Piranha Assignment

by Austin Camacho

  The image began to fade. Morgan mentally struggled, but it was no use. The danger warning had started as a minor annoyance. Then it was a nagging tickle at the back of his neck. Now, it was a hot needle inside his head.

  Morgan’s eyes snapped open and the dream vanished. His face and chest glistened with sweat. He had dozed off, flat on his back on the bed. Now he focused on the door. The knob twisted, and the door swiveled in.

  His gun and knives were across the room. Morgan launched himself toward the chair. A familiar voice said “freeze” and he did. He turned, and felt adrenaline pump into his body.

  It was Varilla. Varilla with the cheap two piece suit, and slicked back hair and infuriating smile. Varilla with that magnum pointed at him again.

  “What do you want?”

  “Well, Bastidas says for me to bring you in,” Varilla said, closing the door behind him, “but what I want is to kill you.”

  “Are you crazy? Didn’t I tell you what I’d do if you pointed a gun at me again?” Morgan stood facing Varilla over the bed, clenching and unclenching his fists in rage. His eyes grew wide as Varilla raised his gun at arm’s length.

  “Didn’t think you’d die alone in a hotel room, did you?” Varilla asked, forcing a smile.

  “You arrogant little shit.”

  Morgan anticipated Varilla’s trigger pull by nearly half a second. He dived as the gun blast buffeted his ears. A second bullet’s path scorched the back of his left leg. The carpet abraded his forearms as he slid under the bed. Another bullet thudded into the mattress above and behind him as he drew his legs up under himself. Then he heaved upward with everything he had. Morgan’s shout was nearly as loud as the gunshots. It helped him release all his strength at once. It also had the side effect of paralyzing Varilla.

  Morgan’s hands dug into the underside of the box springs. The bed lurched up on its edge and smacked into Varilla. His feet were pinned under the bottom edge of the mattress, his body held tight against the wall. Only his head was above the mattress, and his hands, pointing straight up.

  Morgan’s face was no more than three inches from Varilla’s. His teeth were clenched in a death’s head grimace. The heat from Morgan’s hate drew sweat from Varilla’s face.

  Morgan had known this red haze in war, and in bar fights years ago. His left hand held Varilla’s right, with the gun. His right grasped Varilla’s throat. With just a thumb and forefinger he could crush the killer’s windpipe. Varilla’s mouth dropped open in agony.

  “Open wide,” Morgan said. He forced the gun hand toward the sagging mouth. The first thrust broke four teeth and tore both lips. Then he forced the three inch barreled pistol into Varilla’s mouth. With the heel of his palm, he jammed the gun partially down Varilla’s throat. A second slam brought the snap of the jaw breaking. The third strike shoved the gun’s butt to the side, forcing Varilla’s head to the side and breaking his neck. Varilla’s eyes rolled up, and the light of life left them.

  Fifteen seconds had passed since the first gunshot. The red haze lifted, and Morgan backed away from the bed. During the next minute his breathing slowed to normal as the adrenaline rush faded.

  Morgan hardly heard the bed fall, or Varilla’s corpse fall on top of it. He was staring at his blood covered hands, staring with a look of disgust on his face. What was he doing? He had let his temper take over when he most needed a cool head. He went to the sink and looked at his mirror image as he washed his hands.

  “Asshole,” he said aloud. He should have interrogated that slug, gotten some information from him, then killed him cleanly. Absent any intel he had to assume his cover was blown. That meant Felicity was in danger, but not immediate danger or he would instinctively know.

  Three deep breaths cleared his mind. He got dressed in a handful of seconds. No one had come running. Thank goodness people so often assume a gunshot must be something else. Besides, people in Central America were even more inclined to mind their own business than their northern neighbors.

  Shaking his head, Morgan pushed a hand into the dead man’s pocket and came away with a set of keys. Praying his luck continued, Morgan pulled the bed away from the door, slipped out of the room and locked it behind him.

  Downstairs, the Land Rover’s engine snarled when Morgan pulled the choke and started it up. He jammed it into gear and left a streak of rubber pulling into traffic. The wind was coming up, making the sky as dark as Morgan’s mood.

  He was driving hard out of fear. He wasn’t getting any feeling from Felicity at all. That probably meant she was unconscious. If she was dead he was sure he would know. Varilla made it clear he was not working alone. His accomplices would have Felicity, and probably Chuck Barton as well. The only place to take them was the Piranha compound. There, disposing of them would be easy.

  So Morgan was listening to tires whining under him as he pushed the Land Rover to its limits on the Pan American Highway. Traffic was typically thin. He would reach the compound gates in no time. He was not sure what he would do when he arrived.

  Just past Chepo, Morgan looked up to see that he was overtaking a car. No, not a car. A Land Rover, identical to the one he was driving. He was closing the distance quickly. He could see faces in the back window. Nunez and Torrijos. Their eyes were bulging. Morgan guessed they never expected to see him again.

  Raindrops started to speckle the windshield as Morgan pulled into the passing lane. He had a clear view of the passengers. Pizarro drove, with Franciscus beside him. Like those in the back seat, their features reflected great, if unnecessary fear.

