Against All Enemies

by John Gilstrap

  “The satellite view just refreshed,” Venice said. “From the radio traffic I’ve been eavesdropping on, I assume that you and Dylan are both at the base of a tree near a body?”

  “That’s affirm.”

  “Okay. You can’t progress to the south. I show a cluster of heat signatures less than twenty yards from where you are right now. They’re gathered in a group of two and a group of three. It’s just like you said. They’ve laid a trap for you.”

  “Do you have a suggested option?”

  “Head west,” Venice said. “You need to put distance between you and them.”

  “That will take us into the open.”

  “Okay, then, you pick,” Venice said. She didn’t like it when her advice was sought and then argued with.

  “Stand by one.” He caught Dylan up on the new intel.

  “We can always move north,” he said. “At least we’ll keep the cover from the trees.”

  Jonathan sighed. “That’ll move us farther from the exfil site,” he said. “And increase our wandering time. Assuming these guys are professionals, they’re going to regroup. Our best route to survival is to get out of here.”

  “But among all those squatty gravestones, we’ll be completely exposed.”

  “Yeah, but they’ll still be in the trees where they won’t be able to get a good shot.”

  “Until they move.”

  “Then we just have to move faster.” Jonathan used his sales smile.

  Dylan didn’t seem moved. “This is crazy.”

  Jonathan smacked his arm. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. Just remember to zig a little and zag a lot.”

  Dylan looked at him as though he’d grown a second nose. “This is suicide.”

  “Tell the kid to grow a pair,” Boxers’ voice said in his ear, “You draw ’em out, and I’ll knock ’em down.”

  Jonathan grinned. “I thought I told you to bug out.”

  “Yeah, we can talk later about the wisdom of that order,” Boxers said. “And since when did I ever listen to you?”

  Jonathan addressed Dylan. “I’ve got Big Guy in my ear. He’s monitoring us and will provide cover fire if we need it.”

  Dylan still didn’t appear to be sold.

  “It’s not like we have a lot of options,” Jonathan said as his final pitch. “I don’t mean to throw a guilt thing on you, but I feel compelled to remind you that these guys are really here to kill you, not me. And not insignificantly, we came here to save your ass.”

  Dylan smirked. “Are you sure you’re still young enough to run fast?”

  “I heard that,” Big Guy said. “Shoot him.”

  “On my count,” Jonathan said. “Three . . . two . . . one . . .” There was no need to articulate the word zero. On that metronome beat, they both darted forward like track stars leaving their marks. Jonathan cut left first and then jinked right, varying the number of strides in each angle as well as the angle itself off of due west. The idea was to be fast and unpredictable, so that even if a shooter were taking the proper lead with his sights, the target would no longer be where the bullet was when it arrived.

  He estimated he was fifty yards downrange before he heard the first report of a gunshot from behind. It must have been significantly wide because he heard nothing of the characteristic whip crack of a bullet passing nearby. He threw a glance to his right to make sure Dylan was still okay, and was pleased to see the wanted man vaulting a tombstone without breaking stride.

  The next shots came in rapid succession, and from a variety of weapons. This time, a chunk of marble erupted from a memorial obelisk ahead and to his left, and a second bullet pounded past his left ear. Next came a very brief burst of automatic weapons fire that sent him diving for cover. Throwing himself to the ground was as instinctive as it was stupid. Because bullets travel two or three times the speed of sound, the act of hearing the shot without first feeling the impact meant that you were okay.

  “Keep running,” Big Guy said in his ear. “That shooter’s down. I believe I can smell the other one’s shitty underwear from here.”

  Jonathan had never heard Boxers’ kill shot.

  By the time Jonathan found his feet again, Dylan was easily a hundred yards ahead and still going. Before taking off after him, Jonathan pivoted back toward the trees and fired a long burst, sweeping once to the right and then to the left. He hated being shot at, and he needed to make the point. Then he was off again.

  “That make you feel better, Boss?” Boxers asked.

