by Chris Thrall
Hans felt an enormous urge to try to rip free from the chair but knew this was not his time.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“What makes you think I want something?” the mayor preened.
“Because if you didn’t I would be dead now.”
“Ha-ha! Senhor Hans, once again you have it wrong. It is not what I want from you, it is what I want done to you.”
He looked to his sergeant, and they chuckled like old hands.
A faint groan came from Logan’s motionless body.
“ . . . and to our playboy friend here.” Gonzales picked an aging revolver off the desk and waved it limply at the two of them.
Hans recognized it as a Colt M1911, standard US military issue before the smaller-caliber Beretta M9 replaced it, a pistol the CIA shipped in its thousands to the Contras.
At the thought of the agency, Hans decided to play his trump card.
“You know I have informed the CIA of your involvement in the Trade, Gonzales. Their agent on the island will be filing a report and initiating a full-scale investigation.”
“You are correct, Hans!” boomed a familiar voice from the back of the room. “You have informed the CIA.” Enrique stepped out of the shadows and placed a hand on his fellow American’s shoulder. “But I shall not be filing a report, and there certainly won’t be any investigation – full-scale or otherwise.”
“Enrique,” Hans muttered, shaking his head and looking down at the floor.
“I gather you know the third member of our team quite well.” Gonzales smirked. “In Nicaragua we called him ‘the Boy.’ When the CIA said they are sending a ‘junior’ field agent to coordinate my platoon, we all laughed. ‘Junior’? we say, because in Spanish ‘junior’ means ‘little rich boy.’ So we nickname him ‘the Boy.’” He looked at Enrique, the fondness evident in his reticent eyes.
“The little rich boy who made you a fortune exporting cocaine!” Enrique reminded the former rebel commander.
The three Hispanics guffawed like reunited veterans the world over.
“Actually, Hans,” Enrique continued, “the only investigation will be the one conducted by our, erhum, ‘friends’ in the police here on the islands, who naturally will find nothing. Your daughter is going to a sex gang in Europe, and we simply cannot have her big hero father hunting us down for the rest of our lives. So this is why” – he held up Hans’ and Eddy’s cell phones – “I have sent a text from Mr. Logan’s phone to yours inviting you and Penny for an afternoon out on his boat. And” – he waggled Hans’ phone – “you have texted back in agreement. Of course, after I have gone to the villa and had a little fun with Penny before I kill her, we will put all your dead bodies in the cabin of Mr. Logan’s boat, along with the English girl, and then sink it far out in the channel, where it will never be found, except by the sharks.”
Another round of laughter ensued, the former resistance fighters in their element as a team.
“There’s one little glitch in your plan,” Hans interrupted them. “I’m assuming it was you tailing me on Mindelo the night you killed the Fulani.”
“Ah!” Enrique beamed. “Would we be talking about the fingerprints from that bitch’s house you sent to your lab and a certain rental car agreement? Listen to this.”
He played a voice mail on Hans’ phone.
Orion, it’s Muttley. Look, Odysseus and I have been trying to get hold of you. The fingerprints belong to Enrique Ramos, your CIA friend, and the car was rented in his name, too . . .
“So what is with the code names – er, Orion?” Enrique mocked.
“Why, worried you’re in over your head?”
“Just curious. Besides, I have sent your ‘Muttley’ this text.” He scrolled through the list on Hans’ cell. “Ah, yes, I wrote, ‘Cancel this. CIA contact here informs me he interviewed the Fulani woman on the night in question as per agency protocol.’”
Hans’ blood boiled. The CIA man had the upper hand, explaining both his renting of the hire car and his fingerprints on the glass.
Enrique reached into his inside pocket and pulled out an identical walkie-talkie to the one he’d issued Hans at the embassy along with the pistol, spotting scope and bulletproof vest. Holding it in front of Hans’ face, “All the embassy’s field radios operate on the same set of frequencies.” He chuckled. “I also took the liberty of fitting a tracking device into yours.”
