by Vince Milam
Chapter 35
The weather was decent. Not great but good, and I’d take it. An eastern breeze blew a chop across the Caribbean. My preference—a glass-like surface for hauling ass across fifty miles of dark sea. But at least there were no rollers, no waves to contend with.
We arrived at the pirates’ cove after dark. Leather bag in hand, I slung the rucksack across my back and approached the vessels wearing fatigues, a webbed battle vest, and holstered sidearm. The assault rifle and high explosives would be produced once we hit Providencia, although there was no point hiding intent. Paco didn’t care, although my battle attire ensured he’d demand his cut early. In case I didn’t return.
The squat smuggler looked me up and down, grunted, and lifted the anchor off the sand. Several other boats made preparations for nighttime runs, a few with their cargo tarped while others remained empty. Drugs, contraband, human immigrants—the underworld trade displayed before me was replicated a hundred times across the vast swath of Caribbean islands.
As my boat driver stood with anticipation, a roll of Benjamins passed hands. Half the fee. The other half upon return. The smuggler handed Paco his cut, then pocketed the cash and dropped the small anchor into his vessel. I splashed through a few inches of water and climbed on board. Paco followed, carrying a string bag filled with water bottles and food.
“You shouldn’t come,” I said as he lifted a leg across the gunwale. “Wait here. I’ll return in a few hours.”
“I will come with you. It is part of our agreement.”
A tacit agreement between the two of us or an understanding with the squat smuggler—didn’t know and didn’t care. Likely he traveled as investment protection and ensured his cut.
The smuggler toted a long canvas bag and dropped it alongside his feet once situated at the rear of the boat. A small clang accompanied the bag’s placement. A familiar sound. This guy traveled with his own selection of weapons. Fair enough. A pirate, a smuggler—he wouldn’t travel unarmed.
I settled at the prow, the front peak of the boat. Tucked the rucksack as a backrest and faced Paco and the driver. With the beach transaction complete, the smuggler, and Paco, knew I carried cash. Lots of cash. My back wouldn’t face either of them, preventing a likely scenario. A few miles at sea, a quick head shot, rifle through my possessions, and toss my dead body overboard. A short, lucrative trip. I pulled the pistol and checked to ensure it was loaded. An act performed for the other two. I always kept my sidearm loaded.
The smuggler fired the engines and blue exhaust smoke wafted away with the breeze. He let them idle, warm up. Then lit a cigarette. Plastic gas tanks—their hoses jury-rigged to feed the engines—littered the floor of the vessel at his feet. Great. Just freakin’ great. At least he wouldn’t fire any more smokes once we were underway. Too much wind.
“Ready?” the smuggler asked.
Other boats fired their outboards around us. One of the boats with a mounted car engine roared awake. Calls and insults between smugglers, a bit of tight laughter. The pirate navy of San Andres came to life. Providencia fifty miles north, the Corn Islands off Nicaragua eighty miles west, Costa Rica and Panama an intrepid three hour fast boat trip south. All a pirate needed was plenty of fuel, weapons, calm seas, and brass balls.
“I have a question.”
The smuggler cocked his head and waited. He’d know of Stinnett. A lone gringo as a Providencia resident. Plus the smuggler understood my mission. The battle garb, the sidearm, my own clanging leather bag. It didn’t bother him—these guys worked under strict don’t ask, don’t tell policies. The risk lay in whether Stinnett had this guy on the payroll. The best practice in these situations—ascertain the answer early.
I rolled the dice and asked, “An American on Providencia. He lives there. Owns a big boat. You know where he lives?”
“Yes.”
“Will you point his house once we arrive?”
Providencia consisted of steep hills, lots of tucked-away spots. A time-saver knowing where the guy lived, although he could have a favorite bar or eatery where he spent evenings. But he’d return home at some point.
The smuggler spit over the side and tossed his smoke into the water. “A thousand.”
A positive sign. Either there was no love lost between the two or they didn’t know each other as the smuggler sought easy cash for information. Unconcerned if a random rich gringo was whacked this night.
“Five hundred.”
“Seven fifty.”
“Done.”
