The Geronimo Breach

by Russell Blake

  As they backed slowly towards the cruiser, Don had a sinking feeling. This was starting out badly.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sergio watched the ancient Land Cruiser drive by, and then heard it stop and reverse. Instinct kicked in – something was very wrong.

  “I thought I saw gun barrels in that truck, and now it’s coming back. Get behind the car, quick,” he instructed, Kalashnikov in hand. He threw open the driver’s door, grabbed the shotgun, and tossed it to Al, who held it like it was a snake.

  “What the he...” Al exclaimed as the windows exploded in a hail of bullets from the Land Cruiser, which was slowly reversing around the bend, finally coming to rest thirty yards from the police car.

  “Stay down...” Sergio screamed, and then let rip a burst from the AK-47. The volley tore into the side of the Land Cruiser.

  Another spray of slugs hit the police car and Al fired off a couple of shotgun blasts at the truck. The first went high, but the second took out the rear windshield.

  Sergio fired again, and then Al heard two of the Land Cruiser’s doors open and close. More bullets sprayed the ground around them. Ernesto yelped – a ricochet had caught him in the thigh. Blood oozed through his fingers as he gripped his injured leg.

  “Get him into the brush. I’ll take care of these bastards,” Sergio screamed, firing again.

  More shots thudded into the ground around them. Al let off another shotgun blast at the truck, aiming for the tires.

  “You sure?” Al yelled.

  “Get out of here. Go do your meet. I’ll handle this,” Sergio said through clenched teeth. He fired off another short burst, and heard a scream from behind the truck. He thought he’d seen a man’s leg there. Guess he had. “I think you owe me $800, not $500, Al,” he chided, then popped off a few more rounds.

  “Check’s in the mail. Let’s call it $750...” A slug ripped a chunk of metal from the fender by Al’s head. He ducked down, scanning the jungle behind them.

  Sergio sprayed short bursts at the Toyota to provide cover, and Al motioned Ernesto to crawl into the dense vegetation. Al fired another potshot at the attackers while Sergio supplied staccato bursts of cover fire. Al dropped the shotgun and hastened after Ernesto, military-crawling into the heavy green underbrush. He spotted Ernesto limping ahead a few dozen yards and rushed to join him. Within a minute the gunfire receded to distant popping as the pair charged headlong into the jungle, Al supporting Ernesto around the waist.

  “How bad are you hit?” Al whispered to Ernesto, who was keeping up, but favoring his good leg.

  “Not too bad, I don’t think,” Ernesto said. “It hurts, but it isn’t bleeding much.”

  They stopped. Al unzipped his backpack and pulled out a T-shirt. He tore it in half and tied the strips together, creating a primitive bandage. Al knelt down and inspected the wound – Ernesto had been lucky – grazed, nothing more. He fastened the cloth strips together and cinched them, covering the bloody area.

  “You’ll live. It’s just a cut,” Al said, taking stock of his surroundings. They’d come maybe a hundred yards from the road so far, which meant the track to the rendezvous point should be somewhere off to the left. He pressed through the brush to where he thought he’d seen the faint impression of a trail. “This is it. Let’s move.”

  The plants around them whistled as random slugs tore through the vegetation. The thick foliage deadened much of the noise from the road – the gunshots now sounded like muffled firecrackers in the distance. But the bullets were still deadly. Another one shredded through the leaves by Ernesto’s head, passing so near he felt the air displaced by the slug.

  They instinctively ducked and ran down the trail, Al taking the lead.

  ~ ~ ~

  In the SUV, Don pried the driver’s door open and pulled the dead man from behind the wheel. The corpse collapsed heavily onto the road. Don’s wounded wingman continued to exchange fire with the cop car, and then his foot exploded, spraying blood and bone against the fender. He screamed, dropping his weapon. Don looked at the man’s leg – he wouldn’t ever figure skate again.

  What the hell had happened? He had two men down, was taking machine-gun and shotgun fire, and was trapped in a deadly shootout with no obvious escape – with a cop or cops. The cops seemed really pissed and were giving better than they’d received.