  Jonathan didn’t bother to answer. Within twenty seconds, Jonathan was on the far side of the graveyard and in the middle of El Chorrillo slums. He allowed himself to slow to a businessman’s walk, not just to call less attention to himself, but because he felt they were beyond the effective range of the enemy’s small arms, particularly with Big Guy keeping their heads down.

  Dylan was waiting for him in the doorway of a peeling low-rise tenement. His chest heaved from the run, making Jonathan feel better about his own breathlessness. “What kept you?”

  “Let’s get to the far side of these buildings,” Jonathan said. He wasn’t going to spar with this guy. He hadn’t earned it yet. “I don’t think they can get a reliable shot from this range, but I’d be happier with hard cover.”

  Jonathan led the way half a block south until they got a break in the façades, and then he hung a sharp right. “You might want to camouflage that rifle,” he said.

  Dylan kept his hand wrapped around the grip, but held it at his side, in line with the rest of his body. It was still visible, but you had to be looking for it to see it. There was a time when the residents of this neighborhood were used to seeing such things, and the sight wouldn’t have raised too much suspicion—certainly not the kind of suspicion that would drive them to call the authorities, because the authorities were the people they were most afraid of. In more recent years, as a more peaceful corruption had embraced the people of Panama, Jonathan wasn’t sure what the reaction would be.

  Two gringos with firearms. What could possibly go wrong? He felt like he was in enemy territory.

  The neighborhood was a dump. The vivid pastel paint jobs that were such the rage in Central American cities had faded and turned chalky. Where fences had been installed—always chain-link—the gates all hung by a single hinge if they hung at all, and it appeared that three of every four windows were broken. Potholed streets gave in to buckled sidewalks. As they moved farther away from the cemetery, people became more common. Four boys paused their soccer game to eyeball the gringo strangers as they passed, their faces showing the kind of studied disinterest that dominated civilians in every war zone in the world.

  “What do you bet phone calls are being made?” Jonathan mumbled to Dylan.

  “You’re assuming they have phones,” Dylan countered. “I worry more about the rumor mill. It’s more efficient and way faster.”

  When they made it as far as the next street, they hooked a left and started moving south again. The scenery changed even though it didn’t. The architecture remained downtrodden, though shanty houses were morphing into shanty businesses—bodegas and bars mostly, with customers gathered outside in the sweltering heat that was at least less sweltering than the stagnant air inside. The front of one property led to the rear of another, lending a haphazard, airdropped appearance to the community.

  Their destination was Avenue A, one hundred yards distant, and from there they would turn left and head back to the vehicle that they’d stashed under Miguel’s protection. Total distance, all turns included, couldn’t have been more than a half mile, but as they closed the distance to the Avenue, a crowd began to form ahead of them. Locals spilled into the street from both sides, mostly men and mostly in their twenties—the sweet spot age for young and stupid.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Dylan observed.

  “Just keep walking,” Jonathan said. “Keep the pace purposeful, and keep eye contact. Don’t speak unless they speak first.” He’d learned a long
time ago that a purposeful stride scared the shit out of people who were trying to intimidate. If you behaved as if you belonged, and made no attempt to explain, even as your eyes dared others to ask, seven times out of ten you could preserve your Alpha Dog status. The other three times out of ten things turned ugly.

  “If it comes to it,” Jonathan continued, “you’re responsible for the bad guys on the right, and I’ll take the left.” Dylan was among the most professional of professional soldiers. Jonathan did not insult him by explaining that any form of violence was strictly a last resort.

  Jonathan’s P90 dangled by its strap under his armpit, muzzle pointed toward the street. To be totally neutral—to convey a totally peaceful intent—he would have just let it flop there as he approached, but that wasn’t the right move for this group. As the locals closed ranks and pressed together to form a human roadblock, Jonathan rested his right hand on the weapon’s grip, effectively mimicking Dylan’s posture with the M16.

  “They’re tightening ranks,” Dylan said under his breath, barely audible.

  Jonathan looked to his right toward Boxers’ position in the sniper’s nest and confirmed that they were out of his sight line. That meant they were alone. “Keep walking,” Jonathan said. “Slow and steady. Do not stop and do not step out of the way.”