“Hence how you followed me to the Fulani’s house and warned Logan I was breaking into his boat.”
“And how I laughed from my ‘hospital’ bed listening as you bozos crept toward La Laguna this afternoon, and I was already here with a garbage can primed full of Semtex and a sniper rifle aimed at your head. I would have killed you if I’d adjusted a little more for the wind.”
“The same Semtex and US military-issued detonator you used to blow up the Rosa Negra.” Hans scowled.
“And to think you didn’t suspect a thing.” Enrique held his hands up and grinned like a court jester.
“Actually, that’s where you’re wrong.” Hans had one final card up his sleeve. “I suspected you all along, and I have already made a report to my friends with the ‘code names,’ as you joke, detailing as much.”
“I’m . . . not so sure I believe you, Hans,” said Enrique, feeling sure of himself. “I can’t see how I could have given anything away.”
“Nothing . . . at . . . all?” Hans played up the moment, seizing the opportunity to jump in the driving seat. “First off, how come you never suggested I file a missing persons report, which would have got the CIA involved in Jessica’s disappearance under the US Trafficking Victims Act? That would have been the logical thing for you to have done.”
Enrique gave a nonchalant shrug.
“Then there was the meeting in Karen’s office when you agreed to help us off the record with the investigation into Logan. I said I appreciated your time. Do you remember what you replied?”
“I have no idea, but I’m sure you will remind me.”
“You said, ‘Four people are dead, Hans. I’ll make time.’”
“And?”
“How could you have known? The news stations reported Alvarez and his two crew members as injured – and perhaps your sources told you they were dead – but I never mentioned meeting the Fulani to anyone other than Penny and Karen. I knew there and then you had to be involved in the Trade. If I disappear, then the information in my report is enough for my friends with the code names to spend their vast resources tracking you down.”
Enrique kept quiet, knowing better than to incriminate himself while figuring out if Hans was bluffing.
Of course, Hans was bluffing. He had thought it strange, a little niggling, when Enrique came up with the number “four” in that conversation, but he’d put it down to a genuine mistake resulting from conflicting news reports surrounding the Rosa Negra’s sinking.
“You know, the Chinese have a saying – ‘Never enter a big game without the backing of a big player.’” Hans made his closing gambit. “You need to know I have that big player. In fact, I have a bigger player than you or your small-time agency buddies could ever imagine.”
“Thank you for the lesson in Chinese psychology, Hans.” Enrique remained nonplussed. “But you of all people must know that to strike a bargain you need to have something to offer. If what you’re telling me is true and I let you go free with your daughter and Mr. Logan, then I go to jail for the rest of my life. And if I kill all of you as planned and your ‘big players’ catch me, I go to jail for the rest of my life. But what if you are lying? We kill you all and Penny and dispose of your bodies. Then we all remain free men – for the rest of our lives. And Hans” – Enrique brought his face close – “I think you are lying.”
The mayor looked at his butler. Both frowned, hoping Enrique was right.
“Okay! Enough talk,” Enrique barked in Spanish. “I am going to the villa. When you have done what you need to do, bring their bodies and the Davenp
ort girl’s to Logan’s house in his car.” He looked to Fernando. “Wrap them in plastic to make sure there is no blood, and wear gloves to drive. I will meet you at his place and have Logan’s boat ready. I’ll call our speedboat guy and arrange a meet offshore to bring us back.” He removed the BMW’s key from Logan’s key ring and threw it to Fernando Chavez.
“And what about the American brat and the Malian woman?” the mayor asked.
“You bring them in your car. After we sink Logan’s boat and the speedboat drops us to shore, he will take the two of them north to the Canaries.”
Logan groaned and began to writhe on the floor. The traffickers had cuffed his wrists and ankles using his own plastic ties.
Enrique stared into space for a moment, going over all the loose ends in his mind. Then he threw Hans a mocking two-fingered salute, picked up the sniper rifle and left the room.
