Running from the Devil ec-1

by Jamie Freveletti

  44

  MIGUEL RAN, LEADING THE SMALL GROUP IN THE SPRINT OF their lives. He heard the report of the still-firing helicopters and the occasional explosion of a grenade.

  Miguel held the soldier with the injured leg over his shoulder. The man groaned.

  “Shit, Major, that hurts like a bitch,” he said.

  Miguel ignored him. His goal was to save the man’s life, not necessarily his leg. The man moaned as his injured leg bobbed against Miguel with each step. The soldier felt like a lead weight on Miguel’s back. The group spread out according to their ability to continue the pace on the slick path.

  When Miguel had first ordered the passengers to run, the old man had said, “Is running required?” When told that it was, he had sighed.

  Now Miguel was surprised to see that the old man was not the slowest by far. He outpaced one much younger man and two women.

  They ran quietly, most too exhausted to even grumble about being driven to and fro on the path. By eight o’clock, the sun had burned off the mist and the heat had risen to over eighty degrees.

  Kohl carried Drake, another soldier, and jogged next to one named Washington, who had jerry-rigged a splint for his leg that allowed him to move with enough speed to keep up. They turned a corner in the path.

  “Well, look at that.” Kohl pointed. A can of Coke, dented and rusted, sat on the dirt. He pulled his leg back to kick it.

  “Stop!” Miguel said.

  Kohl froze, his toe mere inches from the can.

  A man stepped out of the jungle, twenty feet in front of Kohl. In one hand he carried an AK-47 with an attached grenade launcher, and the other was wrapped around Boris’s collar. Miguel raised his rifle, but the old man reached over and placed a hand on his arm.

  “Don’t shoot, it’s Señor Sumner!”

  Sumner looked at Kohl, still poised over the can. “I recommend you listen to your commander over there and avoid moving that can.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the trigger for a pressure-sensitive land mine.”

  A passenger gasped and several moved away from the can.

  “How do you know?” Kohl said.

  “I devised it.”

  “Works for me,” Kohl said. He lowered his foot and stepped carefully away. He hefted Drake higher on his shoulder. “I’m Private Gabriel Kohl. Why the can as a trigger?”

  “You ever walk by a can you didn’t want to kick?”

  Kohl looked sheepish. “I guess not.” Then he brightened. “Hey, Boris. You okay, boy?”

  Boris wagged his tail.

  Sumner watched Boris and raised an eyebrow at Kohl. “You know this dog?”

  “He’s a land-mine-sniffing dog we borrowed from the Colombian military.”

  “That explains a lot. He’s saved my hide three times in the past few hours.”

  Sumner sauntered over to Miguel and stuck out his hand.

  “Cameron Sumner, Air Tunnel Denial program.”

  “Major Miguel Gonzalez, special operations.”

  Sumner waved a hand at the Coke-can mine. “How’d you clock it?”

  “I’ve seen the technique used during an operation in Lebanon.”

  Kohl stepped up to Sumner. “Is Ms. Caldridge with you? Is she okay?”

  Sumner went still. “How do you know about her?”

  “We…”

  Miguel waved at Kohl to silence him. He saw the emotion that rippled over Sumner’s face at the mere mention of Ms. Caldridge. He didn’t want Kohl’s enthusiasm for her to rub Sumner the wrong way. The last thing he needed was a man as skilled as Sumner pissed off.

  “She sent a text message after the flight went down. Then we found another note hidden in her suitcase, and the passengers told us what happened at the watchtower.”

  Sumner seemed to accept this explanation. “I don’t know where she is. After we burned the watchtower, helicopters came. I used the grenade launcher while she ran.”

  “Was she okay?” Kohl said.

  Sumner gave Kohl a measured look. “She was angry. Very angry.”

  “How angry?” Miguel said.

  “Rodrigo escaped. Instead of getting the hell out the area for her own safety, she insisted on burning down his checkpoint.”

  “Do you blame her?” Kohl said.

  “I don’t blame her, but I tried to talk her out of it. She has no time to waste on revenge if she wants to survive this mess. And if she gets her wish and has an opportunity to kill him in cold blood, it will haunt her the rest of her life.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe it will free her. I mean, maybe it will be…what’s the word?” Kohl said.

