Captain Riley (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 1)

by Fernando Gamboa

  “Asilah?” Carmen asked. “A backwater fishing town? Why the hell do you want to go there?”

  “What’s wrong? You don’t like fish?”

  “Stop screwing around. What’s so great about Asilah?”

  Riley smiled. “Don’t worry, it’s just a quick stop. When we get there we’ll look for a way to get to Larache. That’s our real destination.”

  “And why didn’t you tell me this in the first place instead of giving me the runaround?”

  “I don’t know. It seemed more fun that way.”

  Though it was only twenty-five miles to Asilah, the bad roads along the coast and, even more so, the bus’s sputtering engine, no better than a team of horses, made the trip longer than two hours.

  Like Carmen said, Asilah was just a small fishing village. Beat-up, whitewashed houses lay by a beach, which was littered with algae and wood. Colorful wooden fishing boats rested on the sand, safe from high tide and unexpected storms. Feeling safer, Riley put on his boots and got rid of the sack, robe, and slippers, transforming from an Arab grandmother back into a rugged expat sailor.

  After some haggling, they quickly convinced the only inhabitant with a working vehicle to take them to Larache that very afternoon. He was a wiry fisherman of indeterminate age with a sun-scorched face and deep wrinkles named Muhammed. Despite his djellaba and turban, he reminded Riley of the fishermen he’d dealt with so often on the other side of the strait. They were quiet and circumspect, but tough and frank. He’d spent many, many nights with them in taverns from Palamós to Isla Cristina, playing cards or drinking cheap wine. They spoke through broken phrases and meaningful silences until the break of dawn, when each stumbled back to their house, their ship, or the nearest brothel.

  The fisherman let them into the cabin of a small truck that looked like it was made from spare parts and reeked of rotting fish. After poking around for a while under the hood and attempting half a dozen times to get it running, Muhammed got the truck to sputter miserably to life and, in a cloud of black smoke, they headed south to Larache.

  The route didn’t go by the sea this time. Instead they took a detour through the interior desert before turning back toward the coast. Out the window there was nothing but small, stony desert hills on either side of the patched and terribly lonely road. Good thing it’s less than twenty-five miles, Riley thought, exhausted and sweating, the pain in his ribs stabbing him at every bump. Carmen and Muhammed, on either side of him, seemed lost in their own thoughts and neither said a word after leaving Asilah. It was just as well Muhammed was quiet. Riley wouldn’t have understood him anyway, and he wanted to take the opportunity to find out what was going on with Carmen, still covered by the haik that was becoming less and less white.

  He was about to try to start a conversation with her when Muhammed looked in the rearview mirror and suddenly started ranting in Arabic. He kept his gaze on what was causing him all that agitation: a black sedan speeding up the road behind them in a cloud of dust. It accelerated faster than common sense would recommend, considering the condition of the road, before disappearing suddenly behind the next curve. Muhammed turned to Riley, lifted his hands from the wheel in frustration, and cursed the reckless driver in Arabic. Riley nodded silently, not understanding a word but sharing the fisherman’s anger.

  Suddenly they came upon a roadblock, just a hundred yards in front of them. Riley’s blood froze when he realized it was the sedan, stopped in the middle. Four men stood outside: three North Africans and one tall, blond, well-dressed man in a hat. All four aimed pistols at them.

  Muhammed instinctively hit the brakes, and the tires screeched.

  “Don’t stop!” Riley screamed. “Speed up! Speed up!”

  Carmen realized who they were and screamed the same in Arabic, but the driver kept braking. Riley had no choice but to push Muhammed aside and take the wheel, kicking his foot off the brake pedal and accelerating as much as he could. They’d slam into the sedan if they had to.

  Cornered against the door, Muhammed fought back furiously for control of the vehicle as Carmen kept screaming in Arabic for him to speed up. When they were approaching fast from only a few dozen yards away, Smith and his men opened fire, and a flurry of shots pierced the radiator and shattered the windshield.

