Payoff

by Douglas Corleone

  I grinned in the light of the dashboard.

  There was something to be said for the optimists of the world.

  Chapter 30

  I turned right on Avenida 2, then jumped onto the 105 as per Aubrey’s shouted instructions.

  “Shouldn’t I avoid the main roads?” I said.

  “Not yet.”

  “What about roadblocks?”

  “We need to get as far away from San José as we can before they have time to set them up. Don’t worry; we have time. This isn’t exactly the NYPD we’re talking about.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Where are we going?”

  “Just keep driving north.”

  Costa Rica is only about the size of Vermont and New Hampshire combined, but it seemed much larger hours later as we drove farther away from the city, toward the Nicaraguan border. We’d begun our journey aimlessly but now had a destination, thanks to the gentleman currently hog-tied on the backseat of the Land Cruiser.

  As soon as we stopped hearing sirens, we’d pulled off the road. Aubrey didn’t have any smelling salts, but the gunman seemed to be coming around—thanks largely to a couple cupfuls of cold water procured at a nearby convenience store.

  The assailant had not only seen his partner die, but put four bullets in him himself. So as soon as I leveled the gun on him, he started jabbering about his bosses and where they were located. Said if we were to spare his life, he could take us to them.

  We were headed to Los Chiles, a border town four klicks south of Nicaragua. During the ’80s, Aubrey explained, the area became a vital supply route for the Contras, who were fighting to overthrow the Sandinista government in Nicaragua—with a bit of clandestine help from Oliver North.

  From there, we’d be heading to Caño Negro, a wetlands site and refuge to numerous endangered species, including cougars, jaguars, and capuchin and spider monkeys.

  We were destined for the untouched Costa Rican rain forest.

  It was there our captive said we’d find the men we were looking for—and the young women they held against their will.

  “This is the refuge I fought to save when I first joined the Peace Corps,” Aubrey said solemnly as we neared the reserve.

  As a result of illegal poaching and logging operations, the stability of the area was now in great danger, she said. The rain forest was dwindling due to deforestation, and the wildlife was suffering. Bird counts were at an all-time low. Fewer migratory birds returned to the park each year, and the macaws had completely vanished.

  “The water levels of the once mighty Río Frío are falling rapidly,” she said. “Manatees and sharks used to call the park home. But no more. The caiman and tarpon populations are petering out. The lake is drying up. Used to be that this marsh resembled the Florida Everglades.” She sighed. “Unless we step up our conservation efforts, someday it will look more like the Arizona desert.”

  In her voice was a desperation I’d only ever heard from the parents of missing children. It moved me that such a love could be expressed for the earth, even after two millennia of being told that the planet was put here for us to rape and plunder as we saw fit.

  As we cruised up a paved road with fields of sugarcane on either side, Aubrey informed us that we were nearing Los Chiles.

  I couldn’t help but feel excited. I was dead certain Olivia was with these men. Why else kill Kellen and come after Aubrey and me?

  “We have two options,” she said. “There’s no bridge to cross over the Frío River, so we either have to find a boat or turn west off the main road and drive about six miles south to the nearest bridge at San Emilio.”

  “I opt for the drive.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” Aubrey turned to face me, and I could see the exhaustion in her eyes.

  “You okay?” I said.

  “Yeah. I was just thinking it’s a good thing you splurged for the four-wheel drive.”

  As I soon discovered, that was an understatement. Once we turned off the main road, it felt as though we were navigating the surface of the moon, only with tremendous trees standing guard on either side, their canopies all but blacking out the starlight.

  I turned off our headlights and checked the clock. Since running from the cops in Escazú, we’d been driving for over three hours. The sun would be rising soon.

  Our captive had confirmed for us that Kellen acted as a lure when he was out of the country, attracting young girls on vacation in the Caribbean, then passing on information about them to his confederates, who’d later abduct them. The gunman, however, claimed not to recognize Olivia Trenton or her three friends and balked at the idea that four men had flown from Costa Rica to Los Angeles to invade a home and kidnap a single teenage girl.

  “Where would be the profit?” he said in Costa Rican Spanish.

  I didn’t mention the eight and a half million dollars they’d extorted from the girl’s father.

  The assailant certainly didn’t know anything about the money.

  And to some extent, that worried me.

  * * *

  After a slow, dark, and bumpy drive, we eventually ran out of dirt road. Through the high trees we could see the early light of dawn. Given what I’d learned about the rain forest’s other wildlife during the drive, I was comforted by the chirping and squawking of rare birds coming from all around us.

  “They have us surrounded,” Aubrey deadpanned.

  I reached under the seat and grabbed our captive’s Glock 20, which had a magazine capacity of fifteen rounds. Our friend had an additional two magazines on him. Ten-millimeter, auto.

  I stepped out of the Land Cruiser, opened the rear door, and pulled our attacker out by the hair. I untied him but left him gagged, kept his hands bound. Lifted him off the dirt.

  “Stay here,” I told Aubrey, gathering up the rope I’d stolen from the stockroom of the convenience store. “Turn the vehicle around so we can leave quickly. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, drive.”