  “Cathartic?” Miguel supplied.

  Kohl snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that.”

  “It won’t,” Sumner said.

  “How do you know?” Kohl said.

  “Because I’ve done it.”

  45

  “WERE YOU THE ONE SNIPING AT THE HELICOPTERS?” MIGUEL pointed at Sumner’s rifle with the attached grenade launcher.

  “I was.”

  “That was some shootin’, mister.” Washington piped up from his seat at the edge of the path.

  “Thank you.”

  “How many were left when you were done?” Miguel eyed the sky, as if he thought the copters would suddenly reappear.

  “Two, but there’ll be more. Those were Cartone cartel guys, along with some guerrillas. Those groups never get along, but here they were actually cooperating. Do you have any idea why?”

  “Do you know anything about this area?”

  Sumner nodded. “We’re fairly close to the pipeline now. Once we get within five miles of it, this jungle is going to be swarming with guerrillas of every shape and size. Their soldiers are good, but they’re high on drugs most of the time, so don’t expect anything like rational behavior. What about the special forces there? Are they still guarding the pipeline?”

  Miguel shook his head. “Not likely. Last I heard the Colombian government asked them to leave.”

  “Asked them to leave? Why?”

  “When your plane was hijacked, the U.S. suspended aid to Colombia unless the Colombian president agreed to extradition.”

  Sumner got an enlightened look on his face. “So that explains the fighting. The Cartone cartel and the paramilitary groups hope to put an end to the crisis and restore their sweet deal with the Colombian president?”

  Miguel nodded. “Something like that. The FFOC and Rodrigo’s group are fighting back.”

  “And we’re stuck in the middle,” Sumner said.

  “Hopefully not for long. I expect some more rescue helicopters in three hours.”

  The group marched forward. Boris loped between Sumner and Miguel. Sumner spelled the passenger and carried the injured soldier. Miguel carried Drake.

  “This guy’s leg looks bad,” Sumner said.

  “He’s not the worst. Drake here is. He hasn’t woken up at all.” In the distance came the drone of helicopters.

  Miguel looked at his watch. “Shit, we’re late.” He stepped onto the path and waved the flagging passengers forward. “Let’s go. That’s our ride!”

  Washington hobbled forward. “We gotta run. I am not missing that train.”

  A Blackhawk extraction helicopter appeared above the path. Miguel’s phone crackled to life.

  “Major Gonzalez?” The man spoke in a thick southern accent.

  “I’m here. Come on down and pick up these civilians.”

  “There’s a clearing one hundred yards north on the path. We’ll put down there. But you better make it quick. There are three enemy copters behind us, and they’re all headed this way. These guys are better armed than most military bases.”

  “Most of it’s ours. We sell it to Colombia and they steal it.”

  “In Arkansas we call that free enterprise.”

  They reached the pickup location just as the first helicopter came into view. It touched down and took on the injured soldiers. The old man and several wom
en followed. The pilot waved several more on. The second copter landed and loaded more passengers. This pilot took on extras as well.

  Then the third touched down. It was the pilot from Arkansas.

  “Come on in! We’re short on birds, so I’m gonna fly heavy. You got six enemy copters coming your way, each packed to the brim with guerrillas, drug guys, and I don’t know who all.”

  “How far?”

  “Thirty minutes away, no more.” The pilot watched as the passengers packed into the helicopter. “Where the hell you get all these people?”

  “The guerrillas walked them right to us,” Miguel said.

  “I can’t fit you all.”

  “Take the civilians. I’ll take care of myself.”

  “That’s a death wish.”

  “You got any better ideas?” Miguel said.

  The pilot shook his head. “No, but I do hate to leave you here, and that’s for sure.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Miguel said, with more confidence then he felt. The copter soon was filled to the brim and beyond. Miguel watched as Boris got his turn to load. Kohl waved him into the copter.

  The dog refused to move. He swung his head back and looked at Miguel.

  “Come on, Boris, up,” Kohl said.

