Off Guard: A clean action adventure book

by Glen Robins

  The room began to spin and his stomach clenched tight as the blood drained from his head. That’s when things turned to black again and he felt his cheek collide with something hard.

  ****

  San Martin Texmelucan, Mexico

  June 18, 4:08 a.m. Local Time

  The gardening truck barreled into the motel’s dirt parking lot and slid to a stop in front of the two prone bodies. Jorge and Riptide jumped out of the cab just as an inebriated man and a scantily clad buxom young woman in spiked heels and tousled hair cautiously circled the scene. The woman held a hand over her mouth, visibly shaken. Even the drunk john, too boozed up to know where he was, turned in horror. He looked dazed and ready to vomit. It was apparent that these two had certain business that had concluded. Most likely, they had come outside due to the commotion. There was a door left open in the direction from which they stumbled, so Jorge quickly pointed them back toward their room at the far end of the low-rise building. With all the authority he could muster, he told them this was government business and, if they wanted to avoid jail, they would move a little faster. The couple staggered away, stealing glances over their shoulders and whispering to each other as they did.

  The two American ex-soldiers quickly loaded their fallen colleagues into the back of the truck and set about covering up the blood and gore.

  Taking notice of another open door, this one on the near side of the U-shaped motel, Riptide pointed it out to Jorge and the two jumped over the log barrier and into the room. Jefe, the leader of Team B, was sprawled out on the floor, his phone two feet from his hand. Jorge grabbed his legs. Riptide, moving to his head, first collected the phone, then gripped Jefe under the armpits and hefted. “He’s got a nasty head wound here. Looks like he got clobbered bad,” he said, twisting his face and looking away.

  Jorge grimaced. “Let’s get him in the truck and get out of here.”

  “Better clean this place up, too,” said Riptide. “Don’t need to be leaving any clues behind. Now, let’s move it.”

  After grappling Jefe’s inert weight into the back seat of the truck, the two men went to work on cleaning the room. They moved quickly and efficiently, wiping down walls and surfaces and mopping up as much of Jefe’s blood as they could. Ostensibly missing was the computer hardware each team carried with it. Eight and a half minutes after their arrival, they sped away from the cheap motel.

  Jorge worked the phone while Riptide drove. The original meticulously laid-out plan had blown up and they had to come up with another one—quickly.

  “Butch says we’ve got to ditch this vehicle, but first we’ve got to get him some medical attention,” said Jorge, pointing a thumb toward Jefe, who moaned softly in the backseat.

  “He give you any ideas?”

  “Yeah, there’s a dual-citizen doctor that does a lot of work for our guys locally on the north side of town. Says he can be trusted.”

  “Perfect. Did he give you an address?”

  A ding sounded on Jorge’s phone. “Yep. Just came in.”

  “What about Butch? He can’t stay in the motel. These guys are obviously onto us somehow.”

  “He’s been coordinating the other teams coming into town, but when this guy didn’t answer, he got nervous and had another team pick him up. He’s heading out to Rendezvous Point Charlie. ETA about twenty minutes.”

  A siren wailed in the distance. The two men looked at each other. The sound was coming toward them from the north and traveling very fast. Two federal police trucks sped past them. Riptide watched in his mirror. “Bet they’re going back to the scene of the crime.”

  “Yeah, we’d better get out of here.”

  As Riptide pressed on the gas, the truck’s engine rumbled louder and the speed picked up. Wind whistled inside the cab, but didn’t quite drown out the moans of their friend in the back seat.

  ****

  Mt. Tlaloc, on the outskirts of Mexico City, Mexico

  June 18, 4:34 a.m. Local Time

  Collin had been steadily climbing for more than two hours. His heart was pounding and his breathing labored. The air was thinner than he remembered from his backpacking days as a young Boy Scout. Of course, he was now older and had not slept much over the past few days. And, as he recalled, very few of the mountains he had hiked in Southern California were this high. He paused to shine the headlamp in all directions, checking for hazards and getting his bearings.

