by Gary Ponzo
The men didn’t argue. They promptly left the room, leaving just Anthony and Moreno.
“What do you have for me?” Moreno asked as his soldier approached the desk.
Anthony handed Moreno three sheets of paper which were stapled together. “Here you go, El Patron.”
Moreno snatched the papers from Anthony and read the report from his contact at the United States embassy. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He glanced up and saw a sly grin of excitement on Anthony’s face.
“You did good,” Moreno said, as he delved deeper into the file. Tommy’s full name was Thomas Bracco. He was a member of the Capelli crime family in Baltimore, Maryland, until Mr. Capelli’s house was destroyed by a Kurdish terrorist who was bombing random homes throughout the United States a few years back. After that, Tommy had spent time in Nairobi, Kenya, assisting with an orphanage for kids with AIDS. He also helped raise money for psychological counseling for returning soldiers from the Middle East.
The hobby which Moreno found most interesting was Tommy’s assistance with his cousin, FBI agent Nick Bracco. Apparently, Agent Bracco was the top counterterrorist agent for the FBI and Tommy helped track down terrorists using his contacts within the underground. It did not stretch the imagination to assume Agent Bracco was currently heading the rescue team now in the Amazon searching for the president’s brother.
Moreno looked up at Anthony. He flicked the sheets of paper with the tip of his index finger. “This is incredible.”
“Truly, it is.”
Moreno scanned the file once more finding it overwhelmingly detailed. His bribes with the embassy had gone to good use. “Well, Anthony. I think it’s time we put an end to this charade.”
“Mr. Moreno,” Anthony said. “May I be the one who takes care of this?”
Moreno smiled at the enthusiasm. “Of course.” He pointed to the door. “You go get him right now and we’ll have a quick chat before you dispose of him.”
Anthony left and Moreno motioned to his two security guards who peeked their heads in. “Make sure he doesn’t need help.” As the guards were leaving, he added, “Don’t let him know you’re checking up on him. Let him do it on his own if he can.”
Moreno returned to the report about Tommy’s past. He found himself smiling at the guy’s acumen. Tommy seemed to have a noble streak in him, very much like Moreno himself. The guy operated on the wrong side of the law, but the law still sought him out for this operation.
The door opened and Tommy walked in, his eyes going to the briefcase still on Moreno’s desk.
“I see you’re ready to pay up,” Tommy said, the toothpick moving up and down from the corner of his mouth.
As Anthony followed Tommy in the doorway, Moreno pointed to the seat in front of his desk. “Sit down, Mr. Bracco.”
Tommy glanced over his shoulder and saw the two security guards with their hands on their guns and Anthony with a knife in his hand. The man’s shoulders slumped with resignation as he took his seat and crossed his legs with a sense of dignity.
“That was fast,” Tommy said.
“Indeed,” Moreno said. “You know, I admire you. Really.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
“Just one thing. What were you hoping to accomplish?”
Tommy half-shrugged. “I don’t know. Try to find out as much about your operation as possible, I guess.”
“So all that stuff you knew about me . . . that came from a government file?”
Tommy nodded.
Moreno leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “So did you discover anything interesting?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.”
“I bet I would.” Moreno wished there could be a way to rehabilitate such a gutsy soul, but he knew that was an impractical scenario. “We both know you have to die, right?”
There was a sense of acceptance in the man’s eyes, as if he knew this was coming and was relieved to be finally getting there. “Sure,” he said. “And I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Pablo, but my cousin will be down here to kill you soon afterward.”
Moreno smiled. “He won’t be the first to try.”
“But he’ll be the last.”
Moreno looked past Tommy to the bar in the back of the room. “Before you go, however, what can I offer you to drink?”
Tommy looked up to the ceiling, as if in deep thought. “How about a shot of Tequila?”
