by Gary Ponzo
“Matt,” Nick said, then stopped to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark. At first Nick couldn’t find his partner, then he saw a shadow walking down the aisle toward the front of the church. Nick stepped forward and squinted in the mere candlelight. On the stage, behind the altar, was an elderly priest busy wiping the chalice with a white handkerchief. Matt was walking toward the priest with a purpose, as if he expected to see him there.
“Hey, Padre,” Matt shouted up at the man. “What were you doing out there?”
The man didn’t seem to hear him as he tended to his chores.
Long rows of empty wooden pews were slanted toward the front of the room, giving the church an amphitheater effect. The perimeter was lined with statues of such Christian greats as John the Baptist and the Virgin Mary. Behind the altar was an oversized replica of Jesus hanging on the cross. In most cases, Nick would’ve been awe-inspired by the brilliance of the spirituality within the room, but now he felt nothing but complete apprehension.
Matt, however, didn’t seem to be affected by the aura. He continued to march down the aisle ready to interrogate an elderly man, who seemed completely oblivious to their presence.
Nick always found comfort in the confines of a church no matter the location, but for some reason, this one made him feel insecure. He was ready to grab his partner and physically remove him from the place when a phone began to ring. The sound echoed through the tall imposing walls and bounced down from the high ceiling. It was a sound that just didn’t belong in the surroundings. It came from an empty pew and Nick instinctively went for his gun.
From behind the altar, the priest said, “Es para usted,” in a raspy, weary tone.
Matt froze. It was as if the sound had broken the spell he was under and he turned to Nick with a look of regret. Matt seemed to have the same anxious impulse. He already had his gun out before the second ring. A form of transmission occurred between the longtime partners. Matt nodded for Nick to get the phone while Matt covered the room searching for a trap.
Nick crept down the aisle and located the phone sitting in the middle of a pew. It rang a third time as Nick had to turn sideways and slowly shuffle past the kneelers to get to the sound. He reached down and picked up the device. He tried to lick his lips but his tongue stuck to the top of his mouth.
Nick glanced up at the altar and found it empty.
Nothing.
He looked at Matt who was crouched and ready.
Nick had the urge to run. Just drop the phone and run hard and far.
Instead, he pushed a button on the phone and put it to his ear.
“The cowboy will not be able to shoot his way out of this one,” a man’s voice said.
Nick was about to respond when the voice added, “Look up.”
There, in the rafters of the building, the shadows of twenty gunmen peered down on them with rifles already aimed at the two FBI agents.
Chapter 35
President John Merrick was wedged between two Cameno guerillas in the compact backseat of the beige Nissan hatchback. Every few minutes a helicopter could be seen passing overhead or a police siren could be heard, but he knew they were driving through Bogota without any chance of discovery. The authorities were searching for a black Mercedes sedan, not a Nissan.
Now, however, they were headed out of Bogota on a narrow side road, away from the population. Away from witnesses. Ever since his phone conversation with Moreno, Merrick regretted his decision to stay immobile. Even though he was sandwiched in between the two Camenos, he felt he had a better chance to survive had he tried to escape in the city. Maybe he’d be seen or heard and have a slim chance to live another day. But out here, there were nothing but trees.
Merrick knew now that his brother was certainly dead. If Trent were alive, Moreno would’ve had him on the phone with Merrick, even if for a few seconds, just to show he was breathing. Then Merrick would’ve gladly wired the millions into Moreno’s overseas account. Even if he were ambushed after the fact, at least he would’ve tried to do something to help. It was apparent now that Nick Bracco’s rescue effort had not succeeded and Merrick began to reconsider the strategy. Maybe he’d put too much faith into Nick’s ability to save Trent. Especially in a place like the rainforest where Nick’s contacts with the underworld would have dubious benefit. Merrick’s blind fury to rescue Trent had gone too far and the one person he distressed about was Sam Fisk. His longtime friend would live out the rest of his days with the guilt of losing the president of the United States.
They had been driving down this country road for ten minutes without ever seeing another vehicle. The car slowed now and turned off the untraveled road down a dirt path just wide enough for the Nissan to traverse without getting stuck between trees. Tree limbs and branches scraped the side of the vehicle as it hobbled down the uneven trail.
The car stopped next to a large hole in the ground surrounded with two mounds of dirt. There were two shovels sticking out of the freshly dug up dirt. Merrick’s grave was awaiting him.
The driver jumped out and opened the back door with a pistol out and ready. Merrick was pulled violently from the car by the two Cameno guerillas and shoved down to his knees next to the opening in the ground. He thought about his daughter and his eyes became glossy. The idea she wouldn’t have her dad any longer had him choking on his own mortality. Ann would be okay after a while. Time could heal some of the pain for an adult. He knew that himself. But Emily would grow up with the media constantly reminding her of her missing father.
As he hunched down on his knees waiting to be shot, he said one tiny prayer for Emily. Please let her be safe and have a happy life.
Footsteps came up behind him. It was time. He heard the sound of metal on metal. The rack of a gun into a chamber.
