by Tripp Ellis
"What is in the case?" he asked.
"I don't know," Frankie said.
"How is it you don't know?"
Frankie shrugged.
"Open it!" The platoon leader’s face grew stern.
"I'd love to. But I can't," Frankie said.
He snatched his pistol from its holster and aimed it at Frankie's forehead. "Maybe you don't understand. Perhaps your Spanish is not so good? I said open the case."
"I understood just fine," Frankie said. "But I don't have a key."
The platoon leader’s face tensed. "You're carrying a case through a jungle without a key?"
Frankie nodded. "I must have lost it."
"I have no time for games. I will count to three. If the case is not open, I will pull the trigger."
Frankie shrugged. "Go ahead. But that still doesn't get you into the case."
"I will find a way."
"Good luck with that."
"One…"
The countdown began, and my body tensed. I wasn't going to stand by and let him shoot Frankie in the head. But surrounded by rebels with assault rifles, I didn't stand a chance. I'd be dead before I reached the platoon leader’s pistol.
"Two…"
The number hung in the air.
"What if the case is booby-trapped?” Frankie said. “What if there is a pound of plastic explosives in this case? What happens if it's opened incorrectly? It goes boom. That's what happens."
"Three…"
Frankie stared the scumbag down. She didn't even flinch on his final count. The platoon leader’s finger wrapped tight around the trigger.
"There are enough explosives in this case to shred your entire platoon. If you want to open this case, you'll need me alive."
The muscles in his jaw flexed, and he reluctantly moved his finger away from the trigger.
I figured Frankie was making the whole thing up. But who knew what the hell was really in that case?
"Okay," the platoon leader said. "We will play it your way. But one way or another, I will get inside that case. And you will regret causing me trouble."
He stepped close to her and gently caressed the soft skin of her face. "You are a very beautiful woman, and you are so far from home. You have no idea what's in store for you."
27
They marched us back to their base camp. It was still dark when we arrived. The area was well covered with a canopy of leaves. It would be difficult to spot the camp from the air.
They had built several huts with thatched roofs, lined with mosquito netting. A small gasoline generator provided power. There was a hot plate with some type of concoction in a pot boiling on the burner. A small flatscreen display was connected to a satellite TV dish, and soldiers huddled around watching UltraMega, starring Bree Taylor. It was a film directed by David Cameron that had broken box office records. Bree was a mega-star before the movie. But since her death, she had become a legend.
It was surreal to see Bree on the screen in the middle of the jungle. Her angelic face brought back bittersweet memories of our time together.
The first squad we encountered on the trail had already returned to base camp. And they weren’t happy to see us. They had lost several members, and a few more were critically wounded. They writhed in agony in what was a makeshift medical area. Blood-soaked bandages wrapped their appendages, and the squad leader’s eyes blazed with fury when he saw us enter the camp. He and the platoon leader that captured us got into it, arguing about what to do with us. The platoon leader obviously out ranked the other man and quashed his protest rather quickly. I heard him say something about us being more valuable alive.
The goons split us up, and they tied me to a tree with my wrists behind my back. The soldier cinched the ropes tight, damn near cutting off my circulation. I wouldn't be able to wiggle my way out of this one.
Frankie's eyes glanced at me with concern as they pulled her away.
"Remove the case," the platoon leader commanded. "If you have to take off her arm, so be it."
I struggled against my bonds, but there was nothing I could do.
Frankie's face was bathed in fear.
A goon grabbed her wrist, while another clutched the case. The two pulled at her arms like a tug-of-war, holding her outstretched.
A moment later, the angry leader of the first squad marched toward Frankie with a small chainsaw. The devil was in his eyes. He yanked the cord and started the engine. It rattled through the forest.
He revved it a few times, then lifted the chainsaw up like a madman about to embark on a massacre. He lined the teeth of the chainsaw up with Frankie's arm.
Frankie tried to remain stoic, but her face twitched, and her eyes brimmed with tears.
The man revved the chainsaw, and the teeth spun, ready to gnaw at flesh and bone. It would only take a few seconds to cut through her arm. Easier than cutting through the branch of a tree.
My stomach twisted. I had seen plenty of gruesome sights before, but I wasn't sure I wanted to see this.
A hollow smile tugged at Mr. Chainsaw’s face. This was his revenge for the torment we had inflicted on his squad.
The chainsaw howled, and smoke billowed from the exhaust.
I cringed in anticipation of the gruesome event.
The spinning teeth moved ever closer to Frankie's delicate flesh.
If she didn't die from blood loss, infection might get her. There was no telling where the chainsaw had been.
As the blade inched ever closer, a gunshot echoed through the forest.
It snapped through the camp, originating from the tree line. The bullet smacked Mr. Chainsaw’s forehead with a wet thud. It drilled a hole through his skull, and exploded the back of his cranium, splattering a pinkish mix of brain, bone, and goo.
He tumbled back, losing control of the chainsaw. The blade sawed through his sternum as it fell to the ground.
His comrades were stunned. They stared at the twitching carcass, dumbfounded.
Frankie took the opportunity to yank her arm free. She spun around with the case and clocked one of the soldiers in the head.