  Riley forgot the wheel and threw himself on Carmen, causing them both to fall on the floor of the cabin. Muhammed clutched his heart and collapsed on the dashboard with a bullet in his chest. A few yards farther up, the engine stopped with a dull rattle, mortally wounded like its unfortunate owner.

  40

  As the truck lost momentum, it hit a yellow mile-marker sign, number 58 on the side of the road from Tangier to Larache. The collision, fortunately, happened when they were going less than twenty miles per hour, but it was enough to leave them stunned for a few seconds. It was also enough time for Smith’s men to come over and open the passenger-side door, take Riley’s gun, and unceremoniously pull him and Carmen out onto the asphalt. When Riley’s head stopped spinning, he put his hand on the ground and slowly raised himself to his feet, then helped Carmen do the same.

  The three men he knew so well from two nights prior stood on the road in front of them, saying nothing but pointing their revolvers. With a glimmer of satisfaction, Riley noticed they hadn’t gotten away unscathed from their encounter with the legionnaires: two of them had black eyes, while the third, the unibrow, had his arm in a sling.

  “Captain Riley,” Smith said, limping closer to them. “I have to admit you’re a hard man to catch.”

  Riley ignored him, focusing on Carmen, who seemed unharmed apart from the impact and shock. He glanced back at Muhammed, who lay motionless on the seat, his mouth hanging open and his eyes lifeless. A big bloodstain spread on his djellaba.

  Smith walked slowly toward them and quickly stripped the veil from Carmen’s face, pulling back the part of the haik that covered her head. The features that made many men lose their heads now were exposed.

  “I see the stories of your good looks were not exaggerated, Ms. Debagh,” he said with cynical courtesy, taking a step back with his hand on his chest. “Even after a traffic accident you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”

  Carmen gave him a disgusted look. “And I see what Alex told me about this English son of a bitch wasn’t exaggerated either.”

  “Actually, I’m Scottish. And as for being a son of a bitch, I find it funny coming from—”

  “What the fuck do you want from us?” Riley said.

  Smith looked at him with a tired smile and said, “Come on, Captain . . . you know.”

  Riley took a step to his right and hugged Carmen. “She doesn’t know anything. Let her go.”

  Smith seemed to think it over, scratching his chin. “Okay. If you tell me where to find the rest of your crew, maybe I’ll let her leave.”

  “No. Let her go first, and once she’s in a secure place, I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Smith shook his head. “If I do what you want, you won’t tell me anything.”

  “And if I tell you first, you’ll kill us both.”

  Smith glanced backward, as if expecting advice from the hit men. “Then I guess we’re at a standstill.”

  Riley looked around; they were at the men’s mercy. He hugged Carmen tighter and was surprised by the look of resigned pride in her eyes. She knew exactly what was going to happen to her, but there was no sign of bitterness or sadness in her expression, only the serene acceptance of an inevitable end.

  A minute later, they were walking toward a nearby valley, followed at a safe distance by Smith and the unibrow. A little farther back, the other two carried Muhammed’s body.

  Smith and his henchmen were clearly taking their prisoners somewhere off the road where they could execute them both, then leave all three bodies to the vultures and vermin. Riley knew there was nothing he could do about it. If he ran off holding Carmen’s hand, they would be caught immediately, and the result would be the sam
e. He might have a chance if he ran off himself and got lucky, but even the thought made him feel ashamed. He wouldn’t leave Carmen under any circumstances. It’d be the end for both of them.

  Moved, he took Carmen’s hand and gave her one last smile, a smile of tenderness and apology. She returned the gesture with affection and maintained a poise that would have made any soldier envious.

  “Do you realize,” she said, looking at their fingers intertwined, “this is the first time we’ve walked holding hands?”

  Riley’s smile widened. He was happy and proud to walk next to that woman, a moment from death or not. He thought of all the battlefields and trenches stinking of corpses, shit, and urine that he could’ve died in during the war. With a deep breath of the beautiful desert’s dry air, he thought it wasn’t such a bad place to call it quits, walking hand in hand with the woman he was now sure he loved.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to her. “Forgive me.”