  I pushed the gunman forward into the forest. According to him, the camp wasn’t far from here. Maybe a five-minute walk. I could hear the Frío River in the distance and recalled Aubrey’s warning about alligators.

  As though cougars and jaguars aren’t enough to worry about.

  A few minutes later we reached the clearing.

  There were four huts constructed in a semicircle with the leavings of a fire in the dead center of the clearing. According to my hostage, two men slept in each of the two outer huts, the women and teenage girls in the inner two.

  The men were armed with guns and machetes.

  Here’s where my Marshals training would come in handy.

  I’d gathered as much intelligence as I could from my hostage. My greatest concern wasn’t the four men guarding this clearing or even the cougars and jaguars. My captive had claimed there was another clearing not far away, one with no hostages but far more men. He may well have been lying, but I didn’t want to take that chance. If he was telling the truth, this rescue could turn into a massacre.

  So instead of rushing into the clearing and firing, I’d use close-quarters combat techniques and try to keep the noise to a minimum so as not to disturb the other camp.

  First thing I did was tie my captive to a tree and make sure his gag was securely in place. Last thing I needed was for him to alert the others to my presence.

  Second, I surveyed the scene, estimated the distance between each hut, determined the maximum number of people who could be in each. Four comfortably, eight if cramped.

  Third, I decided on my diversion. I wasn’t carrying a flashbang, smoke, or gas grenade, and I didn’t want to explode any of my ammunition. That left something a bit less conventional. I set the alarm on my BlackBerry; in sixty seconds, we’d be listening to a nice calypso.

  The element of surprise was essential. In that respect, my timing couldn’t have been better. I watched as one man stepped out of the hut nearest to me and stretched his arms as high as he could. He yawned, cracked his back.
Clearly he’d just woken up.

  I placed the BlackBerry in the grass and moved behind a tree off to the side. I held my gun ready, just in case.

  I counted down in my head.

  Six … five … four … three … two … one … calypso.

  The alarm was just loud enough for our friend Sleepy to hear but not loud enough to wake the others. He looked around, not necessarily concerned but irritated. He started toward the noise. His own gun remained in his waistband, so that was where I placed mine as well.

  He stepped into the woods and I followed silently. He stopped just short of the BlackBerry, looked down, but didn’t see the device, because it was hidden in the tall grass. He went to his haunches and felt around, finally found it. He pushed himself to his feet.

  Standing directly behind him, I said, “That’s mine, pal.”

  When he spun around, I snatched him by the front of his shirt and whiplashed him toward me, lowering my chin to my chest so that the crown of my head would strike him flush in the face.

  He went down, instantly unconscious.

  The trick had been not to grab him by the back of his neck to allow him time to tense his shoulders. An effective headbutt catches its target completely off guard, just as mine had. During my training, we’d called it by its Scottish name—the Glasgow kiss.

  I left him facedown in the grass, then turned back toward the clearing.

  One down, at least three to go.

  Chapter 31

  I skirted the edge of the clearing and cautiously moved toward the hut I’d seen the first man exit. The hut was well built but not perfect; I could see through the bound pieces of wood in some places. Inside there were two bunks, one occupied. The sleeper was snoring, which would of course make things easier for me. What I wasn’t thrilled to see was how much firepower they actually had. Not just handguns, but high-powered automatic assault rifles too. There were tools as well, not just hammers and screwdrivers but also chain saws and one big, nasty axe.

  The only way in was the front door.

  First I checked the other three huts. From what I could see, six young women were sleeping in one, seven in another. Two more guards slept in the third, one of whom was stirring. I had to act fast. Best thing to do, I thought, would be to silence the one in the first hut and gain access to the weapons. At that point, I’d be able to walk right into the last hut and demand their surrender. I’d give them the option: give themselves up and let the girls go, or die by their own guns. Should be a simple decision for anyone.

  Quietly I pushed open the door to the first hut. In my right hand I held the Glock. Light seeped in through the walls and the ceiling; the interior reeked badly of sawdust, and it was all I could do to keep from sneezing and giving away my location to the other two guards. Not to mention the men possibly stationed at the other clearing.

  I stepped slowly across the wood planks, trying to make as little noise as possible.

  I’d want to reach out and cover his mouth with my hand so that he couldn’t shout.

  To my left, I could see my shadow creeping across the space with me. To my immediate right hung the axe.

  I was within a few feet of the sleeping man when I suddenly felt a cool breeze from behind me.

  I glanced to my left and saw a second shadow overlapping mine.

  Someone was standing behind me.

  I still had a chance to keep things quiet.

  In one fluid move, I snatched the Glock from my right hand with my left, and with my right arm I reached for the axe on the wall.

  As I gripped the axe, I ducked and spun around.

  The man standing behind me aimed his gun.

  But I buried the business end of the axe deep into his gut before he could fire.

  The cut was so deep, I half expected his torso to separate from the lower half of his body like in a Tom and Jerry cartoon.

  Instead his corpse simply slumped forward and dropped to the ground with an ugly splat.