  Neither Felicity nor Bastidas was in that vehicle. The one he wanted was a hundred yard ahead. He saw Bastidas glance backward and do a double take. Then the white Land Rover disappeared off to the left.

  They were at the turn off the highway to the compound and Morgan nearly missed it. He down shifted, cranked the wheel and hit the accelerator. The back tires broke loose. The rear of the Land Rover skidded around behind him. The smell of burnt rubber stung his nose. When he again saw the rear of Bastidas’ vehicle he powered his own forward.

  The lead vehicle turned off to the right. Morgan followed. In a few yards the road degraded to a wide dirt track, like tank trails Morgan used to see on Army posts. His face was chiseled stone as he slowly closed the distance. Herrera seemed to concentrate on driving, but Bastidas glanced back again and again. Morgan could not see anyone in the back seat, but he knew Felicity and Barton must be there, lying on the seat or the floor, probably bound and unconscious. If he could force Herrera to the side of the road…well, he was not sure what he would do. He would figure it out when he caught them.

  The road started getting sloppy as the rain settled into a steady patter. Morgan flipped on the windshield wipers. The rain brought a fresh, sweet smell out of the jungle, but the humidity glued Morgan’s clothes to his skin. He fidgeted, but kept his attention on the road and the ghostly white form ahead of him.

  A sharp curve came up, and Morgan whipped around it with only a sling lift of the off side wheels. The Land Rover was prone to tipping on turns, but he was getting the feel of this particular vehicle. The five speed gear box was smooth and more responsive than expected. By making racing changes on curves in the road he was closing the gap. Herrera might be stronger than Morgan, and maybe even faster, but he was not on Morgan’s level as a driver.

  Movement off to his right caused Morgan to yank the wheel hard. Working the clutch and hauling on the steering wheel, he kept his Land Rover upright. His left rear tire spun on the soft shoulder. He bounced back onto the road, angry at the distraction, angry at the time lost.

  That distraction’s size surprised him. It was an old, low MG Midget convertible that had pulled out of a narrow side road. It was bouncing high over the moguls in the road, vying for position.

  The back of the driver’s head suggested an Indian, a young Panamanian man small enough to make an MG appear mid-size. At first it seemed he was abusing the car, but the way it handled and held the roa
d told Morgan he was riding on a specially tuned suspension and had worked on the steering.

  The kid must love his car, Morgan thought. He had found this classic piece of machinery, maybe rusting away in this tropical climate, and nursed it back to robust health. Now he loved racing it on these rough roads.

  Morgan guided around a shallow curve and found a long straightaway ahead. He was about ten car lengths behind the little rag top MG, which was only a length or two off Bastidas’ bow. There was no oncoming traffic. The kid pulled into the left lane, trying to pass. Morgan thought maybe he could use the MG as a distraction. If he could slip in behind the sports car he might be able to come up next to the white Land Rover and ease it over to the side.

  The kid in the MG paced Bastidas’ vehicle for a minute, judging speed and distance, allowing for the rain and mud. Then he double-tapped the horn and downshifted. The little racer jumped like a scalded cat, its nose starting past the Land Rover. At that moment, Herrera gave his steering wheel a quick jiggle to the left. The white Land Rover lurched, its heavy tail end whipping around. The impact with the MG’s right wheel well straightened the Land Rover out.

  The light sports car shot off to the left, avoiding the first tree at the road’s edge, but not the second. Morgan had only a quick glimpse of the car’s right side sliding across a ten inch palm’s trunk. It flipped left and rolled.

  He heard the sound of twisting metal, but it was behind him. At sixty-five miles an hour on a two lane dirt road, there is no time for dwelling on what is behind you. Morgan doubted he could help anyway. The MG’s cloth top would be scant protection. All the kid could use now was last rites.

  “That’s enough,” Morgan said aloud through clenched teeth. That death was unnecessary. There was no longer any question that Bastidas, national hero, was involved in whatever was going on. Whatever else, he was a callous murderer, and he had Felicity in his power.

  Morgan slid his Browning Hi-power out of its shoulder holster. He switched the gun to his left hand, driving with his right. To hell with plots, conspiracies, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the United States Navy. It was time for the direct approach.

  He would take out a tire. He could trust Herrera to bring the Land Rover to a safe stop. Then he would simply coast past and sign them off. Two bullets, two kills. This was Panama, after all. That was how things were done here, had been for decades. America would just have to do without Bastidas’ genius, and only an idiot would get into a fair fight with Herrera anyway.

  Morgan was not quite close enough for a shot when the white vehicle entered a long right hand curve. Morgan clenched his teeth and gave his four-wheeler a little more gas. Sweat was running down his forehead and the windshield was fogging up, but he could not spare a hand to wipe either of them. He held the gun out, planning to shoot as soon as he came out of the curve.

