Once More to Die

by Jim Johnson

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE: HIM

  CHAPTER TWO: HER

  CHAPTER THREE: HIM

  CHAPTER FOUR: HER

  CHAPTER FIVE: HIM

  CHAPTER SIX: THEM, THE BAD GIRLS

  CHAPTER SEVEN: HER

  CHAPTER EIGHT: THEM

  CHAPTER NINE: HIM

  CHAPTER TEN: THEM

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: HER

  CHAPTER TWELVE: HER

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: HER

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THEM

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: HER

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: HIM

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: HER

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: HER

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THEM

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: HIM

  CHAPTER TWENTY: HER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: HIM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: HER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: THEM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: HIM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: HER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: HIM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: HER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: HIM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: HER

  CHAPTER THIRTY: HIM

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THEM

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: HIM

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: THEM

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: HIM

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: HER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE: HIM

  When he heard the noise intrude into the background, he crouched behind a clump of leafy Brazilian pepper bushes. Tommy Atkins stuck his hand in his pocket and counted how many shotgun shells he had in his pocket.

  Four and two at ready in the double-barreled shotgun he carried. The sawed-off double-barrel. Poor accuracy, and likely need plenty of ammunition.

  But Atkins had lived here in the southwest Florida swamps for too many years without threat. He’d grown careless.

  Today the sun was merciless; it was so hot and humid the clouds of mosquitoes had momentarily disappeared.

  The noise—engine noise—reemerged and grew louder. Atkins smelled fetid swamp water and his own sweat.

  Nobody ever came out here. Not ever. Not in all the years he’d lived here on and off.

  So, he thought sadly. It’s over. Finally. Matters not what or who’s coming, it’s over. Life as he knew it was slipping away as the engine noise increased. Mere minutes remained in this life.

  From his vantage point he surveyed the path he’d been following. It was barely wide enough for one vehicle and vastly overgrown. He drove it maybe two or three times a month, going out for supplies. And he never fought back the jungle.

  In front of him, the track widened about an acre to accommodate a towering cypress, a lone pine, and associated undergrowth. The open ground would give him a good view of who or what was coming. He broke open the shotgun and checked both barrels. He blew off imaginary dust and snapped it closed.

  The engine noise became overwhelming where he went for months hearing nothing but his own pickup. The engine was low and throaty and didn’t sound like any off-the-lot car or truck. Maybe a four-wheeled drive Jeep?

  The camouflage nose of a military Humvee broke through the wall of vegetation, lumbered into the clearing and stopped alongside the cypress.

  The Hummer was painted with jungle camo, but had no military markings.

  Curiouser and curiouser. He thought regretfully of all of his books a mile back down the track, and their imminent demise.

  Doors opened and six men climbed out. Like the Humvee, they were dressed in jungle camouflage. From here, they all looked Hispanic. All carried holstered pistols.

  None said anything and one gestured. They dragged two figures out and dumped them on the ground. Both were bound with duct tape.

  Atkins cursed to himself. He didn’t need this. It wasn’t his fight.

  Then they dragged one of the figures—a man—off to the side and one of the men drew a handgun and shot the man in the head. The body spasmed and fell aside. What was left of his face showed a man of perhaps sixty or more wearing a distinguished moustache and white beard. Atkins begrudgingly admired the execution. A quick kill. No screwing around, no grandstanding, no speechifying, no justifying. Just do it and be done with it. Professional. The executioner, maybe six feet even, had a very sharp goatee and short, close-cropped hair,

  The other bound figure exploded in action. Atkins saw it was a woman. She lashed out with her boots and took one man down. She rolled over on the soft ground and strained at her bonds. She rolled angrily toward his position, and then the two men caught her.

  Well, hell. Atkins shook his head. He’d been too slow to help the man. How about the woman? Should he interfere? One man against six well armed men? And likely some kind of military or paramilitary group at that. If he did nothing, could he resume his life of the Everglades hermit?

