2 Green to Go

by John H. Cunningham

  My teeth were clenched tight. I waited for Raul to speak.

  “Now, Buck, this favor you need?”

  I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and turned my back to the bodyguards.

  “I’m looking for a missing boat out of Key West.”

  Raul looked at me as if questioning my sanity. But he was listening.

  “I believe it was hijacked by Peruvian rebels.”

  “Peruvian rebels? Stole a boat in Key West, Florida?” He paused, shook his head. “And you think they plan to pass through the canal?”

  “It’s the only way home.”

  Raul scratched his chin, shook his head again, and went back to scratching his chin.

  “These the same rebels who argued for the return of raw materials stolen hundreds of years ago?”

  “That’s my guess,” I said. “Ironic, isn’t it? I’m here to return the map drawn by Spaniards who crossed Panama with Peruvian silver and gold—while searching for a ship hijacked by Peruvians seeking to return through the Panama Canal.”

  My gut told me that while the Atocha theft was big news in Florida, and good Internet fodder in the States, word had not traveled into Latin America yet, especially since the extent of what was taken still hadn’t been made public. My gut had better be right, or what I’d just done was like telling the cagiest fox in the forest the chickens are loose and on the way past his den.

  “And you have my map with you?” Raul said.

  “I do.”

  He said something in Spanish. One of the bodyguards withdrew a cell phone, punched a couple of buttons, and handed it to Raul. Once again wishing I’d learned the language, all I could tell was that Raul spat out an order and after a few seconds asked a question. He lowered the phone and looked back at me.

  “The name of the boat and type?”

  “Sea Lion. She’s a hundred-year-old schooner.”

  The corner of his lip curled. He hesitated, maybe embarrassed to pass this on. But he did—the one thing I made out was the name of the boat. A moment of silence passed and I chanced a glance at the bodyguards. They remained in the doorway, and I swear not one of them blinked. Jaime was almost completely hidden behind them, but I could see his shoes and figured he had his ear pressed close to hear what was happening.

  Another burst of Spanish followed, then Raul slapped the phone shut.

  He stared at me. And stared.

  “Any luck?” I said.

  “Give me my map.”

  “I’ve got it. Just—”

  “I’m losing my patience, Charles.” He looked past me to the bodyguards. “I want my map!”

  I felt them move closer. “Okay, okay. It’s close by—”

  Raul flung his wrist and one of the bodyguards had me around the waist and off my feet. I swung an elbow back and caught him on the nose. The sensation of crushing bone reverberated through my arm. The grip around my waist loosened, but the other bodyguard stepped in, and the three of us crashed into Raul Acosta. He tried to step aside, but the balcony was too small. He yelled at them in Spanish, and I pressed harder into Raul to block them from tossing me over the side.

  “Hold on!” I shouted. “Hold fucking on, Raul, I’ve got the damn map!”

  Pinched against the railing, he glanced from the wall of flesh that pressed against him, to the rock and liquid grave that awaited us all below. His concern had me worried. What was this little balcony’s weight capacity?

  A torrent of Spanish from Raul, and the guard released his grip. Another fusillade of shouting and obvious threats sent them scurrying back inside the restaurant. The two of us stood there sucking wind as if we’d just sprinted a mile.

  “It’s in the car, Raul … it’s in … the fucking car.” He shoved me back inside the restaurant. “Under the floor mat … backseat floor mat.”

  He yelled at the guards and waved them off toward the door. They literally ran, looking like Keystone Cops. Jaime, Raul, and I stared at each other until they came running back after only a minute, one holding the map aloft in its sealed plastic sleeve, waving it as if he’d just found a winning lottery ticket.

  “Give me that damn thing, you fool. It’s four hundred years old!”

  Raul took the sleeve from the man and placed it on a table, then gently withdrew the map. I remembered how I felt when I saw it in Geneva just a few weeks ago. God, it was hard to relinquish it now.

  Raul glanced up with what can only be described as sheer lust in his eyes.

  “The Sea Lion?” I said.

  He offered a small smile. It spoke so many things. Intrigue, hesitation, wonder, and what I feared most, double-cross.