- 84 -
Hans’ heartbeat stepped up as he envisaged the heinous acts Enrique would subject Penny to before he killed her. He wondered why the CIA man hadn’t executed him and Logan there and then. He didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
“Fetch the señorita,” Gonzales ordered his former sergeant, “and be quick.”
Fernando disappeared and returned seconds later with Umchima. Hans recognized her immediately as the manager of the orphanage in Gambia, the woman he and Penny had followed to the beachfront restaurant the previous day.
She eyed him with disdain.
“Forgive me if I’m tired of formal introductions, Senhor Larsson,” said the mayor, yawning. “But Miss Brenda here is taking your sweet little Jessica to a safe house in the Canary Islands as a precaution while we dispose of your bodies. From there a very nice man will deliver her to a gang of terribly sick people in Europe. They have paid good money to abuse her, which they will probably do for a couple of years, after which they will cut her throat and burn her pathetic worn-out body in an incinerator.”
“Then ‘Miss Brenda’ and I have unfinished business.” Hans glared right through the mayor’s callous eyes.
“Oh! Perhaps I didn’t explain.” Gonzales pointed his pistol in the air and cocked it. “If Miss Brenda wishes to involve herself in our little secret, then she must prove herself first.”
Umchima looked at the mayor, her flared pupils and nostrils radiating gleeful enthusiasm.
“Brenda, kill them and then the Davenport girl,” he snapped.
“Certainly, Videl.” Umchima took the Colt and leveled it at Hans’ face.
They looked each other in the eye . . .
Hans winked.
Umchima turned and shot the mayor in the head, his brains splattering across the whitewashed stonework.
Fernando’s eyes widened as he registered the look of surprise still etched on his slumped boss’s face.
Umchima shot him twice in the gut and then dispatched him with a shot to the temple.
“Special Agent Trudy Bansker, CIA,” she announced, pulling out a switchblade and cutting Hans free.
“That figures.” Hans chuckled and shook the blood back into his hands.
With no time to explain, he grabbed his M9 off the table and holstered it, then picked up his cell phone and took the BMW key from the dead butler’s hand.
“Can you take care of Logan and the girls?”
“Go!” the special agent replied.
Hans tore up a flight of stairs and, rather than waste time looking for an exit door, threw up a sash window and climbed out into the courtyard, where one of the traffickers had parked Logan’s BMW. Hans jumped into the driver’s seat, feeling thankful he was getting into the vehicle alive.
Wheels spinning, Hans flung the rear of the car around and shot through the entrance tunnel. Enrique had three or four minutes on him, but Porsche or no Porsche, Hans knew who the better driver was. He picked up his cell phone and dialed Penny.
Her voice mail kicked in.
“Penny,” Hans spoke calmly. “Enrique is coming to kill you. Get out of the villa! Do not take the jeep. Take Karen’s boat and go around the point. Don’t waste time carrying the motor down to the water. Just row out and stay close to the rocks, because he’s got a rifle.”
Hans threw the phone into the center console and concentrated on the road. Arriving at the junction onto the highway, he slid the car around, taking the right fork faster than Logan did when coming in the other direction, accelerating away leaving a cloud of rubber smoke. He focused on his breathing and reined in his adrenaline-fueled mind, preventing himself from driving too fast around the sharp bends and slowing the speed his surroundings flew past at by half.
Passing car after car, Hans stayed on the left side of the road, only pulling back across when a corner loomed or a vehicle came in the other direction. He reckoned he’d significantly closed the gap between him and Enrique, coming over the brow of a hill to see the Porsche stuck behind a truck in the distance. Hans eased off the gas and, steering the car with his knee, cocked the M9 and placed it back in the holster. His plan was to pull up alongside the Porsche and slam it off the road, but as he put his foot to the floor, Enrique blipped past the truck and sped off.
As Hans closed on the truck, the road narrowed, preventing him from passing. He considered flashing his headlights and honking the horn but knew from experience this wound truck drivers up and resulted in them blocking you from overtaking.
