A Fortune in Blood: A Florida Action Adventure Novel (Scott Jarvis Private Investigator Book 7)

by Scott Cook

  Although I’d have to wrestle with this ethical qualm, I also couldn’t and wouldn’t let it stop me from doing what was necessary. My other justifications aside… and I had to admit I couldn’t prove most of them… these rebels were holding people I loved. They had threatened them and continued to hold a ten-year-old boy’s life over my friend’s head. Of that I had no doubt. Whatever happened as a result of that was Garcia’s and not my responsibility. I would not hesitate to do what must be done, even if it went against my ethical grain.

  As I began to move out of my cover and crawl across the ground through the foot-high grass and increasingly sparse underbrush, I pondered my own psyche and not for the first time. How was it that I could kill strangers in spite of my misgivings? What was it about me that allowed me to push aside my moral qualms and commit acts of violence against my fellow men?

  And most disturbing of all… how could I live with it?

  The cold hard truth was that I could live with it. I had lived with it. It was easy to justify my actions, certainly. Self-justification was something we Homo sapiens did extremely well. It was probably a genetic survival mechanism, really.

  Do what you need to do to survive and protect your family or tribe. No matter how heinous the act, it was okay because the ends justified the means.

  Yet I could at least sink my teeth into one solid justification that I didn’t believe was in any way false. I didn’t go seeking these deadly confrontations. I didn’t look for ways to put myself into situations where I could easily kill my fellow men or women. They were thrust upon me.

  Yes, I had chosen a profession where killing might be required. All police officers know that going in. And even when I’d left that profession, I’d chosen one very similar instead. As a private investigator, I had to admit that trouble was in a very real sense, my business. Yet I never desired to become a cop or a private dick to hurt people or go on crazy jungle adventures.

  I’ve always wanted to help others. To stop truly bad things from happening to people. I think that I’ve been fairly successful at it, too. Especially since leaving the police department and playing the game my way.

  Anthony Ravetti and his family could no longer sell military technology to our enemies. They were no longer able to import drugs to be sold to our children so easily, if at all. Even further, what was left of that family had been declawed because Gregorio Santino and I had acted in concert the previous summer. A highly placed crooked FBI agent and some of his compatriots were in prison because of my intervention. A pop turned TV star was having a successful career now no longer having to fear that someone would do her harm… well, probably.

  A deadly cargo of virulent flesh-eating bacteria that had been ear marked to decimate Florida and potentially Israel had been found and the threat neutralized. In no small part due to my direct actions and my willingness to put my personal safety at risk.

  So perhaps some ethical discomfort… and loneliness… was the price I had to pay for what I was allowed to achieve. Maybe that was the way the universe balanced its books somehow.

  I was close enough to the tents now to move. I forced my musings down into the cellar of my mind and snapped myself back to focus. I was near the last corner at the end of a long row of tents. It was dark here, and without my monocular, it would’ve been a challenge to see anything.

  I hoped that was true for my foes as well, because two of them were close at hand. One, to the north, was one of the men walking a circuit around the officer’s campers. He was maybe thirty yards away and had stopped almost directly north of me to light a smoke. The other one was the guy walking the long east to west line between the edge of the decline that led to the river and the incline that led further into the higher hills. He was only ten yards away and my first target.

  I stood, taking what seemed to me to be an achingly long time to do so. Very slowly, I raised the Sig and sighted, using my left eye and the night vision.

  The man was plodding along, his AR-15 held at port arms. His steps were methodical and gave the impression of boredom. Yet as soon as I sighted in, his demeanor seemed to change. He looked right at me and tensed. There was no way he saw me… or at least no way he saw anything but a slightly darker blob against the darkness of the olive green tent canvas. He certainly couldn’t see me aiming at him.

  Yet somehow he sensed danger. This man was no simple farmer. He’d been in combat. He must have. Sensing danger without really seeing it is something that most non-combat veterans never develop. Or at least they never quite tune into.

  “Franco?” he hissed softly in my direction.