  Before the body hit, I’d already turned back around and locked on to the sleeper with my Glock. He’d been reaching under the bed—presumably for his own weapon—but instantly stopped once he found himself staring into my barrel.

  With both arms, he slowly reached for the ceiling instead.

  “Gracias,” I said.

  Keeping one eye on him and the other on the open door, I approached him. When I was close enough, I twisted the Glock and hit him square in the face with the butt.

  His body instantly crumpled, rolled off the bed, hit the floor with a thunk.

  I made sure he was unconscious, swiped his gun from under the bed, then turned to walk out of the hut so I could finish the job.

  That was when the screaming began.

  Chapter 32

  I pressed my face up against the wall inside the hut and watched the fourth man run into the jungle, shouting “¡Socorro!”

  I had to assume that was the Tico term for “I need some fucking backup.”

  I leapt over the body of the man who caught the axe in his stomach and ran out of the hut, turned left, and kicked in the chained door of the first inner structure.

  Sleeping women shot up in their beds and sleeping bags in surprise, all of them staring directly at the Glock. I lowered it, said, “Hurry, ladies. You’re free.”

  The ones who spoke English translated it to the others, and as I ran out the door, I heard a stampede of bare feet following me.

  I pointed. “Follow the path just beyond those trees. There’s a woman waiting with an SUV.”

  I turned toward the next hut, kicked in the door, and shouted the same instructions.

  Some of the women appeared drugged, all were bruised, but none of the girls seemed critical. The uninjured women assisted the others.

  I waited for the last one to exit the huts; then I followed.

  Behind me I heard male voices yelling in Costa Rican Spanish. The voices were followed by footfalls through the jungle, then gunshots.

  I spun and saw them coming, at least a half dozen of them. I needed to buy the girls some time.

  So, I stopped.

  Removed the second Glock from my waistband.

  Aimed both weapons.

  And fired.

  Our pursuers jumped to the jungle floor, ceasing their fire.

  I turned, ran to gain cover just as they began shooting again.

  I ducked behind the first tree I reached and returned fire.

  Then I paused, waiting until the first men were up and pursuing again before dropping to the grass and taking aim.

  I struck the first two men to enter the clearing. Both went down spraying blood, and that slowed down the others.

  I stood and fired again, then turned and followed the women. I sourced their screams and knew I wasn’t all that far behind them.

  Bullets continued to fly in our direction, ricocheting off the trunks of thick trees, kicking up grass and dirt and fallen branches at my feet.

  Every time a new barrage came forth, I turned and fired back.

  Short of breath, my right ankle aching worse than ever since the accident on Mulholland, I stopped behind a tree to switch magazines and nearly took a shot to the head.

  I waited for a break in the fire, then leapt out from behind the tree with both guns blazing.

  The onslaught of bullets coming from their direction instantly stopped, and I took off again, unsure how much farther I could run on this ankle.

  After a minute or so, the silver Land Cruiser was within my line of vision.

  I turned one last time and unloaded both clips before hopping onto the rear bumper and screaming, “Drive, Aubrey! Drive!”

  And drive she did.

  Chapter 33

  When we reached the small town of Upala, nine klicks south of the Nicaraguan border, we released our collective breath. In a large dirt lot from which we could see the main road, we emptied out of the Land Cruiser and stretched our limbs, took in the full light of morning.

  I had plenty
of questions for these young women, but the one thing I was able to discern with certainty during our drive was that Olivia Trenton was not among them.

  After a few minutes, Aubrey gathered them around, spoke to them in Spanish. I remained in the background, out of earshot. Whatever hell these girls had endured, it would be a woman who first heard their story.

  As I waited, I dialed the number from Jason Gutiérrez’s e-mail again.

  “The subscriber you have called is not able to receive calls at this time.”

  Then I called Edgar Trenton.

  “Simon,” he answered, “tell me you have good news.”

  “I’m afraid not, Ed.”

  I remained vague but apprised him of the events in the jungle and how we managed to escape the clearing with thirteen survivors stuffed into an eight-seater Land Cruiser.

  “But none of them are Olivia,” I said. “Aubrey is with them now. She’s getting what information she can.”

  Meanwhile, the FBI had continued its focus on Edgar, and showed little progress in finding his daughter.

  “They’re going to arrest me,” Edgar said. “My lawyer, Lepavsky, tells me maybe tomorrow, perhaps the day after. But now it’s just a matter of time.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. It was the one common aspect of a missing-child case I’d been spared—I’d never been considered a suspect. Neither had Tasha.

  “What does Emma think of all this?” I said. “Is she supporting you?”

  When he didn’t respond, I knew that Emma too was beginning to suspect him.

  “Will you come back here, Simon? Continue to help us look?”

  “Of course,” I said. “There’s an airport here in Upala. Charters only, unfortunately.”

  “I’ll call the airport now and make arrangements.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  Whether it was from lack of sleep or lack of food or both, I felt ill, my head buzzing, my thinking unclear. My gut felt as though I’d just stepped off a roller coaster after a dozen rides in a row. My legs were unsteady, my right ankle threatening to fold in the damp grass, and I needed something to grab on to. I stumbled, then felt someone supporting me from under my arms.