Tyranny in the Ashes Page 7

  “Make it quick,” Paco snapped. “Tell Arturo to make sure nothing happens to the two americanos. El Comandante wants to question them or I would have already killed them.”

  “Sí, jefe,” Juan said, moving off into the jungle.

  Paco’s gaze stopped where a banana plant stalk moved in an unnatural way.

  There, he thought, raising the Remington to his shoulder. “I send you to meet your ancestors,” he said quietly.

  The explosive blast of the shotgun ended the silence gripping the rain forest as the load of needle-sharp flechettes was fired. The flechettes, finned one-inch-long razor-sharp projectiles, had a velocity of two thousand feet per second and could penetrate a flak jacket at four hundred yards. A muffled scream came from the banana plant as its leaves were shredded like confetti.

  A dark-skinned Caribe toppled forward among the stalks with blood pouring from multiple wounds, his flesh ripped from his body. He clutched a machine gun to his chest as he fell.

  “Die, bastardo,” Paco whispered, moving quickly to another spot in the vines to keep from making a target of himself for the other bandits.

  He slipped quietly through the undergrowth, toward a spot where he had heard gunfire when the caravan was attacked. Paco knew the jungle. His boots made no sound as he closed in on his enemy, a dagger in one hand, his Remington in the other. Paco’s heart beat rapidly and his breath came in short bursts at the prospect of an up-close kill. The thrill of anticipation and his blood lust was almost sexual in its intensity for him.

  Armando Diaz held the M-16 to his shoulder. He was afraid now. Paulito was dead. It had been Paulito’s idea to capture a jeep so they could form the beginnings of a revolutionary army in the Orange Walk District. Armando was alone, and he knew he was in serious trouble.

  He backed away from a breadfruit tree, using all the stealth a lifetime in the Belizian jungles had taught him. It was time to retreat, for there were too many jeeps and too many soldiers to fight.

  As Armando suspected, these were soldiers in the service of the infamous Perro Loco. It had been a deadly mistake to shoot at them so soon, before he and Paulito could identify them as murderous henchmen loyal to Comandante Perro Loco, the mad dog killer. Armando was only fifteen, too young to match wits with experienced soldiers. He barely knew how to fire the automatic rifle he carried.

  He heard a soft noise behind him. He glimpsed a quick flash of sun on metal as something sliced across his throat. He felt excruciating pain, glancing down at a fountain of red pouring across the front of his shirt.

  Armando sank to his knees, dropping his rifle, wishing for all he was worth that he could be with his mother now.

  The jungle went dark around him.

  Paco stood over the fallen boy, his eyes glittering in the soft light of the jungle as he licked the blood off his blade.

  “Nothing tastes as good as the blood of a traitor,” he mumbled to himself.

  TEN

  Finally, after what seemed to be hours, the pickup truck leading them through dense jungle stopped when it suddenly broke into the clear on a pristine beach.

  Coop and Jersey got out of the Falcon and walked up to the truck as El Gato Selva got out. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked, as if he were a real estate agent trying to sell them beachfront property.

  “Yeah, great,” Coop growled, stretching and trying to get the kinks out of his spine from their trip over trails more suitable to goats than fifteen-year-old automobiles.

  “Is this the Caribbean?” Jersey asked, pulling her shirt together as she noticed Gato’s bodyguards giving her chest the eye.

  “No. This is Chetumal Bay,” Gato said in English. Then, in Spanish too rapid for Coop to follow, he barked an order to his men.

  They walked a short way into the jungle, moved some ground brush aside, and uncovered a Zodiac inflatable boat lying there. The two men each grabbed a side, and they dragged the boat out to the beach. It was equipped with a five-horsepower electric engine, which was attached to the rear board.

  Gato held out his hand. “This is the only safe way to cross the border into Belize. All of the border guards are either totally loyal to Perro Loco, or so afraid of him they will not stay bribed.”

  “Don’t his men patrol the bay?” Jersey asked.

  Gato shrugged. “Sí. But we will only be exposed for a very short time, a matter of minutes. It is a chance we must take, for otherwise we will never be able to smuggle in your equipment.”