  Don glanced at his companion and made a swift decision. Fuck this. He hadn’t signed up for a bloodbath. Sam could keep his money – this wasn’t Don’s day to die. He’d agreed to shoot fish in a barrel, not walk straight into a kill zone.

  Don sprayed the cop car and surrounding trees with a barrage of lead, exhausting his magazine. He leaned over and grabbed his partner’s rifle, and emptied it at the police vehicle for good measure. Maybe he’d hit one or all of them. Maybe not.

  Don hauled his companion into the back seat, and slid behind the wheel of the still-running truck. He peered out the driver’s door at the road, put the transmission into drive and gassed it. The heavy four wheel drive vehicle surged forward, gaining speed despite both rear tires having been flattened from gunfire.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sergio stood, and rounding the cruiser’s rear fender, emptied the AK-47 at the escaping attackers. He reached into his trunk and grabbed another full clip, slamming it into place as he jogged after the Land Cruiser. Closing the distance, he emptied the fresh magazine into the vehicle. The truck swerved and then slowed, coasting to a stop. Only twenty yards away. Sergio pulled his pistol from its holster, and fired seven shots into the now stalled SUV. The eighth round did the trick – the sizzling slug hit the gas tank and the Land Cruiser exploded in a cascade of flames, the whump of the blast searing Sergio’s face and knocking him back several feet.

  He sat in the middle of the road, pistol still clutched tightly in his hand, watching the truck burn in the early morning light.

  God he loved being a cop.

  Chapter 19

  Al heard the explosion and increased the pace, his lungs burning with the unfamiliar exertion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d exercised harder than walking up the stairs to his apartment – but it was amazing what naked terror could do for a guy’s quarter mile time. He hadn’t moved this quickly since high school.

  If Ernesto couldn’t keep up, that wasn’t Al’s problem. He’d done his job, which was to get him to the rendezvous point. Al had never signed up for shooting it out with murderous gunmen on a muddy road to oblivion – that had never come up when Carmen had described the gig. He was supposed to be a glorified taxi service, not a ninja assassin. Thank God circumstances had landed them with Sergio – if he hadn’t been around they’d be worm food by now.

  Which got Al thinking. Even as he followed the trail deeper into the jungle his mind thrashed over the events of the last few hours. The conclusion he arrived at was anything but reassuring. Al had lived in Panama for the last eight years and the closest he’d come to real danger was slipping in the shower whilst drunk and almost splitting his head open. Now, in less than half a day he’d been in the thick of full-on gun battles – not once, but twice. Sure, perhaps the first one at the whorehouse had been total coincidence – he’d buy that, although reluctantly. But this was anything but. There weren’t a lot of ways to misconstrue armed attackers at dawn trying to stitch you with lead.

  Al slowed and turned to face Ernesto, who was also flushed from the effort of running. “What’s going on, Ernesto,” Al asked. “Why does the whole world want to kill you?”

  Ernesto glanced nervously over his shoulder, gasping for breath. “I haven’t done anything, Al.”

  “Armed goons with machine-guns just tried to kill us, Ernesto. And to refresh your memory, we very recently had to sneak out a back alley because of a gun battle in the lobby of the building where I met you. So why don’t you tell me why you need to get out of Panama so badly, Ernesto?” Al stared at him. Ernesto stared back, saying nothing.

  “Look, let’s just get away from this, and once we’re
safe, I’ll tell you everything,” Ernesto offered.

  “You’ll either tell me right now or I won’t take you to the guide, and you’ll be on your own with the gunmen back at the Transamerican,” Al threatened.

  “I...I stole something that’s obviously very valuable to some extremely dangerous men, Al. But I swear, I didn’t know what I was doing, and if there was any way to reverse things...” Ernesto looked like he was about to cry.

  “Why are they trying to kill you? And who is they?” Al asked.

  “I...I suppose they want to know what I did with their property,” Ernesto said.

  That sounded like pretty routine criminal retribution stuff so far.

  “And who’s trying to kill you?” Al pressed.

  “I...I honestly don’t know for sure...”

  Something crashed and clattered overhead. Could have been a large bird, or a monkey. Or it could have been something else.

  “This isn’t over, Ernesto. You will tell me what’s going on,” Al whispered as he started moving down the trail again.

