Mexican Marauder (A Captain Gringo Adventure #16)

by Lou Cameron

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Captain Gringo — marked for death in the shark-filled Caribbean!

  With a Perfecto clenched in his teeth and his Maxim spitting lead, Captain Gringo sails a British spy team into the steamy Yucatan. Their mission: to tap the secret undersea cable to revolution-racked Cuba. But easy money never proved harder to earn as Captain Gringo finds himself being used as shark bait in a savage espionage war with a deadly arms profiteer. In a land of hot nights and quick death, it’s no wonder he takes some alternative compensation with a pair of buxom young Brits.

  RENEGADE 16: MEXICAN MARAUDER

  By Lou Cameron, writing as Ramsay Thorne

  First Published by Warner Books in 1983

  Copyright © 1983, 2016 by Lou Cameron

  First Smashwords Edition: September 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2016 by Tony Masero

  Visit Tony here

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  The orgy was going on in one wing of a Central American villa that had been fixed up to look like a Turkish harem. Ruby glass lights cast their whorehouse glow on naked ladies of diverse race and form as they lounged languidly on cushion-strewn oriental rugs, awaiting their master’s next whim. In the center of the rug, Sir Basil Hakim, who owned Woodbine Arms, Ltd., as well as the villa and everyone in it, was trying to work up an erection.

  It wasn’t easy. Sir Basil, sometimes called the Merchant of Death, was a dirty old man who looked even older, thanks to the life he’d led. As he drooled at the bevy of beautiful, willing love slaves all around him, he was on his hands and knees, taking it in the ass from a big, well-hung Haitian sailor, while the half-dozen harem girls watched, bemused.

  Neither Sir Basil nor his black lover was a true homosexual. The Haitian was embarrassed to be doing a bitty white man in the brown with ladies watching. But he was desperately broke, stranded in British Honduras after jumping ship, and what the hell, there were harder ways to make this much money.

  Sir Basil was a totally dedicated degenerate, but he generally preferred to be sodomizing man, woman, or beast instead of offering his derriere as the target. The jaded little pervert had been told by his doctor that he needed a daily prostate massage to restore his abused genitourinary tract, and it seemed silly to pay a medic to stick his finger up one’s arse when there were naughtier ways to produce the same effect. Sir Basil knew he was shocking even his blasé mistresses with this newest perverse foreplay, and that was fun, too. His anal opening had started to relax around the questing shaft of the big buck sodomizing him, and now he was beginning to feel tingles of life in his dangling dingle as the black shaft tickled his insides; He grinned at the Eurasian girl with the shaved groin as he thought how much more obscene this would seem if he committed cunnilingus and passive sodomy at the same time. But before he could order her into position, a telephone rang in the corner.

  The Haitian stopped what he was doing. Sir Basil snapped, “Keep buggering me; I’m starting to like it. Ching Lang, hand me the phone.” The tawny Eurasian girl did so. She knew her master enjoyed holding innocent conversations as he indulged in crimes against nature. Sir Basil remained on his hands and knees, taking the thrusts of his black lover to the hilt as he picked up the receiver and said, “Numero uno here. Who’s calling?”

  A feminine voice replied, “This is Indira, reporting in as ordered, Sir Basil.”

  “Indira? Ah, yes, you’re the one I planted aboard the yacht of Greystoke of British Intelligence. Why haven’t you called sooner?”

  “I haven’t had the opportunity, sir. As you know, I’ve been expecting to serve myself as well as cocktails. This was my first chance to sneak ashore to a safe pay phone. Mr. Greystoke is entertaining a British Intelligence team right at this moment, so I must get back to the party right away.”

  Sir Basil frowned, hissed, “Faster, Pierre,” then told his informant on the phone, “You were stupid to risk slipping away if that was all you had to report. Indira! It’s no fresh news to me that Greystoke entertains British Intelligence teams. After all, he’s the head of British Intelligence in these parts. I planted you as a sleeper spy. You’re just supposed to sleep with the sod until you learn something useful to me!”

