The Assassin's Case

by Craig Alexander

  She swiped at a tear pooling in the corner of her eye before it could roll down her cheek. At least it was worth it. At the front of the boat Morgan clutched his grandchildren to his chest, one perched on each of his legs. His wife and daughter sat to either side of him. For the first time since Jaime met the man he didn’t look haunted. The gravity of his grief, which had seemed to tug on his skin, no longer weighed on him. Jaime studied each member of the family’s faces, lingering on the children. Those beautiful, innocent, children.

  Yes. It was worth it.

  Tim Peterson had profusely thanked Jaime and then Evans when he jumped on board the boat.

  Tabitha had inquired after her guardian angel. Everyone assured her he would be fine. All part of the plan.

  As the boat reached top speed, skimming across the top of the moon soaked bay, Jaime turned one last time.

  God. If you’re listening. Please take care of him.

  * * * * *

  Placing a hand on Tedesco’s shoulder, Grant held a finger to his lips to indicate the need for silence. The two of them had scrambled and clawed their way through dense jungle to the crest of the ridge surrounding the compound. Though they moved with as little noise as they could, the necessity of speed made soundless movement impossible. Every scuff of a boot on rock, each whisper of cloth scraping a branch, seemed to trumpet their location.

  Grant heard something. A faint sound he couldn’t quite make out that didn’t belong. He stopped. The jungle was alive with the trill of insects, the call of predatory birds.

  When the sound repeated he snapped his eyes in its direction, down the slope behind them. A boot scraping the ground. He couldn’t see anything but leaves, limbs, and shadows. Though the moon’s glow provided plenty of light, it seemed to deepen the shadows beneath the trees. As Grant stared, two of the shadows separated from a dense section of the forest, moving quickly through a patch of moonlight, to again meld into the deeper gloom.

  Two men.

  Grant pointed to a game trail winding down the other side of the hill and away from their pursuers. Tedesco nodded his understanding.

  They moved along the trail, dodging overhanging leaves and branches, the ground relatively clear of snags. Tedesco’s step was light for a large man. Grant realized it was a useful skill in his former trade, one which would allow him to sneak up on unsuspecting victims.

  After traversing a small stream they arrived at the road. Kneeling near the tree line, Grant considered their next move. They couldn’t just walk along the highway. Headlights from an approaching vehicle forced them to lie on their stomachs. A black SUV rolled slowly by. It passed their position, went about a hundred yards, and turned around.

  Grant whispered in Tedesco’s ear. “They’re looking for us. When they go back by, we’re going to sprint across the road.”

  The SUV drove past. Grant waited just long enough for the glow of the taillights to fade from the pavement in front of them. He sprang from the ground and darted across the highway, Tedesco a step behind. As the vehicle turned to make another sweep they dove into the tangle of trees on the north side of the road.

  Within a few yards of entering the cover of the trees the ground began to rise sharply, their path taking them into the foothills of the Sierra Madre’s. They climbed to a flat area on top of the hill.

  Grant collapsed to the ground and leaned against a tree. “I need to catch my breath.”

  Tedesco sank to the ground as well. “What’s our next move?” He asked.

  “We need to figure out if we’ve lost them. If not … we’ll have to come up with something.” Grant removed his tattered shirt, used it to wipe his face, and tied it around his waist. He pulled back the sleeve of his black undershirt and examined the wound in his shoulder. A bloody furrow about two-inches long dissected his deltoid. The gash wasn’t very deep and had already coagulated. It would be stiff but not debilitating. He worked his arm in circles to loosen his muscles. “We’re probably six or seven miles from Puerto Vallarta. A couple from Mismaloya. We can’t just hike down the highway either.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “There’s a tourist spot just north of here. The set of the movie Predator. If we can survive the night, maybe we can get a bus or cab there in the morning. At least there will be people. Witnesses.”

  “Have you been here before?” Tedesco said.

  Grant shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got sort of a photographic memory when it comes to maps. I had plenty of time to study one on the plane. And I read some travel info.”