Hans pulled back, fighting to remain calm and give the impression of a carefree driver, but as soon as a gap appeared he pulled into the trucker’s blind spot, dropped down a gear and floored the BMW.
Closing on the truck’s tailgate at a hair-raising speed, Hans pulled out at the last moment and, leaning out of the window to check the route was clear, shot past the goods vehicle before the driver even realized, losing a wing mirror in the process.
With only a few hundred yards to the villa, anxiety kicked in despite Hans’ best efforts to control it. There was no way he could catch Enrique. Nor was there time to phone Penny again – it would waste the precious seconds between them. He pulled into Karen’s driveway and skidded to a halt in front of the villa, praying Penny had received his message.
Hans leapt from the car and ran toward the terrace, rounding the building to a scene that filled him with horror.
Time slowed down . . .
He saw Penny’s terrified expression as she pulled frantically at the oars of Karen’s boat, knowing her efforts were in vain.
Enrique stood by the terrace wall, aiming the sniper rifle.
Hans knew from such a close distance, so long as the CIA agent went for a body shot there was no way he could miss. He sprinted across the flagstones and dived through the air . . . as the shot rang out.
The high-velocity slug smashed into Penny’s chest, the shock wave rippling through her body with such force her arms flung outwards, snapping one of the oars, and she slumped in the bow.
Hans slammed into Enrique’s outstretched figure, knocking the rifle from his hands, the two of them flying over the terrace wall and plummeting into the sea. As Enrique panicked and began flailing for the surface, Hans felt a primordial surge of hatred from deep within. Enrique may well have been top dog when it came to trafficking children, but, in Navy SEAL territory now, he was about to pay dearly for his crimes.
From his Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL, “BUD/S” training, Hans knew Enrique had broken the first rule of survival – do not panic! By struggling, he was using up the air in his lungs four times faster than Hans, who was in his element.
Although the M9 could fire underwater, Hans wouldn’t risk drawing it and losing a hold around Enrique’s waist, opting to continue powering downwards with determined kicks. It was payback time for what he had done to all those terrified kids – moreover, the price for messing with Jessica Kerry Larsson.
Enrique was not about to give up. He stopped his bid for the surface and attempted to draw a knife from a sheath strapped to his calf. Hans sensed his adversary curl into a ball and i
n the lessened visibility could make out a chrome pommel protruding from the Nicaraguan’s pant leg.
As Enrique arched his body in an attempt to unsheathe his blade, Hans used all his strength three times to shake him away from it – albeit unsuccessfully, for the next thing Hans felt was jarring pain, Enrique thrusting the knife over his head and sinking its razor-sharp point into Hans’ shoulder blade.
Unperturbed, the former Navy SEAL pulled his head out of the way and let the CIA man stab into his bone, knowing the knife tip missed his vital organs.
Hans continued kicking downwards until they contacted the sand. In utter desperation Enrique changed tack and shoved the knife through one of the wrists Hans had wrapped around his waist.
Hans’ mind screamed at him to lose his hold, but instead he placed his other hand over the knife pommel and thrust it in further – right into Enrique’s stomach, the shock forcing him to take an involuntary breath.
For what seemed an age, the Nicaraguan writhed in death throes before his body finally went limp. Hans grimaced and yanked out the stiletto, letting it drop to the seabed. Then he spun the dead CIA agent around and, gripping him by his lapels, stared into a face contorted by fear – eyes bulging and tongue poking out. In that moment Enrique’s vanity, wealth and reputation meant nothing. Hans thrust the lifeless clown away and began swimming underwater in the direction of the boat.
Adrenaline from the fight waned as the crushing reality of Penny’s death replaced it. Hans couldn’t believe that after everything she’d sacrificed for him and Jessie, after everything had come right, he was recovering the body of his partner and unborn baby. A wailing anger built up inside, and as Hans burst to the surface he screamed, “Noooooo! Ahhhhh, nooooooooooooo!”