  “I think I have, Sir. Basil. You know that American soldier of fortune, Richard Walker?”

  “Captain Gringo? Of course I know him. He doesn’t like to work for me. He says he doesn’t approve of my goals in life, for some reason. I’m not surprised he’s drinking with Greystoke again. They’ve worked for and against each other on other occasions.”

  Pierre was entering him at a new angle and it was doing something interesting to his jaded glands. So he said, “It was good of you to call, dear. Now, if that’s all you have to say …”

  “It isn’t Sir Basil!” the Anglo-Indian girl at the other end of the line cut in, adding, “I know what the mission is, this time.”

  Hakim arched his back to take his perversion deeper as he purred, “Ah, why didn’t you say so in the beginning? What’s my old friend and sometimes foe, Greystoke, up to now?”

  Indira giggled and said, “I’d say they were going down to something, this time. The team that just came in from London includes some deep sea divers as well as some electricians and code specialists.”

  “They mean to do some sort of salvage operation for Her Majesty?”

  “No, Sir Basil. They intend to tap the underwater cable running from Cuba to the Mexican mainland! I heard them discussing it as I was serving drinks in the main salon earlier this evening. The plan is to connect a telephone line to the undersea cable off the Yucatan Peninsula and monitor messages between Spanish-occupied Cuba and the Mexican mainland. I thought you’d want to know.”

  Sir Basil’s own shaft was starting to rise, thanks to the unusual but effective prostate massage, but the Merchant of Death hadn’t gotten this high in the world by putting pleasure before business. So he said, “You thought right, my dear. Woodbine Arms is selling arms and ammunition to both sides on that distressing island, and everyone knows the Cuba Libre movement has been heating up of late. I see what Whitehall wants to know. I want to know, myself. You did well to call me, Indira.”

  Then he gave an involuntary moan of pleasure as his jaded genitals started to come fully alive, and, knowing that the distant girl’s throaty but sexually calm voice had something to do with it, he purred, “I say, I just had a jolly thought. I want you to come over here right away and join the fun. I don’t remember, Indira, have I ever fucked you?”

  He could picture her blush as she stammered, “You did when you hired me a year ago, Sir Basil. But if I don’t get back to the yacht before they miss me …”

  “Bosh and twaddle. You’ll have more fun over here! Hurry, Indira. I want you here as inspiration. I may even have a friend for you. I like to keep these parties spontaneous, what?”

  “Sir Basil, if they find out I’m working for you, they’ll kill me!”

  “I know. That ought to add spice to your evening, eh? I want you here at once, Indira. That’s a dir
ect order, and I kill people too!”

  He heard her sob, but he hung up before she could protest. He knew she was on her way, and of course he knew better than to send her back so that the other side could question her. But he decided he wouldn’t tell her that until later. It would be interesting to watch her try to service Pierre as quickly as possible in order to get back to Greystoke in time. If she moved with true inspiration, he might enjoy her himself for dessert.

  He said, “That’s enough, Pierre. You can take it out now.”

  “But, boss,” the black pleaded, “I haven’t come yet!”

  Sir Basil chuckled and replied, “Who said anyone but me was supposed to get any pleasure out of these gatherings? Get out of my arse, you fool. I have some telephone calls to make!”

  *

  Aboard the yacht moored against the Belize quay, Captain Gringo was having an after-dinner cigar with his brandy, and enjoying neither. The cigar was a Havana Perfecto and the brandy was Napoleon. But the mission outlined by Greystoke of British Intelligence was being run on the cheap, even for dotty old Queen Vickie. Across the table in the main salon, his sidekick and fellow draftee, Legion-deserter Gaston Verrier, was trying to send Captain Gringo a silent message with his sardonic eyes. Captain Gringo didn’t need to be told what Gaston was thinking. Old Gaston was a professional, too, and nobody but this crew of limey greenhorns whom Greystoke wanted them to guard could think the plan made much sense.

