by Matt Rogers
‘Then you should have faith that I’ll get the job done. Imagine what we can do with this division if I bring Ramos’ head back over the border. One man. Against a drug cartel. Let me do it.’
‘Fine.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it. You were going to do it anyway.’
‘I know. But I wanted your approval.’
‘How’s working alone?’ Lars said, diverting from the main topic of conversation for the first time. ‘Everything you were expecting it to be?’
King parted the curtains and gazed out the window at the stuffy urban sprawl of downtown Tijuana. The room was humid, soaking his shirt through with sweat. He felt cramped, boxed in, choking on the fumes of an industrial grid.
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think I work well in tight spaces.’
‘Tijuana’s too cramped?’
‘Maybe. Let’s see what I can do in Guatemala.’
‘Do you need anything?’ Lars said. ‘I can have supplies sent across the border within hours.’
King glanced at the Colt SMGs on the bed next to him. ‘I’ve got guns. That’s all I need. Anything overly complicated will just weigh me down.’
‘I don’t know if you fully realise what you’re getting yourself into.’
‘I realise.’
‘That part of Guatemala is a nightmare,’ Lars said, hammering the point home. ‘Their armed forces are down to roughly ten thousand men. They used to have thirty thousand. You know what that means?’
‘Tens of thousands of soldiers looking for employment by any means necessary?’
‘Spot on.’
‘He’ll have an army,’ King said. ‘I’m aware of that. That’s why this is going to work. I can settle a personal score, and do it quietly in the process. You can prove to your superiors that sending a SEAL team up against an army of hired guns would only have made the situation worse. I’ll be in and out without anyone knowing.’
‘I didn’t know stealth was your forte,’ Lars said.
‘It’s not,’ King said. ‘Violence is. Send me the co-ordinates of Ramos’ last known location. Give me two days.’
He ended the call.
36
King understood that twelve hours ago things would have unfolded very differently.
The failure to achieve anything at Ramos’ packaging facility would have demoralised him. More than likely, he would have abandoned all hope of success and followed Lars’ first orders to return to the United States, satisfied with the meagre progress that he’d made.
But, deep down, he found himself fuelled by an animalistic desire to kill Joaquín Ramos.
His encounter with Juan the night before had changed something in him. With no surrounding soldiers or operatives to sway him in one direction, he had been left alone with his thoughts. It had given him time to mull over what Juan had told him. He couldn’t force the mental image of the two dismembered brothers out of his mind.
Ramos had to die.
There were — no doubt — countless other atrocities being committed by all members of the drug cartels across the country, but King had found himself personally involved in this instance. It went against all his training, everything that had been drilled into him since the first day he had stepped foot in a military recruiting office at eighteen years of age. If he found himself personally swayed by an operation, he should detach himself from it immediately.
This time, there was no-one around to tell him what to do.
And — thankfully — the operation aligned with his personal intentions.
But he knew that, even if it didn’t, he would have followed his heart. In any other situation it would have got him dishonourably discharged from the military.
Or worse.
He would need to learn to bring that under control.
Just, not yet.
He made a quick mental calculation as to how long it would take to reach Guatemala. The border was way down south, thousands of miles away. How Ramos had reached the country overnight was lost on King. Briefly, he considered stealing a car and making the journey via land. That way, he could keep the two Colt SMGs.
But it would take too long.
Two full days of non-stop driving, plus whatever time King needed to take to rest.
By that point, Ramos could have fortified his encampment with hundreds of hired guns. Or, worse — he could have taken his profits and fled, starting a new life with a new identity somewhere more tropical. He would get away with everything he had done, with enough blood money to live out a life of luxury for the rest of his days.
The sheer thought made King’s blood boil.
No — he would have to get there as fast as humanly possible.
By air.
It would mean ditching the guns.
He could find weapons when he touched down in Guatemala.
Now, he was just an ordinary civilian booking a last-minute flight to a neighbouring country. Interested in exploring the ancient Mayan ruins.
Nothing more than that.
He left the guns on the bed, first wiping them down with a sterilised cloth he fished out of the bottom of the duffel bag. He wiped the fingerprints off everything he thought he’d touched in the motel room — there was little that he had. Then he combed through the bedsheets for any kind of hair follicles he could find. He didn’t bother spending much more time on the room, satisfied with a rudimentary sweep.
He slung the duffel bag over one shoulder and stepped out into the Mexican heat.
There was no sign of the motel owner. King elected to let the man discover that he was no longer residing at the room on his own — he had paid cash, and left no valuables at reception. He strode out onto the busy main road and peered up and down the length of cars to try and find a cab that could take him to Tijuana International Airport.
It only took a couple of minutes of waiting for trouble to arise.
King sensed the guy approaching, but thought nothing off it. There were plenty of pedestrians on these sidewalks, and not all of them were out to murder him. He expected the shadow to pass him by on the left-hand-side, but the man stopped right alongside King, stepping straight into his personal space.