He tumbled to the ground, out cold.
She continued to spin around and batted the other soldier that originally held the case. The impact rattled his brain and knocked him to the dirt.
Another soldier took aim and fired at Frankie.
She held the metal case in front of her, and bullets pinged against the tough exterior.
The case had been like an albatross around her neck, but now it saved her life.
She dove to the ground, tumbled beside the body of the first soldier she had smacked, and ripped his AK-47 from his grasp. She rolled over, tumbling onto one knee, and brought the weapon into the firing position.
Dak.
Dak.
Dak.
Frankie squeezed off several rounds. With pinpoint accuracy she moved from soldier to soldier, double-tapping each one in the chest. The flicker of muzzle flash filled the night.
Another soldier took aim at Frankie, but a blast from the tree line smacked his chest, and knocked him down.
Frankie continued her onslaught, the case dangling from her wrist as she shouldered the rifle.
I don't know how she was able to move so fast and still maintain accuracy with the added weight of the case. She was a trained professional—there was no doubt about it.
Frankie sprang to her feet and took off running for cover. She dove to the ground and rolled behind a tree and continued sending blistering hot metal into revolutionaries.
Dragonfly emerged from the tree line and advanced to the camp, raining hellfire on the goons from his 9mm. He took cover behind a tree, and the bark exploded as gunfire peppered the area.
The rattle of gunfire filled the night and smoke wafted through the air. Bullets crisscrossed the camp.
I sat there watching it all, not able to do anything. I crouched low and hoped like hell a stray bullet didn't come my way.
28
These types of firefig
hts always seemed like they lasted forever, but in reality, this one probably didn't last more than a minute.
As quickly as it began, the clatter of gunfire vanished. Frankie cautiously climbed to her feet and advanced through the camp. She surveyed the bodies of the fallen soldiers. A few were still alive, writhing on the ground in agony, blood oozing from sucking chest-wounds. Frankie kicked their weapons out of reach.
We weren’t in a position to give comfort or care to the enemy. And Dragonfly had no such intentions. He put a bullet into anything that moved, including the wounded soldiers in the makeshift medical area. He moved through the camp like the angel of death. Smoke wafted from the barrel and shell casings ejected from the port. His face was like stone. His eyes were cold and black.
I think Frankie was a little stunned by his actions.
When he was finished, he looked at her flatly and said, "They didn't show my daughter any mercy."
Dragonfly moved through the camp and rounded up a few assault rifles and extra magazines. Then he rummaged for bottled water, packaged food, and anything else we might need to continue our journey.
Frankie untied me from the tree. I stood up and exhaled a relieved breath, my heart still pounding from the excitement. I rubbed the grooves in my wrists from the ropes. "You're pretty handy with that thing."
"This isn't my first rodeo." A slight grin tugged at her full lips.
I chuckled.
Frankie’s case had dents in it from the bullets, but none of them had punctured the metal.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Frankie nodded. “A little frazzled, but… I’m still in one piece.”
I searched the camp and found my 9mm and my subcompact that the platoon leader had taken. I stuffed them back into their holsters, and Dragonfly tossed me an AK-47. I lifted two extra magazines from a dead guerilla and stuffed them into a cargo pocket.
The blockbuster superhero movie still flickered on the television. The sound of Bree Taylor’s voice echoed throughout the camp. There was something eerie about it. The TV would flicker on until someone found the camp, or the generator ran out of gas.
The sky was just starting to lighten. I didn't know if there were any other rebel forces in the area. If there were, a firefight like that wouldn't have gone unnoticed. We needed to get the hell out of there, and fast.
"I thought you were gone for good," I said to Dragonfly.
"I thought it best to relocate to a more optimal position," he said with a grin.
We left the camp and headed for Santiago's. The compound was a little more than an hour away. We pushed through the dense jungle as the morning sun beamed its amber rays through the canopy of trees, speckling the ground with warm light. There was a thin, morning fog in the air, and the forest looked majestic.
Santiago’s compound sat perched atop a hill. It looked like a military outpost surrounded by HESCOs (collapsible wire-mesh containers made from heavy duty fabric that could be loaded with dirt, sand, or anything available). Military outposts across the globe used them as barriers. They were effective blast walls. Fortified towers at each corner of the compound contained .50-caliber machine guns. Anyone crossing the meadow would be eviscerated.
It was a full-on military complex.
We held up at the tree line and contemplated the best approach. We didn’t have much chance to think about it.
The clatter of gunfire erupted from one of the towers.
Fury rained down upon us. Blistering .50-caliber rounds rifled in our direction. The massive bullets splintered trees, damn near cutting them in half. At nearly the size of a banana, the damn things could pulverize a man’s torso in a flash. Hell, a near miss would leave you with seared flesh.
We dove for cover and scurried away from the tree line as it erupted in a chaotic flurry of destruction.
No one could approach the compound without getting torn to shreds.
"Plan B? Anyone have a Plan B?" I asked with a tinge of sarcasm.
“They think we're rebels," Frankie said.
I pulled my cellphone out of my pocket. There was still no signal. No way to contact Isabella—who could contact Santiago and tell him to stop shooting us.