  He forced himself up and scooted to the edge of the slope. Staring back toward the highway he saw two vehicles patrolling the road. He studied the forest beneath, listening for sounds of pursuit.

  * * * * *

  The two unlikely companions crept over root choked and winding trails in the dense mountainous jungle. Branches whipped their faces and bodies as they slogged through the undergrowth. Mosquitoes and biting flies, drawn by the sweaty heat of their bodies, swarmed them, buzzed in their ears, feasted on their exposed skin. Grant pushed past a tangle of low branches and stepped onto a wider and more defined trail. He raised a hand and Tedesco stopped. Grant panned the barrel of his pistol left and right. Sensing no danger, he waved Tedesco into the open, and they followed the path downhill.

  The trail ended, opening into a clearing by a wide stream. Grant leaned against a boulder, drained from the tortuous march. Moonbeams danced over the dark waters. Downstream the roar of cascading water indicated falls.

  Tedesco leaned against the bole of a towering tree, its tangled roots disappearing beneath the stream. Their pursuers were close, Grant had heard them earlier. Hiding in the dense undergrowth had been considered, but at least one of the men following them must be an experienced tracker to have been able to stay on their trail. In addition, they were undoubtedly equipped with night optics. Grant and Tedesco may have believed themselves hidden, but in fact may have become cowering targets.

  But, Grant had run far enough, and this stream provided an opportunity. Scanning the layout he formulated a plan. He pulled Tedesco in close. “They’re going to have to cross once they see that our trail ends here.” To demonstrate, Grant walked to the edge of the stream, his boots leaving clear tracks in the moist soil at its edge. He waved for Tedesco to follow.

  Grant waded toward the middle of the small river, the exposure making his skin crawl. He clutched the SIG, attempting to watch his surroundings and avoid the stones littering the bottom. He stopped in the knee deep water. When Tedesco caught up Grant leaned close and whispered so he could be heard over the gurgle of the stream. “You set up over there.” He pointed to a boulder on the opposite edge of the stream surrounded by leafy ferns. “I’m going to wait for them to come out. Try to get behind them. You cover me.”

  Tedesco stared at the gun in his hand as if it were a serpent, just waiting to sink its fangs into his fingers. He took a long slow breath before he finally nodded. “All right.”

  As the big man waded to the far side Grant turned back the way he came, heading for the tree Tedesco had leaned against. Tendrils from its massive and gnarled root ball stretched over the bank and into the stream, giving the impression of a giant hand reaching into the water. The river flowed beneath the roots, creating a nice, but quite spooky, hiding spot.

  Grant removed the shirt hanging from his waist and slid it on. His relatively white skin would glow against the black water. He reached down, scooped mud from the stream’s bottom, and smeared it over his face, ears, and neck. With the gallons of sweat pouring out of him, he was pretty sure most of his black face paint had worn away.

  He slipped his knife from the scabbard on his leg unwilling to face whatever may lurk beneath the roots unarmed. The spot seemed perfect for a copper-headed-water-rattler with a mutant Anaconda for a mother. Grant swallowed. They’re more afraid of you than you are of them. The blathering moron who pontificated this line of reasoning probably wasn’t about to enter a dark hole, in the
water no less, at night, in a jungle known for a wide variety of snakes.

  Wielding the knife before him Grant waded beneath the morass of roots. Before he sat down he poked and slashed the waters around him with the knife. Say hello to my leetle friend.

  Once he was satisfied no crawly creatures occupied the space, he slipped the knife into its sheath and sank beneath the water. He leaned his head against a massive root, settling down until only his nose and eyes were above the surface. The water cooled his skin, refreshing as it washed over his grime-tainted body.

  The holstered SIG should survive the dunking as long as it was wiped and cleaned as soon as possible. At least he hoped. It may be needed. Grant had his fill of killing, and it would suit him fine never to have to do it again, but if a choice had to be made between their lives and his … well there wasn’t really a choice.