Uncomfortably close.
King turned to look at him, regretting the fact that he’d left all his guns back in the motel room.
But it wasn’t anyone who was after him specifically.
It was a common, low-level street thug.
The guy was bald, with an oversized white singlet hanging down to his nipples and oversized baggy cargo shorts that almost reached his ankles. He wore unlaced, filthy sneakers and stared King up and down like a meth junkie proudly protecting his territory. He was certainly high on something — King noticed his dilated pupils and the slight twitch in one corner of his mouth.
‘What’s up?’ King said softly.
‘You in the wrong place,’ the dealer said, remaining less than a foot away from King. ‘You get fuckin’ moving.’
‘Just trying to get a cab,’ King said, gesturing to the traffic flying past just in front of them.
‘Get it somewhere else.’
‘I’m good here.’
‘You don’t got a choice.’
‘Just let me get my cab, man,’ King said. ‘I’m not causing you any trouble. Leave me alone.’
The dealer took that as the most reprehensible comment in the history of man. His eyes widened even further and he mocked a reach for his belt, where a distinct bulge signified that he was carrying a piece. ‘Who you fuckin’ telling to leave you alone? You keep movi—’
He didn’t make it through the rest of the sentence, because King threw a twisting elbow at close-range into the point of the man’s jaw. The resulting thump of bone against bone resonated down the street, loud enough to make King wince. The guy stumbled back a step, stunned by the sheer force behind the blow. It looked as if he had been hit by a freight train. Sheer shock registered on his face.
W
hen there was enough space between them for King to stretch out, he threw a teep-kick into the guy’s solar plexus. Kinetic energy transferred straight through into the man’s torso, sending him stumbling back off his feet. He dropped onto his rear, hard enough to rattle his brain inside his skull.
He froze, sitting on the hot pavement like a stunned animal.
King pointed a finger at the man’s belt. ‘Don’t reach for that.’
The guy complied.
He hadn’t been hit like that before.
‘Put your hands on the ground,’ King said. ‘So I know you won’t try anything.’
The dealer — still turned to stone before King’s eyes — stared vacantly down at the pavement. ‘Ground’s hot, man.’
‘That’s your only option.’
The elbow to the jaw had knocked the guy into a different demeanour. The thuggish bravado had vanished. He nodded solemnly and placed his palms on the concrete.
‘Keep them there,’ King said.
Another nod.
‘Do you know who I work for?’
‘No,’ the guy said.
‘Best to keep it that way. If you make a move, you’ll catch a bullet in the forehead. Got it?’
‘Yeah. I ain’t movin’.’
The guy slumped forward, dejected, defeated.
‘Smart man,’ King said.
He set off across the street, refusing to look back, exerting unbridled confidence with every step. He needed the man convinced that if he even thought about pulling his gun and shooting King in the back, the consequences would be grave. If the man realised that King was on his own, he would take advantage of it.
All the reflexes and fighting capabilities in the world were no use against a close-range bullet.
King hailed an approaching cab as soon as he reached the other side of the two-lane road. The flaking sedan coasted to a stop by the sidewalk. He threw open the rear door and ducked into the middle seat.
‘Where to, my friend?’ the driver said, fiddling with the meter.
‘Airport,’ King said, keeping his eyes fixed on the thug across the road. The man was refusing to look up from the pavement, intimidated into sitting on his rear and staring hard at the ground between his legs. Beaten into submission with two well-placed, well-timed strikes.
‘Heading back home?’ the driver said as he peeled away from the sidewalk.
King shook his head. ‘On to Guatemala.’
‘What’s in Guatemala?’
‘A bit of business.’
The driver flashed a quizzical glance over his shoulder. ‘There’s not much business in Guatemala, my friend.’
‘Just a quick thing I have to take care of.’
‘What do you do?’
King stared out the window, watching the overbearing sprawl of Tijuana flash by. It might be the last glimpse he had of the city for quite some time. He wouldn’t look back on his time here fondly. It had been a confused, fast-paced blur of a trip.
Something told him it was only going to get worse.
‘I fix things,’ he said.
‘Like repairs?’
‘Yeah,’ King said. ‘Something like that.’
37
Mundo Maya International Airport
Flores
Guatemala
The small plane hovered low over the thick canopy of rainforest as it descended towards a narrow runway in the distance. The atmosphere surrounding the craft was oppressive — it was intensely hot. The air ran thick with humidity, choking the fluids out of anything it came into contact with.
King had spent little time in tropical climate zones, and as he stared out the small circular window at the shimmering jungle below, he realised it would take some getting used to.
The view out the plane’s window spelled trouble. It was still afternoon, but the roiling storm clouds masked all sunlight from spilling through. They hung in the air like grey wraiths, bearing down on the jungle below in ominous fashion. King grimaced as he studied the darkness above. It looked like the mother of all tropical storms was set to break out in Flores.
