by Jack Challis
‘Yes – at the hut,’ agrees Rondo, ‘they avoided the mantrap and moved silently – I smelt them first!’
‘They must have been near the hut all night,’ remarks Chevez, cleaning his beloved rifle. ‘We must be extra careful tonight,’ warns Apari, ‘for we are now deep in the territory of the evil, Cat-spirit who craves man-meat.’
Chevez smiles. ‘It’s just a jaguar that has found out man is weak. My rifle will kill the Cat-spirit, amigos!’
‘If it was just a jaguar, we would have killed it ourselves,’ argues Apari, ‘It is a devil, and killed over a hundred people. Only magic can kill the evil Cat-spirit.’
The Catholic Chevez is unconvinced. ‘If the white soldiers are still following us tomorrow, I know a way, maybe, to kill them all! Yuma, tomorrow you go ahead – look out for the tracks of El Lobo!’ The three indians grin at the possible prospect.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JAGUARS THAT WALK ON TWO LEGS
At dawn the next morning, the three SAS troopers make an early start in order to regain contact with Chevez.
‘I’m just going to pay my last respects to Taffy,’ says Dublin.
A shout from the grave brings Kane and Lacy running.
‘Look – what that bastard Chevez has done to Taffy during the night!’ Dublin exclaims.
The three SAS troopers stare at Taffy Edwards’ grave. His body had been pulled from the grave and was grimly leaning on the edge. His left arm is missing! ‘Could be an animal?’ Lacy suggests. ‘The man-eater!’
‘That’s no animal – that’s the work of a machete,’ observes Dublin.
Sergeant Kane looks around for tracks. ‘Whoever, or whatever, it was has taken great care not to leave a single track. I don’t think it was Chevez, Frank. His strategy is to keep running.’
‘Besides,’ adds Lacy, ‘he could have easily taken one of us out. We all took turns on watch last night. That skeleton we saw yesterday had an arm missing. What do you think, Sarge?’
‘Now I see through a light glass darkly,’ replies the Sergeant.’
Dublin begins to rebury Edwards. Suddenly, Indian Joe appears from nowhere and snorts a line of cocaine. The three SAS troopers study the indian: who grins back at them.
The group moves off. A helicopter is heard in the distance. Indian Joe is the first to hear it and quickly takes cover. The SAS troopers follow suit. They glimpse the chopper through the foliage in the distance.
‘It’s a Yank Black Hawk combat chopper,’ says Kane.
‘What the fuck is it doing here?’ Dublin muses suspiciously.
‘Probably on exercise,’ answers Kane. ‘Always best to get your heads down when the Yanks are above.’ The Black Hawk chopper moves away.
As evening approaches, Chevez and the Kier Verde move casually along the jungle trail. They stop and listen to the jungle noises behind them. ‘I think the white soldiers are close again, Chevez!’ Rondo warns.
Yuma is a short way ahead. He stops, pointing into the jungle.
‘I have found El Lobo’s trail crossing this track – many mules.’
‘Good,’ answers Chevez ‘We leave the track here. I don’t want the white soldiers to see Lobo’s mule-tracks, only ours. I want to lead the soldiers into Lobo’s camp – when they are following our tracks.’ The three Kier Verde indians grin at the possible outcome of this manoeuvre.
A mile down the track, the SAS troopers are quickly closing in on Chevez again. Indian Joe stops and examines the ground.
‘How long?’ Sergeant Kane asks. The indian flashes the fingers of one hand twice. ‘Chevez is only ten minutes ahead!’ Kane whispers.
The SAS troopers move forward cautiously. After a hundred yards, Indian Joe points to the spot where Chevez and the Kier Verde have left the jungle trail. As usual, Indian Joe disappears before any action. Kane whispers to Dublin and Lacy, ‘Chevez has moved off the track to make camp for the night. We can finish it now. By the time we catch up it will be dark – it will show up their camp-fire – then we creep up on them!’
‘What! On our bellies, Sarge, in the dark?’ asks Lacy, apprehensively. ‘Just my luck to put my hand on a poxy E-Type spider.’
‘No, you dozy twat,’ hisses the Sergeant, ‘we’ll skip in holding hands like they do in the Marines.’
‘Kane then whispers to Lacy threateningly, ‘If you fall arse-over-tit or make any noise, I will kick your fucking head in!’
‘And,’ threatens Dublin, ‘I will push this big Irish fist in your big, fat Cockney gob. This is our last chance before Chevez leads us into the malarial swamps of the Boa Santos.’