  “Si, esta bien,” I said almost inaudibly.

  “Cuál es la consigna?” He was asking me what the watch word was.

  “No sé,” I said, and pulled the trigger twice.

  The man crumpled to the dirt and did not move. I knew he wouldn’t, having seen the blossom of green fountain from his chest when my rounds broke through his sternum and exploded his heart.

  I turned and crouched, peering around the edge of a tent at the other man, who might’ve been named Franco. He still stood there, puffing away on his butt like he didn’t have a care in the world. As if there weren’t a blood thirsty assassin only yards away.

  “One tango down,” I whispered.

  “Red one, Blue one,” Conklin said into my ear. “Another one is coming toward you. From the other side of the tents between them and the campers. Small… might be a woman… yeah, a woman, pretty one, making her way toward the guy who’s standing still. Hundred yards out.”

  “Roger, Blue one,” I whispered.

  The tents were arranged in two long columns, each column made up of two tents back to back. There must’ve been eighty or more, and each tent was about ten by ten. Enough space for two men to bunk down with a little personal storage space.

  I crept slowly along the western edge of the first column of tents and peeked around the corner into the corridor between. No movement yet, but I thought I heard a few voices coming from the two hundred foot long canvas canyon.

  The camp was getting ready to start coming to life. I had only minutes.

  I was at the nearer corner of the end of the second tent column by then and my smoking target was only ten yards away from me now. On top of that, somebody was walking right toward him. If I shot him, she’d see him fall. I had to remain anonymous or the shit storm would erupt sooner than later.

  I decided to take a chance and leaned around the corner, “Pssst! Franco, ven aqui!” Rapido!”

  “Que?” The man, apparently it was Franco, asked. I’d told him to come over here and fast and he’d responded with a confused “what?”

  I didn’t answer, just ducked back around the edge of the tent and waited.

  I didn’t have to wait long. I heard Franco’s boots crunching on the semi-cleared gravelly ground and smelled his cigarette. The moment he rounded the corner, I slammed into him, clamping my hand over his mouth and slipping the blade of my razor-sharp combat knife between his third and fourth ribs, straight into his heart. He twitched, spasmed and let out a muffled death groan before going limp in my arms.

  I eased him to the ground. A quick frisk revealed two extra magazines for his AR-15. I took these and the rifle, which had no tactical sling, just a simple strap, and slung it over my shoulder.

  I also grabbed the pack of cigarettes and his lighter from the shirt pocket of his semi-uniform and made my way quickly to the spot where he’d been standing. I lit up a smoke and stood with my back to the approaching woman.

  I’d only been standing there pretending to smoke the harsh pill when I heard the woman’s footsteps crunching from behind me. Franco had been nearly a head shorter than me, so I had to slouch a bit in order to at least present the appearance of the man in the darkness.

  It must’ve worked, because a small hand cupped one of my buttocks and a soft playful voice said: “buenos días, guapo… Tienes algo que poner en mi boca?”

  Good morning, hands
ome… got something to put in my mouth?

  I dropped the pill to the dirt and pulled her to me, my hand over her mouth. The KA-bar had been sheathed and my pistol holstered. I pressed her slight but firm body close to mine and whispered in her ear, “Callado. No te haré daño.”

  Be quiet, I won’t hurt you.

  She tensed and struggled for a brief instant. She must have realized I wasn’t Franco, and that I was much larger and stronger than she was, because she quickly stopped. To her credit, she didn’t try to scream into my palm, although she was shaking just a little.

  I eased my hand away from her mouth and whispered in English, “Don’t scream. Who are you?”

  “American?” She inquired softly. “I… I’m Rosalita.”

  “All right, Rosalita,” I said. “I want you to tell me where the prisoners are being held. Which one of those trailers are the man and boy in? And don’t you lie to me.”

  I emphasized this by squeezing her body close to mine with enough pressure that I heard air escape from her lungs. She nodded and I relaxed. I let her go just enough so she could stand on her own. She turned her face up to mine.