  Boris sat down.

  Kohl put his hands in the air.

  Miguel walked over and waved at Boris. “Come on, get in the copter, Boris.” He patted the copter’s doorway. “Up.”

  Boris whined.

  “He doesn’t want to go either, sir,” Kohl said.

  “I can see that. Boris. Up. Now,” Miguel said.

  Boris lay down.

  “Now, that’s a well-trained dog,” the pilot yelled over the rotor noise.

  Miguel gave up. “Put the other shepherd in the copter.” Miguel stepped away to allow Natasha to load. Boris followed Miguel, his tail wagging behind him like a flag.

  Miguel, Kohl, and Sumner were left.

  “Room for one more.” The pilot yelled over the noise of his rotors.

  The men all looked at one another.

  “You’re the civilian, Sumner. Get on,” Miguel said.

  Sumner shook his head. “I don’t leave without Caldridge. I’m going back in to find her.”

  Miguel eyed Sumner. He had no real authority over the man, and he knew it. He sighed and turned to Kohl.

  “I ain’t leaving without her, either,” Kohl said.

  “I’m giving you a direct order, Private,” Miguel said.

  “Sir, I gotta stay!”

  Miguel pointed to the open field. Kohl turned to look, and Miguel punched him in the head. Kohl dropped like a stone. Sumner looked as surprised as hell.

  “Put him in,” Miguel said.

  Sumner shook with laughter as he grabbed the unconscious Kohl under the arms. Miguel took the legs, and they heaved him into the copter.

  “When we get there you want him sent to the brig for insubordination?” the pilot asked.

  Miguel shook his head. “That was a heat seizure you saw. I never touched him and there was no insubordination.”

  The pilot grinned. “Got it.” He reached back into the copter and grabbed a small pack. “Woman named Stromeyer from Darkview said to tell you that Banner is out of communication. And she sent you this.” He threw field rations to Miguel, and more to Sumner. “And this is from me.” The pilot handed him a pocket cigar humidor. “They ain’t Cuban, but they’re great. There’s one in there for him, too.”

  Miguel nodded to the pilot. “Thanks.”

  The pilot got a grim look on his face. He saluted both men before returning to the controls. The helicopter rose slowly into the air and flew away.

  46

  BANNER SAT IN A GRIMY ROADSIDE BAR IN A PARAMILITARY-CONTROLLED town near the border of Venezuela. He drank sips of coffee so thick that the grounds formed a silt pile at the bottom. They slid into his mouth. He swallowed without blinking and scratched absentmindedly at his day’s growth of beard.

  He’d taken steps to alter his looks. His hair was dyed black and he wore dark contact lenses to dim his blue eyes. The measures were only half successful. Two women who loitered at the bar had already marked him as a wealthy outsider. They’d approached him, twining their arms around his neck, telling him how handsome he was, and whispering the things they would do to him. For a price, of course. Their bodies were warm and full and he’d enjoyed the brief contact. He’d thanked them for the offer, bought them both coffees, and sent them on their way.

  Ten minutes later, his good friend Raul Perez sauntered into the bar. Perez nodded at the bartender, ordered an espresso, and took a seat at the bar stool next to Banner.

  “Hello, amigo, you don’t like our girls?” Perez said.

  Banner shrugged. “I like them just fine, but my interest is elsewhere.”

  Perez gave him a shrewd look. “And how is Major Stromeyer?”

  Banner eyed Perez over the rim of his coffee cup. “Still my employee.”

  Perez chuckled. “And therefore untouchable. You know, for a covert operator, you sure do follow the rules.”

  Banner smiled. “I’m a business owner now. I haven’t a choice. And you? How is your business? I brought you some medicine for the clinic.”

  Perez rubbed his hands together. “IV bags? Needles?”

  “And six boxes of vaccines.”

  Perez slapped him on the back. “Excellent.” The bartender pushed an espresso cup in Perez’s direction. “Hey, Juan,” Perez said, “bring your little girl to the clinic tomorrow. Vaccines for everyone compliments of my friend here.”

  Juan the bartender smiled but said nothing.