Deal struck, the smuggler eased backward into the cove, turned the boat, and goosed it. The bow lifted, the engines howled, and in short order we planed across the surface. The light surface ripples delivered the boat irregular bow slaps. The lights of San Andres faded, stars coated the sky, the freshest of salt air whipped past. Fifteen minutes into the trip I pulled the satellite phone from the rucksack and checked GPS. The smuggler was on a perfect track. He’d made this run more than a few times. Phone returned, I settled back and watched our wake and the boat’s other occupants. Past the driver’s head and to the left, a distant and sporadic light. Strange colors—a mix of yellow and blue, twinkling.
I stared for ten minutes and pondered as it approached. The strange lights maintained a parallel track to ours, off the right side. And catching us. It was difficult to fathom given we scooted at a speed hard for any decent-sized boat to match. Then realization came, without undue concern. It was one of the car engine powered boats from the smuggler’s cove. Exhaust pipes, pointed skyward, popped blue/yellow flames as the boat flew across the water.
I lifted a pointing finger toward the approaching vessel. Our driver stared into the distance to his right, back ahead, and again toward the right. He studied the other vessel for a full minute. Then as one hand gripped the wheel, his other unzipped the canvas bag and produced an AK47 assault rifle. Concern arrived, and I followed suit. The Tavor rifle appeared and lay across my lap.
“What’s going on, Paco?” I called above the engine noise. He’d observed both the approaching boat and the driver’s actions.
He yelled a question at the driver, the words lost in the whipping wind and engine noise. They held a brief yelled conversation. Paco turned toward me and called over the noise.
“It is possible they are making the same trip.”
“What else is possible?”
“It is possible they wish your money.”
Hells bells. I had enough to think about without a ragtag pirate gang attempting a high-seas robbery. I hadn’t hidden the cove beach transaction, the roll of dollars evident. A stupid mistake. It was a substantial wad handed over, visible even at night. One of my driver’s competitors saw easy money flashed and decided low risk easy pickings this night. Wrong, asshole.
I checked them through the Tavor’s night vision scope. The surface chop allowed irregular focus, their image bouncing in and out of my sight. But I could discern their makeup. Five men. A collective effort among the San Andres pirate community. Their distance, five hundred yards. And closing.
I put myself in their shoes. Get within a couple hundred yards and begin firing. Scatter sufficient bullets across the distance, count on several rounds hitting our vessel. Knowing we couldn’t outrun them, we’d stop. Capitulate and quit and hope for robbery instead of murder on the high seas. Well, screw that noise.
My driver didn’t appear in the mood for any form of quit. He kept the boat’s throttle firewalled, no slowdown. At three hundred yards the nasty twinkles started. Muzzle blasts from automatic weapons. No tracers so I couldn’t tell how close the bullets flew past. Until one, then two and three thwacked the side of the thick aluminum hull between me and Paco. The driver heard the bullet strikes as well and ducked tight behind the wheel. A critical moment. The driver held the option of stopping, perhaps save himself. And take his cut of the prize in the process. Time to take that option off the table.
Frustrated with the lack of aiming ability with the boat’s jolting,
I switched the Tavor’s selection to full automatic, threw it to my shoulder, and fed hot lead their way. Short three-round bursts. I couldn’t tell where or if they struck home, but the other boat’s occupants would see my muzzle blasts and understand they were in a fight. My driver sensed we’d crossed a point of no return and joined the gunplay. He switched the AK47 to his right hand and drove with his left. One-handed, he too cut loose with short bursts aimed in the general direction of our enemy while screaming curse words at the top of his lungs. Better than nothing.
At two hundred yards as both vessels skipped across the sea’s surface, numbers began to count. Five against one. I didn’t rely on my driver’s shots hitting their mark. Several of mine did, evidenced when the other vessel’s occupants lowered their profile and fired behind the boat’s protective hull. Paco huddled below the gunwale and yelled for updates. I yelled back a quick assessment. We were in deep shit.
Five full automatic weapons blasted our way. One and a half fired back, the driver now even lower in his seat. His AK rested and bounced on the gunwale as he cut loose with ineffective bursts. Another string of bullets splatted against our hull—the sound of hard-thrown rocks against a tin shed. Not good. Not good at all. The situation screamed for a change in dynamics.