  “You are Jarvis, no?”

  How the hell did she know who I was?

  “I am Jarvis, no,” I lied.

  I actually saw her smile in my naked right eye, which was acclimated to the low light, “Si… you are him. You have to be. They talked of you much.”

  I actually chuckled softly, “All right, Rosalita. I’m getting my friends out. And I won’t let anything stop me. I won’t hurt you if you cooperate, but don’t even think of trying to make a noise and alerting anyone, comprende?”

  She nodded, “I will show you. But on one condition.”

  That threw me. I didn’t say anything though, knowing she’d tell me.

  “Take me with you, por favor,” Rosalita pleaded. “Take me back to Costa Rica!”

  “You’re Costa Rican?” I asked softly.

  She nodded, almost against my chest, “Por favor, senor, por favor…”

  “I promise,” I said. “Take me to Clay now.”

  “Red one, Blue one. If you’re done with your courtship ritual,” Conklin needled, “the other guard is coming your way. Counterclockwise.”

  “Roger,” I said. “All members, have prisoner and am proceeding to objective.”

  Rosalita walked close to me. I kept my arm around her shoulders, both to keep her from running and to make it look like something innocently lurid was going on just in case. She didn’t seem anxious to get away. If her desire to leave was genuine then she wouldn’t even try. I wasn’t taking the chance, though.

  She led me to the last trailer in a line in front of the big one that was no doubt Garcia’s. It had to be the one furthest into the camp, naturally.

  “This is Clay and the boy’s home,” Rosalita said quietly.

  I inched around to the door and tried it. It was locked, of course. I noticed that the screened side windows were open and I was just about to move over to one to call inside when I heard something that chilled my blood.

  “No! Are ju crasy, meng?” Juan’s audible hiss was suddenly heavy with his native accent.

  And then: “Miles! What the hell are you doing!”

  It was Lisa’s voice coming from my earwig. It wasn’t quiet, but not loud enough for me to have heard it otherwise. I didn’t really need to ask, based on her urgent exclamations, but I did anyway.

  “Red three, sitrep,” I hissed.

  “Miles has bolted! He’s headed—“

  “Manny!” A man shouted from the south. “Garcia! You’re under attack!”

  “Son of a bitch!” I growled as I jammed the blade of my KA-bar into the door jamb of Clay’s trailer and applied leverage to break the lock. It was a lot harder than I thought it’d be.

  “Ay dios mio!” Rosalita cried out in fright and practically glued herself to me.

  “Red three, fuckin’ shoot the bastard!” Conklin hissed.

  All of my team was cursing and grumbling over the coms, making it hard to understand them. But I distinctly heard Lisa ask me if she should open fire.

  “Negative,” I replied with a sigh. “The damage is done.”

  And it was. The camp was beginning to stir. Shortly it would erupt into exactly the kind of chaos I was afraid of. Spanish voices began to shout from all around me. At the same time, the door to the trailer burst open and I had to lurch sideways and back to keep both Rosalita and myself from being slammed in the face with it.

  “Take it easy, Pancho Villa,” I said as Clay’s surprised face met me. “It’s time to tactically retreat.”

  Clay grinned, “what took ya’?”

  “Sorry, this pretty girl wanted to make out,” I quipped calmly as if the world wasn’t going to pieces around me. “What could I do? Now move!”

  “Hey Uncle Scotty,” Declan said cheerfully from inside.

  “Hey dude,” I said, “ready to blow this pop stand?”

  “One thing first,” Clay said, coming out fully dressed with Declan behind him, “Got any spare weapons?”

  I unslung Franco’s rifle and handed it to him along with the two extra magazines he’d been carrying. I also pulled another ear wig from my chest rig and offered it to him, “Red four.”

  Clay activated the comm device and was just in time to hear Santino say, “Red one, Blue two… do you have the objective? The shit is definitely beginning to hit the fan!”

  “Affirmative,” I replied. “We’re headed into the hills and will try to circle to the south. Blue team, we’re gonna need covering fire. Start making some noise out there!”

