onto a little road through the jungle that would eventually spread out into a dirt parking lot in front of a small adobe building out of which Pablo, Faviola’s friend, ran his scuba school. Moored to Pablo’s pier would be their boat, which meant they would soon be back on their island.
“Sorry, Señor Don Vicente Galvan, sir, but we’re skipping the little party you had planned for us.” Abel chuckled. He smiled over at Rimi, reveling in the action and happy to be on someone’s team again while he did it.
***
“They have what?” screamed Don Vicente into his radio.
“They turned off the highway. I think just before getting to the road where you’re hidden,” came Pedro’s voice.
“Which way?” snapped Galvan. The woman Jumo had beaten behind the front desk of the motel had said nothing of this.
Lying bitch, he thought. I’ll blow her head off with a machine gun when I see her again.
“They made a right-hand turn, toward the ocean,” came Pedro’s voice.
“I will find the road and chase them into the sea and drown them if I have to!” yelled D
on Vicente into his radio. “You return this way and watch for where we turn, then block the road so no one can go in or out.”
He clicked off the communicator, then whapped his driver on the head with his hat. “Get going! What are you waiting for, your funeral?”
The driver gunned the gas, and Don Vicente Galvan’s tank of a car leaped forward, screeched a turn to the right, and sped away, with the technical SUV right behind.
28
—
Ron stood behind his restaurant’s bar and surveyed his dining room. Who would have thought that in midafternoon near the end of high season the place would be packed? Besides those stopping in for a genuine American-made chocolate milkshake or banana split while taking a break from lying out on the beach or surfing or shopping, there were now twelve big, hearty men from the boatload of construction workers that had recently docked at the pier. Most spoke English, and they were looking to fill their bellies before their boat left again.
And, goodness, they had such bellies to fill! Not that they were all fat, but each was a huge man compared to Ron, and they ordered two and three dishes consecutively. They’d vacuum down the double cheeseburger and plate of fries, inhale a milkshake, then order a California burger, and as soon as that was delivered, the same thing would happen, and then they’d order again! Ron had called in his other two cooks and all his waiters and waitresses, promising them double wages for as many hours as they were needed. He threw in that the customers were especially big tippers. He didn’t actually know that for sure, but they had the look of men who would happily pay well for the chance to eat good, greasy American food.
It turned out that Ron’s hunch had been right. These men played with money like it grew on trees. It was not unusual for his waitresses to get hundred-dollar bills for tips. One man put ten one-hundred-dollar bills into the payment folder to pay for him and the three other men with him, and then told the waiter to keep the change! The men were boisterous, but not overly loud or fearsome. It was like something out of Ron and Elaine’s expat dream when they first opened their soda: a room full of happy customers, happy workers, and great American food—and lots of money in the cash register.
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