Then the gunshot. He jumped at the noise and waited to give up his life. Then there was a second gunshot. Merrick’s body lurched at the sound but there was no pain. He wondered if he was in shock and his body was protecting him from the inevitable torment, like someone who’d lost a limb. But even though he trembled with fear, his breathing erratic, his eyes completely swollen with tears, he was still alive. He wondered if this was some game the Camenos were playing with him just to see what it looks like to be on death’s door, the mortality about to leave the earth.
After a few agonizing seconds, Merrick was brave enough to turn around and face his tormentors. The first thing he saw were two bodies sprawled on the ground, both face down in the undergrowth, pistols still in their hands.
The driver of the vehicle stood there with a slight smirk, as if the two of them were in on this big joke that no one else was in on. The entire world living outside the realm of their little secret. He pulled off his sunglasses and his smirk grew into a large smile while chewing on a purple toothpick in the corner of this mouth.
The driver reached out his hand to lift Merrick from his knees. “How ya doing, Mr. President,” the man said in a pitch perfect East Coast accent. “What’s say we get you home, huh?”
Chapter 36
Pablo Moreno brought the two FBI agents to the priest’s rectory attached to the main building. San Felipe Cathedral was one of the largest parishes in that part of Bogota and Moreno’s funding had kept the church vibrant and prosperous even during some very trying financial times.
The rectory was not only the priest’s living quarters, but his office as well. It also served as a sanctuary for Moreno and his men. The Colombian officials knew this and were instructed to stay clear of any activity that took place in or around the church. An order that was followed so well that even the neighborhood took notice. No matter how many gunshots or squealing tires they’d heard, the neighbors all knew to stay indoors and keep quiet. Besides, their calls to the authorities were going to be ignored anyway.
The rectory had two bedrooms, three bathrooms and a large office big enough for fifteen or twenty visitors to feel comfortable. Currently the two visitors were FBI agents who had been a real thorn in Mo
reno’s plans. They were tied down in their chairs, hands behind their back and ankles taped to the legs.
A few months back, Moreno had an altar installed in the office, an exact replica of the altar inside the church. It could be used for training visiting priests from other parishes, but this one had a second purpose. It served as a great bar for Moreno and his guests.
There was a mirror behind the altar and Moreno was checking out his jet black hair, making sure he didn’t see any grays popping up when he saw his security guard, Cesar, in the reflection waving his large boning knife at the two agents as if they were fleeing.
Moreno turned around. “Cesar, what are you doing?”
“I am making sure we are secure, Patron.”
Moreno shook his head. “Chingow, we have twenty men protecting the grounds. There are two of us here and both of them are tied up. What are you so frightened of?”
Cesar lowered his knife and shrugged. He was a large man from head through toe, with long scraggly hair. “Just being careful.”
Moreno understood the concern. These two men had just successfully overtaken the Camenos’ Amazon camp and somehow had survived the experience. Moreno had sent men to verify the condition of the camp and the status of their prisoner, but hadn’t heard from them yet.
Moreno looked at the main agent, Nick Bracco, who sat there in deep thought as if he was trying to find a way out of his predicament.
“There are two reasons why you are both alive right now,” Moreno said. “Number one, I am not receiving any communication from our camp in the rainforest and I know you two were there. I need to know how you got out. You had to have inside help. I need to know who?”
The two men sat in their chairs with two entirely different dispositions. Bracco seemed to be more contemplative, keeping things inside. The other one, the man was a soldier, a warrior in the United States Special Forces, he seemed to be constantly tugging at his bindings, aggressively fighting the inevitable until his last breath.
Moreno took a water glass and placed it on top of the altar. He poured himself a glass of rare Bolivian whisky, taking his time to prolong the agony of his guests.
Moreno let out a sigh and pointed to Matt McColm. “That was my brother you killed out there.”
“He was an idiot,” Matt said, no remorse in his tone.
Moreno came out from behind the bar and took a sip of the whisky. He shrugged. “Yes, he was definitely the runt of the litter. Francisco always thought of himself as some kind of outlaw or gangster. He watched way too many of your American movies.”
“Yeah, well I cured him of that nasty habit.”
“This brings me to the second reason you are still alive,” Moreno nodded toward Cesar and his knife. The big guy swung the knife with great skill, cutting the arm off a wooden coat stand with one slash. The man smiled as the wooden pole clanked down to the floor.
Moreno sat on a couch facing the agents and crossed his legs. He placed his drink on the end table next to him and lifted a manila file into his lap. As he opened the file, he exaggerated his interest in the content as if it were the first time he was about to read the confidential information.
“Let us see,” Moreno said. “You have a very pretty wife, Agent Bracco. And your young son, how awful it is to grow up without a father. Very sad.” Moreno saw Nick’s expression grow more severe with every page he turned.
While still examining the file, Moreno said, “You do know what a Colombian necktie is, yes?”
Both agents became gravely still. Their faces dropping like a punctured balloon. They most certainly knew about the Colombian method of slicing open a man’s throat then pulling his tongue out of the new orifice so it stuck out like a necktie.
“It is not a pretty picture,” Moreno looked up and stared at Nick. “When your wife receives the photo, she will never be able to get that image from her mind. It will torment her for the rest of her life.”