Moreno gestured to Anthony who poured tequila into a shot glass, then brought it over to Tommy. The gangster held it up high in a mock salute. “It’s been a great ride. I have no regrets.” As he tossed the shot down his throat, Anthony came up from behind and stabbed him in the chest, plunging the knife deep into his torso. The shot glass fell to the floor and bounced a couple of times before coming to rest.
Tommy was obviously stunned by the attack and immediately looked down at the front of his white shirt. The blood spread outward quickly. It was a shot to his heart. Tommy made a vain attempt to pull the knife from his chest, but it was too late. Even as he groped at the knife handle, his body had lost all its fight. It was only seconds. Anthony pulled him from the chair, his right hand still forcing the knife into Tommy’s chest as he dragged him backward into the open elevator.
Tommy’s body was literally dead weight in Anthony’s arms. Moreno looked at his security guards. “Are you going to help him?”
But Anthony had already pushed the button and the doors closed.
“Do not get any blood in my elevator,” Moreno shouted, then he looked over at his security guards who watched the entire scene as if watching a boxing match. “Next time show a little ambition, please.”
The two men began to move around toward the elevator.
“Not now,” Moreno barked. He was fortunate to have a few sharp men in his fold, but it was obvious he needed more. Moreno shook his head and said, “Get the men together. We leave in ten minutes. I have another victim waiting for me.”
* * *
Nick wiped the moisture from his forehead not knowing where the rain began and the sweat ended. They were heading in the right direction, but needed to shred through limbs and branches and step through soft ground which sometimes swallowed their legs up to their knees. They’d only gone a hundred yards in the past thirty minutes and Nick felt they needed to pick up the pace.
Matt was next to him trudging through the same terrain, a rifle in his arms. They all wore their headsets, but kept the communication to a minimum.
“I don’t see the SEALs,” Matt said.
“That’s probably a good thing,” Nick said.
“You think Trent’s alive?”
“No,” Nick said. “But we owe it to the president to bring his body back. That’s probably what he wanted from the beginning. Have some closure.”
They plodded further into the darkness. Even though it was almost noon, the rainforest canopy had closed over them like a permanent structure.
“I don’t like it,” Matt said. “We’re too low.”
Nick saw a mild rise in the landscape to the right. He pointed. Kalinikov was already ahead of them, going that direction.
Matt headed toward the Russian. Nick followed.
“This isn’t Baltimore, is it?” Matt said.
“No.”
“I mean, you and me, we have a set rhythm. But it takes concrete to make that work.” Matt lifted his foot from the sludge, mud dripping from his boots. “Really?”
They moved together, their eyes darting every direction at once.
“How many do you think we’re facing?” Matt asked. “Twenty? Thirty?”
“Fifty.”
“Man, you’re a real downer sometimes, you know that?”
Nick’s facial tremor began to pulsate. He touched his cheek to settle it down, but it didn’t help. He focused on his breathing. One step. A breath. One step. A breath.
“They know we’re here,” Nick said. “Why haven’t they engaged us yet?”
“Because they�
�re digging in.” Matt pointed to a rise in the terrain. “Up in that high ground.”
In his ear, Lieutenant Bret Olson, said, “Get down.”
Nick and Matt dropped to their knees, then crouched behind a large tree.
“Three o’clock from your position, Matt,” Olson said. “I can’t get a clear shot. It’s too dense.”
Matt army-crawled to his right. Nick watched him set up on his stomach. His left eye shut. His right eye pressed against his scope.
“Two hundred yards,” Matt whispered. “I’ve got him.”
“Wait until we have better position,” Olson said to the team. “We’re going to be exposed for the next ninety seconds. You got us?”
“Yes,” both Kalinikov and Matt spoke together.
Nick poked his head out from the tree and examined the landscape through his field glasses. There was movement to his left, away from him. He couldn’t focus on the movement too well because it was so close.
He pulled down the glasses and saw the animal just thirty yards away. A puma. The creature was crouched forward, head low, prowling through the jungle. Its sleek frame in attack mode.