  Perez downed the coffee in one gulp. “Come on, Banner. I have someone I think you should meet.”

  Banner shoved some money under his saucer and stepped away from the bar. Juan reached over, picked up the coffee cup, and pushed the money back at him.

  “Thank you for the vaccines, señor.”

  Banner took the money and stuffed it in the tip jar. “For the niños.”

  Juan nodded his thanks.

  Perez drove his battered jeep down the dirt road to the outskirts of town. Educated at a medical school in Grenada before President Reagan decided to “free” it, he’d met Banner during the evacuation. Perez had practiced in hospitals in Miami before returning to this border town. He’d started his clinic to help the local people. Ten years ago, when a paramilitary group threatened to bomb the clinic unless he agreed to pay protection, he’d called Banner in a panic. Banner managed to convince the guerrillas that harassing the only doctor in town was a very bad idea. The convincing took a while. Every day for three straight weeks, Perez’s clinic treated the broken arms and noses of a stream of guerrillas. The same ones who had demanded protection from him were now forced to accept his care. He’d done it quietly and without question. At the end, the guerrillas not only viewed Perez as an untouchable entity but as a friend. Now they routinely brought their own families to him to treat.

  The clinic consisted of a series of connected cinder-block buildings in an L shape. Paint peeled from the walls, and the last building’s second floor remained unfinished. Long pieces of rusted rebar jutted out from the roof.

  “Still haven’t completed that wing?” Banner said.

  Perez sighed. “Every time I try, something arises that requires the funds go elsewhere. Like the person I’m taking you to meet.”

  Banner stepped into the cool hallway of the inpatient wing. It smelled like astringent antiseptic and ammonia. A ceiling fan with one broken blade turned slowly overhead. The piece creaked as it completed each turn. Perez waved Banner into a room on the right.

  A large woman with tightly curled gray hair and tubes running out of her arm sat up in the room’s only bed. She looked to be in her late sixties. Her skin was gray, but her eyes were bright with intelligence. She wore a hospital gown that tied at the back. Banner could see the strings poking out from behind her neck. The gown had a bizarre, f
aded pattern of blue flowers intermixed with pictures of teddy bears. The bears wore little blue diapers. Banner gazed at it in fascination. Perez broke his reverie.

  “I’ve brought someone for you to meet,” Perez said to the woman. He spoke in a hearty voice, his usual good humor moving up a notch.

  “Does he have a cigarette for me?” the woman said, a sly look on her face.

  Banner tore his eyes from the diapered bears and laughed.

  Perez put on a frown. “Gladys, those are coffin nails.”

  Gladys waved a hand in the air. “But it’s my coffin, now, isn’t it, Dr. Perez?” Perez shrugged, giving up.

  Gladys peered at Banner. “I’m Gladys Sullivan.”

  Banner reached out and shook her hand. “Edward Banner.”

  “What’s wrong with your eyes?” Gladys said.

  Banner heard Perez suppress a laugh.

  “Why do you ask?” Banner said.

  “They look surreal. Like liquid tar.”

  “I’m wearing colored contact lenses. But I’m surprised you’ve noticed. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell.”

  “What’s their real color?” Gladys said.

  “Blue.” Banner saw no reason to lie to the woman. He’d liked her on sight, and her request for a cigarette in spite of her obvious dire health condition indicated a woman who knew what she wanted.

  Gladys gave a satisfied nod. “That’s better. I like it when a man tells the truth.” She gave him a critical look. “I have to say, each man I see on this journey is better looking than the last. You, mister, are a stunner.”

  Banner didn’t know what to say. He was used to women flirting with him in the sideways manner women had, but rarely had a woman so blatantly placed her thoughts on the table. He did his best to ignore Perez, who grinned at him from the corner of the room.

  “Thank you, Ms. Sullivan.” It was all Banner could think of to say. He didn’t think Perez had brought him to Ms. Sullivan so that they could have an extended discussion of his looks. To his relief, the doctor changed the subject.

  “Gladys has a story to tell you, Banner.” Perez ambled to the door. “While she does, I’ll just arrange to unload the booty you brought.” He left Banner and Gladys staring at each other.