  “The Sea Lion.” He looked back at the map and laughed. “Captain Clarence Lewis requested passage an hour ago.”

  Truck? Damn.

  “So they’re through?”

  Another laugh set me back a step.

  “What, you think the Panama Canal is like one of your pizza restaurants? Call up and get delivery in thirty minutes? The volume of traffic requires a half-day’s wait for most ships, especially pleasure craft, which is how they declared themselves. I’ll alert the Panamanian Navy to intercept them—”

  “No!”

  My shout made him flinch. The bodyguards rushed to his side like the trained pit bulls they were.

  “No navy, Raul. At least not yet. I need to, ah, try to handle this myself. A friend’s on board as a hostage, and if the navy closes in, he might get hurt. Let me try first.”

  “You? Alone? Against the so-called Peruvian rebels?”

  It was my turn to smile. “But first, I need one more favor.”

  18

  Jaime did not accompany me back to the airport, which was fine with me. I’d had enough reunion time for one day. The driver didn’t speak English, so our ride was without small talk. As we drove through town, around the landscape of multi-colored freight containers, I watched the scenery pass and pondered the effort that had gone into searching for the treasure purportedly buried pursuant to the map I’d returned to Raul Acosta.

  I tensed up when the driver drove past the entrance to MPEJ. Raul may have seemed grateful, but men like him rarely let somebody take advantage of them without recompense, so I expected retribution somewhere down the road. I just hoped it wasn’t this road to the airport, right now.

  My concern was alleviated when the driver took another entrance, also marked with MPEJ and a sign that said Aviación Privada. We rounded a corner that led through the overgrowth around the airport, passed between two hangars, then turned onto a road parallel to the taxiway. Betty was visible in the distance but so was another, larger plane next to her.

  I immediately recognized the bold “SM” on the tail of Gunner’s G-IV. My driver closed the distance and deposited me at Betty without fanfare, threats, or wounds, but he didn’t drive away. Nobody else was in sight.

  Betty’s hatch was open.

  “Ray?”

  “Inside.” His voice was more than an octave higher.

  I peeked through the hatch and saw him seated in the left seat with Gunner behind him in one of the jump seats.

  “Wow, what a coincidence to find you guys here in Colón,” Gunner said. “Great town, isn’t it?”

  Had he tracked us here himself? Or was he Booth’s other asset, tracking the signal from Ray’s cell phone? If that were the case, it meant Booth had double-crossed me. Was he mad at me for going radio silent? None of those scenarios made me feel any better.

  “What the hell are you doing inside my plane?”

  “Ray invited me in out of the heat, but good point. Why are we sitting in this junker when we could be enjoying the air-conditioned luxury of my G-IV?”

  “When did he get here, Ray?”

  “About a half-hour ago.”

  I saw no bruises, but Ray was no fighter. He was a manatee of a human being who got along with everyone and hated confrontation, not counting video games where he was a virtual Rambo. Right now he stared at me like he wishe
d we’d never met.

  “So, Booth told you where we were?” I said.

  Gunner had his reflective blue sunglasses on, and just like when we last met, his face was impassive. No recognition, no confusion.

  “Bold move coming to Panama, men,” he said. “What led you here? Or was it bonerfish again?”

  “Billfish, actually. Perfect time of year for sailfish and blue marlin,” I said.

  “So you’re going to shoot them with that spear gun you have in the locker?”

  He’d searched the plane. My breath caught. Had he found the waterproof pouch under the seat?

  “Actually, we were just about to head out, Gunner. Feel free to follow us in that rocket ship of yours. By the way, what does the ‘SM’ on the tail stand for?”

  “Sick Motherfucker,” he said. “Appropriate, don’t you think?”

  “Who am I to argue?”

  “So who did you meet with in Colón and where’s out next stop, fellas?”

  “I always wanted to see the Panama Canal—”

  Gunner grabbed Ray by the throat. Ray’s eyes bulged and a sound like air being let slowly out of a balloon escaped from his mouth. He grabbed hold of Gunner’s broad, colorfully tattooed forearm but couldn’t budge it. I darted forward—

  “Stay back or I crush his windpipe like a beer can. Who’s in the limo that dropped you off? Tell me what you learned.”

