by J. L. Curtis
John whistled. “That’s some serious shit. And most of this is going to the Cali cartel. I wonder how much is going into Medellin’s area?”
“Probably the same, if not more. Escobar is killing people right and left if there is any question about loyalty. The Cali bunch is…different. Not nearly the killings, and we’re still trying to find out who is actually running it. It’s…small, by comparison, but they’re shipping tons of product too. We’re just not sure how.”
John cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“We’re not sure how they are getting it out of the country. We think it might be going overland, well, some of it is going overland, but the other? Beats the hell out of us. Even with what they are flying out, that still doesn’t account for all of what we think they are producing.”
Menendez came in and interrupted. “John, I need to talk to you a minute. Ed, will you excuse us?” Morgan got up and walked out, mumbling about being kicked out of his own office, but he said it with a smile. Menendez glanced casually at the photos, then leaned a hip on Morgan’s desk. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What now? Other than Barone?”
“Leaks. Got word last night that the FBI busted two Coasties in Key West for providing military flight schedules to the cartel for any flights that were doing drug operations in the Caribbean, Gulf, and south Atlantic. And that’s not the worst of it. Some of Mason’s guys are being followed. He’s pulled them back to the embassy, so effectively he’s got no boots on the ground in Medellin, Bogotá, or Cali.”
“Damn. What about us?”
Menendez shrugged. “So far, I haven’t heard anything. Check with your team and if there are any issues, let me know ASAP.”
“Are we pulling back?”
“You’re the team lead. That’s up to you. Query your team and see what they think.”
Three nights later, John met with the team at the warehouse. They were all laughing about the latest delivery of beef to the restaurant in Cali, and the fact that the owner had gotten a swift kick in the stomach when he slapped one of the criollos on the butt trying to get her to move. The cow had responded and knocked him halfway across the little corral and into a bunch of manure. Hector had just finished saying, “So, I’m betting there will be steaks on sale tonight once the Señor cleaned up. I have never seen Señor Gomez so angry. We had already been paid, so we left quickly, before he could say anything to us.”
John smiled and interrupted. “Speaking of saying anything, had anybody noticed any extra eyes on you? Or being followed? Anything like that?
Hector looked up. “Why, John?”
“Well, it appears Escobar is putting people on some of the teams in Medellin, Bogotá, and Cali. They have been pulled back to the embassy, or gotten out of the country.” He looked around and didn’t see anyone who looked like they wanted to say anything, and he continued, “Okay, we’ll go on with what we’re doing. Just keep an eye out, and let me know if anything pops up, or you start seeing people repeatedly. Same goes around here and the house.”
Fernando laughed and said, “We are already paying embute to the local Policia, just like good little smugglers. And we pay the local kids in el dulce to watch the house for us.” He nodded to Montoya. “His idea to pay the kids, but I like it.”
Montoya replied, “No hay problema,” he smiled. “All little ones like candy, and they see more than one would believe.”
***
Two weeks later, the team had delivered the first barrels of avgas to a new strip carved out of the jungle valley north of Puerto Arango, and John was scheduled to meet with Menendez for their monthly accounting for funds expended. He was sitting in his cubbyhole, filling out the government expense report, when the duty Marine runner found him. “Sir, they want you in the secure room ASAP.”
The runner turned and trotted off, assuming John would go follow immediately, and John groaned as he got up, Gonna lose my place. Probably have to do that whole damn thing over. What the hell can be that important that it won’t wait another glancing down at his watch, fifteen damn minutes?
John knocked and waited for the door to be opened, then walked in to find both Menendez and Mason standing at the conference table, while Morgan talked urgently on the secure phone in the corner. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve got intel that Fabio Vazquez is going to personally supervise a pick up from a lab in the hills above Medellin. How long would it take for your team to get to Medellin?”
He cocked his head. “Uh, it’s fourteen hours to Cali, so…probably another ten, maybe eleven. Figure at least twenty-five if nothing goes wrong. But we’d be damn tired. Maybe too tired to try to go into a hostile situation and do an extract.”