All right, you bastards. Let’s introduce someone new to the party. I laid the rifle back into the leather bag and pulled the Thumper. Breech cracked open, the heavy short barrel hinged downward. I slid a soda can-sized grenade into the barrel and slammed it shut. Commitment, accuracy, courage, and tactics. All critical components required for battle. But back them up with more damn firepower.
A simple weapon, I gauged the Thumper’s aim. Eyeballed the appropriate elevation and distance ahead of the speeding enemy. Slapped the trigger. It kicked against my shoulder, a low thump sound instead of the sharp crack of a rifle. The grenade soared into the night. Two and a half seconds later it struck past and behind the other boat. A volume of Caribbean water geysered upward when it hit the surface. Too much elevation, not enough of a lead. Round two.
While loading, I glanced at the other occupants. Paco held a serious eyebrow-bunched expression and watched with great intent. The scarred smuggler exhibited a different response. He placed the AK back across his lap. His wide wolf-grin flashed a gold-tooth display in the moonlight as he gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Closing the breach, I aimed further ahead and with less elevation. Bullets continued to thwack against our hull as the enemy closed. A muted thump and a second and a half later the water exploded twenty feet behind the enemy, but on the proper line. Elevation good and with a bit more lead, party over. Two grenades left.
The other boat, their eyes aimed at us and ears filled with the howling engine and the crack of automatic fire, hadn’t noticed either of my shots. That would soon change. I adjusted the Thumper’s aim for a better calibrated distance in front of the speeding boat and lowered the barrel’s elevation a small amount as the distance between us closed. I tugged the trigger.
The explosive round blew away the front third of their boat. The vessel’s remnant hull dug into the warm waters and sent it flipping end-over-end in the Caribbean night. The yellow/blue engine exhaust flames continued their staccato pops as it tumbled through the air two, three, four times. Then an ugly landing as pieces of boat and men blew across the salty surface.
Paco shot me a tight affirming nod. The driver kept a predator smile, now tight-lipped, satisfied. We continued skimming the sea, full bore. Flying fish burst through the surface at our bow wake and glided off into the night. Millions of stars hung as bright pinpoints. And five more dead men were chalked up across the Caribbean Sea.
A quick slide of the Thumper back into the leather bag, the assault rifle lay across my lap. A preventative measure in case my personal pirate reconsidered the golden opportunity facing him across the boat’s interior. Helluva way to live.
Chapter 36
We approached Providencia. A dark mass rising from the sea with clusters of lights along its coastline. The steep inland hills—rising as high as 1000 feet—held fewer signs of habitation. I’d studied the maps, the geography, and understood most of the island residents clustered around the north end of the island. Stinnett’s yacht would dock there. But he would live inland, enjoying his personal slice of isolation and protection.
A single road circled the island. A mix of pavement and gravel near the coves and beaches and open air shacks offering beer and fresh fish. The less occupied villages carried the names of Freetown, Bottom House, Smooth Water.
Providencia held no large tourist hotels or developments. A Caribbean island throwback when simpler times ruled. No cell phone service. Two undependable Wi-Fi spots. Several dilapidated fortresses from the real pirates of the Caribbean days. A random ancient rusted cannon or two. Shorts and T-shirts were the official dress with bikes and scooters and sandaled feet the modes of transportation.
We headed west toward the leeward side of the island. The protected waters changed to flat calm, glass. The smuggler slowed, cruised, a half-mile offshore. A cluster of lights, a small town, appeared and we edged our way toward it.
“Fresh Water Bay.” With the engines cut back and speed slowed, the smuggler’s voice could be heard. “The Norte Americano lives above the village.”
It made sense. Stinnett drew his posse from the village below him. And there would be a posse—guards, a protective gang—guaranteed. He’d crossed the line and now lived a lucrative and susceptible lifestyle.
“Take me south of the village. Away from people.”
He took the opportunity to light a smoke and relax, a hand draped over the wheel and one leg thrown across the gunwale.
“There is a small road from the village to his house.”
“I do not want the road. The beach south of the village. Drop me off there and wait.”