  Within a matter of minutes Grant sensed a presence nearby, followed by a barely discernible squelch of mud beneath a boot. He concentrated on his peripheral vision, his focus toward the left where the trail entered the stream.

  Time slowed as he waited. Finally, a lone man, dressed head to toe in black, waded into the water. He held a sub-machine gun in front of him, it appeared to be an MP-5, his measured stride barely disturbing the water.

  Grant sensed movement again to his left and realized the man’s partner had moved to shelter next to the massive root on the opposite side of Grant less than a foot away.

  Smart move.

  Unfortunately it shot his plan to hell. As should be expected. Here we go agley again.

  The soldier in the stream stopped in the middle. He stood still, absolutely silent. Only his head moved as he searched. He reached to a device hanging by a strap around his neck and lifted it to his eyes. Night-vision binoculars. What were the chances the device had heat sensing capability? If Grant’s luck held, it was a guarantee.

  The man began to sweep the opposite bank with the binoculars. Grant had to make a play. Now.

  He knew the soldier standing near him would be focused, gun ready, covering his partner the priority.

  Gathering his legs beneath him, Grant slipped the Equatorian from the sheath, and eased away from the root. Using his feet to steer, he allowed the gentle current to carry him around the root, angling to get behind the soldier. The tide carried Grant and the man’s back loomed large over him.

  Grant dug his toes into the bottom and lunged forward. He grabbed the man’s forehead and pulled back sharply. Grant trapped the man’s head against a shoulder while placing the edge of the knife across his throat. Their faces inches apart, Grant whispered. “Move. Die.”

  The soldier in the middle of the stream spun at the sound of splashing. He raised the MP-5 to his shoulder, aiming at Grant’s exposed head.

  Come on Tedesco.

  After what seemed an eternity Tedesco stepped around the boulder. “Don’t shoot. I’ve got a forty-five centered on the back of your head.”

  The man didn’t respond. He simply stared toward Grant, gun at his shoulder. A Mexican standoff. In Mexico no less. If he survived Grant might find the irony humorous.

  The soldier tensed under Grant’s arms and he pressed the blade tighter against the throat. “Let go of your gun,” Grant said. “Using your left hand. Thumb and forefinger only. Slip your gun’s sling off your shoulder and drop it.”

  The man did as instructed and the MP-5 splashed into the water.

  “You,” Grant yelled. “Now you drop yours.”

  The man didn’t move. The gun remained pointed toward Grant and his prisoner. Right now the soldier was contemplating whether or not he could take Grant out with a head shot, then turn and take down Tedesco.

  The former hit-man had stepped to the edge of the stream. He stood in a shooter’s pose, legs spread, right arm extended holding the forty-five, left hand cupped under the right, pointing it at the soldier’s head. “No one else has to die,” Tedesco called. “Just drop your weapon and we’ll be on our way.”

  No more had the words escaped Tedesco’s mouth than it all went sour. The man in Grant’s grasp shot a hand up, forcing the arm and the knife away from his throat. An elbow blasted into Grant’s abdomen and the man spun away from his grip. Blood dripped from his neck where the knife grazed the skin in the escape. His partner spun toward Tedesco. Shots split the silence of the primeval forest, but Grant didn’t have time to consider Tedesco’s fate.

  * * * * *

  Tedesco moved from the shelter of the rock outcrop and foliage. Although he had a clear shot from his position, he could not, he would not, take another life if there was any other alternative. Even if it cost him his own. If he died, he believed he would go to a better place. And he almost welcomed the prospect of being freed of his guilt, a burden that weighed on him like a stone around his neck. Oh, he was scared, death was the unknown, yet he wouldn’t send someone else to face it in his stead. No. Even greater than the fear of death, was stark dread at the prospect of no longer being able to rely on God for guidance, to no longer hear that still small voice he had come to so heavily rely upon. That, he would risk for nothing. He glanced in Grant’s direction. Dr. Morgan’s family was safe, so Tedesco wouldn’t kill again, except as a last resort to save Grant.

