Renegade 29

by Lou Cameron

  Issuing new and classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  CONTENTS

  Peril in Progreso

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Series Titles

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  Captain Gringo— fighting for all he’s worth in the Yucatan!

  Rather than face certain capture in Costa Rica, Gringo agrees to join a group of hardened meres in Progreso, a dusty little town in the Mexican Yucatan. His marching orders are simple: “Invade Cuba.” But life gets more complicated for the Renegade when armies of trigger-happy Federales and sharp-shooting U.S.

  Secret Service agents set out after his much-hunted hide. Luckily for Gringo, it’s not just the odds that are stacked in Progreso. A bountiful female biologist joins his team eager to do anything to keep her favorite species of mate alive—and biologically satisfied!

  RENEGADE 29: PERIL IN PROGRESO

  By Ramsay Thorne

  First Published in 1985 by Warner Books

  Copyright © 1985, 2017 by Lou Cameron

  First Smashwords Edition: November 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  El Presidente Porfirio de la Cruz Dias had ordered black coffee and hot tamales with his breakfast in bed, so he was wide awake when his bedside phone rang. But he was enjoying his hot tamales too much to answer it. The hot tamale he was eating was called Pepita. The hot tamale who was eating him was called Rosita, and she was of course being eaten in turn by Pepita, and all three of them were about to come—or at least the two young whores said they were—so the dirty old man running Mexico for his own fun and profit didn’t care who’d called his unlisted number.

  But in time all good things must end, at least until a dirty old man can get it up again. So after he’d ejaculated in the sweet little thirteen-year-old mouth of Rosita, and heard the phone still ringing, El Presidente languidly reached for the phone with one hand as he wiped his moustache with the other, and said, “Tumbe la vara, it is too early for to take calls on this line!”

  The familiar voice of a trusted aide replied, “The Americano kick-in-the-balls from their embassy is making a fuss here at the office, El Presidente. He says he had a ten a.m. appointment with you and, forgive me, I mean no offense, it is quarter past eleven.”

  The gray-haired dictator fondled the nearest young snatch as he chuckled and said, “Show him around the garden or something. Perhaps he will find another weed for to name after a gringo diplomat. Who was the idioso who named our red milkweed after himself that time?”

  The aide, who was paid to know everything, said, “Poinsette, U.S. Ambassador Poinsette, El Presidente. Aside from being mad and wishing to dig up Mexican weeds, he caused no trouble. I am told they have named the spurge you speak of after him in Los Estados Unidos del Norte, and that they grow them in hot houses for to sell at Christmas time. Nobody can tell me for why. But about the Yanqui from their embassy. At the moment, he is said to be muy important and I can tell you for a fact he is muy anxious for to see you. It has something to do with that covert operation down near Progreso.”

  Diaz grimaced, removed his free hand from Pepita’s fuzzy wet lap, and sat up straighter to say, with a sigh, “If the damned Yanqui Secret Service knows about it, it is not, by definition, a covert operation anymore. Those estupido bastards running it promised me none of the great powers would hear of it until it was a footnote of past history!”

  The aide said, “If Los Yanquis know something is up, by now British Intelligence should know the whole story. What should I tell this one spilling cigar ash all over the rug outside, if you are, ah, too busy for to feed him bananas yourself, El Presidente?”

  Diaz thought and said, “You’d better put him on. I know how to talk to the motherfucking gringo shits. That is one reason I am El Presidente, no?”

  There was a series of clicks at the other end of the line as the old dictator put an experimental finger in Pepita’s tight anal opening. The young puta flinched and gasped, “Oh, no, por favor! I do not wish for to make love that way, Señor El Presidente!”

  He growled, “You are not here for to have your own wishes come true, you stupid little peon tart. You are here for to make my wishes come true, and if I wish for to have you in the Greek manner you will tell me how much you love it if you wish for to leave this room alive.”

  Then, as she began to cry, he added, “Silencio. I must speak to another asshole, first.” Then he made his voice somewhat friendlier as he explained to the upset-sounding Secret Service agent at the other end of the line, “I am so sorry to keep you waiting, my Americano friend. Important matters of state. I am sure you understand, no?”

