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BONUS MATERIAL
An excerpt from CRY ME A RIVER
By Robert Michael
Infinite Word Press, 2012
Manuel Villarreal knew when something was not right. Most people had a sense of it when they made a mistake. Sometimes a sense of dread could overcome them or they would have a prescient moment. The way that Paul had explained it to Manny was that the Spirit of God moves in each person and manifests itself as guilt, prophesy, regret, or action, among other manifestations of the Spirit.
Whatever the explanation, Manny knew without a doubt that something bad was about to happen. Mostly he could attribute this sense of dread with a dream he had.
Initially, he had chalked it up to the heavy meal they had consumed together before they retired last night. It was not a premonition. It was a memory. This was not the first time he had experienced this dream.
He had dreamt of Domingo and his father. He remembered the dream so vividly because it called upon his memory, not his imagination. Often, when he had this dream, it foretold of pending trouble.
He recalled the dream again in his mind’s eye as the boat drifted in port and he awaited the arrival of Paul and Claire. He closed his eyes and let the dream take him back to that time ten years ago. The gentle rocking of the boat in the moors allowed him to drift, to go back, and to experience the past again.
He moved through the jungle with four others. They were all shadows. Dressed in black with dark paint on their faces, their rifles were charcoal black, their painted bayonets black, and their knives at their sides a flat black, even the blades. They were murderous, black-clad devils, their movements graceful and deadly. Their purpose—dealing death—was awash upon their stoic faces, the set of their feet upon the lush forest floor, the urgent breathing, caught in their throats, ragged and full of expectation, revenge and regret.
They stole through the undergrowth toward a rise. Cesar, the tall one, took the rifle from his back, a Russian Dragonov sniper rifle he had stolen from a Nicaraguan militia. He stooped in the tall grass at the top of the hill and unzipped his carrying bag in the dark.
They gathered around him silently as he pulled out a large pouch. From it, he extracted the PSO-1 sights. He fitted it quickly on the side rail of the rifle. Then, he pulled from the bag a suppressor that fit on the barrel just past the flash reducer already there. He chambered a 7.62mm bullet from the ten round magazine with a sharp report.
Cesar looked up at them and nodded.
Manuel gave him a “thumb up” sign. They all hunkered down or lay prone on the grass. Cesar crawled forward; the sling wrapped around one hand, his elbows digging into the moist soil.
They managed this way until they could see the cabin less than two hundred yards away. Bright yellow light spilled from its windows and illumined the four guards standing near the front. The Venezuelan guards chatted quietly, their voices carrying in the night.
Manny checked his watch and then resumed his vigil. The men eyed him anxiously, their rifles at ready. He could hear their nervous movements as they checked extra magazines and the maps that each carried in their belts.
He looked for each of them, knowing their shapes by heart, knowing the gleam in each of their eyes. Miguel Santos, the wiry explosives expert from Cali. Luis Guilliermas, a French nationalist who had worked for the Villarreals for a decade. Mateo Chaguala Espanoza, the largest and strongest of the group. They called him The Santa Martan Bull. He carried the light machine gun, a Belgium-made FN MAG 10, with two metal boxes of ammunition.
They each had a role to play. Cesar was to quietly eliminate the guards so they could breach the perimeter. Miguel’s role was to plant explosives to cover their retreat, taking out a bridge, an armored personnel carrier, and two guard towers about a click away. Luis and Mateo were to breach the compound with Manny as Cesar covered them from this rise.
Once Domingo was removed from the compound they would rendezvous at a truck they had stashed just over a kilometer to the north. Cesar would drive. It was a farm truck with Venezuelan tags. Cesar was known more as a farmer in these parts than a rifleman. Only Manny knew the truth.
Without warning, the grass in front of Cesar snapped as he fired the SVD. One man who had bent over to get a drink collapsed quietly into the dark surrounding the house.
Everyone held their breath and watched.
The other three guards in the valley below continued to talk.
One wandered off to the north.
Just as he was almost swallowed up by the night, they saw him lurch forward. Cesar had adjusted his rifle so that the grass would not give away his position. The night sounds remained uninterrupted. Birds chirped. Insects hummed.
Manny could see Cesar’s smile, cold and satisfied in the gloom. His teeth were gritted together as he swung the rifle to the front again.
“Perhaps now would be good, Miguel,” Manny said as he tapped him on the shoulder.
Miguel nodded silently and blinked. He gathered a satchel and his silenced FAMAE S.A.F. submachine gun. His face was grim and set as he moved stealthily toward the bridge below them.
Soon, the other two guards were down. Cesar moved off to the north, closer to the truck and in a better position to cover the others. Manny led Luis and Mateo down the path. They searched ahead for signs of more guards. There were none.
Manny glanced behind them, satisfied that he could not spot Cesar on the ridge, even though he knew his exact location: left of the large boulder before the tree line. He scanned the creek and watched as the silent silhouette of Miguel stalked toward the ditch on the opposite side of the road where the APC was parked, silent and hulking in the night.
The cabin was before them, its light casting the long shadows of the corpses littering the grounds. Manny could see inside past the glare. Several heads were visible, some seated, some pacing the room.