  Coop stepped into the jungle and opened the trunk of the Falcon, checking to make sure his .45 was still secure in the back of his belt.

  While Gato’s men transferred the guns and bombs to the Zodiac, the rebel leader held out his hand. “I believe there was also a mention of one thousand dollars American?”

  “Uh-uh,” Jersey said, shaking her head. “I don’t hand over the money until I see the men picked to do the job.”

  “But . . . but that is impossible,” Gato objected.

  Coop stepped up next to Jersey, his face set. “No show, no dough, pal.”

  Gato pursed his lips in thought, then another shrug. “Okay, it is your funerals if you are caught. Perro Loco will have no mercy with those who hire assassins.”

  They all got in the boat and sat back against the rubberized side cushions for what turned out to be a ten-minute ride down the beach. After they’d pulled the boat ashore and wiped all trace of its presence off the sand, Gato’s men transferred the equipment into yet another large four-wheel-drive truck.

  He gave Coop and Jersey an apologetic smile. “I am afraid you two will have to ride in the back. We were not expecting to have additional passengers.”

  “No problem,” Coop said as he vaulted into the bed of the pickup, then stuck his hand out and hoisted Jersey up also.

  “Hold on, my friends,” Gato said. “The trip will be rather rough.”

  “Where are we going?” Jersey asked.

  “Up into the mountains,” he replied.

  * * *

  After another four hours spent bouncing over rutted paths and trails, they came to a dirt road on the outskirts of a small village high in the mountains as the day changed to dusk and the sun was disappearing in the west.

  “Jesus,” Coop said as he jumped down out of the pickup, “hasn’t anyone in Belize heard of paved roads?”

  Gato stepped out of the truck, a smile on his face. “The trip would have been shorter but we had to go around Corozal. The sight of two americanos would have surely been reported to Loco’s men.”

  “Is this your headquarters?” Jersey asked, rubbing the small of her back.

  “Oh, no,” Gato replied. “This is merely a small village where some men live who work at Perro Loco’s hacienda. It is they who will kill him for us.”

  They left the truck at the edge of the village and walked to one of the small houses, shacks really, nearby.

  As they approached, a short man emerged from the door and waved at Gato.

  “That is Reynaldo Soto. He is one of the guards at Loco’s place.”

  Reynaldo greeted Gato and his bodyguards by name, and then turned a questioning glance on Jersey and Coop.

  “These are friends who also wish Perro Loco dead,” Gato said. “No names are required.”

  Reynaldo nodded as he stepped to the rear of the truck and peered in at the equipment they’d brought. “Do they have what we need?” he asked.

  “Sí.”

  “Good. Let me go get Jose and we will go over the plan,” Reynaldo said.

  As he walked to a nearby house, a woman stood in his doorway, a small boy and girl at her side, staring out at them.

  “That is Esmeralda, Rey’s wife, and his son Carlos and his daughter Rosita,” Gato explained.

  “Do they know what we’re doing here?” Jersey asked, wondering how they would be able to maintain security with so many people in on the plot.

  “No. They are aware of our . . . friendship to Reynaldo, but they know nothing of our pla
n to assassinate Loco.”

  Reynaldo reappeared with another man, who had a worried look on his face.

  When they leaned over, peering in the back of the truck, Esmeralda and the children disappeared back into their house.

  Coop picked up one of the Heckler and Koch G3 sniper rifles and held it out to Reynaldo. “The PSG uses a six-power telescopic sight adjustable up to six hundred meters,” Coop explained. “It has a precision aiming tripod, fires a 7 .62-caliber slug at eight hundred sixty meters per second, and is extremely accurate up to four hundred meters and fairly accurate at six hundred. I’ve brought a twenty-round magazine and two extras, so you’ll have a total of sixty shots to get our man.”

  Reynaldo gave a mirthless smile and said in heavily accented English, “Señor, if the first one or two do not do the job, I will not get another chance.”

  Coop nodded. “How about the car-bombs? Any chance of planting one of them in his automobile?”