I pulled the rucksack from the bow point and made a show of removing several fat rolls of Benjamins from an interior pocket. I took my time and shoved them into pockets of the webbed battle vest. Not doing so opened the door for my return ride making a hasty and lucrative exit after he dropped me off. An ass pain, but I was dealing with a pirate. And for all I knew, Paco would have assisted him.
We cut speed to a fast idle as the beach approached. Steep vegetation-covered hills rose ahead, the lone hardtop road at their base. No motorized traffic heard. Human noise drifted across the calm bay. Villagers ate, drank, socialized.
The bow eased onto the beach, and the engines shut off. I vest pocketed the four Ruag frag grenades and two extra rifle clips. A KA-BAR knife waist-strapped, shoelaces tightened, and knee pads situated. Good to go. I delivered a tight nod toward Paco, and he returned the grim gesture. A locked-eye stare with the smuggler constituted our good-bye.
Before I crossed the beach and made it through the fifty feet of brush toward the paved road, three boys appeared. They were hidden among the moonlight-shadowed palms at our arrival, playing, being kids. Unseen. Now they stood stock still, capturing the sight of a lone boat with two men. And a third man in fatigues carrying an assault rifle. Bad luck. Bad luck heightened when they took off, a mad dash toward the village a quarter-mile away. Oh man. They’d alert villagers of the situation. And word would reach Stinnett’s posse. Damn.
No turning back, no reconsideration. I held no intention of engagement with local armed badasses, but the possibility had always existed. I moved forward. Dozens of black crabs at the intersection of beach and trees scuttled away. A spooked iguana, lurking in the vegetation before the road, dashed ahead, cut left, and disappeared. I checked both directions at the road. Still, quiet, no traffic of any sort. I crossed and scaled a steep brush-covered hill, topping out at a ridgeline running inland. Several more ridges showed on the left and right, steep brush-filled ravines between the jagged spines. I knee-dropped and gathered visual intel.
Above and along another ridgeline stood a substantial house. Not a mansion or estate, but larger and mor
e prominent than a run-of-the-mill Caribbean dwelling. There were a few inside lights on, but no movement. No other houses or structures around. I scoped the vehicle parked in front. A Kawasaki side-by-side ATV, brand new. The polished chassis reflected moonlight. That wouldn’t last long in a salt air environment. Then relief flooded as a shadow passed across the main room. Stinnett was home.
I wasn’t adverse to a long-range shot. A sniper’s shot. Cold, dispassionate. It also held the advantage of a quick kill and no trace of entry or conflict. So I sought a sniper position. The next ridgeline over offered a clean view of the house’s large main room as well as several other rooms’ windows. I crawled off the ridgeline—no silhouette against the sky—and made my way downhill. The steep ravine at the bottom was filled with scrub trees and brush—thick and unavoidable. Maintaining slow movement, I sidestepped through brush. A broken brush limb would sound a crack, a nighttime noise indicating animal movement. Or a hitter’s progress.
Scaling the new ridge I searched for the best firing angle. Just below the top and on the other side held the most promise. As I crawled over the narrow ridgetop and dropped down several yards, noise. Brush moving, a few crackles of small limbs. And whispered voices below me in the bottom of the ravine. Stinnett’s posse had arrived, searching for me.
Let them pass. It was a waste of time and energy engaging a motley bunch of armed amateurs. Instead, I’d take out their boss and haul ass. Flat on my belly, I waited. So did the posse. Two of them climbed the other side of the ravine, dark shaped movement working uphill. They crested and dropped to the other side. Where Stinnett’s road lay. A hand-full remained, now quiet and eyeballing the terrain. The head-high brush and stunted trees filled the ravine’s bottom and hid them well, but also obscured their vision. Fine. Boredom would set in soon, and they’d climb out—head either for Stinnett’s house or for the village and a beer, excitement over. I bet on the latter. The testimony of a couple of ten or eleven year old kids wouldn’t hold a great deal of water. They could check the parked boat a quarter mile down the beach from their village and find the smuggler and Paco. But they’d leave the smuggler alone, ask few questions. Unwritten rules, and ones they would avoid breaking.
