Final Target

by John Gilstrap

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jonathan said. “And even though we’re in a hurry, you still have time. We’ve got to figure out how to cross a hundred fifty miles of jungle before any of the rest matters.”

  “Why don’t you just cross into Guatemala?” Gail asked. “Then you can bide your time till we get some friendlies to you.”

  “Government authorities are the only ones who care about borders,” Jonathan said. “The JTs’ fingers reach into all of Central America. I have to assume that they’re all looking for us. And it’s not like we’re easy to hide. There is no safe border crossing by land, and I don’t think it’s reasonable to suspect we could steal an aircraft that would hold us all.”

  “You need a boat,” Gail said.

  “We need a boat. A good-size one that can go a long distance and hold a bunch of people. If it can go fast, too, that would be icing on the cake.”

  “Right,” Venice said. “How are we going to do that?”

  “That’s why you get the big bucks, ladies. Please don’t let us down.”

  * * *

  Alejandro Azul was no stranger to death. Violence was the way of his business, and it was a part of his soul. He’d grown his manufacturing and distribution interests from nothing into a multibillion-dollar enterprise one step at a time.

  If people would leave him alone, there would be no violence. He would build his interests in peace, providing products that satisfied an insatiable worldwide demand. But that was not how it worked. No one left him alone. His greedy competitors weren’t content being insanely rich but insisted on denying riches to others. Those competitors came at him with knives and guns, and he returned the favor with guns and explosives.

  A man named Pablo Alba had reset Alejandro’s universe ten years ago, when he’d mailed Alejandro a package containing Esteban Azul’s head and genitals, one stuffed into the other. Esteban was Alejandro’s brother and close friend, and Alba had declared war.

  Three months later, over the course of fifteen hours, Alejandro had personally separated Alba’s skin from his body. He’d done it with a doctor present. Likewise a friend of Esteban’s, the doctor had established intravenous lines for fluids that kept Alba conscious and in perpetual agony. In the end, it was a wood file through his ear that had killed the man. Alejandro had ordered Alba’s body to be cut into thirty pieces, with one piece mailed to his widow every day during the month of November.

  Then he had killed Alba’s eight-year-old son and had sent his mourning mother only his hand as proof. The rest of the body was disposed of in a place that would never be found, ensuring that his mother would never rest.

  Alejandro never sought violence, but when violence came to him, he was more than capable of responding in kind. Responding in spades, as the Americans would say.

  Ah, the Americans. Always so sure of their superiority, they presumed to dictate their version of morality to the world while turning a blind eye to the murders they committed under the guise of righteousness. It was impossible to count the numbers of widows and orphans created by gringo jackals. Refusing to control their own borders, they had dared to invade his country and kill his countrymen with the full authority and cooperation of the Mexican government.

  Politicians deplored the fortunes made by people like Alejandro yet wallowed in the cash paid by the Americans to allow their FBI and DEA and military to fight the wars that targeted him and his businesses. The hypocrisy made him sick.

  Perhaps the taste in his mouth would be less bitter if either government embraced the reality of the lies they sold to their respective populations. President Sabados of Mexico and President Darmond of the United States had publicly spoken of their intentions to destroy the drug trade, with the gringo promising specifically to keep his country out of Mexican politics. Every word was a blatant lie. The drug trade was the backbone of the Mexican economy, and the money flowing back from the men and women who worked illegally in the United States was likewise an economic staple. To stop the flow of narcotics or the flow of humanity would be to thrust a dagger through Mexico’s heart.

  So, everyone pretended. Even as the Americans and his own government rattled their swords and made speeches about what a horrible man he was and what a horrible business he was in, they all accepted his tithes of cash. Alejandro owned everyone within his sphere of influence. The local politicians, soldiers, and policemen were a cinch, but the American FBI and DEA agents were a more difficult sell. Buying them off was always a dance, and it never ended, because the Americans cycled their major players in and out on rotations of only a year or two.

