by L. J. Martin
I yell at him, "Back the cab in. I'll get the doors open."
I only have to push one of the two rolling doors aside, and almost as soon as I get it open, Skip fills it with the cab and backs all the way through it and up to a stack of wooden cases. Alex stands, wringing his hands as we bust open a crate, remove the plastic case, open it, and stuff an RPG in his trunk. As I'm getting it settled, Skip is using his K-Bar to open a case of rocket-propelled grenades and throws a half dozen into the trunk.
I spot a rifle-size case, and I'm pleased to discover a dozen XM-15 Bushmasters, and throw five of them into the trunk, then two cases of five hundred .223's. We leap into the cab, with me driving and Alex looking very dazed. I spin the wheels but only shoot forward until I'm a hundred feet from the warehouse, then slide to a stop, jump out, pop the trunk, grab the RPG and a grenade, load it up, and put one through the open door of the warehouse.
I should have tried the shot from the gate, over a hundred yards from the open door, as the son-of-a-bitch blows so hard it takes me off my feet and I land five feet back on my butt, my hair and eyelashes singed and me gasping for breath. I don't stay there long. I throw the weapon back into the trunk and haul ass through the open gates.
The gate guard is trying to sit up, but looks so groggy that I don't think he'd recognize his mother if she was in his face calling him to supper.
I yell to Skip, "What did you hit him with?"
"My fist." He shakes the left one at me. "This one will put you in the hospital." Then he shakes the other, "and this one will send you to Valhalla…hell, I'm afraid of it myself." I know from experience that he's right.
We fishtail out of there to the sound of lots of explosives lighting the morning behind us. In the rear view mirror I see streaks and contrails filling the sky, and the billowing smoke of high explosives. We leave to the bone-jarring beat of a hard metal band's base, but it's the thud of explosives, not a drum.
By the time we're a mile down the road, we're giving way to passing fire trucks and police and military vehicles, red lights and sirens filling the air.
By noon we're well on our way back to Asuncion, with no one on our tail. It'll be a long time before that scene cools enough that some smart forensics guy discovers that the bodies in the explosion are full of bullet holes…unless, of course, the gate guard has his wits about him. I can only hope that he wants nothing to do with authorities, and that as soon as his head cleared from Skip's pounding, he beat feet for the nearest cover, far away from any police.
Speaking of forensics, I'm eager to find out just exactly what the bite of a banana spider looks like.
It's mid-afternoon, and we're still on the road, this time in the light, enjoying the variety of crops and well tended fields, as we cross a great fertile plain. My phone goes off with Ring of Fire and I know it's Pax.
"What's up?" I answer.
"My adrenalin," he says, then asks, "is everything going your way?"
"So far I'm out of the jusgados, amigo."
"You're getting into that Español?"
"I just had to brush up on my Arabic, but my teachers all quit on me."
"Some of those names I gave you?"
"Yeah, some of those names. You forgot to tell me they were related to Ali Baba and the forty thieves."
"They try to stick it to you?"
"Actually they tried to stick me up, take the money, and keep the goods."
"Oops, sounds bad…and I'm talking to you on the phone so that means they are no longer talking?"
"Enjoying their time with the virgins, I imagine."
"Enough. You can catch me up over some pasta at Peiros when you get back. And the purpose of your visit?"
"Tonight, or tomorrow night, God willin' and the creek don't rise. So, why is your adrenaline up?"
27
"That Trojan Horse I put in Wedgeworth's computer…the prick's a kink, more porn than the Vegas strip."
"The hell you say…not old gee whiz golly gee Wedgeworth?"
"One and the same. He has a hideout hard-drive on his computer. I almost missed it. And the worst of it, lots of very, very young girls. And the wife's not a lot better."
"How so?"
"She's been in rehab twice and arrested for DUI a couple of times. A couple of thousand-an-hour Santa Barbara slickers got her off, but she was guilty as hell. One of those times she had all three kids in the car."