He placed his hand on the ground, pointed to Luis, and gestured to his left. He looked at Mateo and patted his back. Luis moved off to the left, his black boots crunching in the gravel of the drive. Mateo nodded and took up a position ten feet behind Manny and to his right as they approached the front door.
With eight armed guards and two officers inside, Manny didn’t want to take too many chances with crossfire. They had Mateo for suppression, Luis using his shotgun from the side door and Manny’s deadly aim with his folded stock AK-103. Theoretically, they would subdue the captors quickly, despite being outnumbered.
Before they reached the door, a shout from behind them pierced the gloom. Short, muffled bursts, signaled Miguel’s submachine gun at work. A low groan emitted from near the ditch. The noise had alerted those inside the compound.
Movement from within was Manny’s cue to hurry. Before he could clear the porch, though, Mateo began firing through the window. The light machine gun bucked in Mateo’s hands, his face lit with effort and glee. His smile radiated through the night.
Manny leapt to the porch and to the left to avoid the spray of bullets whipping by him. They echoed in the night, ripping the rotten siding of the cabin to shreds and mowing down two guerilla captors.
He kept his back to the wall, glancing inside the only remaining intact window. He saw someone coming toward the door.
Manny fired from the hip, taking out a mustached officer as he slammed the front door open, an automatic pistol in one hand and a
flashlight in the other.
The flashlight was torn from the officer’s hand as his chest exploded in a rain of gore. Manny swore under his breath as he desperately searched for his brother inside. He could see him through the dirty glass of the window. Two men had Domingo between them. His head was slumped down, unconscious.
Manny heard the loud report of Luis’ Franchi SPAS-12 tactical shotgun exploding inside the confines of the house. Someone screamed. Someone cursed. Blood splattered windows, wood splintered and Manny continued to move and fire in bursts. Two more guards lay dead.
“Reloading!” Mateo yelled.
Manny could see him squat down and hear the coil feed drop clinking to the ground beside him. Mateo opened the metal box and pulled a new chain of ammunition out and fed it into the huge rifle. Without suppression, without surprise, and without numbers to their advantage, Manny began to worry. He could see concern etched on Mateo’s face as well.
Seasoned soldiers, they understood the risk they had taken following Manny into this folly. The Villarreal family would not allow their father’s murder to go unpunished and they would never allow the family cartel to be taken from under them with violence. Retribution was necessary.
Manny felt a pull in the air near his shoulder and watched as a high-velocity shell tore out the eye of an officer who had flanked him while Mateo was reloading. Mateo glanced to the knoll and offered a silent nod of sincere thanks to Cesar. The officer snapped his head back and lay across the doorway.
Manny ran for the door, and hurdled the body, firing a round off as he entered. It penetrated an overturned couch and he heard the satisfying cry of a voice from behind it. He checked his left briefly, seeing Luis slumped near the side door, blood covering his pants and boots, a grimace of agony on his haggard face.
“You alright?” Manny asked.
“They left through the back.” Luis responded, pointing with his eyes.
Manny heard the shuffle and clink of Mateo running while lugging the machine gun and ammo outside. Manny glanced out the window and saw him pursuing someone to the west, back toward Cesar’s flank.
They would get away if he didn’t move quickly. He patted Luis shoulder and exited through the back door.
The man he had shot behind the couch rose up, a long combat knife slashing the air. He stabbed out, missing Manny by a scant inch. By reflex, Manny smashed the man’s cheek with his rifle. He felt the stock crunch against bone and watched out of his peripheral vision as the man slumped lifeless into a heap amid the overturned table. He rushed through the door and continued into the night, pursuing the plodding guards as they dragged the unconscious Domingo through the tall grasses west of the cabin.
Manny didn’t stop to consider why they were running in the opposite direction from the APC until he saw the headlights bounding through the grass towards him. A truck skidded to a stop, illuminating the retreating guerilla soldiers. Then shots fired, bullets arcing blue and white fire into the darkness, flinging dirt and spraying grass all around him.
A white hot pain struck his arm and spun him around as he ran. He lost his balance, dropped his rifle and felt the earth come up to meet him roughly as he fell. He heard Mateo shout and fire at the truck as the men pushed Domingo into the back.
Another bullet tore into his ankle, shattering bone and tendon. He grasped the grass in front of him and tried to lie lower, crawling desperately and fighting the pain in his arm and leg. He reached for the .45 at his waist and brought it up with his good hand and fired off several shots, knowing he was firing too high and too wildly.
The same was not true for Mateo. His shots rained across the hood of the car, pinging off the engine, flattening the front tire, caving in the passenger door. The door flew open as the truck hurtled past them and one man fell out limp to the ground. Mateo began to fire at the truck as it fled back toward the bridge.
“NO! Domingo is in the back! Mateo!”
He fired high, stopped suddenly, and fell forward, face first. There was a moist smack as his gun hit the ground. Manny blinked. Mateo was dead.
