There was little traffic on the road as Charity jogged diagonally across, seeing Juan waiting on a stool, just outside the cantina. He rose quickly as she approached. Charity was pleased to see that he’d not bothered to shave the stubble on his face. He was dressed in black jeans and a Western-style shirt with pearl snaps instead of buttons, the top two undone.
“I was wrong,” Juan said, his voice faltering slightly.
“Wrong about what?” Charity asked innocently.
“The setting sun does not make you more beautiful,” he replied. “You make the sunset look simple and plain. Have you eaten?”
“Yes, blackened vieja Mexicana. It was delicious,” she replied as Juan pulled the door open for her.
The interior of the cantina was simply decorated. A long bar took up more than half of the far wall with a dozen or more stools. Two were occupied by a couple of fishermen who apparently hadn’t gotten any further from their boats than the door of the cantina. To the right were a number of tables, all empty but one. A young Mexican couple was dining by the window, sitting very close together and oblivious to anyone or anything around them. To the left was a small dance floor and an even smaller stage, where a band was just setting up their equipment.
At a corner table, Juan held a chair for Charity. When he sat down, the bartender approached, carrying menus. “May I get you something to drink?” he asked.
“Two Montejos,” Juan replied. The bartender left the menus and went back to the bar, just as the band started warming up.
“This is a good band,” Juan said, making small talk.
Charity looked toward the stage. A tall, thin man was tuning an upright bass, as two more men plucked at acoustic Mexican guitars, all plugged into small amplifiers and speakers. A girl of about fifteen or sixteen was dwarfed behind a drum set at the back of the stage, a microphone dangling precariously from a makeshift stand in front of her. Another microphone stand was at the front of the stage, next to it a stool with a trumpet resting on it. Without introduction, the young girl tapped a measure on the edge of one of her drums, and the musicians began a mariachi tune. The singer was nowhere to be seen.
The bartender brought their beers, dripping cold, and placed them on the table. Juan gathered up the menus and handed them to the man. “We have already eaten, Manuel,” he said.
Turning to Charity, he said, “I have lived here all my life, so I know you are not from this area.”
“I am from Mexico City,” Charity lied. “But, as I said, I have been living in the United States for the last few years.”
They talked for a few minutes, while the band continued the fast-tempo tune. Charity told him about her make-believe life in the US, and he told her about free diving for the fish he sold. As if the music had drawn them in, a nearly steady stream of people began to fill the cantina. Mostly men sat at the bar, but a few couples soon filled the surrounding tables, and a couple of apparently unattached women sat together at the bar.
Not a lot different than the meat markets back home, Charity thought.
The band finished their tune as a beautiful raven-haired woman stepped out of a door next to the stage. Her hair was thick, flowing down across her shoulders. She wore a snug white tank top and tight black jeans. Everyone in the cantina began cheering, Juan the most enthusiastic of them all.
As the band began a slow, sexy melody, Juan turned to Charity and said, “The singer and drummer are my sisters, Rosa and Carmen.”
Juan was right, the band was very good. Rosa, the singer, had a sultry voice, and sang about a lost lover as if she were talking to every man in the cantina. When the song ended, several men at the bar stood up, applauding.
Rosa bowed and then waved to Juan. Taking the microphone in one hand and leaning it toward Charity, she said, “I think my brother might like to play for you. Can you encourage him?”
There was more applause and cheers. “Would you mind?” Juan asked Charity. “Only one song, though.”
Charity nodded enthusiastically, and Juan stood up, striding confidently toward the stage, where he picked up the trumpet and fingered the valves several times. He leaned over to the girl behind the drums and whispered something to her and Rosa. Then, bringing the horn to his lips, Carmen measured a beat on a cymbal.
Charity was surprised when he began to play a fast-paced bluesy kind of tune, not the typical Mexican-style melody. Only Carmen and the bass player joined in, while the two guitarists went to the bar and ordered a beer.