‘Now,’ says Kane to Lacy, ‘if Chevez is facing you, put a round in his breast-bone – if he has his back to you, put a round in his spine.’
Dublin takes a feather from his pocket and lets it fall. ‘We will have to be careful, Jim,’ he warns. ‘The breeze can switch quickly in the jungle – wild indians have sharp noses when it comes to smelling a white man.’
The fat, Portuguese drug-runner, El Lobo, sits in a camp chair by a blazing fire, smoking a large cigar. He is watching his men set up camp. He constantly fingers a large gold medallion of the Madonna and child around his thick neck. At his side is José, his brother-in–law, a scraggy, scar-faced, decrepit-looking specimen, well known for his skill with a knife. By the look in José’s eyes and his mad grinning face, it is obvious he is high on cocaine.
Armed men stand guard, others tend to the many mules. Several wild Matte indians with black-painted faces sit around their own fire at the edge of camp. The overweight, greasy Lobo is sweating; he has oily black hair and small piggy eyes. Lobo wears a large poncho and on his lap is his prized Heckler & Koch sub-machine gun. A struggling, naked, native girl is tied to a tree – José walks over and taunts her with a large army ant at the end of a stick.
‘Hey José – you sister-fucker,’ shouts Lobo, ‘come here and get the mules loaded up for that Columbian pig, Capitano de Silva – I don’t want him hanging around my campo too long.’ José reluctantly leaves the terrified girl, muttering under his breath.
On the outskirts of Lobo’s camp, Chevez and the three Kier Verde indians are stealthily creeping close to the camp’s perimeter in an attempt to leave their tracks as near as possible to Lobo’s camp, knowing this trick will lead the soldiers pursuing them straight into a hornet’s nest of armed drug-runners.
One of Lobo’s sharp-eyed, wild, Matte indians spots Chevez and the Kier Verde. He runs straight to José and whispers. José quickly approaches Lobo – ‘Patron, Chevez and some indians are creeping around our campo!’
Lobo gets to his feet and shouts into the descending gloom, ‘Hey Chevez, you scarecrow, what are you doing sneaking around my campo? Come here where I can see you.’
José joins in – ‘Chevez, you mother-fucker, show yourself, pay your respects to your patron, El Lobo.’
The sound of many weapons being cocked forces Chevez and the three Kier Verde to stop; they have no option! They approach Lobo cautiously. The Kier Verde indians hang back behind Chevez, merging into the shadows – Chevez stands at the edge of the firelight. His dark, bullet eyes dart around the camp, taking the whole scene in, including the captive, native girl and the barrel of the Heckler& Koch now partly hidden under Lobo’s poncho.
‘Chevez, come closer,’ orders Lobo, ‘so I can see you.’ Chevez moves closer to Lobo, his rifle in the crook of his left arm, his right hand on the trigger, the barrel pointing at Lobo’s fat belly.
Lobo looks Chevez up and down and grins. ‘You look like a tramp, Chevez.’
Lobo then points to Chevez’s feet and turns to his armed men. ‘Look, amigos, Chevez is wearing sandals made from old car-tyres, and a piece of string to hold his trousers up.’ Lobo’s henchmen laugh.
‘You give our village a bad name, Chevez, dressed like a beggar. Why do you not take the clothes of the Americanos you killed?’
‘I do not wear the clothes of dead men, Señor Lobo,’ Chevez answers.
‘Agh, too proud eh? Scarecrows cannot be proud. Why are you hanging around with wild indians? Are they cock-suckers?’
‘They are amigos, Señor Lobo,’ Chevez answers.
Lobo squints into the shadows for a closer look at the indians behind Chevez. Chevez quickly glances at his American Army watch; he does not wish to linger in Lobo’s camp for long. He is aware that the SAS troopers are not far behind. ‘Tell your indian friends to come closer, Chevez – I can’t see them clearly,’ orders Lobo. Chevez speaks – the indians move into the light.
‘Holy Madonna – Kier Verde!’ Lobo gasps, his smile quickly disappearing when he notices the three Kier Verde indians are holding taught bowstrings, the arrows pointing straight at his fat stomach.
‘Kier Verde!’ repeats the crazy, grinning José. ‘The Invisible People – so far south.’
‘You must come and work for me, Chevez,’ says Lobo, regaining his composure. ‘I will give you a new rifle, new clothes, even new shoes.’