  Every now and then, an agent would proclaim himself to be above bribery, but those Boy Scouts never lasted long at their posts. Alejandro and his associates saw to that. No one obeys every law all the time, after all, and the American sensibilities were such that even a minor infraction of local laws would get an agent sent home. It didn’t matter whether the drunk driving allegation was real or backed up by evidence. The fact of the accusation in the file sent the Americans running like frightened girls. If the case was borderline, Alejandro needed only to call one of his paid associates in the Washington press corps, and the news story would force the government’s hand.

  And then there was tonight’s atrocity. The fact that eighteen of his men lay dead was cause enough for warfare. The fact that one of them was his brother Victor made it personal. Made it inexcusable.

  This was the work of the American military. While 50 percent of the shell casings found at the scene of any slaughter were 5.56 millimeter—the preferred caliber of American forces—and the other 50 percent were 7.62 x 39 millimeter, the round shot by AK-47s, only American Special Forces used the super-velocity 4.6-millimeter bullet, which belonged to the Heckler & Koch MP7. Could others buy and use that rifle? Of course they could. But only a very few could afford the associated cost of feeding them.

  The Americans had crossed a line—the very line that they had agreed by treaty only five months ago not to cross—and their penalty would be huge. Alejandro would find these terrorists, and he would flay them alive. He would do the same to anyone who had assisted them. To anyone who got in his way. He’d already spoken to President Sabados’s chief of staff, and the chief executive had promised to look the other way. He had also promised to place an angry telephone call to President Darmond in Washington, decrying the treaty violation and the murder of innocents.

  The carnage of the evening was beyond unspeakable. First there was the assault in the jungle, where the joint force of Jungle Tigers and American DEA operators had engaged in what Victor liked to call a circular firing squad. That mistake had cost the lives of eight people, and all for nothing. That pig Harry Dawkins had still got away.

  And now Victor lay dead at his feet, his head and one shoulder separated from the rest of his body by the force of the blast at the House of Saint Agnes. It would be morning before all the scattered body parts could be collected and buried, but one thing that was plainly obvious even in the dark was that the Martinez whore had been able to escape the carnage. And because this was no accident, she and those children had to be responsible.

  Gloria Martinez had murdered his family. His brother. And his brother would be avenged. If he had to reduce the entire jungle to ashes, he would evoke justice for Victor’s murder.

  “Excuse me, Alejandro.”

  He turned to the voice and found his cousin Orlando standing at his side. Alejandro nodded that the other man might speak.

  “I am so sorry about your loss. I cannot think of appropriate words.”

  “There are no such words,” Alejandro said. “And many more will be sorry before this night is over.”

  “I’ve been talking with some of the others,” Orlando said. He spoke in a hesitant, staccato tone, clearly concerned about angering his boss. “We have some thoughts we would like to share.”

  “Yet here you are alone to speak with me.”

  Orlando looked at the ground. “You are very angry,” he said. “T
he others are . . . nervous when you are angry.”

  “But you are not?” Alejandro worked hard to maintain some level of fear in all his associates.

  “I am your cousin,” Orlando said. “We wrestled together when we were young. We shared meals at our grandmother’s house. I suppose I am less afraid of you than the others.”

  “And what is it that you were discussing with these others?”

  Orlando cleared his throat. “In talking about what happened, and in looking at the damage, it’s clear that the orphans got away, probably with their teacher. Hernando, as you know, is dead by the trucks.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me what I know, Orlando.”

  “I understand, sir. There’s more. This didn’t happen more than a couple of hours ago. As far as we can tell, their vehicle is still here.”

  Alejandro felt his anger rising. “Orlando—”

  “How far could a woman and a bunch of children get in the middle of the night when they are not driving?”

  His interest piqued, Alejandro raised his chin and folded his hands behind his back. He thought of it as his pensive pose, and it signaled that he wanted to hear more.