  The American he was soothing, or trying to, replied, “No. I’ve been going nuts trying to get someone down here in Red Pepperville to tell me what the fuck is going on over in Progreso!”

  Diaz smiled with his voice, even though his Indian’s eyes narrowed, as he said, “You have found the one friend of Tío Sam who is free to tell you, then. Naturally, what I am about to tell you will go no further?”

  “Just to Washington, pal. They pay us Secret Service guys to tell ’em secrets, see?”

  “Oh, of course you will have to report this conversation to my good friends in your State Department. But I must have your word not a soul here in Mexico will hear a whisper of what I am about to confide in you, eh?”

  “It’s a deal. Let ’em learn their own secrets. What’s the score in Progreso, Diaz?”

  “What have you heard about the, ah, goings-on in Progreso, amigo?”

  “Are you trying to stall me? We know the word’s out that some damned body is hiring gun slicks—lots of gun slicks. So half the soldiers of fortune in Latin America are making tracks to Progreso, Yucatan, while meanwhile every fucking gunrunner with a boat that can float seems to be running guns ashore there and, even weirder, your Mexican Federales haven’t made a move to stop whatever’s going on. So what the fuck is going on? I’m not going to ask again, and we both know you’ve just asked President Cleveland for another loan!”

  The Mexican leader chuckled boyishly, his face a mask a wooden Indian would be proud to manage, and replied, “Si, old Grover is a friend of mine indeed. So I shall tell you what is being fucked in Progreso. It is the rear entrance of His Most Catholic Majesty, the King of Spain. Certain other friends of mine, in the Cuba Libre Movement, do not feel you Yanquis mean to invade Cuba at all. Most certainly not this season at any rate. Meanwhile, Butcher Weyler, the oddly named Spanish Military Governor of Cuba, has been rounding up Cuban rebels, suspected Cuban rebels, or perhaps just anyone his soldados catch on the streets after dark, for to herd them into his no doubt ingenious but depressing concentration camps, so—”

  “So you, of all people, are worried about liberty?” The American cut in with a knowing chuckle.

  The Savior of Mexico chuckled back and confided, “Not to the extent of granting that tedious constitucion some of my own subjects insist on pestering me about. But, speaking to another man of the world, man to man, neither Mexico nor your country needs the constant brawling in a crumbling empire right off our mutual shores, eh? Spain is run by assholes under a king who’s not even smart enough to be called an asshole. Sooner or later t
he Cuba Libre Movement has to win. Meanwhile all the fund raising and speech making in our more sensible countries is causing confusion among our people and extra work for our law officers. Do you not agree that if the excitable Cubans were not constantly plotting against the stupid Spanish we would not be having this conversation?”

  “Sure, but let’s get back to Progreso.”

  “I have instructed my police and soldados not to go anywhere near Progreso for the time being. The Cuba Libre Movement is gathering an, ah, liberating army of, as you say, gun slicks, cutthroats and otherwise useless bastards from all over, for to make a landing at some place called the Bay of Pigs. They may know what they are doing. Butcher Weyler may slaughter them. In either case, both your country and mine will be ahead, no?”

  The American at the other end of the line thought, then chuckled and said, “Right. If the rag-tag invasion force liberates Cuba we won’t have to. If they fail, it’ll still cost Spain and, meanwhile, you and all the other little dictators will be rid of serious gunmen your own rebels figure to hire for a while. Do the Spies know Mexico is allowing the Cuba Libre guys to use Progreso as a rebel base?”

  Porfirio Diaz was only part Spanish, so he chose to ignore the ethnic slur as he replied, “I doubt it. His Most Catholic Majesty can stand up, and he can piss, but not at the same time. Weyler is better at butchery than military intelligence. If he had any intelligence he might not have to butcher as many people. But if he finds out, what can he do, eh? Naturally, Mexico is officially neutral and would not dream of causing trouble for Spain. But what could I possibly do if some outlaws chose to gather in such a far-off jungle town?”