All Lobo’s men laugh. ‘I must go now, patron,’ Chevez announces.
‘No!’ replies José. ‘You stay – we have tequila.’ José nods towards the captured, native girl suggestively.
‘I must get back to my woman, Señor Lobo – she is sick,’ Chevez answers.
‘Where have you hidden your beautiful woman, Chevez?’ Lobo asks.
Chevez does not answer. José whispers in Lobo’s ear, ‘Father Pedro baptised Chevez’s woman and now they are married – she is called Maria.’
‘Ah, bueno, Maria after the holy Madonna. You bring a new convert to our faith. The Holy Virgin will bless you, Chevez.’ Lobo gestures to José to give Chevez a cigar – Chevez accepts and nods towards his indian companions. José reluctantly gives them one each.
To Lobo’s horror, the Kier Verde hold their taught bowstrings and arrows, still aimed at his stomach, in their teeth, taking the cigars with their free hands!
‘Gracias, Patron,’ says Chevez as he slowly backs away while still facing Lobo.
‘Hey Chevez!’ calls out Lobo. ‘Here’s a bag of sugar for Maria.’
Lobo tosses the sugar to Chevez, who lets it fall, not wanting to take his eyes off Lobo or José, who is now holding a knife in a throwing position! A Kier Verde picks up the sugar, a precious commodity.
‘Tell Maria it’s a gift from El Lobo, for taking the holy Madonna’s name.’
Chevez glances at his watch again – time is precious. José notices this and whispers in Lobo’s ear.
‘That’s a fine Americano watch you have, Chevez,’ says Lobo. ‘José would like such a watch!’ José holds out his bony hand. Chevez hesitates a moment, studying his two antagonists – he carefully takes off the watch, his eyes never leaving Lobo and José.
Chevez then throws the watch, letting it fall short of José’s outstretched hand, forcing him to pick it up. Chevez then backs away quickly and leaves, disappearing into the jungle night.
‘Mother-fucker!’ José swears, putting on his new watch. ‘Chevez shows us no respect, Patron.’
‘You mean he shows you no respect,’ Lobo answers.
‘You should have killed him, Patron,’ insists José.
‘You fool,’ replies Lobo. ‘Did you see where his rifle and the arrows of the Kier Verde were pointing?’
‘Yes Patron – at your fat belly,’ replies José, grinning.
‘I don’t know why I put up with you,’ Lobo snaps.
‘Many reasons, Patron,’ answers José. ‘I am your best quality controller of the cocaine – you also married my beautiful sister – I also speak all the native languages.’
‘Your sister was beautiful,’ Lobo muses, ‘when I married her but now every time I screw her, I see your bony face staring up at me!’
‘Thank you, Patron,’ grins José, ‘but Chevez is dangerous – you must kill him.’
‘No, you must kill him – but first find out where he hides the beautiful Maria.’
José walks over to the captive native girl and continues to torment her with a knife. ‘Leave her alone, you cock-sucking sister-fucker,’ orders Lobo. ‘She’s a gift for the Matte chief – we have to pass through their land tomorrow.’
‘But Patron, it is such a waste of a good virgin – you know the Matte will only eat her,’ Jose answers.
‘Yes,’ replies Lobo, ‘and I also know the Matte chief’s warriors with us will tell their chief you have been frightening the virgin and toughening her tender meat – leave her alone!’
An indian scout runs in from the jungle and whispers into José’s ear. José gives a few orders then reports to Lobo.
‘Patron, Capitano de Silva will be here soon.’
‘Quick, hide the tequila,’ orders Lobo, ‘and bring the loaded mules here. I don’t want that Columbian mother-fucker hanging around my campo long.’ Lobo hides his prized Heckler & Koch sub-machine gun under his poncho.
Meanwhile, the SAS troopers are moving into position, crawling on their stomachs. The three troopers are horrified to discover it is not Chevez’s camp but that of heavily armed drug-runners – Chevez has tricked them again! Kane signals the others to keep under cover and lay doggo – to withdraw now could prove dangerous.
Lobo shouts to José, ‘José, some animal at the edge of my campo is making the mules nervous. Build up the fires – it might be the man-eater!’ Captain de Silva enters Lobo’s camp, mounted on a fine horse, followed by two dozen, heavily armed, Columbian foot-soldiers leading a dozen mules. Other soldiers pull along a line of captured, young, naked native girls. Lobo and José’s eyes widen with fear as they recognise the tribe the captive females belong to. They exchange worried glances.