"Either he's driving her to drink or she's a dead drunk in the sack. Copy it all somewhere. He's a deadbeat som'bitch and I may need some leverage to get paid if we get the hell out of here."
"No if's, amigo. It's when. I don't want to have to come down there and save your ass. Anything I can do for you here?"
"I thought I was going to have to have you hit Wedgeworth up for some more front money, but it seems I got my most expensive items for free."
"Again, I'll look forward to hearing the story."
"This is only about halfway through, odds are. Let's hope for a happy ending."
"Be safe."
He hangs up and I guess it's time for me to face up to my most unpleasant task, so I dial the school where Penny Bartlett works, hand the phone to Skip and ask him to ask to speak to the principal. I presume Penny's answering the phones and I don't want her to recognize my voice before I talk to someone who can stand beside her while I give her the worst possible news. Skip gets the principal on line, then hands me the phone.
"Ma'am, you're Penny's boss."
"Yes, who is this?"
"I'm a friend of Penny's and I have the worst possible news about her husband. Can you stand close and lend her a shoulder while I break the news to her?"
She's silent for a moment then sighs deeply. "I can. You want me to ask her to pick up this line?"
"I do."
Telling a young woman her husband is dead in another country, or in the next room, is not an easy task, and to be truthful it's all I can do not to sob when I hear her break down. I console her as best I can, then ask her to hand the phone back to her boss and instruct her as to how to call the American embassy and the State Department. Hopefully, they'll get some kind of closure. I know Penny's in for a rough time, as there's been no official report of Toby's death, and there'll be lots of beating around the bushes before anything is settled.
As soon as I hang up, my phone buzzes again. "Ola," I say, and am pleased to hear Carmen's voice, but not pleased that she sounds very worried.
"General Maldonado has asked my father to bring me to see him. It seems he's not happy that I entered the country with someone suspected of violating his space."
"Deny, deny, deny," I say.
"Just so you know, I'm breaking off the engagement," she says, then laughs, albeit a little nervously.
"I understand completely," I say, "I'm distraught, but understand."
"I will call you late today and report in."
"Please do."
I hang up, then call Hank Hausman. "Handy man Hausman, the repairman's best back-up," he answers.
"You guys manage to stay out of jail?" I ask.
"Yeah, must be jet lag," he says.
"We'll be coming in the back door of the hotel and sneaking up the service elevator if possible. We'll need a little shut eye as it's been a long hot night and an even hotter morning."
"We're standing by," he says, and I hang up.
Alex has had time to come to his senses, and gets his back up as we near town. "So, señor, you think two million is enough?"
"I was going to mention that, Alex. I was thinking another two million for us damn near getting you ventilated—"
"Ventilated?"
"Shot. Another two million, but only if you stick with us for another day or so. Then it's a two million bonus for today, and another four million for tomorrow."
He's quiet for a long time, then shrugs. "So, no more shooting. No more giant bangs…how you say, explosions?"
"God no, amigo. This was a very unusual day. That's the bad news. The goo
d news is you did your country a solid—"
"A solid?"
"A very good turn—"
"Good turn?"
"You did a very patriotic thing, helping to get rid of some very bad people who were smuggling dope and weapons to the many rebels in the mountains." And I think he buys it.
Again, he's silent for a long while, then shrugs. "Okay. Uno mas…one more day."
We've been very lucky—gringo interlopers in a country where half the law is hunting us. If we can make it one more day we'll be more than merely lucky, it will be serendipity.
Now to sneak into one of the city's largest hotels, and do so without attracting attention and having the law called.
We find a service door, and I'm happy to enter as an employee. We go straight into a dressing room where a dozen waiter uniforms hang in a segmented but open closet, each with a name placard on the shelf above. For the time it takes to get five stories up to the room where Hank, Wetback, and Madman are housed, I'm Emilio and Skip is Skip, because none of the uniforms are big enough to fit the Viking. And my pants look like high-waters on the way, at least two inches above shoe line. Instead of a waiter's rags, Skip finds a tool bag and carries it as if I'm escorting a repairman to a room.