Hopefully, his forthcoming journey to the western border of the country would take him out of the perimeter of the storm.
Something made him doubt that it would.
The plane touched down with an almighty thump, rattling against the uneven tarmac below its wheels. King rode out the bumps and jolts, gripping the arm of his seat with white knuckles. Small planes still terrified him, despite his best efforts to shake their effects on his psyche. Time and time again he felt his heart leap into his throat whenever he was forced into one of the flimsy crafts.
Ironic, considering he had endured paratrooper drills as part of his SEAL training. With a parachute strapped to his back, he had no qualms over being thrust into a tiny, unstable aircraft. It didn’t matter if the plane held together or not — whatever the case, he would be exiting with his lifeline attached to him.
Commercial flights provided no such relief.
Somehow, he couldn’t see how flimsy oxygen masks and the standard brace position would protect him in the event that the engines stalled and they dropped at terminal velocity toward the rainforest canopy below.
But — as usual — his worst fears were left unrealised. The brakes kicked in and the plane slowed as it approached the tiny terminal. A broad sign above the building read “Mundo Maya International Airport”.
King closed his eyes and soaked in the last few minutes of respite he would receive before heading straight into the madness.
There had been no trouble when heading through customs back in Tijuana. He was just an ordinary young American backpacker, carrying little in the way of personal possessions. He had booked the next flight to Flores, a small city that lay in the centre of Northern Guatemala. From here, he would have to rent a car and make the journey west to Sierra del Lacandón National Park, the vast patch of rainforest that bordered Mexico.
Lars had warned him that all kinds of trouble lay within its limits.
King found himself jittery with anticipation.
He collected his duffel bag from the locker above his seat — it was small enough to be allowed as carry-on — and made his way to the front of the plane, following the three other passengers on the flight towards the exit. Having no luggage or belongings stored underneath meant that he could skip baggage claim altogether.
An open-framed transport buggy pulled up to the foot of the plane’s exit stairs, ready to shepherd them to the terminal. King followed the people in front of him into the buggy. He took up a position at the back of the vehicle and snatched the military satellite phone out of the duffel bag.
He noted the proximity of the other passengers, and decided to hold off on making the call until he was well and truly alone.
The humid air whipped through the open frame and lashed against King’s face as they sped towards the terminal entrance. He guessed that the driver and plane staff wanted the journey over as quickly as possible — there were more pressing matters at hand than dealing with an under-populated flight. Four passengers would be more of a burden to the airline than a potential full flight of people to impress.
King and the other three were just extra unwanted items to be discarded out into Guatemala.
He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
It meant they weren’t likely to look at him twice.
When the buggy reached a pair of motion-detecting entrance doors that seemed to be the only piece of technology in the airport, the driver barked a command in Spanish. King understood the message first, carrying his duffel in one hand and the satellite phone in the other as he departed the vehicle as fast as he could. He stepped into the terminal itself, feeling the artificial cool of the vast air-conditioning systems wash over him.
It took thirteen minutes to make it through customs.
He timed it in his head.
No problems.
No second looks.
Just another American lunatic to
be thrown out to the wolves.
As he made it out onto the hot, cracked sidewalk running the length of the terminal’s exterior, a man in a cheap button-up shirt approached him, holding a clipboard.
‘Sir,’ he said in an artificially-pleasant voice. ‘You speak English?’
‘I do.’
‘Which agency did you book your tour with?’
‘I’m not here for a tour.’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘I’m doing my own thing.’
The man beamed, exposing teeth that were too white to be real. He nervously wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead. ‘There must have been a mistake, sir.’
‘No mistake,’ King said.
He wondered how long it would take for the guy to leave him alone.
‘You didn’t book through a tour guide? Where are you staying?’
‘Still haven’t figured that out yet.’
The man’s expression turned dark. He shook his head in disapproval. ‘Guatemala is a dangerous place, sir. I wouldn’t recommend going off on your own.’
‘No?’ King said. ‘What’s the risk?’
He wasn’t sure whether the man’s intentions were misplaced and he wanted to funnel King into the most lucrative tour guide package, or whether he truly was worried about a young foreigner attempting a solo expedition.
‘The tours have armed security guards with them,’ the man said. ‘Unfortunately, that’s something of a necessity out here.’
‘I think I can manage.’
‘Don’t go west,’ the man said. ‘Okay? I’m not trying to sell you anything. Just avoid anywhere near the border. Telling you this isn’t a good look for my country, but I’d rather you were safe.’
‘I appreciate it,’ King said. ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I understand.’
The man adjusted the single sheet of paper in his clipboard — upon which a detailed itinerary had been printed — and nodded his satisfaction. King could see that he thought he’d done his good deed for the day. The guy shuffled off to the next unsuspecting tourist wandering out of the terminal.
King went west.