Behind a speaker, Rosa retrieved a saxophone. She and Juan began playing off one another, obviously very accustomed to each other’s style. The tune they played was hypnotic, building to several crescendos.
When they finished, Juan returned to the table amid a long round of applause. “I really wasn’t expecting that,” Charity said as the bartender brought them two more bottles of beer and the band broke into a salsa tune, with Rosa on the sax.
Several couples made their way to the dance floor, and Juan leaned toward Charity. “Do you know the salsa?”
“It has been a while,” Charity replied. Juan stood and extended his hand. Charity took it and he led her to the dance floor.
The band melded from one salsa number into another for ten straight minutes, as the dancers spun and gyrated to the sultry beat. Charity was thoroughly enjoying herself, allowing Juan to spin her around and march her backward, his hand low on her swaying hips.
When they finally returned to the table, they were both sweating from the exertion. They had one more beer before Charity said, “I really do have to leave early, Juan. The outgoing tide is two hours before sunrise.”
“Will you allow me to walk you back? The streets of Progresso can be dangerous at night.”
“Yes,” Charity said, though she really didn’t feel unsafe walking at night in a strange city. “I’d like that.”
Together, they left the cantina, the music fading into the background as they walked toward the marina.
“Where will you go in the morning?” Juan asked, shuffling along with his hands in his pockets.
Charity appreciated that he’d not asked if she was traveling alone and took his arm. Most men scoffed at the idea that a woman could sail across the ocean solo.
“Laguna de Tampamachoco,” Charity replied. “My family has a small home with a dock on the bay. Then I will drive from there to our home in Mexico City.”
Approaching an alley, Charity saw a man leaning against the wall of a shop near the opposite curb, one leg up, the sole of his boot planted against the wall. He wore a cowboy hat pulled down and his face was lowered, so Charity couldn’t see it.
As Charity and Juan stepped off the curb, the man pushed away from the wall, seeming to turn down the alley. When they reached the halfway point in the alley, the man turned and was suddenly standing right in front of Juan. He held a long stiletto-type knife low against his right thigh.
“Do not cry out,” the man said to Juan. “Or I will kill the woman. Give me your money.”
Assuming that the tall, broad-shouldered man was the greater threat was a serious mistake on the robber’s part. In the time it took him to make his demand of Juan, Charity had imperceptibly stepped out of her sandals.
Juan started to say something, and the robber raised the knife menacingly. Charity’s right hand flew up, grasping the man’s knife hand by the wrist and forcing it higher. At the same time, she stepped past him with her left leg, taking the man off balance. Bringing her right knee up into his groin, she powered him back with enough force to lift him off the ground.
Charity followed the man as he went backward, his knife hand still high and of no use to him. The man started to double over in pain, and Charity jerked his arm downward, stepping past him and spinning to her right, still holding his wrist. The man’s forward momentum as he was doubling over, coupled with Charity’s spin, sent him flying around her. Continuing forward, she whipped the man’s body past her on the other side of a lamppost.
The robber’s body weig
ht, which propelled him forward on one side of the post, and Charity’s continued forward movement on the other side both came to a quick stop, as his forearm impacted the steel post with a sickening crack. Both bones in his forearm snapped, piercing the skin and tearing through his shirtsleeve as blood poured from the wound.
Screaming in pain, the man dropped the knife and held his shattered wrist in his hand as he staggered and leaned heavily against the wall.
But Charity didn’t stop there. Using the lamppost for leverage, she flung herself around it in a reverse spin, kicking high with her outside leg. The bottom of her foot connected with the back of the man’s neck with a popping sound, just as her other foot came off the ground.
The man’s scream ended abruptly as his inert body lunged forward from the impact. His face hit the gravel surface of the alley with a thud. Charity landed lightly, crouched on bare feet astride him with her right hand cocked back, ready to punch if he moved.
He didn’t move.
Juan took a step toward her, and Charity’s head whipped around, slinging her hair back over her shoulder. Her right leg came over the man’s body and she crouched low in a fighter’s stance, the body between her and the possible new threat.