Mason asked, “How would you do it?”
“Find some place to hole up for at least seven or eight hours, depending on the timeline. I mean we could do it, but we could also lose people because they don’t have an edge.”
Mason looked across the table at Menendez, “We’ve got seventy-two. Maybe.”
John looked between them. “How good is your intel? And what would you want us to do with this…Vazquez?”
“Bring him in for questioning, ideally. Otherwise, dispose of him. Either way, it would hurt the cartel badly.”
Morgan got off the phone and came over to the table. “You need some place to go to ground, John?”
“Yeah, that would be nice. If only for six or seven hours.”
“Could you get in and out at night?”
John looked at him curiously. “Sure. Assuming…a lot of things, but yeah. In and out in the dark isn’t an issue. I’m assuming this Vazquez isn’t going to show up at night at this lab.”
“Probably not. Figure late afternoon. They will want to move product after dark,” Mason said.
Morgan bit his lip for a few seconds, then said, “Fuck it. I have a safe house in Manizales. It’s empty right now. But you’d have to get in and out in the dark, and no lights. No cooking, no nothing. No trash, nothing.”
John couldn’t resist pulling his chain. “Can we at least take a shit, and the occasional piss?”
Menendez looked at him in horror, until Morgan laughed. “Yeah, you can do that. Sorry. I forget I’m dealing with professionals here.”
***
Grinning, Hector climbed out of the entry to the underground cocaine lab, “Thirty minutes set on the timer. And I might have tipped over a barrel of diesel on my way out.”
John shook his head, “Dammit Patron, you trying to blow all of us…”
A scratchy whisper came over their earpieces, “Sicarios unloading at the y in the road. I can hold ‘em off if we need to.”
John shook his head in frustration, “Damn rooks…” keying up he said, “No, Gahdammit. Are they FARC or Sicarios? We’re done here, fall back to the rendezvous. Do not…” The sound of single shots from an M-16 were followed by multiple bursts from what sounded like fully automatic AKs, all coming from the southeast of the camp. “Fuck. This isn’t good.” He keyed up again, ‘Abort, abort, abort.” Repeating the command in Spanish, he turned but Hector had disappeared, “Now where the hell,” he murmured to himself as he checked the M-16 slung over his shoulder and loosened the 1911 in his belt holster as he glanced around the little bench on the mountain where the cocaine lab was. Hard to believe this is less than a half hour from downtown Medellin. He knew he had a couple of minutes, and heard the other team members check in, all except Barone, the rookie. Shit, don’t tell me that stupid fuck got himself killed the first time out. Keying up, he asked, “Padre, you see the rook?”
A panting voice answered in Spanish, “Stupid shit stepped out from behind cover and got his ass killed. I’m trying to stay ahead of these assholes, but I may have to go to ground.”
Hector climbed back out of the lab, a little woozy, “Reset the timer to five minutes, we need to run now, Lobo.” Backing up his words, Hector took off at a trot down the path toward the overgrown track where they
had parked the beat up truck they’d used to approach the drug lab deep in the mountains above Medellin.
John took one more look around and trotted after him, keeping to the side of the trail to not leave boot tracks. Well, at least the workers have had fifteen or twenty minutes to disappear, and maybe we can lose ourselves in the jungle before the sicarios or whatever the fuck they are get here. He keyed up again, “Rojo, you clear?”
A scratchy, “Si Señor,” came back.
He heard a shot from the east and keyed up, “Gordo, you clear?”
Montoya answered calmly, “One guard on east side down. Moving.”
John counted noses, Patron, Gordo, Padre, Red, me. One more try for Barone, but based on Padre, he’s DRT. Maybe we can recover the body after we get clear. Once more he keyed the mic, “Rook? You there, rook? Double click if you copy.” The only thing he heard was silence through the earpiece, and he buckled down to following Hector.