  No way on the last count. It was over. He had to leave. There’d be some kind of investigation. If not, these men might return and find him and ask questions, questions he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer.

  The executioner looked around warily, apparently the only one alert. He had piercing eyes. He seemed to look through the brush at Atkins but then continued his search of the surrounding territory.

  Two of the men laughed and, between them, ripped off the woman’s fatigue jacket. Her long black hair splayed as she fought silently. Arms and legs bound and tape across her mouth.

  One man cut the duct tape holding her legs. The other lifted her green T-shirt to expose her breasts. Then he fumbled at her belt for buttons and zipper.

  No, they wouldn’t do this. Not rape. Atkins could take almost anything, but drew the line at rape.

  She bled tears of frustration and kicked and kicked until one of the men tripped her and the other held her down by the shoulders.

  “Goddamnit,” muttered Atkins.

  He ducked back into the underbrush and slithered along until he was as close as he could get while still under cover.

  They were dragging her camo pants off her now.

  Atkins studied the group. Two lounged against the Hummer. Two were fighting with the woman. One stooped off to the side watching with intensity. The last one, the executioner, crouched alongside the body of the bearded man.

  He waited until both rapists had dropped their pants around their ankles. They’d be at a distinct disadvantage now. The woman was bucking on the ground and making all kinds of noise even though muffled by the duct tape.

  Atkins retrieved four shotgun shells and held them in his left hand. He took a deep breath, rose, and broke through the wall of the jungle disturbing dragonflies and mosquitoes like ripples.

  Nobody noticed for a moment, long enough for Atkins to reach a point where the six were aligned as much as he could manage for target acquisition. Nothing he could do about the two would-be rapists. One leg of her pants was off and that was enough for the two. One man knelt between her legs and gripped her panties. The white splash of her panties made a strange juxtaposition of color in the clearing. Nothing here was of striking color other than the splattered blood from the headshot.

  The woman saw him first. Her big, brown eyes locked on him. Surprise and then dawning of hope.

  The man twisted her panties in his hand and jumped when Atkins jammed the stubby shotgun against his left ear.

  Her brown eyes showed no fear, but intelligence and immense curiosity. They distracted Atkins long enough so that when he looked up, the shooter had disappeared. Likely behind the Hummer.

  Atkins knew his only chance was slipping away. He couldn’t hold six men with a sawed-off shotgun.

  Not that he wanted to.

  He kicked the one between the woman’s legs aside. The man rolled. Meanwhile, Atkins lifted
his arm and pulled the trigger. Both men against the Hummer went down. He didn’t worry whether the shot was fatal to either. Likely not, since it was a long shot and the pattern was too wide. He rotated to the single man standing aside and fired. That man flew backwards, surprise etched on his face and carnage etched upon his torso.

  Atkins continued the motion and backhanded the second rapist with the barrel of the shotgun. He broke open the breach and quickly replaced the shells.

  Rapist number one had recovered and was struggling with his pants to reach a handgun in a holster. Atkins shot him point blank, ripping most of his midsection out. Rapist number two was crawling off and Atkins shot him. The force of the shot so close ripped the back of his tunic off and gouged skin and gore into a pink spray. For yards around the two dead rapists, the ground had turned pink and pulpy.

  Before the mist cleared, Atkins had his last two shells loaded and was zigzagging toward the Hummer. He felt large brown eyes tracking him. A shot whipped past his head like an angry mosquito and the blast told him it was likely a nine-millimeter.

  He saw the head of the shooter over the hood of the Hummer and flung his arm up as if to fire. The head ducked and Atkins saved the shot.

  He smelled cordite, an oddly familiar and comforting odor. The clearing was strangely quiet.

