Final Target

by John Gilstrap

  “I’ve got to tell you,” Venice said as she wrapped up her research recitation, “these are not the résumés of people with ties to international terrorism or the drug trade.”

  “I guess we’ll find out,” Gail replied. “But I’ve got to follow the evidence where it goes.”

  “And then what?” Venice asked.

  “Yada yada yada. We bring Scorpion home and save the world.”

  * * *

  Finally, the rain had stopped. The heat and humidity continued to thrive, however, so nothing had had a chance to dry. Jonathan felt a change of socks in his future as soon as they had an opportunity to stop. It had been a long slog, but he was proud of the way the kids had been able to keep their shit together. With the defections, they numbered only seven now, and whatever petty disagreements had driven the grab-assing and fighting before had been trumped by exhaustion. For the most part, they looked dead on their feet. Gloria wasn’t much better, but Dawkins was holding up pretty well. Apparently, the DEA physical training program wasn’t the waste that Jonathan had imagined it to be.

  According to his map, cross-matched to the coordinates Venice had sent him, he’d arrived where they were supposed to be. Now all they had to do was find what they were looking for.

  Jonathan held his hand high, signaling for the group to stop, and triggering a ripple of approval through the exhausted column of kids. “Let’s take a break,” he said. He kept his tone conversational, and he keyed his mike so that Boxers could hear him at the back of the line. “A half hour. If you’re wearing shoes, take them off and give your feet a chance to dry out. If you’ve got fresh socks, change them. Just keep your voices down. We’ve got a head start, but there’s no reason to suspect that the Jungle Tigers have given up their search for us. Big Guy, Dawkins, and Gloria, join me up ahead for a chat.”

  Tomás stepped forward and asserted himself. “I want to be a part of the planning, too. I’m the leader of the kids.”

  Jonathan stewed it over for a few seconds, then winked. “Sure,” he said. “As leader of the kids, I guess you have a need to know.” He really liked this kid. Something about his strength of spirit. He’d make a hell of a soldier one day.

  Jonathan walked ahead ten yards, unslung his M27, and planted his butt on a deadfall that would double just fine as a bench. He double-checked the carbine’s safety and leaned it muzzle up against a tree to his left. He brought his knee to his chin, braced his heel, and set about following his own advice, loosening the laces of his left boot.

  The other adults and Tomás joined him and likewise took the opportunity to sit down. Dawkins and Gloria flanked him on the deadfall, and Boxers helped himself to the base of a tree directly across.

  “Don’t take this personally, Gloria,” Boxers said, “but your country blows dead bears.” He set to work on his own boots.

  Jonathan stripped off his left sock and frowned at the pruniness of the skin on his foot. He’d had worse—a lot worse—but he knew he was flirting with some world-class blisters by the time this was all done. He set to work on his right boot.

  “Here’s where we are in this little adventure,” Jonathan said as he pulled on the laces. “According to my resources back home, we are now in an area that is fat with caves. We’re going to find one, and, Gloria, we’re going to plant you there with the kids while Big Guy, Mr. Dawkins, and I head down to Tuxtla Gutiérrez to find us some transportation.”

  The look of horror Gloria gave him in return was every bit as vivid as he expected it would be.

  “And before you object,” Jonathan said, cutting her off before she had a chance to speak, “this is not negotiable.” He explained the logic, which he had discussed with Boxers previously. “Caves are inherently unsettling places just because of the environmental conditions,” he said. “But unsettling and dangerous are not the same things. I need for you to sell this plan in a positive way to the children. They’re going to look to you for leadership.”

  Gloria looked first to Boxers, who was concentrating on his feet, and then to Dawkins, who gave a little shrug.

  “I can do that,” Tomás said.

  “Perhaps Mr. Dawkins can stay with us,” Gloria suggested.

  “No,” Jonathan said. “Not possible. He’s with me the whole way.”

  “I don’t mind staying,” Dawkins said. “In fact, I could use the break.”

