Final Target

by John Gilstrap

  “We’re talking commercial satellite image, right?” Jonathan asked.

  “Affirmative. The special satellite is still off-line for you. I’m going to guess it’s a school of some sort. Too big for a house in your part of the world. I’ll send you the coordinates and then do some research while you drive.”

  “Never mind,” Jonathan said. “We’re not going there. Find out everything you can about a place called la Casa de Santa Inés, and tell us how to get there.”

  “The patron saint of virgins, eh?” Jonathan could hear the smile in her voice. “I can only imagine.”

  CHAPTER 4

  As it turned out, the House of Saint Agnes was only about thirty miles away. It was a hard, long thirty miles, given the rutted trails that doubled as roads. For long stretches, the space was so narrow that jungle vegetation slapped at both sides of the Chevy. If they encountered an oncoming vehicle, Jonathan didn’t know what they would do. Actually, that’s not true. With Boxers at the wheel, any road challenge would become a game of chicken. In Jonathan’s experience, Big Guy had never lost a game of chicken.

  According to Venice’s research, the House of Saint Agnes was an “unaffiliated orphanage.” When pressed, she’d explained that the name notwithstanding, it was not supported by the Catholic Church, or any other church, for that matter. Translation: The orphanage was kept alive by what Americans would call corporate contributions. In this part of the world, only one business had that kind of money, and that meant that the caretakers suckled the teat of the cartels.

  “I don’t know if that’s true or not,” Venice had said. “In fact, I can find very little about it anywhere. I’m only about eighty percent sure that the location I gave you is the right one.”

  Right or wrong, it was the location they were headed to. Better to know the place’s role in whatever was happening than to let it remain a mystery. And sooner was better than later. He’d instructed Venice to go to bed and get some rest while they drove. He’d promised that if they needed anything from her, they’d wake her up. For his part, he was too spun up on adrenaline and caffeine to sleep, perhaps until sometime next week.

  Jonathan’s watch read 0342 when the Chevy rolled silently to within thirty-five yards of la Casa de Santa Inés. They knew it was the right place in part because of the sign on the front bearing those words. Hand painted on wood by someone with a talent for calligraphy, the sign offered little additional explanation of the facility’s purpose. The building itself looked solid enough. Constructed of brick and stone, it appeared to be two stories on one end and a single story on the other. It was impossible to tell in the dark what the likely square footage was, but by local standards, it appeared to be fairly large. As you would expect in this climate, open windows took up nearly as much surface area as the supporting brick and stone. All but one of the windows—the one in the farthest right-hand corner on the front, the corner Jonathan thought of as the white-red corner—were dark. In the glow of the light, he could see a shadow moving.

  “Is any of this familiar to you, Harry?” Jonathan asked.

  Dawkins shook his head. “Never been here, never seen it. Never even seen it in intel reports. I got nothing for you.”

  “How do you want to handle it, Boss?” Boxers asked.

  Jonathan checked his watch again, as if the time might have advanced more than a minute. “It’s late, and the place is supposed to be an orphanage.” He wasn’t sure what point he was trying to make, but it seemed like an important detail to vocalize.

  “Not everybody’s asleep,” Big Guy said. “And judging by the movement of that shadow, whoever’s awake is doing a lot of pacing.” He turned back to look at Jonathan. “I think we should take a peek.”

  It was the sensible thing to do.

  “Okay,” Jonathan said, “here’s how we’ll handle it. Harry, you stay put till we figure things out. Keep that AK on safe unless and until someone is shooting at you. Have I got your word on that?”

  “I can come along, if you’ll let me.”

  “That’s not how it works,” Jonathan said. “And it’s not because we don’t trust you.”

  “It’s just that we don’t want you shooting us by mistake,” Boxers added.

  “Way to be helpful, Big Guy,” Jonathan said.

  “I wouldn’t have given him a weapon in the first place,” Boxers said. Jonathan missed the days when his partner showed deference.

  “I’ll do it your way,” Dawkins said. “If it does turn into a firefight, what do you want me to do?”