“We have a problem,” Nick said.
“I see it,” Kalinikov said. “Stay still. Matt, you stay trained on your three o’clock.”
Matt was perfectly quiet. The sniper at work. His target in the crosshairs.
The puma had sniffed something and was inching toward them.
“Guys,” Nick said, his rifle trained on the animal.
“Getting there,” Olson said. “Do not shoot until we’re ready.”
The puma had his nose in the air now. Nick couldn’t tell if they were downwind. There was no wind. Just a mild mist and tree limbs bending from the weight of the rainfall.
The puma’s piercing yellow eyes locked onto Nick, like he was assessing his next meal. Nick couldn’t afford to fire a shot and give away their position, so he placed the rifle down and groped for his knife.
“Steady,” Kalinikov said in his ear.
The animal’s prowl quickening.
Twenty yards.
Nick’s hand trembled as he found the handle of his knife without ever taking his eyes from the puma.
Ten yards.
Nick was light-headed. The blood was coursing through his veins, but none of it was going where he needed it.
The puma lowered his head and stretched out his front paws.
While Nick strangled his knife, ready to confront the predator, the animal moved in a circuitous route around the two agents, watching them through the corner of his eye. Nick stayed perfectly still and waited.
And waited.
The puma lurked around them as if deciding whether the conflict was worth its precious time.
Nick’s breath came and went in short bursts.
Finally the puma gave once quick snort then scurried away into the wilderness. Nick collapsed onto the back of a tree.
Matt had watched the entire scene with his pistol trained on the animal. “You okay?” he whispered.
“I’ll be fine.”
Matt twisted back to his stomach and returned his attention to his rifle and his scope. “Good. Then quit playing with that cat now, because it’s getting busy up here.”
Chapter 28
“You can stop faking now,” Tommy heard Anthony say as the elevator slowly descended toward the garage.
Tommy opened his eyes and got to his feet. He wiped a handful of gooey liquid from the front of his shirt and stared at his red hand. “What is this stuff?”
“Mostly corn syrup and red food coloring,” Anthony said, as he stabbed his knife into the palm of his open hand and showed Tommy the retractable plastic blade. “It’s from a Halloween costume I just bought. The fake blood packet ruptures on impact.”
Tommy’s knees were still shaky from his near death experience. He tried to piece together the scene but came up empty. “Who are you?”
“Anthony Robson. I’m Carl Pavone’s brother-in-law.”
The puzzle started forming a shape. He pointed a finger at Anthony. “You left Carl’s funeral business to work for Moreno.”
“More like, I was recruited,” Anthony said. “Moreno is a paranoid freak, so he picks random people off the street to work for him. He thinks that’ll avoid hiring people with an agenda. I didn’t have much of a choice.”
Tommy cocked his head. “So how—”
“Carl told me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t get in too deep. When Moreno asked me to do a background check on you, I knew it was time to get you out.”
The elevator stopped.
“Now,” Anthony said. “I’m taking you to Carl’s shop and you’re getting as far away from here as possible.”
Tommy was still catching his breath when the elevator doors opened.
A man stood there with a rifle aimed at them.
* * *
Walt Jackson, Martin Riggs and Louis Dutton were huddled over Stevie Gilpin’s shoulder, staring at the image the Zephyr drone was sending them on Walt’s computer monitor. They could see Air Force One on the tarmac at the Bogota airport and the throng of reporters surrounding the airplane. The Marines appeared to have a built a strong perimeter.
“I can’t see shit,” grumbled Dutton.
“Sir,” Stevie said, “I get any lower the drone will be visible.”
“Who gives a shit?” Dutton asked. “It’s of no use if we can’t examine the landscape and see if there’s a threat anywhere.”
Stevie instinctively looked over at Riggs, who nodded. “Bring her down to two thousand feet,” Riggs said. “That should get us what we need.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Stevie said, maneuvering the mouse.