  “Not happening,” Jonathan said. He pulled a Baggie filled with dry socks from a Velcro’d pocket low on the right side of his assault vest. “You, and you alone, are my precious cargo. You and I are like white and rice. We stay together, and don’t bother arguing.”

  Dawkins looked at Gloria and shrugged again. What’s done was done.

  Jonathan used the outside of the socks’ uppers to dry his feet as best he could, then slid his foot into one and then put that foot into his boot. There’d been considerable discussion with his colleagues over the years as to whether the proper shoeing procedure was both socks followed by both shoes, but Jonathan preferred to take care of one foot at a time. Old habits.

  “What do you want us to do if the Jungle Tigers come this way?” asked Tomás.

  Jonathan kept his gaze on the job at hand. “First of all, if that were to happen, it would be a hideous case of bad luck.”

  “It’s been a while since we’ve seen any good luck,” Boxers said.

  Jonathan smiled. “They can’t know that you’re here,” he said. “We were already on the move when we made the decision about the caves.”

  “But they know about the rest,” Gloria said. “About finding transportation, and about escaping from the shore.”

  “And that is where I expect to encounter trouble,” Jonathan said. “All the more reason for you and the children to stay here. The odds of finding trouble are far greater where we’re going than they will be for you if you stay here.” With his left boot back in place and secured, he turned to his right.

  “But what if they do come?” Gloria pressed. “What if all the bad luck in the world crashes down on us and the Jungle Tigers find us? What are we to do?”

  “We’ll fight them,” Tomás said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Gloria said. “You’re a child.”

  “And you let Jungle Tigers rape girls.”

  “Stop!” Jonathan commanded. “Teamwork, remember?” He looked Gloria squarely in the eye. “I cannot answer that question for you,” he said. “I know what I would do, but it would be wrong for me to presume that you should do the same.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I’d fight,” Jonathan said, not dropping a beat. He turned back to lacing his boot. “I don’t know that there’s much of an option. You’ve got guns, so why not use them?”

  “But if we shoot, they’ll shoot back.”

  Jonathan laughed. “I suppose they would. That’s why they call those exchanges gunfights. And to make it all worse, those bullets maim and kill.”

  Gloria stared. She seemed not to know whether or not he was kidding.

  Jonathan said, “The smartest play is to stay out of sight and not be found. I really don’t think Alejandro Azul and his thugs are going to be exploring cave after cave, trying to find you, when he doesn’t know to look for you here in the first place. Do you?”

  Gloria looked at the ground. “I suppose not.”

  With his socks changed and his boots back on, Jonathan put both feet flat on the ground and slapped his knees. “All right, then. Let’s find you a place to stay.”

  “Suppose you can’t get back to us?” Tomás asked. “How long do we wait before we leave here to join you?”

  Jonathan and Boxers exchanged glances. It was a damn good question. Jonathan pulled his map from his pocket and spread it out where the others could see. He examined the terrain, then took out his laptop and fired up the satellite connection so he could zoom in. He looked for a landmark that was big enough to be found simply by following a compass point, without benefit of a map.

  “Here,�
� Jonathan said, planting his finger on the laminated map. “If we end up in trouble, we’ll call on the radio. Big Guy, give Gloria the backup low-band radio.” He craned his neck to make sure Gloria was still with the program. She was watching and listening, but she didn’t look happy about it.

  Jonathan swung his attention back to the map and the boy. “Tomás, you lead everybody due south. Ultimately, you’ll end up on this road.” He tapped the map. “There’s a water tower on the high ground. Do you see it? That’s our secondary exfil location.”

  Tomás pointed to the spot on the map. “Right there,” he said.

  “Exactly,” Jonathan said. As an afterthought, he fished around the flap pocket on the front of his shirt and dug out the nub of a wax pencil. He marked the spot on the map. “So, when you hit the road, walk uphill. Just to be sure, fire three shots into the air. We’ll come to find you. When you hear us return three shots, you’ll know we heard you.”

  Tomás nodded vigorously. “I understand.”