  “There is a house down the road,” Orlando continued. “It is owned by a man named Gabay. He occasionally helps us out with cash distribution, but not often. His loyalties are, shall we say, uncertain.”

  “Do you think that this Mr. Gabay gave aid to the teacher and the children?”

  “I think they would have to,” Orlando said. “How else could they have disappeared so completely? There are no other homes for ten kilometers or more.”

  “Perhaps the Americans had another team,” Alejandro said.

  Orlando conceded the possibility with a nod, but he seemed uncertain. “Perhaps. But I believe we would have known. We would have heard. Remember, the Americans want this man Dawkins dead as much as we do.”

  “It is not possible that anyone wants him dead as much as I do,” Alejandro countered.

  “I still believe we would have heard something.”

  “Nando and his whore set a trap for me.” Alejandro heard the wonderment in his own words. How was this even possible? “They set a trap for me!”

  “And then they escaped,” Orlando said. “They had to have had help. The Gabays’ home is the closest place. There is nothing else for eight, ten kilometers. It has to be them.”

  Orlando was right, of course. Help had to come from somewhere close by. And if not from the closest house directly, then that closest house would surely know something. Time was of the essence. Someone else would have to manage the respectful handling of Victor’s remains.

  Alejandro put his arm around Orlando’s shoulders. “Come, my cousin. Let’s pay the Gabay family a visit.”

  CHAPTER 10

  As Jonathan hunched with Boxers and Dawkins at the base of a tree, he could hear the vehicles and movement in the distance. As long as the sounds remained and didn’t come any closer, he figured their problem was stabilized. As the remaining adult, Gloria wanted to be a part of the circle, too, but Jonathan wouldn’t let her. She hadn’t yet earned that much trust.

  Jonathan had spread his laminated map out where the others could see, and he marked his GPS coordinates with his finger. “Okay, here’s where we stand,” he whispered in English. “This is us in the middle of nowhere. The folks back home are working on an exfil plan that will take us from here along the northern coast.” He moved his finger to Laguna de Términos. “That’s about a hundred fifty miles of exposure. We can’t do that with the crowd we have.”

  “The children look pretty tough,” Dawkins said.

  “It’s not about toughness,” Boxers said. “It’s about endurance. That’s at least a three-day hike for a team of operators. Probably four. Even if we go balls out with this team, we’re looking at closer to a week. We can’t stay invisible for that long.”

  “What about the vehicles we came in?” Dawkins asked.

  Jonathan shot him a glare. “You hear that noise out there, right?” He reiterated the nature of roads as ambush kill zones.

  “You’re saying we can’t walk and we can’t drive,” Dawkins said. “That doesn’t leave much. Can your friends send a helicopter?”

  As if to prove that God was listening, heavy raindrops started to pelt the jungle canopy. Within minutes, they would all be soaked.

  “God, I hate this part of the world,” Boxers said.

  “So far, I’m pretty sure they’re not all that fond of having us,” Jonathan said. “The fact of the matter is that we’re going to have to drive. We just have to find roads where we’ve got a better chance of survival.”

  “That sounds like the beginning of a plan,” Boxers said.

  “Yeah, it does,” Jonathan confessed. He went back to the map. “If we can hoof it to the other side of this mountain and find a place for the kids to hole up, Big Guy, you and I can wander down to Tuxtla Gutiérrez, boost a vehicle, and come back for the others. We’ll load ’em up, then drive to the shore.”

  “That’s still over a hundred miles,” Dawkins said.

  “Better driven than walked,” Boxers said. “That’s still what? Ten miles on foot for the kids? Twelve, maybe.”

  “And then another fifteen or so for just you and me,” Jonathan said. “I figure in seventy-two hours or less, we’ll be soaking our feet in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “And that then begins a six-hundred-mile journey by boat?” Dawkins said. He seemed unsure whether or not to believe his own observation.

  “Exactly,” Jonathan said with a soft clap of his hands. “Easy-peasy.”