  Jose shook his head. “No. Loco always has someone else start the car before he enters it, and the underside and engine are always checked before a trip.”

  Reynaldo, still checking out the Heckler and Koch, added, “It is the same when he flies in his helicopter. He is a very careful man.”

  “Then I guess you’re gonna have to rely on the sniper rifle.” Coop stared at Reynaldo and the clumsy way he was handling the Heckler and Koch. “Have you ever fired a high-powered rifle before?” he asked.

  “Oh, sí,” Reynaldo said, nodding his head. “Perro Loco has us carry machine guns when we patrol the jungle near his hacienda.” He grinned. “Sometimes, when we get bored, we shoot the wild pigs that live there.”

  Coop sighed. He knew shooting a machine gun that sprayed bullets like a water hose was very different from lining a man up in the sights and squeezing off a single round or two from a precision instrument like the Heckler and Koch. “Come on, guys, let’s get this thing adjusted to your grips.”

  He had both men each grip a rifle and lean over the rear of the pickup as if they were going to fire. Once they were comfortable, Coop adjusted the cheek pad and the stock and grips on the rifles to suit their shorter arms and thicker necks. Since they didn’t want to give the mission’s goal away, he was just going to have to hope the telescopic sights were still accurate, as there would be no chance for the men to fire the weapons in practice.

  As Coop worked on the rifles, Jersey looked at El Gato. “When do they plan to try the hit?”

  “Tomorrow morning when Perro Loco returns from Chatumal. They will only get one chance, when he gets out of the helicopter. It is the only time he is not surrounded by guards.”

  “Is there any chance they can do the deed and get away?”

  Gato shrugged, a grim smile on his thick lips. “There is always a chance, señorita.”

  “But not a very good one?”

  “No. They will most probably die.”

  “Then why are they willing to go through with this?”

  “It is a very poor village. Reynaldo’s little girl, Rosita, is very sick and needs an operation that can only be done in a large city. Your gold is to pay for that operation for his child.”

  “What about Jose?”

  “Jose’s brother once was heard to say Perro Loco was not good for the country. Loco’s guards cut off his head and put it on a pole in the center of his village to remind the peasants what it meant to oppose him. Jose has never forgotten.”

  At the mention of gold, Jersey reached in her pack and pulled out a small canvas pouch. She handed it to Gato. “Make sure their families get their share if they don’t come back.”

  “Of course, señorita. It will be an honor to reward them if their husbands succeed in ridding the country of Loco.”

  Coop appeared at Jersey’s side, shaking his head. “Well, I’ve showed ’em all I can about how to use the rifle. Now it’s up to them.”

  Jersey asked Gato, “Is there someplace nearby we can stay until we know the job’s been done?”

  Gato turned to Reynaldo, who was standing behind him cradling the sniper rifle in his arms like a newborn baby, and spoke in rapid Spanish.

  Reynaldo nodded and grinned, exposing teeth made narrow and sharp from gnawing on the sugarcane that grew wild in the region. “Sí. There is a small hut off to the side of the village. The couple who once lived there built a bigger house and this one is still empty.” He shrugged apologetically. “It is not so nice, but it will keep you dry if the rains come during the night.”

  “One bedroom or two?” Coop asked.

  Reynaldo looked confused. “Señor. The entire place is but one room.”

  “Just kiddin’,” Coop said, glancing at Jersey and winking.

  “Asshole,” she muttered before turning to Reynaldo and saying, “That will be just fine, Señor Soto.”

  “Would you like to have supper with my family?” Reynaldo asked.

  “No, thank you,” Jersey replied before Coop could say anything. “We’re really tired from our journey and need to get some sleep.”

  After they’d been shown to the small hut at the very edge of the village and were finally alone, Coop asked, “Why didn’t you want to eat with them?”

  Jersey pulled a Meals, Ready to Eat out of her pack and popped the tab on the side that would cause a chemical reaction and heat it up. As she bounced it from hand to hand, she answered. “Look at this place, Coop. These people barely have enough food to feed their kids. I didn’t want you sitting down to the table and eating up a week’s worth of groceries.”