Suddenly more gunfire erupted to his east, and he almost stopped, but heard nothing on the earpiece, and kept jogging. They were almost to the area where they had to get off the trail to avoid the booby traps when a loud crump sounded behind them, and the ground shook. Hector stopped and laughed, “Oh, that was a good one! I think there might have been more mierda down there than we thought.” He pointed to the small ribbon just ahead, “Time for us to get off the trail.”
John reached up and retrieved the ribbon, stuffing it back in his pocket, “You want to continue to lead Patron?”
Hector laughed softly, “Mi amigo, you know I am useless in this selva. Give me the plains and cactus any day!” He bowed and extended an arm to John, “Lead the way, Lobo. You love this jungle shit.”
He shook his head, “I don’t want to hear it. I’m like you, I grew up with cactus and open skies. I just know how to…” A random burst of automatic fire clipped branches over their heads, and they quickly, carefully stepped off the trail and into the jungle. Another twenty minutes maybe less to the truck. Picturing the roads in his mind, he thought, If they didn’t bring a backup, we can run directly for twenty-five and the border. If they did, we’ll know soon enough. That’s assuming we don’t get our asses ambushed before we get to the truck.
Another fifteen minutes of easing through the jungle brought them to the creek that tumbled down the side of the mountain, and they quickly crossed in the bright sunlight that shone where the creek broke up the jungle canopy, then set up with one of them facing each way. Five minutes later, Montoya strolled into the rendezvous, languidly flopping down and facing back south. “A bit of a problem, Lobo?”
John leaned up on his elbow, “Fucking rookies. I didn’t like Barone’s attitude from day one. Just because he’s a Fed, he thought he knew it all.”
Montoya started to reply when they heard gunfire from west again, much closer, and Padre said, “I’m sorry Jefe. I couldn’t stay ahead of them. I’m going to ground.”
John keyed up, “Padre, we’re not leaving your ass, now run, you’re close! We’ve got your ass covered.”
Hector wiggled over to another boulder and faced south with John and Montoya, “Really, Lobo, you had to say that?”
He looked at him, “What?”
“You like his butt? Is that what you mean?”
Another rattle of gunfire pinged off the rocks, and they all ducked, “No, of course not. It’s… There’s Padre, twenty yards downstream.”
Hector looked and said, “And he’s been shot. He’s dragging that leg. He’s not going to be able to get across…”
Padre flopped into the stream, pulling himself across with his hands, as five sicarios broke out of the jungle. “Take ‘em,” John yelled, bringing up his M-16 and taking the two closest to Padre out even as Hector and Montoya opened up on the other three. Moments later, there was only the smell of gun smoke and the deathly quiet of an upset jungle, as John low crawled down the stream bank to where he saw a hand hanging onto a boulder. “Padre,” he asked softly, only to be answered by a groan. Fuck it. I think we got them all. It’s now or never.
He lunged over the boulder, grabbed the wounded man and jerked him across the boulder. “How bad, Padre?”
“Right thigh, small of my back left side,” he gasped out. “Get me up, I can hobble.”
“How many were following you?”
“Ocho, eight. I got three, one with my machete,” he said with a smile.
John winced, “That close, huh?” He helped Padre to his feet, and they started slowly back up to the others.
Pasquale shrugged, “He was faster than the others. Now, not so much.”
They spent another five minutes treating Pasquale’s wounds as well as they could, and they started down the path to the truck. After a couple of minutes, it was obvious that he wasn’t going to make it, and John handed off his M-16 to Hector, “I’ll carry him the rest of the way. It’s not far.”
Fernando had gotten to the rendezvous and laughed, “I’ll bring up the rear, so when you fall, you don’t land on me.”
Grunting with the effort he got Padre up and more or less balanced, with him hanging on to his load bearing equipment. Five minutes later, they finally made it to the track where the truck was hidden, and John was just setting Pasquale down on the tailgate when he heard laughter in front of him, “What do we have here?”