  “Then also understand this,” Jonathan said. “If it comes to that, it will be because we’ve run into a big problem. That means you will have to move quickly.” He folded up the map and handed it to the boy. “Here, this is yours. I have another one.”

  Tomas beamed as he stuffed the map into his pocket. He seemed to be excited by the adventure.

  “But it probably won’t come to that,” Jonathan said. “None of this will happen unless I call for you. The worst possible outcome would be if you jumped the gun and we all showed up here, only to find the caves empty because you’ve already left.” Jonathan dug into the inside of his ruck and withdrew a mini Mag light, which he handed to Tomás. “Here’s this, too. Use it sparingly,” he said.

  Tomás nodded with the enthusiasm of a kid at Christmas.

  Boxers handed Gloria the low-band radio from his ruck. He twisted the power switch. “It’s on now,” he explained. “Your radio name will be . . .” He looked to Jonathan.

  “Caregiver One,” Jonathan said. “And if we need to trigger this plan, the voice you hear probably won’t be one of us.”

  Gloria looked confused. “Who will it be?”

  “Mother Hen,” Jonathan said.

  Tomás recoiled and cocked his head. “An old chicken is going to call us?”

  CHAPTER 21

  The GPS told Gail that she’d arrived, but you’d never be able to tell from the front. To call the access street a secondary roadway seemed awfully generous, but she didn’t know if there was such a thing as a tertiary highway. Quaternary? She settled on “rustic.” A plaque next to the mailbox carried the right lot number, and a much larger sign next to the open front gate identified the place as Resters’ Roost. How . . . alliterative.

  Gail paused for the better part of a minute at the mouth of the gate, deciding what her next step should be. Not only was what lay ahead unknown, it was invisible from the road. Her inner but dormant law enforcement officer was screaming at her to call for backup, but who would she call?

  Um, hi. This is Gail Bonneville. You know that homicide you’re working up in New Baltimore? Before he died, Randy Goodman told me about this place in Middleburg.. . .

  No, that would not work. She was on her own.

  She completed the turn off of the roadway and threaded her way between the gate supports and headed up a long, gradual hill. After fifty yards or so, the trees gave way to a long, largely untended field at the end of which sat the house. She saw no activity, but she did see a big red Ford pickup truck parked out front. It looked like a street vehicle, not a farm vehicle. It had been recently polished, and its chrome wheel rims gleamed.

  She approached cautiously, waffling between the two options of a noisy approach, which would prevent the occupant from being startled, and a stealthy approach, which would give her the upper hand. In the end, she decided just to drive normally.

  She was still a good two hundred feet away when the front door opened and a young man in blue jeans and a denim shirt stepped out and walked down the steps to the edge of the driveway. Early thirties, healthy-looking, and Hispanic. It was not at all a stretch for Gail to conclude that this man was Hector Nuñez, the son of the man she’d come here to talk to.

  The fact of the cocked and locked pistol in a holster on his belt sealed the deal for her. He looked like a cop.

  She pulled to a stop a respectful distance away, and as she opened her door and stepped out, she called, “Hector Nuñez?”

  He appeared startled that he was recognized. “Who’s asking?”

  Gail decided to go for broke. “I’m Catherine Carson,” she said. “FBI.” She pulled her once and occasionally real creds wallet out of her jacket pocket and badged him. She returned it to her pocket before he could examine it too closely. The name would match if he checked it, but there was always a chance that some security stripe or something had changed in the years since she’d used it.

  “Am I in trouble?” the young man asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Gail said as she cleared her car and walked closer. “Should you be?”

  “Probably,” the guy said. “Shouldn’t we all?”

  “You never answered my question,” Gail said. “Are you Hector?”

  “I am,” he said.

  “And this is your father’s home?” As she closed the distance, she offered her hand.

  He accepted the gesture, then hung on to it for just a little too long. “Why don’t you get to what it is you really want?”

  “Is Raúl here?”

  He crossed his arms. “Seems to me that’s a question I should be asking you.”