  “Choose a side and fight,” Jonathan said.

  Boxers lowered his voice to a rumble. “Just choose wisely,” he warned.

  They left their rucks in the vehicle and advanced with their weapons and assault vests. They approached the structure cautiously, slowly. The cacophony of night noises would do nothing to disguise the crackling of gravel under their feet. Every step needed to be placed precisely, and they timed their footfalls to impact simultaneously.

  Jonathan snapped on his infrared muzzle light and swept the windows for any faces that might be staring out at them. More precisely, he scanned for any weapons that might be pointed out at them. He saw neither. Yet.

  As always in approaches like this, Jonathan led the way, with Boxers covering the rear. They maintained continuous physical contact with each other. With the number of times they’d done this dance over the years, it seemed sometimes that they could think each other’s thoughts. As Jonathan came to a halt outside of the rectangular spill of light coming from the corner window, Boxers stopped with him.

  Jonathan didn’t move as he watched the motion of the pacing shadow. Finally, the shadow presented itself as a middle-aged man dressed in pajamas and a bathrobe. Short and a little paunchy, he had an old-style flip phone in his hand. He stared at it and he mumbled, but Jonathan didn’t think he was actually speaking with anyone. From this distance, it was hard to tell.

  What to do? If the man in the robe looked out and saw them, he would get shitlessly scared and would perhaps start a fight none of them wanted. Watching and guessing accomplished nothing. And somewhere nearby, very bad people were coming to grips with the harm that Jonathan and Boxers had brought down.

  “It’s time to knock on the door,” Jonathan whispered.

  * * *

  “Can’t sleep again, Tomás?”

  Tomás Rabara turned to the sound of Angela’s voice, not startled exactly, but surprised that she was still awake. He shook his head in the darkness. He sat at the top of the stairs, chin on his knees, watching the shadow Nando cast from the salon.

  “Because of the beating?” Angela asked.

  Nando had lashed the backs of his legs five times with the cane just six hours ago. “That pig can’t hurt me,” Tomás whispered.

  “The anger, then.” Even in the dark, Angela’s eyes were beautiful, and her teeth flashed bright. Somehow, despite all the misery of this place, she was able to stay kind. She was no older than he—fifteen—yet somehow she seemed grown up to him.

  “Yes, the anger,” he said. “Nando thinks he owns me. Thinks he owns everyone in here. One of these days I will prove him wrong.”

  “Why do you bring the beatings on the way you do?” Angela said. “If you would just keep your mouth closed—”

  “He would beat me, anyway,” Tomás said. “He thinks he hurts me. He thinks I’m afraid of him. Neither of those things is true. One day, he will go too far and he will wake up dead.”

  “Don’t talk that way,” Angela snapped. “Don’t do anything so stupid. You wouldn’t live to see morning.”

  “But I would die with dignity.”

  “There’s no dignity in bloating up and turning purple in the sun,” Angela said.

  Tomás looked at her, and then they both laughed. Tomás covered his mouth to keep the sound from escaping. “Where did that come from?” he whispered.

  “It sounded better in my head than it did when I said it out loud.”

  They
laughed some more. Of the thirteen children at the House of Saint Agnes, Angela was his only friend, the only person he could trust. He loved spending time with her, and he believed she felt the same way about him. One day, he would muster the courage to kiss her.

  “One day, we will be free of this place,” Angela said.

  She’d said “we.” Did that mean—

  “What is Nando doing up so late?” Angela asked. “He’s moving around in there like a caged animal.”

  “He just got a phone call,” Tomás explained. “I didn’t hear all the words, but he’s scared. I think someone was killed. I don’t know who, but Nando didn’t like hearing it. I think some of the Jungle Tigers are coming by tonight.”

  “This late?” Angela said. “What for?”

  “I think that’s why Nando is scared,” Tomás replied. “Maybe Alejandro Azul will kill the pig and take care of all our problems.”

  Angela gave his shoulder a playful push. “It’s a sin to think such things.”