Juan stopped in his tracks, the ferocious look on Charity’s face freezing him in place. Slowly he raised his hands. “I would ask if you are alright,” he said. “But that would be a stupid question.” Glancing down at the man on the ground, he asked, “Is he dead?”
Charity stepped over the robber and grabbed Juan’s hand, moving him quickly down the sidewalk. “If he’s not,” she said, “he will be soon. Come, we have to get away from here.”
At first, she nearly had to drag Juan across the street toward the marina. Once he sensed her urgency, he quickly trotted along with her. “My boat,” he said. “We can watch from the cabin.”
Together, they hurried along the dock and stepped down into his fishing boat. Crossing the small cockpit and moving up the port-side deck, they entered the wheelhouse, both out of breath.
“I think you killed that man,” Juan said, lifting one of the blinds that covered the window and peering out. “I don’t think anyone saw what happened, though.”
“Probably,” Charity said. “That kind of life? It was bound to happen sooner or later.” She was suddenly filled with an urgency she hadn’t felt in over two years. Looking past Juan, she saw an open door, a neat tiny cabin beyond it, with a desk and a small bunk.
Juan wheeled and looked at her. Charity stood in the center of the wheelhouse, feet apart, hands on her hips. The soft light of the moon filtering through the blinds played diagonal stripes across her body as her breasts rose and fell, breathing heavily.
Charity’s hair was disheveled from the scuffle. Her skin glistened with light beads of sweat, and her dress clung to her body, outlining her form.
Charity took a slow step toward Juan, then another. Suddenly she leaped at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and one leg around his thigh. Driving him back against the wall, she found his mouth with hers.
Breaking free for a moment, Charity ripped the snaps loose on his shirt and pressed her body hard against him, only the thin fabric of her dress separating the two.
Grinding her body against him, she gripped the hair on the back of his head and kissed him passionately, feeling nothing but animal lust and physical need.
Five days after McDermitt was rescued, Director Stockwell’s plan was falling somewhat into place. Everyone who knew Charity Styles assumed she would have stability issues. After what she’d been through, some instability was to be expected. Stockwell didn’t particularly like this part of the plan, but it was necessary.
However, Stockwell knew full well just how stable the woman was. He’d spoken at length with the doctors who had treated her. They’d explained how the woman had compartmentalized her negative feelings toward those who had tortured her. The doctors had told him that compartmentalization was a psychological defense mechanism used to avoid the mental discomfort they called cognitive dissonance, where a person might have conflicting values or emotions within themselves.
Charity Styles was one of the few people who could completely compartmentalize things at will. She could function for months, even years—maybe for the rest of her life—as a perfectly stable person, never opening that part of her subconscious. But, if need be, she could open it and use all the hate and anger stored there. Afterward, the doctors agreed, she could close the compartment to her conscious mind off again and return to having full control of herself.
Stockwell had seen firsthand what happened when she opened up that part of her mind. He’d attended a number of martial arts events she’d competed in, fighting against some of the top hand-to-hand fighters in the world. He’d also spoken at length with McDermitt, regarding the death of Jason Smith. Smith had been the director before Stockwell but had gone rogue after his posting to Djibouti, hiring mercenaries to kill McDermitt and Commander Livingston. They’d also learned that Smith had arranged his own wife’s death years earlier in order to inherit her fortune. If that wasn’t enough, he’d been responsible for the death of a young Marine that Styles had become close to.
McDermitt had located Smith and, though the former CIA man had held a gun on McDermitt, Styles had stepped in and killed him with her bare hands. After it was over, McDermitt said she’d returned to her normally stable attitude. On the return trip to Florida, Styles had opened up twice to McDermitt, sharing things with him that she said she’d never told anyone, except the young Marine who Smith had killed.