  Carmen closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “There’s nothing to forgive.” She brought her body closer to his, and he hugged her as hard as he could.

  “Stop there,” Smith said. “Turn around.”

  They were by a dry creek bed at the bottom of a small ravine surrounded by bushes. Just the kind of place where no one would ever find them again.

  The two men carrying poor Muhammed’s cadaver tossed it in some bushes and took out their pistols. The unibrow said something in Smith’s ear, eyeing Carmen. Smith gave him a reproachful look and quietly scolded him.

  “Do you know what this bum asked me?” Smith said. “To take a walk and let him and his cousins, as he said, enjoy a few minutes alone with the lady.”

  Riley instinctively put himself between them and Carmen in a vain attempt to protect her.

  “Relax, Captain,” Smith said. “Despite what you may think of me and these unpleasant circumstances we find ourselves in, I guarantee you I am a gentleman and would never allow such vileness.”

  “Unpleasant circumstances?” Riley said. “I should show you unpleasant circumstances.”

  Smith pretended to be hurt. “I just follow orders. I thought as a former soldier you’d understand that.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Smith looked indifferent. “Okay,” he snorted. “Let’s finish this. Ibrahim, Abdul, be sure to do your job well and hide the bodies in the bushes. I’ll wait for you in the car. Don’t take too long.” He looked at them and touched his hat. “Ms. Debagh, Captain Riley, if you’ll excuse me, I can’t stand this heat, and I find executions repulsive . . . Have a nice day.”

  “Hey, Smith,” Riley called after him.

  “Yes?”

  “See you in hell.”

  Smith shrugged. “Possibly.”

  Now it was just the two of them with Ibrahim and Abdul; the unibrow had gone with Smith.

  “On the ground,” one of them ordered with a cruel smile that revealed his gold teeth. “On knees.”

  They took each other’s hands.

  “Kneel!” He pointed with his gun at the ground.

  The couple ignored him, looking at each other for the last time before closing their eyes. “We’ll be together soon,” Riley whispered.

  “Forever,” Carmen whispered back.

  The blasts of two explosions tore the silence of the desert.

  41

  Riley turned and saw the two henchmen now sprawled in strange positions on the ground, motionless, with pools of blood under them.

  “They . . .” Riley said. “They’re dead.”

  “But how is that possible?”

  “I have no clue,” he said, going over to the bodies and finding they had both been shot in the head. “Sounds crazy, but it’s like they killed themselves.”

  A laugh rang out from the top of the valley, and they turned to look.

  “Killed themselves?” a man asked, coming down the embankment with a Beretta. “My ass.”

  “Marco?” Riley asked like he’d seen a ghost. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  Before Marco could answer, Carmen rushed forward and hugged him.

  Riley shook his hand and slapped him on the back. “I never thought I’d be so happy to see you,” he confessed with a grin from ear to ear.

  “Same here,” Carmen said, which was no small thing, since the last and only time she saw Marco she’d suggested Riley shoot him and throw him overboard as soon as possible.

  “What are you doing here?” Riley asked. “How’d you find us?”

  “How else?” he said. “I’ve been following you, of course.”

  “Following us? Since when? Why? And where’d you go the other night when we were chased?”

  “I was going to ask you the same, Captain. After we got separated in the medina, I looked for a place to hide for a few hours, and when I went back to the Pingarrón it was gone. You abandoned me like a dog.”

  “You’re wrong, Marco. The ship sailed on my orders, because we felt we were all in danger if we stayed in Tangier. We didn’t know where you were or if you were still alive, so we had to make a choice. It was my decision, and it was all I could do.”

  “But you stayed.”

  “I had to warn Carmen,” he said, putting his arm around her waist. “They were going to kill her.”

  “I see . . .” He nodded, holstering his gun. “And me, damn it.”

  “It’s not that, Marco. I told you already—”

  “I still don’t get how you found us,” Carmen said. “When did you start following us?”