  “Says the man who gets queasy on Pirates of the Caribbean,” Boxers teased. Jonathan had suffered from critical motion sickness for as long as he could remember. Even back in the day, during those long flights to jump zones selected by Uncle Sam, Dramamine had helped, but a barf bag had been a standard part of his kit.

  “I’m not pretending that any of this is going to be easy,” Jonathan said. “And, of course, the kids can bow out anytime they want. I don’t have a way to keep them from doing that.”

  “That’d be sealing their own death warrants,” Dawkins said.

  “It’d be a terrible decision, but it’s theirs to make. Hopefully, Gloria will keep them all together.”

  “What do we think about her, by the way?” Boxers asked.

  Jonathan turned to Dawkins. “Any thoughts from you?”

  “I think she’s a drug and gun smuggler whose buddy—maybe even her lover—was just shot because of us.”

  “We had nothing to do with that,” Boxers objected.

  “She thinks we did,” Jonathan said. “We need to keep an eye on her.”

  “When do we head out?” Dawkins asked.

  “In the morning. First light.”

  “Isn’t it better to travel by night?”

  “Not in a jungle,” Boxers said. “And certainly not without night vision. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but ain’t none of us at the top of the food chain anymore.”

  Jonathan said, “I think it’s worth the risk to travel by day. The weather is giving us a break, at least for a while. The rain will keep the bad guys’ air assets grounded. And we’ll be going in a direction they won’t expect. They’ll certainly have a hard time tracking us on the ground. I honestly think we’ve got a good shot at this. That is, of course, if Gloria can keep the kids from panicking.”

  A boy’s voice from the shadows said in English, “We have all lost our parents, Mr. Scorpion.”

  Jonathan and Boxers spun around in unison, hands on their sidearms.

  “No!” the boy said. Jonathan could see him now. He still carried his carbine slung across his shoulders; the posture was not threatening. “It’s me. Don’t shoot.”

  “Tomás!” Jonathan whisper-shouted. “What are you doing?”

  “I call it tempting fate,” Boxers growled.

  “How long have you been there?” Jonathan asked. “And come in closer,
where I can see you.”

  Tomás took two steps forward, into the halo of green light. “Just a few minutes,” he said.

  “What did you hear?”

  He looked unsure whether to answer.

  “What’s done is done,” Jonathan said. “We’re not going to hurt you. But it’s a really, really bad idea to sneak up on us like that. Now, what did you hear?”

  “The plan,” Tomás said. “Walk to the road, and wait while you and him go into Tuxtla Gutiérrez to steal a bus or something.”

  “And then?” Boxers prompted.

  “And then six hundred miles by boat. Is that longer or shorter than six hundred kilometers?”

  “Longer,” Jonathan said. “By quite a lot.”

  “That’s going to be a big boat,” Tomás said.

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” Jonathan said. “Listening, I mean. Just promise me that you’ll keep what you heard to yourself.”

  “Why?” Tomás asked. “We have lost everything. We are strong. We can do anything you want us to do.”

  “The less the others know, the better,” Jonathan whispered, casting a look to see if there were any other eavesdroppers. “It’s for their own safety, and for ours.”

  “You are afraid of us telling the Jungle Tigers?”

  “It’s crossed our minds,” Boxers said. “And where did you learn such good English?”

  “From Nando,” Tomás said. “He thought it was important for everyone to speak English.”

  Jonathan and Boxers shared a glance. “Do all of you speak English?”

  A smile sneaked into the corner of Tomás’s mouth. “Sí.”

  Jonathan laughed in spite of himself. “That makes me nowhere near as clever as I thought I was,” he said.

  “What about Gloria? Can I tell her? She will want to know.”

  “Does she know you’re here, listening in?” Boxers asked.

  “She does now.” Tomás pointed to the distance, to where Gloria stood, watching, though out of earshot.

  Jonathan sighed. Nothing was going the way he’d planned. “Let me take care of that,” he said.