  Ernesto nodded, then put a finger to his lips.

  Al recognized that was a good idea right now. They could sort out Ernesto’s drama once they were reasonably sure they weren’t going to be exterminated within the next few minutes. After all, why they were being hunted was secondary to whether or not they would be killed.

  Al was nothing if not pragmatic.

  He looked at his watch. Quarter after six. He hoped the guide hadn’t been scared off by the shooting, and then realized that a half mile into the jungle it was unlikely the guide would have heard anything. That was one of the benefits of a virtually impenetrable rainforest – sound didn’t travel far.

  Al unzipped his satchel and pulled out a small handheld GPS. He activated it and selected a screen. They were on a north-easterly heading, and the device, which he’d used on past trips to locate the clearing, confirmed they were almost at the rendezvous point. Maybe another three hundred yards. The technology literally made finding a needle in a haystack as simple as following the arrow and moving in the direction it indicated until X marked the spot.

  After one more glance at the device he powered it off, then set off towards where the clearing should be.

  They were running short on time.

  And in the last few minutes, Al realized he had a teensy little problem. Namely, that he couldn’t return to the road, where the killers were waiting for him – or if not those killers, their replacements. Which left him in with two choices he wanted no part of – being forced by circumstance to make it through the jungle and into Colombia, or trying his luck with whatever was waiting for him back at the road.

  His belly growled. Jesus, that pig-slop from last night was foul. No doubt brimming with liver flukes and God knows what other horrors.

  Some days just started off lousy, and then went downhill from there.

  This looked to be one of them.

  Then the clouds parted, and the sun radiated its warming light upon them. Or more accurately, they arrived at the clearing, where the thick vegetation overhead thinned enough to make the sky visible.

  Ernesto sat on an old log and fiddled with his makeshift bandage. Al desperately wanted a cigarette and a cocktail, but held off on the former out of concern it might lead the death squad to them, and nixed the latter because he’d left his emergency vodka ration in his car. So he was virtuous by necessity and circumstance, rather than by choice.

  He heard the sharp snapping of a branch and spun around.

  The guide was here.

  A small, wizened figure in baggy camouflage pants and a stained brown tank top watched them from a nearby grove of trees, an ancient machete dangling from his right hand. There had been no one there a few moments ago when they’d arrived. And then, suddenly, there he was. Carlos.

  Al knew the guide was a Kuna Indian, one of the original indigenous tribes of Panama, from a tiny village on the bank of the nearby river. He suspected he had an unpronounceable name, but Carmen had told Al to refer to him as Carlos again, which seemed like a reasonable compromise between whatever series of pops and grunts passed for his moniker in Kuna, and even the Spanish equivalent.

  Carlos looked to be in his late sixties, but Al knew looks were deceptive. The jungle was a harsh mistress, and he might be in his forties – or eighties. In the past their interactions had been limited to Carlos virtually ignoring Al’s ice-breaking overtures in mangled Spanish, so it wasn’t as though they were close.

  Carlos motioned Ernesto to follow him. Al stepped forward and indicated by touching his chest and pointing that he would also be going. Carlos glared at him as though he’d proposed sodomizing him, and nodded. “No.”

  Al approached Carlos, and whispered a few words of ‘Spanglais’ in his ear. “I need to go with you. I can’t go back – it’s not safe. Bad men...”

  Carlos regarded him with stoic calm. “Tough shit. This isn’t a free tour, cowboy...”

  Al sighed, then fished around in his shirt pocket, carefully peeling off five hundred dollars from his newly acquired wad. He figured he wouldn’t be seeing Sergio for a while, so he probably wouldn’t mind if his cut temporarily went to Carlos.

  “That’s it? Is this a joke? The best you can do is beer money? Maybe that gets you across river or two, but to Colombia? Give me a break...” Carlos muttered, but then he snatched the cash from Al’s hand, and shaking his head in disgust, motioned for them both to join him.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Sam! Get in here! Now!” Richard yelled from Sam’s desk.

  Sam almost choked on his tenth cup of coffee. He hurried into the office, where Richard was cradling the phone headset on his shoulder while staring at the representation of the cook’s cell phone chip movement on the monitor.