Nick’s face tightened into a ball of fury. “I’m going to kill you,” he said with great sincerity.
“Yes, of course you will,” Moreno said. “Now, why don’t you tell me who is the mole in my crew. I can promise you I will make your death much more satisfying.”
“You’ve got plenty of moles,” Nick said, still seething.
Moreno picked up his whisky and nodded to Cesar who was swirling the knife and getting closer to the two men. “We can test out that answer, can’t we?”
There was a respectful silence in the room as the two men came to understand the reality of their predicament.
“By the way, your cousin, Tommy,” Moreno said, “he is also dead. Your death toll is on the rise, Agent Bracco.”
Nick Bracco looked as if he were trying to kill Moreno with a deadly stare. His face using every muscle to conjure up his anger.
Moreno took a sip of his drink and placed the drink back down. “You think I am a bad person because I grow coca plants and sell them in your country?”
No response. Matt pulled his arms in a particular motion. Nick sat stoic.
“Well the truth is, I am not the reason there is a drug problem in America. I am simply the conduit to their happiness. These are people who are miserable with the lifestyle they have endured because of your uptight legal system. We all know it is just a matter of time before drugs are legalized much like alcohol.”
Moreno held up his index finger and thumb an inch apart. “We are that close to becoming manufacturing partners with your country and I will be considered a business partner with your government.” Moreno shrugged. “See, all of this drama for no reason.”
“We didn’t come down here because of cocaine and you know it,” Nick said. “We came down here because you kidnapped the president’s brother.”
“Yes, well.” Moreno lifted his glass of whisky and drank the last of it. “That’s where you are wrong. He was spying on a private meeting and fell from a tree. We were simply nurturing him back to health before we returned him to your country.”
“Tell me the one about the three bears,” Matt said. “That’s more believable.”
“You may not believe this, but I am very highly regarded in my country. I spend thousands of dollars every month feeding the poor and housing the homeless. It is the reason Father Santo was willing to offer me his rectory as a place of business. It is also the reason he lured you into this church. He knows who the good guys are. It is the people who keep his congregation healthy and alive.”
“Good old-fashioned Catholic guilt,” Nick said. “It works wonders.”
Moreno pushed off the couch and placed his empty glass on the bar. “Well, this has been amusing, but I have other pressing business to tend to.” He nodded at Cesar. The large man closed in on the agents with a grin of satisfaction.
“Listen,” Nick said in a professional tone, “we both know we’re going to die, right?”
“Ah,” Moreno said. “You are finally coming to that realization. That is very healthy.”
“So I believe there’s a Colombian tradition of offering a final drink to the victim.”
Moreno tilted his head. At first he wondered about the inspiration of such a request, then realized these were the last moments of their lives and who wouldn’t want to extend it for another few seconds.
“Of course,” Moreno said. “How inconsiderate of me. Would you like some of my Bolivian whisky? Or perhaps some of Father Santo’s wine?”
“Whisky is just fine.”
Moreno took a couple of water glasses and poured the whisky until the glasses were half full. He gestured to Cesar to bring them to their prisoners, but as the security guard approached the bar, he looked hesitant.
“Cesar,” Moreno said, “they are both bound tightly to chairs.”
“It is not that, Patron,” the big man said. “How do they drink it without their hands?”
“You can untie us,” Matt quickly said.
Moreno laughed. “I have to admit, you two are quite entertaining for a couple of stiff g
overnment agents.”
Nick was staring at a glass of straws on the bar. “Just give us the drink with a straw and place it between our legs. We can manage from there.”
Moreno looked at Cesar, who didn’t seem as if he was willing to do anything without Moreno’s approval.
“Cesar, do as the man said, please. We are wasting time.”
The security guard frowned. He picked up his knife first, then put a straw into one of the glasses and brought it over to Nick and placed the glass between his legs, with his knife held out the entire time.
While Cesar returned for the second glass, Moreno twisted the cap onto the Bolivian whisky and bent down to put it back behind the altar in a special cabinet, away from the holy water and wine used for the services. As he closed the door, he heard a strange thump in the room. When he stood, he found Cesar lying on the floor, his knife loose next to him.
Moreno was entirely confused. The two prisoners were still bound in their chairs, unmoved. When he looked at Nick Bracco, the man had the straw in his mouth and he was pointing it straight at Moreno as if he were going to squirt a stream of whisky at him. Instinctively, and without real understanding why, Moreno ducked and raised his hand to protect himself from this futile squirt of whisky. A moment later, he felt a pinch on the palm of his hand. He looked at his palm and saw a green stick protruding from his skin. He couldn’t understand what had just happened.
And he would never live long enough to find out.
* * *
Nick blew the straw from his mouth and spit out any imagined leftover poison from the frog skin dart. The leaves that were wrapped around the dart truly protected him from the poison because he felt no side effect, but for the sense of relief from being alive.
“Damn,” Matt said. “You really meant it when you said you were going to kill him.”
“No shit.”
“How’d you do that?”
“A little trick I learned in the Amazon. I stuck the darts in my mouth once we entered the church. I had a bad feeling I might need them.”