  “If God holds me responsible for all the thoughts I have, then I am doomed to hell already.” He chose not to mention that impure thoughts about Angela topped the list of his most frequent sinful musings.

  He heard sounds from outside. He had no view of the outdoors from here, but it sounded as if something was moving in the night. It seemed too deliberate to be an animal or some other natural phenomenon.

  He was about to mention it to Angela when someone knocked on the door.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jonathan rapped on the heavy wooden front door with the knuckle of his middle finger. And it really was a rap—a word that rarely applied to anything Jonathan did. Just a gentle noise, designed to attract attention without triggering concern. When no one responded, he tried a knock. Heavier, but still friendly. In thirty seconds, he’d try a pound, and if that didn’t work, it would be Boxers’ turn, and no good could possibly come from that.

  The pound was only seconds away when Jonathan heard footsteps approaching from the other side of the door. A laserlike beam of light nailed Jonathan in the eye as the slide of a peephole opened. Behind him, out of the peephole’s field of vision—out of the cone of death, as his former coworkers referred to the real estate Jonathan was occupying in front of the door—he noted the faint rattle of Big Guy’s rifle shifting against its sling.

  Jonathan just stared at the light beam. It wasn’t all that bright, and whatever the field of view from the other side, he figured that the image of his assault gear raised concerns. “Good evening,” Jonathan said in flawless Spanish. His accent was decidedly Colombian, but that might play to his favor under the circumstances.

  “Who are you?” the proprietor said, also in Spanish. Mexican Spanish.

  “I need to speak with you,” Jonathan said. “It’s important.”

  “I asked, ‘Who are you?’” the proprietor repeated.

  This verbal dance could go on and on for a long time. “No one for you to be afraid of,” he said. “In fact, I might just be the opposite of the people you need to be afraid of.” He was playing a bluff off of an inspiration that had materialized in his mind fully formed.

  After a few beats of silence—just enough to prove that the proprietor was working the angles—the guy on the other side of the door said, “I’m not afraid of anyone.”

  “You’re afraid of Alejandro Azul,” Jonathan said. “I am not.”

  Silence. Jonathan could almost hear the gears cranking in the guy’s mind.

  “In fact, I just killed a dozen of his henchmen.” There it was. That would either seal the deal or ignite a gunfight.

  The door opened with startling speed. “That was you?” the man said. He was neither as short nor as round as he’d appeared to be at a distance. Unarmed, he seemed nonetheless intent on doing harm.

  “I urge you to think things through before you overcommit,” Jonathan said, still in Spanish. He indicated the heavily armed Boxers with a backward toss of his head. Jonathan took half a step to his left to allow Big Guy a clear shot if it came to that.

  The man’s eyes widened as he did the math. To start a fight was to lose in seconds. He calmed himself.

  “May we come in?” Jonathan asked as he took a step forward.

  The proprietor gave a nod and pivoted out of the way as he pulled the door wide. Jonathan’s hand remained on the pistol grip of his battle-slung M27 as he stepped inside and scanned every compass point. Boxers took a couple of steps closer but remained outside, ready to respond to whatever might need responding to.

  “How many people are here?” Jonathan asked.

  “That is none of your concern.”

  “Please don’t be difficult,” Jonathan said. “It’s been a long day, which is destined to get longer. We are not your enemy unless you make us your enemy. Now, please answer my question. How many people are here?”

  “At the moment, there are fifteen,” the man said. As soon as the words left the proprietor’s mouth, Jonathan realized he had no way to know whether the guy was lying through his teeth or telling the truth.

  But it was a start. “Of the fifteen, how many are children?”

  The man grew uncomfortable again, still working the angles. “Thirteen,” he said at last.

  “Ages?”

  “The youngest are ten years old,” the proprietor said. “Twin girls. Our oldest child here is fifteen.”

  Jonathan’s insides drooped. Behind him, he heard Boxers say, “Jesus.”

  A light came on behind the proprietor, illuminating a wooden stairwell. A woman’s voice said, “Nando, who are you talking—” The woman, well into her fifties and wearing a floor-length robe and slippers, froze in place when she saw Jonathan.