  Tedesco stepped as lightly as his large feet would allow and moved to the edge of the stream, gun extended in a two-fisted grip. The soldier aiming toward Grant was only about twenty yards away, a distance at which Tedesco could be confident in his aim. “Don’t shoot. I’ve got a forty-five centered on the back of your head.”

  Grant yelled for the soldier to drop his weapon, but he didn’t move, just kept his weapon trained.

  Tedesco glanced toward the soldier with the knife at his throat. Both of them looked so young, even beneath their black painted faces. The kid stared at his partner, and Tedesco realized some unspoken communication had passed between them.

  The one Grant held jerked an arm up to break the grip on his neck. His partner whirled toward Tedesco, gun sweeping in an arc with him.

  Tedesco opened up with the forty-five, firing a single shot to the ribs. The man stumbled back a step but still raised his gun. Tedesco moved forward into the stream, pulling the trigger in careful, measured shots. Each time the kid attempted to draw a bead on him Tedesco put a bullet into the center of his chest, stepping closer with each shot. The shots slamming into his body armor was akin to a sledgehammer smashing him in the chest, driving him back. Tedesco continued to march forward.

  He stepped to within two feet and with a valiant effort the young warrior raised his gun, face grim with determination. Tedesco ripped it from his grasp. “That’ll do, son.”

  Before he could go for any of the weapons at his waist or strapped to his leg, Tedesco blasted a left to the side of his face. As he fell back into the water, Tedesco grabbed his lapel and heaved him across a shoulder.

  * * * * *

  Grant could have, should have, slit his adversary’s throat. The opportunity had been there as the man moved. Grant’s reluctance may cost him his life, and he couldn’t explain the reason why the man wasn’t bleeding out in the river. This guy was young, and no doubt a well-trained and battle hardened soldier, with skills aplenty. But with the mission completed, Morgan’s family safe, Grant just couldn’t bring himself to do it, to kill in cold blood when there was another option. A scene from The Karate Kid flashed into his mind. When Daniel Larusso and Mr. Miyagi visited the Cobra Kai Dojo, sensei John Kreese was in the midst of berating his students with the admonitions, “Strike first. Strike hard. Mercy is for the weak!” Well, the sensei would sure as hell kick Grant’s ass off the mat for this.

  The kid lunged toward Grant in the knee-deep water, focused on the knife. Grant swayed left, feinting a stab, and unleashed a left cross to the jaw. He followed with a sweeping kick to the outside of the knee. But the boy was well trained. As he fell he grabbed Grant’s right wrist in one hand and smashed down with the opposite forearm. It impacted at the nexus of the du
ll edge of the blade, the hilt, and Grant’s thumb, stripping the knife from his hands.

  In the corner of his eye he witnessed Tedesco moving forward, his forty-five booming.

  No sooner did the kid hit the water on his knees than he sprang up, raining blows toward Grant. Easing away from the attack, sweeping the blows to the side with his palms, and blocking with his forearms, Grant backed up until he stood in just a few inches of water.

  A wicked overhand right flew toward his head. Grant swept his left hand up, blocked, grabbed the wrist, and pulled the young soldier toward him as he unleashed a side kick to the ribs. He didn’t hear or feel any ribs cracking. Damn body armor. The kick was still delivered with enough force to dump Grant’s opponent onto his backside in the water.

  The boy jumped to his feet and his hand flashed to a holstered pistol at his waist.

  Grant prevented the draw with a bone-snapping round house kick to the wrist. The kick pressed the arm against the kid’s own body, breaking it. As he stumbled back into deeper water, Grant followed. He deflected a blow to the head, grabbed the offending arm, and stepped behind the boy’s back, twisting the arm behind him in the process. Grant circled an arm around his opponent’s neck. Grant squeezed, constricting the arteries on either side of the throat between his bicep and forearm, then reinforced the choke hold with the opposite arm.

  As Grant squeezed his adversary into unconsciousness he glanced toward the middle of the stream, hoping he wasn’t about to catch a bullet in the head. Tedesco nodded, the other soldier draped across one of his broad shoulders.

  NINETEEN