  Greystoke, the spymaster, naturally sat at the head of the table. The rest of the team seated at the table consisted of a half-dozen men who should have known better, and two attractive English girls who seemed to have no sense at all. As Captain Gringo puffed silently, waiting for the other shoe to drop, Greystoke said, “Well, ladies and gentlemen, you all know the basic plan. Do any of you have any suggestions?”

  Gaston nodded and said, “Oui, I vote we drop the whole trés tedious thing!”

  Greystoke was used to Gaston. So he looked at Captain Gringo and raised an eyebrow. Captain Gringo took the Perfecto out of his mouth and said, “He’s right, you know. The hurricane season’s coming on. Even if we didn’t have to worry about that, you’re sending a skeleton crew into the territorial waters of a ruthless dictatorship. El Presidente Diaz, the redeemer of Mexico, patrols those waters, Greystoke! He’s not as popular with his own people as he is with London and Washington, for reasons that escape me. So he has to worry about gunrunners a lot. That idea about us ghosting along off the Mexican coast in a tub disguised as a native coastal schooner is for the birds! Any Mexican gunboat that spots us will surely suspect us of running aid and comfort to Mexican rebels.”

  Greystoke looked pained and said, “I assure you, Her Majesty’s government has no designs against the stable government of Mexico.”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and replied, “You know that, I know that. Try telling it to los federates, at sea or ashore! If Whitehall’s so cozy with Mexico these days, why can’t London tell Mexico City it wants to listen in on Cuba’s telephone communications? Why all this pussyfooting around? The Diaz government will cooperate with London or Washington. Old Diaz likes to stay in good with the great powers. He’s having enough trouble keeping a lid on his own people.”

  Greystoke sighed and said, “The current Mexican government likes to stay in good with Madrid, too. Even if officials we contacted in Mexico City cooperated sincerely, which is a contradiction in terms when you think about it, Royal Governor Weyler of Cuba has Spanish agents planted all through the Mexican government.”

  One of the girls across the table, the blond one, smiled brightly as she said, “It’s not as if we’ll be doing anything to hurt anyone on any side, Captain Walker. Great Britain has no intention of taking sides if there’s a real revolution in Cuba this year. Whitehall simply has the need to know what’s going on.”

  Captain Gringo frowned at her and said. “I have the same needs, ma’am. So what are you and this other lady doing on this mission?”

  The blonde dimpled and said, “I take shorthand. Miss Manson, here, is an expert at breaking codes.”

  Captain Gringo had been introduced to the girls on coming aboard. So, although he hadn’t paid much attention at the time, if the dark, smart-looking one was Flora Manson, the bubbly blonde was Phoebe Chester. Her chest was okay, but the whole idea was still pretty stupid.

  He didn’t think anyone else would know, so he turned back to Greystoke and asked, “Why does London have to know, if it’s not going to do anything about Butcher Weyler and his new concentration camps either way? More important, I’m still an American. I know the U.S. government is mad at me, but before we go any further, how come you haven’t leveled with old President Cleveland about this innocent need to know? There’s another undersea cable running from Florida to Cuba, you know.” Greystoke shrugged and said, “We have it tapped already. Our Key West office is working with certain Americans who also have a need to know.”

  “Swell. So you’re not asking me to spy on my own-country after all. But in that case, what’s the point of this other tap down here?”

  “Simple. Conversations between Cuba and the U.S. tend to be in English and don’t tell us anything we don’t already know or assume. Your officials in Washington are divided about what’s to be done about the Cuban situation, but they’re leaning, if at all, to the Cuban Republican party of Palma and Marti. Tomas Estrada Palma is practically running the Cuba Libre movement from New York, with the poet, Marti, writing blow-by-blow descriptions of the various guerrilla activities and Spanish reprisals to be published by the Hearst newspaper syndicate.”

  “So why doesn’t Queen Victoria just subscribe to the Examiner? What are we supposed to find out, tapping public communications lines?”