  Gail recoiled. “How would I know if your father is here?”

  “Well, he’s not. And that’s not the question I would ask. I’d want to know where you put him.”

  Oh, this just got deeper and deeper. “I think we’re singing from different sheets of music,” Gail said. “I have no idea where your father is. What are you talking about?”

  Hector looked as if he’d just been caught revealing a secret he shouldn’t have. He took a step back. “How about you pretend that I never said anything and tell me what you are here for.”

  Gail eyed the pistol on his hip. “Why are you armed?” she asked.

  “I was a cop. I don’t remember the last day when I wasn’t armed.”

  His use of the past tense was not lost on Gail. She wished she had a better idea of how to play this. Keenly aware that she wasn’t a very good liar, she defaulted to the truth. “An airplane took off from your father’s field two nights ago. I’m here to talk to him about it.”

  An unmistakable look of fear clouded Hector’s face as she spoke. From what she could tell, he didn’t even try to hide it.

  “What do you know about this, Hector?”

  He closed his eyes and exhaled, as if prepared to take a punishment. “Does this have anything to do with a DEA agent named Dawkins?” He opened his eyes to see Gail’s reaction. “Let’s talk inside,” he said. “It’s too hot out here.”

  * * *

  This was an old man’s house. Nineteen seventies- and eighties-era wallpaper featured a flowery pattern that might at one time have been fuzzy with that faux velvet crap they used to decorate with. Mostly green, with hints of brown, the faded coverings brought dankness to an already dank place. The furniture was barely visible under stacks of newspapers, magazines, food wrappers, and unwashed plates. Only a saggy overstuffed chair was exempted from the mess, and that chair was positioned directly in front of a state-of-the-art fifty-inch television.

  Much to Gail’s surprise, the place did not stink. She wasn’t sure how that was possible.

  “My papa is not a terribly meticulous man,” Hector said.

  But he did not apologize on the man’s behalf—something Gail admired. Family was family, after all, and they were to be accepted for who they were, warts and all.

  “Let’s talk in the kitchen,” Hector said. “There’s room at the table.”

  He led the
way through a classically small dining room that featured the requisite cherry table and corner cupboard, which was stuffed with Hummel figurines—or maybe knockoffs thereof.

  “Is this the house you grew up in?” she asked.

  “We moved here when I was eight,” Hector said. “Mama really wanted to live in the country, and this was as far out as Papa was willing to go.” He crossed a threshold to the kitchen through a pair of Western-style swinging doors.

  Into an orange kitchen. Not quite Day-Glo safety orange, but close. Cabinets, ceiling, everything was orange. Except for the appliances, which were a shade of gold that never should have happened. Even the stylized phoenixes on the vinyl wallpaper were orange.

  “Wow,” Gail said. “That’s quite a burst of color.”

  “My mama again,” Hector said. “She liked to tell people that she was colorful in every aspect of her life.”

  “You speak of her in the past tense,” Gail said.

  “She passed away almost ten years ago. Cancer.” As he spoke, his eyes reddened. “Hit Papa really hard.” Hector cleared his throat and pointed to the Hitchcock-style chairs around the little square table that was pushed up against the wall. “Please have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water, soda, iced tea?”

  “If you have iced tea ready, that would be wonderful.”

  “Papa always has iced tea around. It’s one of his favorite things.” Hector opened up the fridge, reached inside, and pulled out two aluminum cans. Sure enough, the labels read ICED TEA.

  Not exactly what Gail had been hoping for. In fact, she detested the commercial crap they put in cans, but she was stuck.

  “Will the can do, or do you want ice and a glass?”

  Gail glanced at the pile of dishes in the sink and opted for safety. “The can is fine,” she said.

  Hector popped the top on one and handed it to her, then did likewise for himself. He sat in the seat kitty-corner from hers. “Do you want me to talk, or do you want to ask questions?”

  “Why don’t you start and I fill in the blanks with questions.”

  “Okay, but first, who are you really?”