  Neither of the two he’d shot first was dead, but they were peppered with shot and stunned. One of the two reached for his own weapon and Atkins stepped to him and kicked him under the chin hard. The snap of the man’s neck was audible all over the clearing. The second man was lifting an automatic toward him and Atkins had to fire. The right side of that man disappeared and merged with the remnants of the Humvee’s left front tire, rubber and brain matter and blood exploding simultaneously. One shot left.

  Atkins scurried quickly to the rear tire to protect his legs in case the shooter was going to fire under the Hummer. He fought to control his breathing. Been a long time, he thought. He risked a quick look around the back of the vehicle. Nothing.

  He grabbed the top of the Hummer and pulled it down, faking that he was climbing atop it, then dropped to the ground and swiveled him shotgun.

  No sign of the shooter.

  He looked around.

  The woman was sitting up and screaming through her gag, pointing with her chin.

  He looked where she was indicating.

  The shooter was running back down the trail. Too far for his shotgun, but he fired anyway to scare the man. The shooter had somehow come up with a rifle, maybe an old M-16 from the look of it.

  Atkins tore open a door and looked around inside. He found another M-16 and snatched it up. He put it on full auto, kicked off the safety, and jacked a shell into the chamber. He raised the weapon. The shooter was long gone, out of sight. He hosed off a few three-round bursts just to tell the shooter he was armed similarly. That should keep the man away.

  Likewise, Atkins was constrained. If he chased the man, he’d be an easy ambush target a professional wouldn’t miss. And the shooter had shown no mercy executing the man with the beard.

  Atkins knew better than to leave any possible enemy alive. The only one in question was the man with the broken neck. Atkins put the M-16 to his head and fired a round. Most of the head disappeared in a spray of blood, matter, and goo.

  He turned to the woman. She was staring at him in horror. She couldn’t stand up, her fatigue pants bunched around her feet and her panties twisted.

  Atkins reached down and pulled the knife out of his boot and swiftly cut the duct tape wound around her wrists. Then he brutally ripped the duct tape off her mouth and face.

  She swore and spat.

  She wobbled to her feet and Atkins caught her to steady her. She was five eight, maybe five ten.

  The clearing was strangely quiet. Not even insects intruded.

  She untangled her panties and straightened them. She pulled down her T-shirt, covering pert breasts. Then she struggled her fatigues up and fastened them.

  Atkins was going through pockets of those he’d killed.

  None had any identification, no wallets, nothing.

  He found a couple of magazines for the M-16.

  The woman had yet to speak. She hurried toward the bearded man, adjusting her garments. Atkins noticed she was favoring her left shoulder. Somewhere in the melee she’d been injured.

  She fell to the ground beside the remains of the bearded man and wept silently.

  Atkins came up behind her. “We have to go.”

  She looked up at him, misery boiling off her face. “Papá.”

  Shit, thought Atkins.

  The woman’s ebony hair was caked with dirt and grass, and hung loosely halfway down her back. Her light complexion highlighted scrapes and bruises.

  Atkins pointed down the trail. “A mile. My place. Go. I gotta find the shooter.”

  “He has a radio. Probably a cell phone.”

  Damn. “Some cell phones don’t usually work out here.” He didn’t have a cell phone, but he did have a prepaid wireless card for his laptop and it received a signal most of the time. With a radio, it didn’t matter whether the shooter found a cell phone signal or not.

  She shrugged and turned back to the body of her father.

  Atkins made some lightning calculations. If the shooter had a radio, there had to be more of these guys somewhere near. He recalled the Indians telling him about Cuban anti-revolutionary group training somewhere out here in the middle of nowhere. Every month or two they came out here and played war games and shot up the landscape. Raul and Fidel were probably shaking in their boots.

  His conclusion: they were out of time.

  He grasped her under her left arm. She winced and jerked free of him.

  “Come on, Pocahontas, we need to go. Now.”

  She glared at him. “I am Cuban, not Indian.”

  “I don’t care. You gonna be dead, we don’t get outa here.”

  Actually, she sounded American as apple pie. Only a slight Hispanic accent.