I didn't have a white flag, but I had an olive drab T-shirt. I pulled it off and tied it around the end of a long branch that I found on the ground. I crawled on my belly across the dirt and took cover behind a thick tree, then extended the branch into the clearing, waving the drab flag.
Two bullets rocketed through the air, puncturing the fabric. The T-shirt fluttered. The bullets damn near ripped it from the branch.
I continued to wave the torn, frayed garment.
I wasn’t sure this would work.
29
The weapons fire ceased.
I tossed my AK-47, then my pistols, into the clearing. I waited for a long moment, continuing to wave my makeshift flag. After a few moments, I did the unthinkable and inched out cautiously from behind the tree.
Frankie looked at me like I was crazy, concern bathing her eyes.
I held my hands high in the air, cringing in anticipation of hot metal piercing my flesh.
When it was clear that I wasn't going to get eviscerated, the others followed suit.
We stood at the edge of the clearing as a squad of soldiers exited the compound and advanced toward us. Soon, we were surrounded by well outfitted, paramilitary soldiers carrying M4 carbines.
"We're here to see Santiago,” I said. “Isabella sent us.”
The squad leader radioed back to HQ. A voice crackled back over the comm device, "Tráelos a Santiago."
The soldiers waved us forward, and we marched toward the HESCOs.
The squad gathered up our weapons, leaving nothing for the guerillas.
Once inside the compound, it was hard to distinguish it from any other military outpost. There was a tactical operations command center, barracks for infantry soldiers, a mess hall, shower facility, and medical area. Beyond that was the original home that stood on the hilltop that had once been Santiago's private residence. Now it was the central hub of a military fortress.
Santiago greeted us with a wide smile as we entered the compound. He held his arms outstretched, then shook my hand. "Welcome. Welcome! I am Santiago Martín. I'm so glad you are alive. We feared the worst."
"It's been a challenging journey," I said, mildly understating the situation.
Santiago had dark hair that was thinning on top. He had a friendly face with deep laugh lines, a few wrinkles around the eyes, and a thick mustache. The hints of gray in his hair suggested he was close to 50. He was dressed in a beige officer’s uniform with garish medallions pinned above his breast pocket. He reminded me of a crazy foreign dictator. And, in a way, he was. He was master of his own domain. Having built a small army, he was well on his way to power. A modern day feudal lord.
“You’re here, and you are safe, and the case is intact. That is what is important.” He smiled. “I’m sure you are hungry and tired after your journey. Be my guests for breakfast."
We followed him toward the main house, moving through the beehive of activity. Santiago gave us a tour along the way. “I have nearly a thousand soldiers, and more volunteer every day. I feed them well, pay them handsomely, give them a place to sleep, and offer them the best training available. I have the finest military advisors educating them in the ways of war. We have state-of-the-art equipment, and morale is high. I have spared no expense in creating this facility."
It was easy to see he had spent a small fortune, or had been funded by an outside party. Perhaps one of the 3-letter agencies? There was no doubt this man had received funds, or support, in addition to his own. There were Joint Light Tactical Vehicles (which were direct replacements for Humvees) painted in jungle green. Light armored transports with .50-caliber machine guns mounted atop. I even saw an array of XTX-88 surface-to-surface missiles. The smart bombs were the latest technology in precision-guided munitions. They weren’t something you could buy on th
e black market. They came directly from the weapons manufacturer.
I could see why Santiago was so important to our client. This man could single-handedly fight the rebels.
"You've created quite the outpost here." I said.
Santiago grinned. "I am passionate about taking back our land and living free from the terror of the FRP."
"I take it you didn't like the Revolution Tax?"
His eyes narrowed. "I did not like their tax at all."
He led us into his home. The sprawling estate once overlooked the majestic countryside. Now, surrounded by a legion of military forces, it served as the central command station. It had an orange tile roof and cream stucco walls. The home was U-shaped, encircling a large pool that looked like it belonged in a tropical resort. The teal water glimmered in the morning light, and beautiful women in skimpy bikinis sunned themselves in lounge chairs. Their slick skin glistened with oil. For a moment, I felt like I was back in Coconut Key.
"Perhaps you would like to shower before breakfast? A fresh change of clothes?" Santiago asked. "I have plenty of clean fatigues. I'm sorry that I don't have anything more stylish."
"I'd like to get this case off my wrist, if you don't mind," Frankie said.
Santiago grinned. "I, too, am eager to get down to business. Come with me."
We followed him down the hallway and pushed into an office. A sliding glass door opened to the pool. The office was decorated with military antiques and memorabilia—swords, guns, helmets, spanning multiple eras of war.
Santiago moved to a heavy mahogany desk at the far end of the room. On the wall behind the desk was an oil portrait of Santiago looking regal in full dress uniform with all these medallions. It looked like it had been painted by a Renaissance master.
He opened a drawer and pulled out the special key, then returned to Frankie. He pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner, said the voiceprint code, “Open Sesame," and twisted the key.
The cuff released, and Frankie removed her wrist, rubbing at the grooves the metal had made in her delicate skin. Over the last 24 hours, it had rubbed her wrist raw.