  “I’m no one to be worried about,” Jonathan said quickly. “We are friends.”

  “Friends do not bring guns,” the woman said.

  It was a fair point. In a nation where only police, soldiers, and criminals were allowed to arm themselves, the average Mexican spent his or her entire lifetime in training to be a victim.

  “I’m American,” Jonathan said, explaining everything. Half the world thought that every American wore a cowboy hat and a pistol. The pistol part was more true than false among Jonathan’s friends, but he could never pull off the hat. Ditto the pointy boots.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked.

  “We were just getting to that,” Jonathan said. “I have a lot of explaining to do, but first I must have your assurances that there is no one inside here who might pose a threat to me or my friends.”

  “What kind of threat?” the woman asked, clearly offended.

  “The kind that might spark a gunfight.” Jonathan chose the harshness of his words on purpose. He was in fact on the side of the angels, but these people needed to understand that the stakes were high.

  “Of course not!” the woman said.

  For his part, Nando did not share the same level of indignation. In fact, he didn’t seem indignant at all. Jonathan didn’t know the significance of that tidbit, but it was worth tucking away. He held the man with his gaze long enough to make Nando uncomfortable, and then he cast a glance at Boxers. “Go ahead and let Harry join us.” To his skeptical hosts: “May we sit?”

  “Leave the guns outside,” the woman said.

  Jonathan smiled. “What is your name, ma’am?”

  “My name is Gloria.”

  “Gloria, you may call me Scorpion. My friends are Harry and Big Guy. I imagine you can guess which one is which. Now, meaning no disrespect, we will keep our guns with us. Certainly until we get a better understanding of what is going on.”

  To drive the point home, Jonathan walked past them into what looked like it might be a study. Books on handmade shelves lined the walls. It was the room Jonathan had watched from outside, and there wasn’t a comfortable-looking chair to be found. Wooden benches were arranged classroom-style in front of a hard-ridden wooden desk. Jonathan imagined that this was a makeshift schoolroom.

  He unsl
ung his rifle and helped himself to a bench closest to the wall but not in front of a window. He propped the M27 muzzle up and double-checked to make sure the safety was on. His nod to the house rules. Nando and Gloria hung back by the study’s threshold.

  Jonathan made a sweeping motion to welcome them into their own room. “Please sit so that we can talk. I know this is unsettling, but I promise you that we are not here to hurt you. In fact, I think there’s a good chance that we may be here to save you.”

  Gloria shot a confused look to Nando. “What is he talking about?”

  Nando placed a hand on her shoulder. “I think we should sit and listen,” he said. By the time they were seated, Big Guy and Dawkins had arrived. Dawkins took a bench, and Boxers blocked the doorway.

  “Please tell me why you are here,” Gloria said.

  Jonathan stalled with a deep breath as he tried to figure out where to start. “This man here is named Harry Dawkins. He was kidnapped by the Jungle Tigers cartel, and Big Guy and I were hired to rescue him.”

  Gloria’s hand shot to her mouth. “My God,” she said. “You poor man. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  Harry seemed embarrassed by the attention and waved it off. “No, I’m fine, really.”

  “But your hands.” Gloria noted the bloody pulp at the ends of his two fingers.

  “Really, I’m fine. But thank you.”

  “The kidnappers, however, are not fine,” Jonathan said. “In fact, they are all dead.”

  “You killed them?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But only because they were going to kill us. Only one team could survive.”

  A thought dawned all over Gloria’s face. “You are in grave danger,” she said breathlessly. “Alejandro Azul, he is the head of the Jungle Tigers. If you killed his men, he will kill you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jonathan said. “I understand that.”

  She shot to her feet as another thought blossomed. “You are bringing danger to this house. To the children. You must leave.”

  Jonathan made a point of crossing his legs. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “I believe that you and the children might already be in peril.” He cut his eyes to the silent proprietor. “Feel free to add whatever you want, Nando. Do you think the children might be at risk?”