  “I get the picture. Okay, it’s no skin off Uncle Sam’s ass, either. But just one last detail. Are you guys expecting that Yankee renegade, Lieutenant Richard Walker, the one they call Captain Gringo, to show up in Progreso?”

  “I assure you, we are expecting nobody there. It was the Cuba Libre bunch, not us, who sent out the call. For why do you ask?”

  “Why do I ask? Jesus H. Christ, Captain Gringo’s wanted for everything but swiping Queen Victoria’s opera glasses and, if they’re missing, he probably did that, too! I’ve a dead or alive warrant on that maniac and, if he’s in Progreso, why waste time trying to take anyone who’s drunk the water there alive? I may need some backing from your own Rurales, though, if Walker’s holed up there with friends, and—”

  “Impossible!” Diaz cut in, adding, “You are not the only people who wish for to see Captain Gringo do the hat dance at the end of a rope. He and that little French monster he runs wild with owe me for a railroad of mine they wrecked not too long ago. But my own police are not about to accompany you into that den of thieves at Progreso and, if you will allow me to offer you some fatherly advice, you will not try it on your own, or backed by a platoon of U.S. Marines! Captain Gringo and his companero, Gaston Verrier, can produce the full effects of an army on their own. In Progreso, at the moment, there is an army, made up of the toughest professional fighting men in Latin America, and if Captain Gringo is even there, and he may not be, guess whose side those other thugs will be on!”

  The Secret Service man told Diaz to let Uncle Sam worry about that and hung up. But Diaz always worried. A man who’d seized power after the death of Juarez and held if with a gun ever since got good at worrying if he meant to stay alive.

  So the dirty old man, who planned on being much older before anyone got to vote in his country, swung his naked legs off the bed and told the two girls to send in his Captain of the Guard on their way out. Then he got back on the phone and made some important calls while he waited. When his boss bodyguard came in to help him wash and dress, Diaz was still fuming. He said, “Those fucking Yanquis are going to fuck up the whole sweet plan if we don’t stop them!”

  The bodyguard moved to fill the sink in the corner with warm water as he replied stiffy, “Orders, my Presidente?” But the old man just grimaced and said, “I have already set the wheels within wheels in motion. You just worry about the soap and towels and, oh yes, what about my standing orders regarding female guests to these private quarters, Major?”

  “Carried out, sir. The two girls were sent to the dungeons the moment they came out to tell us you were finished with them. We thought it best to await word from you on their final disposition.”

  “Bueno. I might wish to enjoy the shy one some more … But, no, better just shoot them as usual. It would never do for the general public to hear gossip about my personal habits, eh?”

  “No, my Presidente. It is well known the Savior of Mexico is a saint.”

  *

  The people who were worried about Captain Gringo being in the Mexican seaport of Progreso might have worried less had they known he was actually far to the south, in Limón, Costa Rica, and in danger of drowning or worse, depending on whether the tide came in or somebody flushed a toilet first. He knew the sun was shining, somewhere, but it was black as a banker’s heart down here as he followed his sidekick, Gaston, through the sewers of Limón on his hands and knees. He couldn’t see what he was getting all over his hands and knees, but it didn’t smell like violets, and when Gaston stopped short at a fork in the dank darkness ahead the big Yank wound up with his face in the seat of the smaller Frenchman’s soggy pants. He moved back a bit to growl, “Have you been eating beans again?”

  Gaston protested. “Mais non, and I shall thank you to stop sniffing at my derriere, you species of sex-mad puppy-dog! If I was that kind of a boy I would have retired from the Legion with a much higher rank.”

  “Bullshit, you know damned well you deserted the Legion because you didn’t like noise, and if you didn’t just fart in my face, who did?”

  Gaston sighed and said, “The ventilation down here does leave much to be desired, hein? I think this sewer to the right is the one we should follow, Dick.”

  Captain Gringo grimaced in the total darkness and asked, “You think, you old fart? Don’t you know?”