  He also checked his GPS unit. The good news: he was on course. The not-so-good news: he had only covered a little over three miles toward his goal along the pitched, switch-backing trail. Slow progress was to be expected climbing at this rate. As he removed the pack from his back, he noticed his stomach felt queasy. It was probably hunger, considering the fact that he hadn’t had a real meal since before they had arrived at the motel in the early evening. Could be the altitude and the speed with which he had climbed. In any case, he set the pack down and rummaged through the pockets in search of food and water. He found an energy bar, dense with protein and carbohydrates. That seemed to be the quickest and easiest food to consume during a short stop. Just a few bites in and he knew he’d have to save the rest for later. The density and texture was too much for his stomach to bear all at once. A slug of water helped rinse down the chalky, chewy residue left behind.

  After a few minutes of resting and refueling, Collin decided to press on. As he tightened the belt strap, the pain in his gut became more pronounced. No time to stress about a few cramps, he had to keep moving.

  The quarter moon was now hidden from view as he wound through the folds and crevasses of the mountain. There were unfamiliar noises coming from the shadows and darkness and clumps of trees on either side of the trail. Thoughts of mountain lions, bears, and wild boar raced through Collin’s mind. He hadn’t gotten a full briefing about the hazards of the area’s wildlife from Freddie and Jefe prior leaving the motel room. The primary objective was for him to become invisible before the police showed up. Pack a bag and get pushed out the door. That’s how it went. Everyone seemed to assume that he had had the same training as them, whatever that entailed.

  Collin realized he had no idea what types of animals lived in these mountains, which allowed his imagination to roam a bit too far. Feeling less than completely prepared, Collin stopped again and rummaged through the rucksack for the gun he had seen Freddie pack in there. Once he found it, he inserted the clip of ammo, checked to make sure the safety was on, and tucked the gun into an easily accessible side pocket. Just having a gun handy made him feel braver and somehow more prepared to meet a prowling predator.

  Knowing he had little time for stops, Collin pressed forward up the mountain. At the top of a rounded knoll, an expansive meadow opened up in front of him. It was flat and mostly treeless. According to the GPS, the trail veered to the west and would eventually hook back around, presumably on the other side of the meadow, before beginning another zig-zagging climb northward. Collin pulled in a deep breath, drank some water, and started along the now-level path, hoping to pick up speed. Despite the wide openness of the meadow, he could hear things that caused his senses to go on high alert. Birds cawed and squawked from the trees at the edge of the meadow. Something rustled in the grass as he approached. A handful of small rocks clattered down the slope to his left as a furry, four-legged creature scurried away. Probably nothing to be afraid of, he tried to assure himself. But, the more noises he heard, the more he started feeling very alone and very exposed.

  After skirting the edge of the mostly flat mesa in short order, the terrain grew much steeper and rockier. Collin’s lightweight, stylish running shoes began to show their inadequacies. Traction was a problem, causing him to slip in the pitched gravelly areas and slide on the smooth rocks across which the path traveled. Making progress uphill became much more taxing on his energy reserves. Less than ten miles into his thirty-mile trek and he was developing blisters on his heels and between some of his toes. Next stop, he told himself, he would look for athletic ta
pe or mole skin or some of that friction-reducing liquid bandage stuff. If none of that was in his pack, he would resort to duct tape, the fix-it-all solution.

  Even with all the many things his mind had to worry about, ignoring the churning sensations in his gut became more difficult.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  San Martin Texmelucan, Mexico

  June 18, 4:35 a.m. Local Time

  Lieutenant Salazar hopped out of the passenger’s seat as the truck skidded to a stop. Where there were bodies, now only footprints remained. From the looks of things, they were made by rugged boots. It hadn’t been long since he left this same spot in search of the dead men’s accomplices. At this time of night, it was unlikely anyone was awake to have noticed their activities. Who would take away three dead bodies? It seemed unfathomable to him, but a sinking feeling told him he should have been more careful, less rash. Leaving a few men to guard the bodies would have been the most prudent thing to do had he not been so focused on getting them all.