  Three M4’s seemed to split the night open, piercing the shouts of the now dozens of Garcia’s soldiers who were trying to mobilize. I glanced at Clay.

  “What?” he asked as he cleared the weapon.

  “Nice job,” I said. “Getting these guys organized. That’s why you were here, right?”

  “Everybody’s a critic…” Clay said, shouldering the rifle and firing past us into the interior of the camp.

  “Let’s move!” I said, pulling a smoke grenade from my chest rig. “Fire in the hole! Smoker!”

  I pulled the pin and lobbed it thirty yards away right in front of an oncoming pack of nearly a dozen men. There was a flash and a cloud of gray smoke, gray in my monocular, spread between us.

  “Garcia!” I heard Miles shouting from somewhere ahead of us.

  “That prick!” Clay growled.

  “Yeah, fuck that guy!” I grumped. “Fall back!”

  We began to back pedal. I no longer held Rosalita, but she still stuck with us. In fact, I noticed that she was hanging close to Declan, trying to block his body with her own. I felt a surge of respect for her.

  “Red one, Red three… a gang is coming into the tent corridor!” Lisa shouted over the comm.

  “Red one, Red two… I have targets… do you want me to shoot?” Juan asked urgently.

  “Negative, Red one,” I replied, examining each trailer as we went by. All we needed now was for some asshole to start plinking at us from one of them. “I want you two in reserve for the moment. Don’t draw their attention toward you!”

  I heard a curse. A Spanish curse. I understood Juan’s frustration. Yet if he and Lisa started firing, then the camp would know not only where they were, but our likely line of retreat.

  That wasn’t all. I could hear dozens and dozens of voices now as the occupants of the tent city began to pour outward. We were in trouble.

  Clay emptied his magazine into the smoke cloud ahead of us, “Red!”

  I managed to get my own carbine unslung and ready to fire while Clay reloaded, “Red team, we’re in trouble over here. It’s gonna be nip and tuck now! I need some assistance! One of you circle around to the west end of the line of trailers, the other standby!”

  “Green!” Clay exclaimed as he slapped a new magazine home and pulled the charging handle back. He immediately began sending carefully timed three round
bursts ahead of us.

  I started shooting into the tents nearest us. I aimed high, though, not really wanting to kill anybody in their beds. But the rounds tearing through the canvas might make anybody inside think twice about playing the hero.

  We were back pedaling along the trailers. Ironically and thankfully, none of the officers had deigned to join the festivities. Either they were all cowards or they weren’t armed. Or… or they were waiting in ambush.

  I pulled a flash grenade this time, pulling the pin with my teeth since my right hand was busy holding the M4, “Flash!”

  I threw it as hard as I could over the first column of tents and into the space between both columns. There was a bright burst of light that momentarily made the last half dozen canvas tents glow almost a neon green. A very satisfying number of screams came from where it’d gone off.

  That was only temporary, though. The flash grenade was only a distraction and not meant to take out personnel.

  “Mida!” Rosalita shouted. “We must go between!”

  I knew what she meant and even as she dragged Declan between the fifth and the last trailer in the row, I grabbed Clay by his collar and began hauling him back. He didn’t even resist, just kept firing as he let me lead him into cover.

  There were two loud reports and Rosalita cried out, toppling backward to the ground and pulling Declan with her. I turned to see a man leaning out of the big class-A aiming a large caliber handgun in my direction.

  “Down!” I shouted to Clay as I dropped to my belly, took aim with my carbine and squeezed off a burst.

  The man’s chest bloomed in greenish gore and he toppled forward, his face slamming into the bottom metal step below the door with an audible clunk that made me cringe.

  Then the door to the last trailer flew open and a maniac with a combat knife dove toward me, “Pendejos!”

  I had time to roll onto my side and throw my left leg up, catching the man in the midriff and redirecting him over me. However, the razor-sharp blade bit deep into my calf as he tumbled past me and struck the other trailer.