  “I just got word there’s been an emergency call from a police cruiser about ten miles south of Meteti, which is, funnily enough, where the cook’s phone chip placed them. There’s been a gun battle, and at least three men are dead,” Richard reported, watching Sam’s face for any inkling of foreknowledge.

  Sam’s eyes went wide. He looked genuinely shocked. “What...what do you mean, sir? A cop? Gunfight? I don’t understand,” Sam exclaimed.

  “Our boy was being ferried south by a police officer, it seems, and there was an armed altercation. There’s no mention of the cook, so I’m guessing the cop was the transportation arrangement.” Richard studied Sam. “Sam, it’s wildly coincidental that there’s been a gunfight involving the car carrying the cook. So much so I have to believe you had a hand in this. So why not just fess up – what the hell did you do?” Richard demanded, slamming his hand heavily on the desk.

  Sam’s eyes widened. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir. Really. Look, that area of southern Panama is extremely dangerous under the best of circumstances. Especially at night. Maybe this cop came across a drug deal and they panicked?”

  “I don’t buy that horse-crap for a second, Sam.”

  “I already had a team wiped out at the whorehouse due to bad luck,” Sam began. “There was no hidden scheme there, just some violent thugs with guns at the wrong place at the wrong time. Is it so impossible that there’s more than one group of armed predators roving around the biggest cocaine trafficking corridor in the world in the wee hours of the morning?”

  Richard said nothing. But the way he stared at Sam said it all.

  “I swear, I have no idea what’s going on, sir,” Sam promised.

  Richard turned back to the monitor. “Well, according to the tracking data, the cook is now bee-lining into the middle of the jungle. He’s over a mile in, and it looks like he’s continuing straight towards the border. So any chance we had of intercepting him on the road is over,” Richard said angrily.

  “What are we going to do?” Sam asked.

  “We? …We?...We aren’t going to do anything. I don’t believe you didn’t have a hand in the attack, even though I can’t prove it. I don’t buy coincidences t
hat involve armed attacks on deserted roads. But I’ll deal with that later. Right now I don’t have the luxury of peeling your skin off, layer by layer, to get to the truth. No, I now have to figure out how to take the cook out before this goes any further,” Richard hissed in frustration.

  “Well, there’s nobody for miles, so at least you can pretty much do whatever you want,” Sam reasoned.

  “Yeah, but there are no roads to get a team in, and the deeper into that jungle they go, the more dangerous any operation becomes. It’s literally swarming with rebels and coke traffickers, all of whom are armed to the teeth,” Richard said. “And my team is sitting almost twenty miles away, waiting for an ambush that’s never going to happen.” He looked at Sam in disgust.

  “Maybe the cook panicked and is running blind? The intel was pretty adamant that any meeting would happen in Yaviza...” Sam speculated.

  “I’m going to bet that this time, the intel sucked,” Richard said.

  “But...”

  “The cook is heading straight for the most dangerous strip of land in the world, and seems to be making pretty good headway, given it’s the densest jungle outside of the Congo. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess he’s got some help, and that help isn’t accidental. We’ve known all along he was making for Colombia. This is how he plans to do it,” Richard explained.

  “Then you have to get him on the Colombian side?” Sam asked.

  Richard said nothing, lost in thought.

  He really wanted to take the cook alive so he could understand what, if any, additional exposure they had to the camera’s contents being leaked. Unfortunately, this operation was already running off the tracks and it didn’t look like he had that option – barring parachuting his team into the middle of a hot zone, with no way out, in the hopes they could intercept the cook without stepping on any land mines or being mowed down by bloodthirsty paramilitary rebels. Richard had read the reports on the Darien Gap, and even this northern edge of it was more deadly than walking down the main boulevard in Tehran singing God Bless America, wearing a stars and stripes jacket. Every murderous faction in Central America was concentrated in that strip of jungle and each was more dangerous than the next. The Panamanians wouldn’t get within miles of it, and the Colombian Army would only venture in on rare occasions, and then in only a limited area with massive firepower. It made Vietnam during the height of hostilities seem like a trip to Cancun on Spring Break.