  “I called ahead for the car. It took me to Port Operations, where I found out the Sea Lion’s already passed through the canal.”

  “And they gave you the information, just like that?”

  “Amazing what a couple hundred bucks will do, asshole. Now let him go!”

  “When did the schooner pass through?”

  “This morning, about eight hours ago. They’re sailing toward Peru and we’re going to head them off. There, that’s all I know, now let him go, Goddamnit!”

  Gunner released his grip and Ray grabbed his neck, rubbing it and clearing his throat, over and over.

  “That’s more like it, partner,” Gunner said.

  “We’re not partners,” I said. “Now get out of my plane.”

  “You gonna make me?”

  Straight ahead was going nowhere, so it was time to zig and zag.

  “Ray invited you on board my plane, now why don’t you show me yours?”

  He smiled and shimmied toward the hatch. I followed, grabbing my dive knife out of the open duffel by the locker. Though I was tempted to stab him in the back, the thought of jail in Panama encouraged me to shove the knife in the waist of my pants and cover the handle with my shirt instead.

  Gunner jumped out and landed like a cat. A big cat.

  “Airplane envy, huh?” He laughed. “Sure, come take a look inside a plane built in this century, Reilly.”

  Gunner was empty-handed, so I assumed he hadn’t found my stash of maps. I poked my head back inside Betty.

  “Start the engines, Ray, this will only take a minute.”

  I spoke loud enough for Gunner to hear me and nodded at him when I turned around. We walked toward the G-IV, which I hated to admit was a beauty. The pilot watched us from the side window and the door popped open and dropped slowly to the tarmac as we approached. I studied Gunner from behind. He was agile on his feet and had a gait that matched his cocky attitude. He’d be a serious challenge hand-to-hand, especially because a battle with him would likely include feet, fingernails, teeth, and head butts, for starters. I’d have to rely on smarts against this one, but he might match or surpass me there, too.

  He bounded up the six steps into the plane, paused, then flashed his square teeth at me.

  “Check this out.”

  Inside was a combination of plush comfort, light-colored woods, soft tan leather, and an impressive display of electronic equipment. It smelled good, and the air had a nice chill. Gunner turned to face the wall of electronics, many of which I recognized.

  “All the latest tracking gear,” he said. “Satellite, GPS, sonar buoy drops with tracking capabilities, heat seeking, thermal imagery, radar—you name it, this baby has it.”

  Betty wasn’t exactly stock, but the best she had on board was a hand-held Garmin GPS and radar for weather.

  “Pretty cushy for a guy like you, Gunner. I thought there’d be some real hardware.”

  “Count on that, partner.”

  He popped a clip on the wall, and a built-in locker slid open. Inside were two automatic weapons. One looked like an M-16, the other was smaller, an HK MP-5 fitted with a silencer. There were a couple of handguns, but my eyes bulged when I spotted two green tubes I recognized as anti-tank missiles.

  “See what I’m telling you, Reilly? You can’t escape the fact that I’m going to be up your ass like one of them Key West masseuses you’re probably used to. And if you don’t cooperate and I find the damn boat first, I’ll sink the bitch and everyone on board, mark its location, and come back with dive gear to recover the treasure. Not to mention blow you and that antique jalopy out of the sky for target practice, know what I mean?”

  “You’ve made your point. I told you what I learned here, and we’re headed out to search the Pacific waters toward Peru. This plane can’t go as slow as my Widgeon’s fastest cruising speed, so following each other won’t work. Let’s keep in radio contact.”

  His ugly sneer made my skin crawl.

  “Now you’re thinking, boy.” He pounded on the cockpit door. “Start this bitch up!”

  “See you at the next stop,” I said.

  I took my time down the steps and gave him a nod before I stepped off. The door lifted as soon as I was off the steps, which is what I’d hoped would happen. Betty’s engines sounded strong and the hatch was open. I took a deep breath.

  I was about to make Gunner one very unhappy mercenary.