Walt’s office was beginning to look like a Starbucks with all the muffins and coffee cups strewn around the place. They’d been taking turns trying to rest, but it was getting too close now.
Walt went over to the counter with the boxes of unhealthy food and poured himself another cup of coffee. “General Henning is taking care of the security down there,” he said. “I doubt he’s going to miss anything.”
This seemed to resonate with Riggs who returned to his leather chair and placed his feet on the coffee table. “I feel rather useless.”
Walt glanced up at the large monitor on the wall displaying the satellite picture of the Amazon rainforest where a rescue mission was taking place. There was nothing to see but a cloudy image of treetops.
“Um . . . hey,” Stevie said. “This isn’t good.”
Walt hustled back with Riggs behind him. On the monitor, a motorcade of police cars and Hummers were driving single file down a long, narrow street. In the middle of this procession was the president’s black Cadillac SUV.
“What’s the problem?” Walt said.
Stevie pointed to a spot a mile in the front of the motorcade. “See where they’re headed?”
Walt found nothing alarming. Just a narrow winding path through the heavily wooded countryside. “What is it?”
Stevie pressed his finger up against the screen and moved it side-to-side. “Don’t you see? The road becomes invisible from the sky. It’s too dense.”
As he was speaking, the first vehicle in the caravan reached the tree line and disappeared under the overhanging trees. Stevie zoomed out the image and pointed to several main roads which would’ve been wider and easier to view from the drone’s perspective.
“See,” Stevie said. “They’re going out of their way to reduce our visual surveillance.”
Walt could see his point. Yet there were other explanations. “I get what you’re saying, but they’re probably avoiding the main arteries to reduce the security risk.”
“I agree,” Riggs said. “This was planned out before they drove away from the airport. Henning knows what he’s doing.”
“I don’t know,” Stevie said, sounding unconvinced. “Just look at these tributaries which branch off from this back road. It’s so dense, the vehicle could go
miles without our ability to see it.”
Walt took a sip of his coffee and patted the young tech on the shoulder. “I think you’re going to have to switch to decaffeinated, pal. They’re not going to break away from the rest of the motorcade without dozens of Marines taking issue with it.”
“But . . . but . . .” Stevie examined the terrain closely, his finger following several intersecting dirt paths which barely made a dent in the overhead canopy. When the conversation didn’t progress any further, Stevie added, “Just for the record, I’m not on board with this route.”
Walt exchanged glances with Riggs who winked back to him. It was the first time the kid had the pressure of the president’s security on his plate and he was feeling the strain of responsibility weighing him down.
“We’ll document your concern,” Walt said. “Let’s keep an eye on him as best we can.”
* * *
Tommy stood in the elevator and stared at the man with the rifle, waiting to be shot.
“What are you doing?” Anthony said.
“I am supposed to help you with . . .” the man looked at Tommy with his bloody shirt and red-stained hands, “him?”
That word coming out as a question was all the doubt Tommy needed to hear. There would be no killing with that tone of voice. He grinned affably as he took a step out of the elevator and turned into the man, swinging his elbow into the guy’s sternum while pulling the rifle from his arms. He jabbed the butt of the rifle into the man’s nose, instantly creating a blotch of blood and more importantly, tearing up the guy’s eyes. For the next few seconds he would be incapacitated. Tommy took another swing with the rifle and hit the guy on the side of the head, putting him down to the ground, his head bouncing off the cement floor with a sickening thud, the sound of a watermelon hitting the street from a second-floor window.
Tommy stood there looking down at the guy. “Now what?”
Anthony bent down and grabbed the guy from under his armpits and began dragging him.
“Come on,” Anthony said, animated now. “We need to get rid of him.”
Tommy dropped the rifle and helped with the guy’s legs.
“No,” Anthony said. “Bring the rifle. We need to clean this up. Then get you out of here.”