And it works.
Both of us are sawing logs in a few minutes and sleep for a couple of good solid hours before I'm awakened by my phone buzzing.
And it's Carmen.
"I would be in prison were it not for my family," she says.
"I'm sorry. We'll get you out of here and headed back to the states if you want to risk leaving with us."
"I will consider it. So far, I'm fine. Screamed at in front of my uncle and father by that pig Colonel Vargas, but I've been screamed at before. I survived. However, if you try to go back on the airport, you may not."
"Why's that?"
"General Maldonado and the pig Vargas have enlisted the help of the Pyragüés. They are now guarding the Air Force hangars."
"And you said these were very, very bad boys."
"The worst. Killers and rapers of women and children, torturers of the innocent…in the most terrible ways you can imagine. Thousands were murdered when Stroessner was in power. They no longer go by that name, not since Stroessner was deposed, but it's the same scum of the earth. I wish they were all dead and rotting in hell."
"Thanks for the heads up," I say, then lie, "but I have no intention of going to the airport."
"Oh. This is about the new airplane, is it not?"
"What airplane?" I say with such conviction I should be up for an Academy Award.
"Si, what airplane. Call me if you need anything, and by the way, you owe me a week's two thousand."
"And I'm dying to pay you."
"And I hope you do before you die." She's being amusing, but then sounds sorry for saying it and adds, "That's a terrible thought. Please be careful."
"Yes, ma'am. I'll call you later."
"Please."
I hang up and we call room service and have a team meeting while we're waiting for a spread…one I hope is not our last meal. Pyragüés or no Pyragüés, we're going after the G5 tonight.
28
We wait until ten PM, then head out of the hotel. And, of course, I have to act like a total a-hole to keep these guys from sucking down the booze. I have no way of knowing if the G5 is hangared, or is delivering some fat cats to Rio de Janeiro or Buenos Aries. So we must merely take our chances.
The plan is for Madman and Skip to head for the fuel dump and handcuff the attendant or attendants, to something permanent, wait thirty minutes, then drive the jet fuel truck to the hangar. Skip has one of the hand-helds, so we're in touch. Hank and I will take the guards out, hopefully in relative silence, keeping Wetback out of harm's way if possible. We're presuming there are only two guards at the hangar. Then we'll set up a perimeter to keep any other Pyragüés gentlemen at a distance if they become aware of our presence, all while Wetback is preflighting the plane. We stand guard, while Skip and Madman fuel the plane, if need be, and then tractor it out of the hangar.
I'm counting on the guards being very hesitant to fire on the G5, as it's the general and colonel's pride and joy.
Then we load up, and wing our way to the good old US of A.
Simple, right?
Wrong.
Nothing goes as planned and I'm sure Murphy's law applies in South America just as it does in North.
Again there are too many of us for one cab, so Alex has to call on his cousin. I part with another million guarani. Both Alex and Alfredo seem very happy to be cut loose, and I'm sure break a codebook full of traffic laws on their way back to town.
I'm toting the RPG; Hank, after a few lessons, is my loader and will carry the grenades until we stow them behind the hangar and move to take out the guards. Wetback will guard the stash, and hopefully stay out of the action until it's time to do his trick in the right seat of the G5.
To my surprise, the cut in the fence is still open, apparently undiscovered, even though the rag is still flapping in the breeze.
The rest of them remain outside the fence in the cover of the brush while I repeat my trick with the whistle, the steaks, and the sleeping pills. This time the dogs seem almost glad to see me, and consume the steaks as if it's their normal feeding. I dismount from the tower as soon as they close their eyes. I give the boys a call on the hand-held and they jog my way. Skip carries the RPG as far as the tower, then he and Madman head for the fuel dump. Although it's a fairly dangerous mission as the fuel dump is well lit, I think it propitious to keep the pilots apart. If one of them takes a round, the other can still fly us out.