  Marco lit a cigar. “The first thing I thought when everyone disappeared was that you were trying to screw me out of my cut. So I decided to stand guard outside the lawyer’s office and wait for you to show up to sell the thing”—he smiled wolfishly—“and you did.”

  “You recognized us?”

  Marco made a face like remembering an old joke. “I have to admit the disguise was good. But I’ve spent too much time with you not to recognize the way you walk and move. And there aren’t too many six-foot-tall old ladies.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us you were alive then?” Riley said.

  “I told you, I thought you were screwing me. And seeing you show up there only confirmed my suspicions.”

  “Wait,” Carmen said, “so you didn’t follow us to help us . . . but the opposite.”

  Marco just showed his teeth again in a not-very-reassuring smile.

  “Fuck, Marco.” Riley clicked his tongue. “I can’t believe you thought we’d stab you in the back.”

  “Thought?” Marco crossed his arms, his hand close to his gun. “I never said I changed my mind.”

  It took Riley a few seconds to react. “What? You still think I’m lying?”

  “That’s exactly what it seems like.”

  “Jesus, Marco. You’re a paranoid fuck.”

  “Oh yeah? So you didn’t leave me in Tangier not knowing what happened to me? Didn’t try to sell the machine to El Fassi this morning? Didn’t get a meeting with March in a few days?”

  “How do you know that?” Riley asked. “How do you know I spoke with El Fassi?”

  “I saw you go into his office. All I had to do was make a brief visit to clear a few things up. I have to admit he takes confidentiality very seriously. I had to squeeze his nuts a little to get him to tell me what you were up to.”

  A shiver ran down Riley’s spine when he realized what “squeeze his nuts a little” meant to Marco. “Christ, Marovic . . . I hope you didn’t break anything.”

  “I did what you made me do. And don’t forget I just saved your life, and your little slut’s.”

  Carmen’s face turned red, and Riley had to stop himself from punching him in the face. “You’re a crazy bastard,” he said, raising a finger. “You better not have ruined the agreement with March.”

  “If by ‘ruined’ you mean not letting—”

  There was another explosion in the air, and Marco crumpled to the ground. Riley dove on Carmen and saw the un
ibrow aiming at them from the top of the hill fifty yards away. He must have come back to see what was taking his cousins so long.

  A second shot kicked up dirt and stones a few feet away from them. Completely exposed at the bottom of the valley, they were only being kept alive by the shooter’s bad aim. It was just a matter of time before he hit them.

  Riley instinctively scrambled on all fours toward the bodies of the two men Marco had killed and took their guns. Then he stood and ran desperately uphill toward the unibrow, zigzagging and screaming like a maniac, alternately firing both guns.

  The unibrowed killer kept shooting with his healthy arm, but it must have been his nondominant hand, because he missed Riley from only ten yards away. The next time he tried to shoot, he realized he was out of ammo. When he saw Riley coming up on him spraying bullets and curses, he dropped his weapon, turned, and ran back toward the road.

  When Riley reached the top of the hill, he was out of breath. His heart was about to burst in his chest, and he felt like he was on the brink of collapse. But he got an adrenaline boost when he saw Smith, less than a hundred yards away, leaning on the hood of his Citroën 202, smoking peacefully like he was waiting for a girl outside a hotel.

  Riley was pleased when he saw Smith give a confused look to the unibrow running down the hill like a rabbit. The cigarette fell from his lips when he realized Riley was not only alive but on his feet with a gun in each hand.

  Riley went after him in a rage as he jumped into his car. The unibrow was only sixty feet from the car, but it was clear Smith wasn’t planning on waiting when he started the engine and headed in the opposite direction.

  At that point, Riley had stopped feeling pain, exhaustion, fear, or anything else. He was 185 pounds of unbridled anger with two smoking pistols, frothing at the mouth with the sole desire of spilling the blood of whoever crossed his path. His heart beat hard in his chest, and the smell of burnt gunpowder reminded him of that afternoon four years ago when he ran just as desperately and hatefully toward the fascist trenches in hopes of killing as many as possible before they killed him.