De Silva dismounts in front of Lobo, handing José his reins. Lobo stands up awkwardly, holding the Heckler & Koch under his poncho.
‘I prayed to the Madonna for your safe journey, Capitano de Silva,’ grovels the greasy Lobo. ‘I have fifty kilos of the purest cocaine.’
‘I hope so,’ answers de Silva. ‘You know I mix it 50-50…. do you guarantee it?’
‘No, Capitano, my chief tester, José Lopez, guarantees it,’ squirms Lobo. ‘You have my permission to shoot him if he’s wrong.’
Captain de Silva studies the scrawny, sunken-eyed José who nods enthusiastically while tipping two lines on the back of his hand, and which he takes with two sweeps of his head. ‘Excellente, Capitano!’ exclaims José with staring wild-eyed appreciation.
De Silva studies José with disgust. ‘You look like a living cadaver – you are scaring my mare. Move away from her.’
‘Thank you, Capitano,’ beams José.
‘He is an addict,’ Lobo grins. ‘Perhaps he will die soon.’
‘What have you got under your poncho, Lobo?’ the Captain asks. Lobo is stuck for an answer.
‘He is playing with himself, Capitano,’ José grins. Lobo shoots José a dirty look.
‘Place your hands where I can see them,’ orders the Captain.
Lobo obeys, holding the Heckler & Koch awkwardly under his armpit.
‘Lift your poncho!’ de Silva orders. Lobo and José exchange glances – José fingers the knife in his belt!
A loud, metallic click makes Lobo and José turn and look behind them. They see that two of de Silva’s men have set up a light machine-gun and it is aiming at their backs. Lobo half lifts his poncho, showing a large fat hairy belly.
‘Higher!’ de Silva orders.
Lobo is forced to expose his prized Heckler & Koch. De Silva takes the gun and admires it. ‘Your last consignment of cocaine was two kilos shy.’
‘José weighs the cocaine,’ explains Lobo. ‘Maybe I need to have the scales rebalanced, Capitano.’
‘Let me save you the trouble, Lobo,’ answers de Silva. ‘This Heckler & Koch will re-balance your scales perfectly.’
De Silva notices the captive indian girl and walks over to inspect her. ‘Mother-fucker,’ swears Lobo – José grins a crazy grin.
‘I will take the girl,’ says the
Captain, ‘I am one short…. I will pay for her.’
‘Oh no, Capitano – I cannot sell her.’
‘Why not,’ asks the Captain
‘Because….’ Lobo is again stuck for an answer.
‘Because – she is his sister!’ answers the grinning José.
‘You have indian blood, Lobo?’ de Silva asks, surprised.
‘He means, she is my sister-in-law,’ blurts out Lobo.
‘You tie up your own sister-in-law!’ says de Silva. ‘Why?’
Lobo and José answer at the same time.
‘She is mad!’ José lies.
‘She runs away,’ Lobo lies.
‘Make your mind up,’ replies de Silva, studying the two men before him. ‘The pair of you would lie if I asked you what day it was – I will take her anyway.’
‘My brother in Santa Cruz will be….’ De Silva cuts Lobo short.
‘I am not interested in your family – I still want to buy her – I insist!’
‘I would sell her to anyone…. but not you Capitano,’ smiles Lobo.
‘Explain!’ demands the Captain.
‘Lobo is again stuck for an answer.
‘She is not well, Capitano,’ pipes up José, pointing to his crutch.’
‘Yes,’ beams Lobo, ‘she has syphilis!’
‘How can a wild indian catch venereal disease?’ de Silva asks.
‘José gave it to her, Capitano – look for yourself,’ answers Lobo.
‘I think not,’ says the Captain. He loses interest in the native girl and begins to inspect the mule loads. ‘Is it all here?’
‘Yes, Capitano,’ answers Lobo. De Silva throws a bag of money to Lobo, who immediately begins to count it.
‘It’s all there,’ says the Captain. ‘I counted it myself.’ Lobo reluctantly stops counting. ‘Have you seen, Chevez?’ de Silva asks.
‘No, Capitano,’ Lobo lies, ‘He does not work for me.’
‘If you bring Chevez to me alive, I will give you twenty-five thousand US dollars.’ Lobo and José look at each other, pleasantly surprised.
de Silva mounts his horse…. ‘Capitano,’ asks Lobo, ‘where did you find those young women?’