  Salazar kicked around the area, shining his flash light in all directions, until the toe of his boot came back with something stuck to it. A clump of blackish mud. The more he kicked, the more the dirt clumped up and turned darker. He squatted down and touched the substance with his index finger. Pulling his finger and hand back toward his face and rubbing it with his thumb, his finger turned dark red. It was blood. Someone had covered it with loose dirt, but it was definitely blood, the only evidence that remained. No bodies. His head jerked in a circular pattern like a sprinkler, looking for someone to question.

  To his right, he noticed a smear of blood on the log at the edge of the parking lot. He followed the trail to the room where the three men had been. The door was locked, so he reared back and stomped against it, right next to the door knob. Shattering splinters of wood flew in every direction. The door rattled against the wall behind it as it swung violently on its hinges, then rebounded toward him. He blocked it with an outstretched arm as he planted his boots inside the room and scanned it.

  Empty. Cleaned out. Wiped down. The smell of disinfectant wafted past him as the cool night air rushed in on a breeze and mixed with the air in the room.

  The lieutenant clinched his jaw and slammed a fist into the other palm. “I knew it. I should have trusted my instincts that told me they were professionals. We’ve been tricked.”

  One of his soldiers stepped in behind him and surveyed the room. The lieutenant put out an arm to hold him back. Pointing at the floor next to the chair, he said, “More blood.” He knelt down again to touch it, just to confirm his suspicion. “Gather up all the guests. Someone must have seen or heard something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The lieutenant cursed himself for his impulsiveness. He should have kept those men alive for questioning. His superiors would surely be upset with him if they were to find out what happened. Perhaps this mistake wouldn’t matter if he could glean some useful data from the computer they had confiscated from the room. Surely there must be some information on the hard drive about these soldiers’ operations and plans. He needed something to redeem himself. Without it, his future would indeed be limited and, perhaps, abbreviated.

  ****

  Through interrogations of every one of the thirteen guests staying in the low-budget motor lodge, most of them roused from sleep and some of the methods of questioning quite forceful, Lieutenant Salazar learned that there had been an unusual amount of nocturnal activity at this particular spot on this particular night.

  As he processed all the information he and his men had gathered, it became apparent that his quarry, the American, had exited the room where the other three men were staying sometime shortly after they arrived, with a camouflage pack that he had loaded into the trunk of the gold Toyota. The two witnesses who had been awakened by loud noises said they saw the man as they peered through the curtains and that he looked prepared for a camping trip, except that his pack looked like something the military would use.

  The gold Toyota sped away, they told Salazar, with the American and his large pack only to come racing back an hour later.

  That meant half an hour out and half an hour back, roughly. Within that radius, from where he stood, rose the volcanic mountains that rimmed the Valley of Mexico in virtually every direction, dozens of small towns, and half a dozen bus terminals that could take him anywhere in the country. The man, this fugitive, could be anywhere, thought the lieutenant.

  As he pondered his dilemma, one of his soldiers called out to him from the open door of the gold Toyota. “Sir, we have something here,” the young soldier said excitedly. He held out a palm-sized device. “Look, sir, a GPS unit.”

  Salazar quickly snatched it from the soldier’s hand. He turned on the power and waited for the screen to come alive. When it did, he scrolled to the trips file and opened the most recent one. It showed a round-trip to and from the foot of Mt. Tlaloc at the outskirts of the tiny town of Rio Frio de Juarez, just thirty miles to the north.

  In a cloud of dust and the cacophony of roaring engines and peeling rubber, the lieutenant and his men tore out of the motel’s parking lot, following the course the Toyota had taken just two hours earlier.

  When they arrived at the spot the GPS unit indicated was the right place, Salazar’s heart dropped. He realized there was a vast wilderness in front of him and no way to know where the American had gone.