Stockwell’s plan was simple. Once the excitement of the rescue mission died down, it would be discovered that, in the heat of the mission, Styles had simply vanished, taking a half-million-dollar aircraft with her.
Stockwell had already set his fake retirement plan into motion and had spoken with the Homeland secretary about appointing McDermitt as the new director. His position would be a figurehead, someone in DC that all the members of the team knew and trusted, particularly Lieutenant Commander Deuce Livingston.
But McDermitt had turned the offer down cold. He had absolutely no interest in politics, city life, or advancement. The man was content to live out his life in seclusion, fishing, diving, and drinking.
McDermitt had even gone so far as to warn Livingston against taking the position as Stockwell’s second choice. Based on ability alone, Livingston was the better decision. But his leadership of the team of operators in Homestead was more vital.
In the end, Livingston had accepted the promotion to commander and the appointment as acting director, and it had been announced that Stockwell was retiring from public life.
Styles had disappeared without a trace. A bogus FBI investigation had been started and quickly filed as a cold case, with no leads and no witnesses. The Coast Guard had been dispatched, searching all of Florida Bay and the Everglades for her downed aircraft. Nothing had been found. It had only taken one day before rumors started that she’d come unhinged during the rescue operation and stolen the aircraft, disappearing with a small fortune, her share of a treasure find orchestrated by McDermitt.
Stockwell had accepted an offer from McDermitt to work part-time on his charter boat, giving him a perfect cover. McDermitt only took one or two charters out a week, at best.
Now, just five days after McDermitt had been reunited with his daughter and friends, nearly everyone believed the ruse, though few spoke openly about it. Livingston and his wife had arrived in DC this morning and begun unpacking at their new home in Quantico.
In just a few minutes, the secretary would meet with both Stockwell and Livingston, transferring the office to the younger man. Before the sun went down, Stockwell would be on a G5, heading for the Florida Keys, appearing to begin a new life as a retired public servant.
The proximity and light duties of his cover job would allow Stockwell to move around the Caribbean Basin during his off days, helping Styles where he could and directing her where he co
uldn’t.
Her first target had been chosen weeks before. A known terrorist detainee, more of a low-level thug, had been released from Guantanamo just over three years ago. He had been transferred to Uruguayan custody, but eight months later, he’d disappeared.
Hussein Seif al Din Asfour had reappeared on the battlefield in Afghanistan a year later, leading a group of fighters hiding out in the Arma Mountains.
Less than six months ago, a sharp-eyed analyst with the CIA had picked him up on a routine monitoring of worldwide airport security cameras. Unfortunately, the terrorist had disappeared before anyone could move against him.
Chatter among known terrorist groups put al Din Asfour as the leader of a cell located in the jungles of Guatemala. More information, gleaned from many sources, had al Din Asfour moving across the border into Mexico, and the cell disappearing in Guatemala.
It had been decided two weeks ago, by the Homeland secretary, that al Din Asfour had to be removed from the playing field once and for all. He would be Charity Styles’s first test.
At present, Styles was on her way to Mexico, traveling slowly but steadily by sailboat toward the hiding place the terrorist cell had chosen on the peak of a dormant volcano in the Mexican state of Veracruz. Her last communication had her only two days from arriving in Alvarado and perhaps four days from finding and killing the terrorist.
Chatter on various terrorist websites pointed toward a possible attack against a soft target somewhere in South Texas on Armed Forces Day, which was in six days. It was believed that the cell on the San Martin Tuxtla volcano was training for this attack.
Not a lot of wiggle room, Stockwell thought.
Should Styles fail, the terrorist cell could be apprehended once they crossed the border. But detaining more terrorists in Guantanamo wasn’t sitting well with several liberal presidential candidates, and an election was just a year and a half away. Some were even speaking openly of closing the detention camp there.
No, simply apprehending these terrorists in the United States wasn’t something the secretary, nor the current president, wanted. If all went well, the terrorist leader would die in Mexico. Possibly a few of the other members of the cell as well.
Merciless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 1) Page 11