  Greystoke shrugged and said, “We don’t know. That’s why we want to listen in. Washington and London were both caught by surprise when Spain suddenly replaced the reasonably civilized Royal Governor Campos with Butcher Weyler and his cutthroat crew. We still don’t grasp just what those so-called concentration camps Weyler’s invented really are, although, to hear the rebels, they sound rather grim.”

  Gaston said, “Merde alors, I can tell you what will happen in the end. The Cuban rebels are getting help from American sympathizers. In a year or so the rebels will have the arms and supplies to mount a full-scale revolt. The Spaniards will send in even greater forces, and the Americans will get excited and back the Cuba Libre movement openly.”

  “That would mean war!” said another man at the table.

  Gaston nodded and said, “But of course. The U.S. has been looking for an excuse to have a war with Spain for years.”

  Greystoke stared at the tip of his own cigar as he mused, “A Spanish-American War? Sounds rather mad, even for the Yanks. But, as we sit here talking about it, whatever will happen really should be getting through to Whitehall. The Foreign Office doesn’t really like to guess blindly about such matters. So let’s forget the reason for your mission and get on with the ways and means, eh what?”

  He stabbed his cigar at Captain Gringo and said, “You all know Captain Walker and his associate, M’sieur Verrier. They and the Maxim machine guns we’ve issued will provide security should you bump into unwashed pirate types up the coast.”

  Gaston asked, “What if we run into Dick’s Mexican gunboat?”

  But the dapper spymaster ignored him to say, “Lieutenant Carmichael, as our master diver, you’d know better than I if the diving gear we’ve issued to you will suffice, eh what?”

  Carmichael, a burly Scot with a hint of Glasgow in his almost Cambridge accent, nodded and said, “The waters are shallow where we’re going, if the charts mean anything. The diving suits are new and tested to two hundred feet. Those coral flats the cable runs across for miles off the Mexican coast are under less than eighty feet of water.”

  “Water full of sharks,” Gaston chimed in sarcastically. Carmichael wrinkled his red drinker’s nose and said, “So I’ve been told. But since you won
’t be diving, let me worry about the local flora and fauna. I’ve dived in the Med, off Gib, and I must say the few sharks I ever met seemed a cowardly lot.”

  “Eh bien, have you ever been introduced to Caribbean sharks, or, for that matter, our quaint barracudas?”

  Captain Gringo said, “Knock it off, Gaston. The man just said he hasn’t got a hard hat for you, and I’m still more worried about federates than fish. Listen, Greystoke, is there any chance we could take along something more serious than small arms?”

  Greystoke looked pained and answered, “The converted schooner’s timbers wouldn’t take the pounding of a deck gun. But not to worry, Dick. I’ve seen the awesome results of your machine-gun skills!”

  “Bullshit. Sorry, ladies. It’s easy for you to say not to worry. You get to stay here while you send us out to play hide-and-seek with the Mexican navy! I want at least a few cases of dynamite. Can do?”

  “I suppose so, old boy, but whatever for? What do you mean to do with dynamite if I get you some?”

  “Don’t know. But if I think of something, I’ll probably want it in a hurry.”

  Gaston chuckled fondly and recalled, “I saw him sink a Brazilian gunboat with dynamite one time. Not on the high seas, of course. But he is a trés ingenious lad.”

  Greystoke nodded and started to say something else as he looked around with his empty glass in his hand. A Tonkinese serving wench materialized to refill it for him. Greystoke nodded his thanks, then frowned and asked her, “I say, what are you doing here, Joy Yin? Where’s Indira?”

  The Oriental girl looked confused and replied, “I am not knowing, sir. Steward is sending me out to serving you when he no can find Indira.”

  Greystoke shrugged and turned hack to rejoin the conversation. But Captain Gringo had been listening. He asked, “Are we talking about that nice-looking Hindu gal I noticed the last time I was aboard, Greystoke?”

  Greystoke nodded and said, “Yes. She must be brooding in her cabin or some such rot. She’s a rather moody little wog. Why do you ask?”

  “You’d better make sure she’s still aboard.”