We've all sworn to one mission plan, and that's to get the aircraft in the air, no matter if one or more of us has to remain behind. If we have a pocketful of money when the mission's complete, we each swear to return to Paraguay and spring whoever might be captured, or die trying. It's a blood oath, and I trust each of these guys to fulfill it if necessary.
I'm happy to note that no new surveillance cameras seem to be mounted at the rear of the G5 hangar. We're all dressed in black, as are the guards, so I'm hoping that even if spotted, we'll be mistaken for one of their own.
Hank takes the east side of the hangar and I the west, checking our watches as we set out, agreeing to give ourselves one minute to get the drop on the guards.
I hadn't noticed before, as I was fairly busy hotfooting it away from the hangar, but the areas to the sides and rear of the hangar are gravel. Damn if I don't sound as quiet as a herd of buffalo as I cover the two hundred feet to the front. Twenty feet before I get there, I see the backlit head and shoulders of a guard peer around the corner of the building, and he yells, "Paco? Que paso?"
"Nada," I yell back and close on him. His weapon is slung over his shoulder, and I notice him looking to the far corner where Hank should be arriving to take out the other guard. The butt of my Bushmaster takes him just under the ear before he can turn back, and he goes to his knees. I whack him again, then realize that another guard is twenty feet away, coming at a dead run and unslinging his Heckler. I have no choice but to stitch him up the middle with a three shot burst. The Bushmaster is equipped with a suppressor, but the low crack can still be heard for two hundred yards.
As the shot Pyragüés withers on the ground, I hear shots from the far side of the hangar, then a big guy in black is running my way. I flop to the ground, prone, using the fallen guard as a shield, until I see that it's Hank.
"Two fucking guards, not one," he yells, "I had to send one to hell." And we head for the doorway.
"Yeah, here too." Then we're inside and, thank God, so's the stolen fifty million dollar G5.
I radio Wetback, and in seconds he joins us and heads for the aircraft, drops the ramp, and is inside while Hank and I set up. Carrying a couple of heavy metal workbenches outside we dump them on their sides for a makeshift defensive firing position, flop down, and Hank waits while I go from guard to guard and relieve them
of their radios and weapons. One is still rolling from side to side and another is moaning. I see no reason to finish them off, as even though Carmen has said they're very bad guys, they are no longer a threat.
With the exception of the occasional wheeze from a lung shot guard, it becomes eerily silent.
Then I hear Wetback call from the plane hatchway. "Hey, Reardon, you gotta see this."
I hustle in and he waves me up the gangway. He's smiling like the proverbial Cheshire cat, and pointing. I get all the way inside before I see what he's talking about.
Every seat in the passenger area, save two, is stacked with over a dozen kilo packages of what must be cocaine, and there are sixteen seats in the back and luggage compartments behind the passenger area. I walk back to the head and open it. There must be five hundred pounds of cocaine filling it. Nobody's using the john on the way home. It's no wonder Vargas enlisted the help of the Pyragüés to guard the hangar. He wouldn't want half the Air Force to know what he was up to. A couple of tons of prime cocaine!
"We heading somewhere we can peddle this?" he asks, still grinning.
"We're heading for Miami, and, no, we're not peddling it. We're using it to make friends with American authorities."
"How the fuck….?" He looks a little perplexed.
"What's the fuel situation?" I ask.
"Surprisingly, she's topped off. I'll be ready to haul ass in fifteen minutes."
"Make sure," I say, and head out to return to Hank, who's keeping a lookout.
As soon as I reach the cover of the turned over work tables, my phone buzzes.
"Roger," I answer. And it's Skip.
"Hey, pard, we've secured the fuel truck. Two assholes in all black uniforms are tied up in the shack. You ready for us to head your way?"
"Change of plans. She's topped off. New plan. Is there transportation there other than the fuel truck?"
"Yes, there's a Toyota jeep with no insignia."