  “Okay, I see your point. It’s just that I can’t stand these MREs. They taste more like warm sawdust than”—he paused to read the small print on the side of his food container—“ham and navy beans.”

  “They weren’t designed for taste, Coop. They were designed to keep you alive and healthy in the field.”

  “Alive maybe, healthy I doubt,” he answered, tentatively tasting his MRE with a grimace.

  After they’d finished eating, Jersey began to unroll a sleeping bag from her pack in the corner of the room.

  “You know, it gets pretty damned cold up here in the mountains. Maybe we’d better share one of those to conserve body heat.”

  Jersey looked back over her shoulder to see him staring at her behind as she bent over. She straightened up and faced him, hands on hips. “We’re on a mission here, bozo. And that doesn’t include fooling around.”

  Coop smiled. “Oh, and if we weren’t on a mission, does that mean you’d fool around with me?”

  Jersey rested her hand on the butt of her K-Bar assault knife in the scabbard on her belt. “Sure, Coop,” she answered sarcastically. “I’d be glad to fool around with you. Of course, then I’d have to scalp you to keep you from bragging about it all over the camp.”

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Hmmm, it might be worth it.”

  Jersey shook her head. The man was impossible. “Go to bed. I have a feeling we’re gonna be up early tomorrow.”

  She climbed in her bedroll and pulled the edge up to her chin. “Coop, seriously, do you think those men stand a chance of killing Perro Loco?”

  He glanced back at her from his own bedroll across the room. “Honestly? I think they’ve got two chances, slim and none.”

  ELEVEN

  “The flying machine is coming,” Reynaldo said.

  “I see it. I hear it,” Jose replied.

  “It will be very dangerous to kill the comandante here at the hacienda,” Reynaldo whispered.

  “Think of the money,” Jose told him.

  “I have been thinking about the money. I am also thinking about death . . . about dying today if we do not escape into the jungle,” Reynaldo replied, gripping with sweaty palms the Heckler and Koch sniper rifle the norteamericanos had given him.

  The clatter of a helicopter’s blades grew louder from the east,

  “We were promised to be paid in gold,” Jose muttered, jacking a shell into the firing chamber of his carbine.
“There is no gold in Belize. We will be rich men if we follow the instructions the americana gave us. All we have to do is kill the mad-dog Nicaraguan who oppresses our people, calling himself a soldier. Think of the gold, Reynaldo.”

  “If we live long enough to spend it,” Reynaldo said in a quiet, deliberate voice as he removed the plastic covers from the telescopic sights on his sniper rifle.

  “What about the others guarding the landing place?” Jose asked.

  “They will not shoot us. If one of us can kill Comandante Perro Loco when he gets out of the flying machine, the others will not know what to do.”

  “Where is Paco Valdez?” Jose wondered. “He is the one to be feared.”

  “In Belize City. Some of our soldiers captured two americanos at the Yucatan border. Capitán Valdez had them brought to him at the Gray Gull.”

  “I hope this works,” Jose said. “If it does not, we are both dead men.”

  “Our families are starving. We have no money. It is a chance worth taking,” Reynaldo reminded him. “All we have from Comandante Perro Loco is empty promises and empty bellies. We have no choice.” He added to himself, “And my Rosita needs the money for her operation.”

  Jose knew that Reynaldo was right. When the offer came to assassinate Perro Loco, it had sounded too good to be true. But when the soft-spoken americana who made them the offer gave them each a pair of gold coins, with the promise of much more if they could kill Perro Loco, he was listening closely. To a Belizian jungle farmer like Jose, it seemed like a fortune, more money than he had ever seen in his life.

  “The black machine is coming down,” Reynaldo said. “Wait until you are certain of your target. The radio message from Belize City said that Perro Loco would be aboard this dark helicopter.”

  “I will not miss,” Jose promised, shifting the butt-plate of the fancy gun to his right shoulder, glancing around him to be sure none of the other soldiers guarding the landing pad was suspicious.