Manny struggled to his knees and crawled over to him. Just as he reached him and saw the large exit hole in his skull, he heard the truck stop with a loud screech, and a scream of the engine. Manny looked up in time to see it flip over, end over end. He felt a sickened knot develop in his chest.
He tucked the .45 into the waist of his slacks and grabbed Mateo’s weapon. He used it as a crutch to rise to standing. As he did, he glanced again to the ridge. He saw a glint of light off the optic sight of Cesar’s SVD. Suspicious, Manny grimaced as he limped forward to the truck immobile and on its side two hundred feet away.
As he neared the durable personnel carrier, he could see flames licking the underside near the engine. He knew time was crucial. Two bodies lay to the side of the truck, one the driver and the other the final guard. He was dead. The driver groaned and turned over onto his back.
Manny stepped on his hand, which held a .45 Colt revolver. A classic, American Wild West revolver like his cousin Al liked to play with. Manny shot the man in the center of the head with a single shot from the FN MAG.
He heard footsteps and looked up to see Luis struggling across the field. He stopped and looked at the truck, his eyes sad and his right arm hanging limp and dripping blood down his side. He was dead, standing.
“This was a mess,” he admitted. He collapsed to his knees on the grass.
“Yes, Luis. A mess. Stay here a minute. I will be back. I have to see if Domingo is alive.”
“You’ll die trying.”
“If I must,” he said, not looking at Luis. He stared at the truck as the flames raised higher, lighting the grass around it in a smoky blaze.
He staggered forward, limping on his destroyed ankle. His arm throbbed mercilessly. He trudged on inexorably and lifted the canvas cover over the rear compartment of the truck. Domingo lay there, his leg at a sickening angle beneath his torso, his arms splayed over his head in a sort of bizarre dance pose.
Manny got on his knees, feeling the heat of the fire licking at his clothes. He crawled, it was easier than walking. He grabbed Domingo’s collar and dragged him out from the back of the truck. He didn’t examine him closely. For all he knew, Domingo was dead. His body certainly felt stiff and heavy.
“Come on, brother. Wake up,” he whispered hoarsely. The smoke was filling his lungs, burning his throat. His eyes watered. With all his strength he pulled. He could feel the muscle in his arm tear more. He could feel the crunch of the shattered bones of his ankle.
Pretty boy Manny would never look the same. He smiled despite the pain, despite the fear and grief that grasped at his heart. Father, and now Domingo. He pleaded with God, a God he had never believed in. A God that he had denounced. Now Manny needed Him, would do anything.
The tears in his eyes streamed down his face, etching the soot there in moisture, leaving a dark trail. Through the smoke and the tears, Manny saw the figure of Luis lying in the grass now where he had left him. His breath came in shallow spurts and rasps.
Luis looked at him from the ground, turning his head. He smiled at him sadly and blinked slowly.
“You found him. He looks as dead as me.”
“You both will be fine. Cesar will come get us in the truck soon.”
“No. Cesar killed Mateo and shot the driver. He is working for them, too. Manny, be car—” he coughed, blood splattering the grasses near him. He swallowed with a grimace. “Be careful, Manny. They will kill all the Villarreals.”
Luis’ face and his words haunted his dreams ever since. In those next few years after he had rescued Domingo, avenged their father’s death, and re-established the Villarreal family legacy, Manny had taken a great amount of pride in his efforts to never allow Luis’ prophecy come true.
Many times as danger lurked, he would have this dream. It was a dream to remind him that enemies were everywhere and that even the most innocent had an agenda.
He opened his e
yes, taking in the vista of the mountains ahead, the river cutting a wide brown swath through the forest and the fields. He wondered what threats were at hand and if maybe he was in the wrong place, if maybe he had made the wrong decisions. The past beckoned him, his guilt called him, a sense of responsibility pulled at him.
He regretted speaking to Paul the way he had last night. Deep down, Manny knew that Paul was right. He could not ignore the influence of the dream and the warning it held. At the same time, he could not submit to the man he had been. He had to focus on the man that God wanted him to be.
He felt sad and wary. He had left his brother alone with wolves at his door. If only he could convince Domingo to put it all behind him and begin a new legacy. Maybe it was too late, maybe that was why the dream had come and why his gut was telling him something bad was going to happen soon.
CRY ME A RIVER
By Robert Michael
Available at www.infinitewordpress. com.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Michael is a writer and commercial roofing sales director. His love for books, family, and God fill his time and his spirit. He enjoys reading, writing, sports, fishing, and gaming. He lives in Broken Arrow with his wife and four children.
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Other books available from Infinite Word Press:
DARK MOUNTAIN by Robert Michael
THE VAGARY TALES by Robert Michael
CRY ME A RIVER by Robert Michael
MANIC MONDAY (JMC #1) by Robert Michael
A MONTH OF MONDAYS (JMC #2) by Robert Michael
THANK GOD IT’S MONDAY (JMC #3) by Robert Michael
THE MONDAY COLLECTION, Vol. 1 by Robert Michael
RAINY DAYS AND MONDAY (JMC #4) by Robert Michael
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Manic Monday (The Jake Monday Chronicles #1) Page 17