  “Who are you?”

  “Listen lady, it don’t matter. I don’t know what the fuck is going on or who the fuck you people are, but that is one dangerous son of a bitch. I can tell.”

  She collapsed at her father’s feet.

  “You were mighty tough fighting those men,” Atkins pointed out.

  “They killed my father.”

  “Let’s get out of here and you can call a cop.” Like hell. Not for a while, anyway. And not with him around, either. On the other hand, likely no cops within fifty miles.

  She sat still.

  “Look, Pocahontas, it ain’t none of my business what you do. I’m leaving. I suggest strongly you get your cute ass up and in gear and join me getting the fuck out of here.”

  She shot him a glare, turned her head back to her father, closed her eyes, crossed herself, and rose gingerly. She favored her shoulder.

  “I am not Indian. I am Cuban and proud of it.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Miami.”

  “Figgers.” He headed off, walking swiftly.

  What the hell had he gotten himself into?

  She rose awkwardly and began to follow. She bent over a body and picked up a handgun. Another nine millimeter. She stuffed it in her waistline.

  “Goddamn mosquitoes,” she said and slapped at her arm, then winced in pain.

  He continued on, taking long strides.

  “Wait,” she said suddenly. She turned and ran lightly, favoring her left shoulder, to the Humvee, rooted around inside, and came out with a ball cap. She pulled it on, ignoring her mess of hair, and followed him again.

  He glanced back as she caught up. The cap read MIAMI DOLPHINS.

  “There’s hope for you yet, Pocahontas.”

  CHAPTER TWO: HER

  “I am not Pocahontas. My name is María Elena Alejandrina Ximena Vásquez-Guerrero de García.”

  “Well, María Elena whatever. Let us expedite.”

  “Who are
you?” she asked, steadying her left arm with her right hand, mimicking a sling.

  “Nobody. That’s me. Just another guy.”

  She spoke to his back. “An old Cuban proverb: Jovial companions make this life tolerable.”

  This strange man ignored her sarcasm and lengthened his pace. He’d slung the shotgun on his broad back and was carrying the M-16, combat sling wound around his wrist. He changed magazines and glanced over his shoulder, gray eyes moving quickly, searching. He was wearing jeans and a long sleeved khaki shirt.

  María Elena realized he was special. This stranger was a big man, robust and muscular. He’d just killed five men on her behalf. As she watched him, wrenching at her bonds, he’d stood over her as if some colossus protecting her, coolly picking off the enemy. She’d never seen anyone move so fast. Reviewing the tableau in her mind, she saw his smooth motions all over again. He’d wasted no time, taking out the five in the quickest, most efficient manner. No extra movement, even when reloading his strange, stubby shotgun. Not any man would attack six well-armed military men with a two-shot weapon, one which was inadequate at distance. And she knew weapons; this man had not reacted to the recoil of the shotgun. He’d held it in one powerful hand steadily, and the recoil had not affected his smooth motions.

  And Diego. Diego had killed Papá. Then disappeared. Don Diego was vindictive. He was a killer she now knew. María Elena thought to herself, “Papá, Diego will die for this. I promise.” She crossed herself.

  They were walking along in knee high scrub grass, following a dim double track of packed sand. Birds were announcing their presence again in a cacophonous uproar and the ubiquitous mosquitoes appeared from nowhere and attacked with rancor.

  So who was this mystery man? When they’d thrown her and her father in the Humvee, she’d been certain of only one outcome: death. Diego was not to be trifled with.

  Yet a stranger carrying an ever more strange weapon had miraculously appeared and saved her. He was not your usual inhabitant of palmetto plains and swamp and high sawgrass.

  “Why are you here? Who are you?”

  “Nobody, I already said. And you’re welcome, Pocahontas.”

  “María Elena, amigo. And thank you very much. But my father…”

  “Sorry for your loss. But I don’t need to know.”