  He couldn’t dismiss the possibility that the man had hitchhiked or had switched to another vehicle like he did at the gas station earlier in the day. Knowing the group of men helping this American were trained professionals only confounded Lieutenant Salazar that much more. It opened up a number of possibilities, which led to a sinking sense of hopeless despair. It all added up to a bad omen for his career aspirations.

  If this man had come to Mexico, as his superiors purported, with a plot to kill the president, why would he run away into the mountains? He dared not call his boss, but dared not let his man escape. His orders were simple. All he had to do was bring the American in, unharmed, before he had the chance to commit the atrocities he had allegedly planned.

  Only select members of the high command had any knowledge of this American or his plans. Knowing he, Lieutenant Juan Hernandez Salazar, was part of that group caused his chest to swell with pride. His superiors recognized in him a man they could trust to do an important job and keep it a secret. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint those who had placed that sacred trust in him. But the prospects of finding this American had grown measurably dimmer.

  Of course, none of this would have come to light were it not for Salazar’s relationships with the drug lords in the south. They were the ones who noticed a low-flying plane coming in to disrupt their business in some way, they supposed. Their lookout men had seen the plane crash in the field just to their north and reported it to Salazar in hopes of protection. It was Salazar’s report and the pictures from the scene, provided by the drug lord’s men, that had alerted the chain of command that something suspicious was going on in Villahermosa. Someone higher up matched the face of the American as an international fugitive and linked him to a plot to kill the president of Mexico. Now the American had to be stopped before he carried out his murderous plans.

  Salazar realized he was in a catch-22 situation. Sure, he had helped uncover the illegal entrance of this would-be assassin into Mexico, but at the cost of revealing his tight relationship to the drug lord.

  Lieutenant Juan Hernandez Salazar was momentarily overcome with fear of the consequences of his failure. He stood stock-still, trying to think, but finding it difficult to latch onto a productive idea that would move his investigation forward.

  The lieutenant’s thoughts were interrupted by one of his soldiers. “Sir, have you considered the dogs? We could send dogs after this man. Maybe that is the only way to know if he went into the mountains or not.”

  Lieutenant Salazar turned toward the soldier and nodded his head, grateful for the distraction. “I
did consider that, but we don’t have a scent for them to follow. It would be a waste of time.”

  “Then we need a helicopter and a search team. It will be light soon. I’m sure the chopper could be airborne in a matter of minutes.”

  Salazar snapped his head and blinked his eyes several times, bringing his troubled mind back into focus. “That is an excellent idea, Corporal. Even better than using dogs. Call it in.” He stopped himself. “Call them both in. Let’s get dogs here as soon as possible. Maybe they can find something. We’ll send men with dogs and radios and a helicopter in the sky to search for him. We must try everything we can to find this man before he carries out his awful mission.”

  The lieutenant swallowed hard, knowing this was his last and only chance to get it right. The quarry might be long gone, but he had to pull out all stops in his efforts to track and arrest this murderous American before it was too late. Many sins could be overlooked by one heroic act.

  ****

  Penh’s Private Jet, over the Pacific Ocean

  June 18, 6:00 a.m. Mexico City Time

  Soft music played, coming from the phone on the polished cherrywood desk to his right. Pho Nam Penh woke from a rejuvenating six-hour rest in his fully reclined, soft leather lounge chair. An attendant immediately brought him an ice-cold water bottle as the motorized seat adjuster did its work.

  After downing half the bottle, Penh stood and stretched and walked to the tail section of the plane to get the blood moving in his legs. As he walked, he checked messages on his phone. With each message, his rage built. Nothing but bad news, as far as he was concerned. Collin Cook was on the loose still, aided to an even larger degree than before, it appeared.

  A splash of cool water on his face in the luxurious restroom helped reverse the rising anger and prepare him for what was to come. It would be much more effective for him to remain in complete control of his emotions while dealing with his Mexican coconspirator. He double-checked his watch. 6:00 a.m. in Mexico City meant that Torres would be awake, so it was time to confirm the changes that needed to take place had happened while he rested.