  “Mais non, I am a soldier of fortune, not a sewer inspector. But it stands to reason drainage from higher levels must indicate higher ground to the right, and the jail stands well back from the sea wall. Come, let us march on. We have to get there before La Siesta, non?”

  Gaston started crawling again with Captain Gringo bringing up the rear, dragging their repeating rifles. The job really called for at least a machine gun, but despite Captain Gringo’s reputation as an ace machine gunner, a knockaround guy could hardly be expected to check in and out of posadas or board streetcars packing a heavy machine gun. So the .44-40 Winchesters they’d picked up in the flea market on the fly would have to do, for now.

  Gaston said, “Regard, I see light ahead! We seem to be approaching the end of this thrice accursed hole in the ground at last!”

  “Swell. How do you know it’s the manhole in the prison courtyard? I’m completely turned around down here, and I know for a fact my sense of direction is better than yours, Gaston.”

  “Merde alors, how many ways in and out of this maze could there be? Trust me, Dick. I told you I had it all mapped out in my head.”

  They crawled on. Somewhere in the real world above some son of a bitch pulled a chain, and Captain Gringo caught the wet results in the small of his back. He cursed and Gaston laughed, saying, “Regard the bright side, Dick. It could have been my ass, or your head, non?”

  “Just keep moving, damn it. I’m right under the fucking pipe!”

  Gaston did. A few minutes later they’d reached what looked very much like the bottom of a brick-lined well with leopard spots of sunlight gleaming on the flat floor of crud-covered cement and a rusty iron ladder running up to the manhole cover ten or twelve feet above their heads. No other tunnels pierced the circular wall around them. They were in a dead end. Captain Gringo leaned the two rifles against the slimy bricks and moved up the ladder. When he got to the top, with his bare blond head against the bottom of the rusty manhole cover, he could see out just a little. The first thing he saw was
a woman’s bare snatch. A dame was standing smack on the cover in a loose campesina skirt and few peon women wore underpants. Okay, it was possible they allowed women inside the local lock-up. But how was he supposed to edge the rim up for a better look with her standing on the goddamn lid?

  He tensed on the ladder rungs as a male voice suddenly called out, “¡Tengo cabanja por comerme un plato criollo, señorita!”

  Then he relaxed some, as he realized the guard—or whatever was only saying he was homesick for some old-fashioned Creole grub. But was that a sensible conversation to be holding in a prison yard?

  It got even sillier when the dame standing on his head replied, “El polio no esta cocinado todavia, señor.” And Captain Gringo figured out what he’d been smelling besides shit lately. He swore softly, slid down the ladder, and asked Gaston, “Know any other neat shortcuts? We’re under the marketplace, you chump! A mujer is selling home-fried chicken topside. Or she will be, any minute. She just told a guy her chicken wasn’t done yet.”

  Gaston reached in his shirt pocket for a smoke as he sighed and said wistfully, “That reminds me, I have not eaten since the crack of dawn and it must be past my usual lunchtime.”

  “Don’t light that!” Captain Gringo warned, explaining, “Aside from cigar smoke coming from a sewer grate striking people as a bit unusual, striking a match surrounded by sewer gas could be injurious to one’s health. We’re going to have to backtrack. There’s no way they could be fixing to execute Sanchez in the public market, see?”

  Gaston put the cigar away again, took out his pocket watch, and consulted it by such light as there was down here. Then he said, “I give up, Dick. Somewhere, back there in the maze, we made a wrong turn. There is simply no way we are going to make it, if they really mean to execute the boy against the courtyard wall before La Siesta!”

  Captain Gringo said, “You haul the guns. I’ll take the lead this time. We’ve got at least ten minutes.”

  He dropped to his hands and knees and started crawling back down the murky channel they’d come in by. Gaston naturally followed, but bitched, “It’s no use, Dick. We’re never going to make it in time. Sanchez was a nice boy, I am sure. But he did get caught and they are going to shoot him, whether we crawl through another kilometer of this merde or not, hein? Slow down, damn it! You know as well as I you have no idea where you are going in such a hurry and as I told you, there are said to be salt-water crocodiles down here, closer to the waterfront!”