  “You’re picking a fight.”

  “Nope,” Jonathan said. “I’m stopping one before it starts. Just keep your face stern and maintain eye contact. Don’t make any threatening moves, but don’t tolerate any, either.” While their paths had crossed briefly during Jonathan’s days with the Unit, he and Dylan had never fought together. He understood that the man was well trained, and the fact that he was still alive spoke to a certain talent at surviving, but among the new generation of warriors, he’d found that subtlety had taken a backseat to outright aggression. That was one of the prices to be paid for fifteen years of constant warfare.

  Twenty yards separated them from the locals. Ten. These were tough, territorial young men who may or may not have heard the shooting earlier, but who understood above all that the gringos with the guns didn’t belong, and that they wanted them to leave. They needed to put on a good show of defiance. Jonathan hoped that they didn’t cross a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. He’d be happy to brush shoulders and exchange stink eyes, but if someone produced a gun, or slashed at him with a knife, that someone would die. And if past was precedent, that single event would create a convulsive reaction from the crowd that could only end in a bloodbath.

  The crowd had formed a ragged rectangle that was roughly the width of the street, and maybe fifteen feet deep. As the distance closed to zero, Jonathan pointed himself toward the sliver of space that separated the two men in the front of the crowd. That’s where he would part them. He drilled the two young men with his eyes. “We’re leaving now,” Jonathan said in Spanish. “Don’t try to hurt me, and I won’t try to hurt you.”

  He didn’t slow, and because of that, shoulder-to-shoulder impact was inevitable. But the youngsters rotated out of the way, lessening the impact. Jonathan took that as a peace offering. They needed to bluster, but they were willing to avoid a fight. This might turn out well for everyone after all.

  To check on Dylan’s progress would mean looking behind, which would be a show of weakness, so Jonathan kept his eyes forward, scanning the eyes of everyone he confronted. Most looked away in less than a second. The tougher ones took two or three seconds. By the time they’d made it to the back of the crowd, even the shoulder-knocking had stopped.

  And then they were in the open, and Calle B lay ahead. One of the most frustrating features of Panama City—actually, Panama in general, in Jonathan’s experience—was the nonsensical logic of street numbering and naming. How was it that Avenue A ran parallel to B Street? In North American cities, streets and avenues were different, if only to conform to an organized layout of roadways. In this stinking corner of the world, there was no such thing as consistency.

  “I’m really not sure what just happened,” Dylan said as they were clear of the crowd.

  “Boxers calls it gun-barrel diplomacy,” Jonathan said. “But we’re not in the clear yet.” He sensed a change of posture in Dylan. “Do not look back. We are one hundred percent sure that we don’t have a care in the world.”

  “And if they shoot at us?”

  “Then we’ll shoot back,” Jonathan said. “We do not hold a position of strength, but they haven’t realized it yet. You don’t want to do anything to clarify the reality.”

  “How far to the exfil site?” Dylan asked.

  “We turn left here,” Jonathan said, executing the turn, “then we take the next right and the vehicle is parked on that block.” He held up a finger as a wait a minute. “Hey, Big Guy. Where are you?”

  “So, you do remember me,” Boxers said. “I’m down on the street, four blocks from the exfil site. I think I might have picked up a tail, though.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means other gringos that look like agency pukes walking in the same direction as me.”

  “Are they preparing to engage?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretending not to see them so I can’t really turn around and glare, but they haven’t made any threatening moves.”

  “Well, don’t divert from the exfil,” Jonathan said. “If we need to deal with them, we’ll deal with them, but it’s time to fly away.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Hey, Scorpion, we’ve got company,” Dylan said. “That whole crowd is following us.”

  He spoke the words just as they were approaching the right turn onto West 24th Street, so Jonathan could catch the reflection in the window. It seemed that literally the whole crowd was following them.

  Nothing good could come from that.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jonathan picked up his pace as he turned the final corner, and he sensed that Dylan was relieved to do the same. They still didn’t run, but it was definitely no time to dawdle. Half a block away, Miguel and his buddies had formed a roadblock of their own, more or less surrounding the exfil Jeep.