John looked up as four FARC guerillas stepped out onto the track. Without a conscious thought, he drew his 1911 from his belt and started firing as gunfire snapped around him, firing at the faces in front of him. His slide locked back, and he took a breath, then looked around at Pasquale, who was staring at him in amazement. “You live?”
John laughed shakily. “I’m still standing aren’t I? Are you hit?”
“Noooo…Not that I can tell.”
Montoya stepped around the front of the truck, smoke curling from the barrel of his AK. “Where did they come from?”
John shrugged. “No idea. Where’s Hec, Patron?”
Hector hobbled around the back of the truck. “Right here. One of those bastardos shot the heel off my boot!
Fernando came walking down the track. “They drove down here. Found their truck just off the road. What are we going to do about Padre?”
John made a snap decision. “I’m going to take their truck and take Padre to the embassy in Bogotá. He needs treatment. The rest of you, take our vehicles, see if you can recover Barone’s body, and haul ass for Quito. I’ll get back some other way. Patron, you’re in charge.”
Hector nodded, and Montoya said, “I will recover the body. I am good in the jungle.”
Hector got the truck turned around and five minutes later, they pulled up beside the FARC’s truck. It was nicer than the F6000 they had, but John shook his head. “No, we’re not swapping trucks. There is no way for us as low level smugglers to justify that nice a truck. Besides, I don’t know who is going to be looking for this truck in the next few hours. I’m going to the embassy. The rest of you get out of here.”
Waiting
John slumped in the conference room chair, sipping a cup of coffee as he waited for the rest of the team to wander in, Where do we go from here? Barone’s dead, Pasquale…is gone for at least a couple of months, maybe longer. Mason swore he’d get him home as soon as he’s recovered enough to travel. We missed Vazquez, but we did take out probably a ton of product. For what? Menendez stepped up and picked up Barone’s body, got it shipped out. Makes me wonder how many more will die doing this shit. And for what? Are we really making any kind of difference?
Hector came in first, nodded to John and got a cup of coffee. “John, how is Pasquale?”
“Wait until everybody gets here. That way I only have to say this once.” Hector nodded and took a chair across from him. Montoya and Fernando came in, got coffee and sat on either side of Hector without a word. It was a somber group, and John couldn’t think of any way to say what had to be said, so he plunged in. “Pasquale is still at the embassy in Bogotá. He’s alive, and not w
ounded as badly as we thought. Neither bullet hit anything critical, and Mason is going to have him flown back to Guatemala as soon as he is able to travel. He’s probably going to be gone about two months, at the minimum.”
All three of them smiled at that, and he could see them physically relax. Hector asked, “What do we do now?”
“I’m not sure. Mason said to lay low for a while, especially after I told him it was FARC that was guarding that lab, or getting ready to raid it, one or the other. And we apparently took out at least a dozen or more of them.”
Fernando muttered, “Good riddance.” He started to spit, then stopped. “They are…communist. Cuba and who knows who else is funding them.”
Montoya waved his coffee cup. “They are getting funds from the drugs they steal and sell. We see them in southern Mexico, selling cocaine to the Gulf cartel in Mexico. They take the money and go back to Colombia, while the Gulf cartel moves it north to the border and into the US.”
Hector smiled. “I left a joker nailed to a tree. That should confuse them.” Fernando and Montoya laughed as John shook his head sadly. “Do we go on with our normal smuggling?”
John glared at Hector. “I’m sorry I ever mentioned those damn playing cards. Pasquale wasn’t out front on any of the dealings, so I don’t see why not. If we move…Hector to driving the truck, Fernando in the passenger’s seat, and Carlos in the back, I can follow in the Mercedes. That way they don’t see me, and I can provide backup.”
Fernando said, “But Hector is supposedly the big man, he wouldn’t be driving.”
Hector replied, “I’ll ride in the right seat. Fernando is probably the better driver anyway. And I need to be getting out and getting more shipments.”