  I pulled the dive knife out of my waistband, ducked under the G-IV’s wing, and stabbed the port tire with all my strength. A loud pop and ensuing hiss of air made me jump but didn’t slow me down from repeating the same maneuver on the other tire. Alarm bells had to be sounding inside the G-IV’s flight deck, so I sprinted around Betty’s tail and dove inside the cabin.

  “Go, Ray! Go! Go! Go!”

  I saw the door start to open on the G-IV as Betty jumped forward.

  Could Gunner pop open his gun locker, grab one of the automatics or one of the anti-tank missiles, and blast us as we accelerated down the runway? Not enough time, was there?

  “Woo-hoo!” Ray’s shout and wild eyes made it clear he’d seen my sabotage.

  “Pedal to the metal, bro!”

  I held my breath as Betty hurtled down the runway and lifted off without so much as a single 9mm round or errant missile lighting over our wings.

  “See you, partner,” I yelled.

  19

  After Betty was off the pot-holed runway and airborne, Ray and I switched seats. Once settled, I depressed the left pedal and commenced a gradual bank to port.

  “Thanks a ton for leaving me alone in that hell-hole,” Ray said. “Those gas jockeys gave me the creeps, and when Gunner showed up I thought I was dead meat.” He rubbed his neck.

  “We couldn’t leave Betty alone, and we needed fuel.”

  “Still, I’m feeling like the red-headed stepchild here.”

  I didn’t respond. Ray’s agitation was getting worse, and I needed his cooperation. I spared him the details of Gunner’s armaments and tracking equipment, and my reunion with Raul Acosta. Ray had a spastic colon, and too much stress and fear could sometimes result in his soiling his shorts. My sense of smell and Betty’s upholstery weren’t up to that, just now.

  “Were you serious about going to Peru, because Spottswell—”

  “Peru was bullshit, but we’re not going back to Key West yet either.”

  “Why—”

  “The Sea Lion’s out here in the Bay of Limon awaiting entry into the Canal Zone. Governor Acosta will stall, but there’s not time to get Nardi and the cavalry down here. We’re g
oing to have to try and stop them ourselves.”

  Ray smiled. “Ha! Wait until Gunner figures that out. And all that business back there at the airport, with the limo, and the creepy-looking—will you listen to me ramble on here?”

  “I’d rather not, Ray. I’m actually trying to come up with a plan.”

  “Why can’t the Panamanian Coast Guard, or whatever they have here, just intercept the boat and send Truck home with the goods?”

  “That’d be the logical thing to do if we were back in U.S. waters, but not in this part of the world.” I paused. I had a sudden urge to come clean. “And there’s one other thing, Ray. Remember the night of Karen’s going away party?”

  “You mean the night you were so hammered you vanished without saying goodbye?”

  “Right, and when I vanished, as you put it, I rode my bike home. Down Whitehead Street.”

  I hesitated and he stared at me, waiting for more, then his eyebrows popped up.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I was drunk as a skunk and could hardly walk, much less ride the bike. In fact, I crashed into the curb and slammed down hard on the sidewalk, where I barfed out all those nasty shooters and good Barbados rum. But when I stood up, I saw two guys carrying a crate through the darkness.”

  “No shit!”

  “Yes, shit. One of them was Truck Lewis. I called out to him, and he and another guy came over. I don’t remember anything besides Truck clocking me. I tried to get up but the other one hit me with a club or something. Next thing I knew, I’m waking up in the KWPD drunk tank.”

  “No shit!”

  “The police grilled me but I didn’t remember the incident until later when Curro drove me by the museum.”

  Ray closed his eyes for a long moment. Finally he opened them and heaved melodramatic sigh.

  “So you’re telling me Truck’s guilty after all? We’re sticking our necks out—I’ve pissed off Bobby Spottswell—and Truck’s guilty?”

  “All the evidence says that’s the case, but—”

  “Hell, Buck, you’re an eyewitness!”

  “Nobody disputes he was there, the video proves that, but I still think there’s a chance he was forced to go along. And if Gunner or the Panamanians or Peruvians get to him first, they may kill him and nobody will ever know either way.”