  “Where are we going?” Dylan asked. His voice carried a nervous edge. “This is a trap.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jonathan said. He picked up his pace even more. As he closed to within a few hundred feet, he called, “Miguel! Do you know these people?” He tossed a thumb back at his pursuers.

  Miguel stepped forward from his buddies and squinted to see the approaching group, a gesture that registered as nearsighted, though Jonathan couldn’t imagine how that tidbit of intel could possibly help. “Some of them,” Miguel said.

  “Then tell them that we are good guys. That we’re on their side.”

  “You know him?” Dylan asked.

  “We’re old friends,” Jonathan said. The separation distance closed even more. He kept his eyes on Miguel. He trusted this kid to do the right thing. He hoped he wasn’t being foolish.

  “Hey!” Miguel called, raising his hand as if to be called on. “Give these guys a chance. We should listen to what they have to say.” Then he pointed at Dylan. “I don’t know this one.”

  “He’s with me. Big Guy is on his way.” He used the phrase el gordo to refer to Boxers, which translated to “the fat one.” He knew Miguel would get what he was talking about, and Boxers wasn’t here to take exception.

  Jonathan pulled to a stop when he was separated by, say, fifteen feet from Miguel, and then he turned to face his pursuers. “We are not here to hurt anyone,” he said.

  Someone yelled, “Then why do you have guns?”

  “The American CIA is trying to kill us,” Jonathan said. He didn’t know for a fact that that was the case, but he felt it was close. And there was no better way to fire up a civilian population in any third world country than to invoke the name of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  “We heard shooting,” Miguel said.

  “Some of that was us,” Jonathan said, “and some of
that was them. We were better at it.”

  That brought a smile from Miguel, and he heard a ripple of laughter from the newcomers.

  Jonathan sensed opportunity. “I don’t have a lot of time,” he said. “We are Americans, but we do not work for the American government. We are not police. We are being pursued by government agents who want to kill us.”

  That brought a rumble of discontent. And excitement.

  “We need your help to get away,” Jonathan continued. “In a few minutes, a very, very large man will come this way. He is our friend, and I need you to let him through. But there are others—men and maybe women with guns—who will also be coming this way. I need you to surround them. Don’t harm them. Don’t push them. But surround them and slow them down. They will try to intimidate you, but they have orders not to hurt any local residents. They may make threats, but they will not follow through with them.”

  Heads nodded. Elbows prodded the ribs of people standing nearby. “How do we know that we can trust you?” someone asked.

  “He has money,” Miguel said. “Lots of money.”

  Well played, Jonathan thought. He reached into his pocket for the wad, and offered it to the presumed leader of the pursuing group. “I think this is three thousand dollars,” he said. “It’s all one hundred dollar bills, but I gave some to Miguel and I didn’t count it all that closely.” That was both a peace offering to Miguel and a threat. Peace offering to let it be known that Miguel’s group had already been paid, and threat to let the new guys know that the folks on the other side had money to spread around. And of course, there were the guns.

  The leader of the pursuers stepped forward and reached for the cash, but Jonathan pulled it back. “I need to know your name,” he said. Some drills never changed.

  “Roderick,” the man said.

  Jonathan felt himself twitch. It wasn’t the kind of name he’d been expecting. “Nice to meet you, Roderick.” He held out a hand in friendship.

  Roderick took it, and Jonathan squeezed just tightly enough to make sure the other man couldn’t pull away. “Understand,” he said in a voice that couldn’t possibly be heard by anyone standing more than three feet away, “that by taking this money, you’re making a business arrangement. You will allow my big friend to pass, and you will stop the CIA killers from approaching. If it all works, you will never see me again. If you betray me, I will kill you first, and then I will make it my life’s work to kill everyone else who is with you.” When Jonathan said stuff like that, he had no idea how much was hyperbole and how much was real, and at one level, that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the other party believed it to be true. “Do we understand each other?”