  Up ahead, Morgan saw Bastidas’ arm dart out, pointing left in front of Herrera. He saw the wagon, heaped high with bunches of green bananas, coming slowly in the left lane. One rider, driving one horse. He had time to think “aw, shit!” before Herrera sideswiped the wagon’s rear wheel with the Land Rover and drove on. There was a crunch like a box of dry kindling being stepped on. The rear of the wagon spun forward as it turned onto its side. The rider fell behind it. The horse fell in front of it. The mountain of bananas on their long stalks spilled across the road.

  It was Morgan’s definition of the null option. He was traveling at high speed in a driving rain on a completely blocked dirt road. In five seconds he would crash into the horse, probably killing them both. He could steer off the right side of the road, but that was a sure way to end life as a crash and burn like the MG driver behind him. There was only one survivable choice. Maybe.

  Mud-clogged tires screamed in defiance when Morgan locked the steering wheel to the left. The steel beast moved a few feet left before the rear tires broke loose and the whole vehicle turned to slide sideways on the road. Morgan kept his bearings just long enough to reverse the wheel, halting the spin. Then, passenger side first, the Land Rover crashed into the banana mound and almost through the wagon. Morgan’s head smacked the dashboard and exploded with pain. The world spun briefly and a black curtain descended over his mind.

  -26-

  With consciousness came nausea. Morgan’s teeth clenched against the rising bile. Probable just a mild concussion, he thought. Keeping his eyes closed, he mentally probed for injuries. He found a few minor bruises and some soreness in his right shoulder. He had been lucky. It could easily have been a broken neck.

  The room was quiet but for the pacing of a pair of shoes on the deep pile carpet. Smoke from a familiar cigar hung in the air. He tried a slight experimental movement. Nothing. He was immobilized with his arms crossed, hugging himself. He was sitting up against a wall with his legs straight out in front of him, held together. An icy wave rolled up his spine.

  Herrera’s voice said “He’s awake” so Morgan opened his eyes. He was leaning back against the wall in the smoking room. Through the far window he could see the sun high in an overcast sky. It was the next day. The nausea must be from drugs used to keep him asleep all night.

  Beside him, Felicity bore a look of controlled anger on her face. Barton sat beyond her, wearing a bored expression. Like Morgan, they were tied in straight jackets, their legs strapped together with duct tape. Morgan imitated Barton’s face, looking up at his captors in a way that made it clear he was not impressed.

  Bastidas had pulled a wicker chair over and turned it backwards. He sat straddling it, leaning on the back of the chair. A fat cigar hung from his mouth. Herrera stood behind him with his arms crossed. Bastidas smiled his mad smile, and the sunlight made the burns on his face stand out in sharp relief.

  “So. All the courageous spies are awake.”

  “Where’s my gun?” As intended, Morgan’s question threw Bastidas off balance, but he recovered quickly.

  “Is that your question? Not ‘how did you ferret us out’ or ‘will you kill us now?’ All right. Your knives are upstairs with your other effects. As for your gun, who knows? It flew into the jungle when you executed that spectacular sideways crash into,” here he chuckled, “into all those defenseless bananas.”

  Morgan maintained his attitude. “Do you know how many battles that Browning’s been through with me?”

  “Don’t worry,” Bastidas said, blowing a huge cloud of smoke at him. “It was with you in your last.”

  Morgan shrugged, speaking to Bastidas but locking eyes with Herrerea. “So that’s it, huh? Now you just kill us while we’re sitting here helpless.” Then he shook his head and sighed, expressing disappointment.

  “Oh, I won’t have you killed now,” Bastidas said, also glancing at Herrera. “No, I’ve decided that you’ve all earned the right to be on The Piranha’s maiden voyage.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Morgan said. “Some maid’s probably already wandered into my hotel room and found what’s left of Varilla. It won’t be long before this place is crawling with DENI.” Morgan turned to Felicity. “The National Department of Investigation.”

  “It is too bad about Varilla,” Bastidas said without even a hint of sincerity. “Still, the Panamanians will have days of red tape to get through, provided primarily by the Americans. And in about twelve hours, we’ll be gone.”

  “Going to sail us all over to Fidel?” Barton asked.

  “Sure.” Felicity smiled at Bastidas. “Matthews spotted the Cuban observers on that island out his window, didn’t he? They were making sure the work was progressing on schedule. That’s why you had one of your flunkies set him up and kill him in a bar brawl. You couldn’t trust your man to resist questioning, so you told that ape to ambush him outside the bar. One quick chop to the neck, eh Herrera?”

  “Very good,” Bastidas said, strutting in front of his captive audience. “I wondered if anyone would recognize Herrera’s work. I was amused that the Americans bought that thin cover story so readily. I suppose
it was because they wanted to believe. But no, Mister Barton, I won’t give the sub to the bearded one, although I have accepted a great deal of money and assistance from him.”

  Felicity groaned and swung her head backward into the wall. “Of course. Whatever your plans, you could never be keeping a conspiracy of this magnitude a secret from a labor force as big as yours. Not all the scientists, the sailors, the guards.” When she paused, Bastidas waved his hands toward himself, palm up, prompting her to continue. “None of them has any loyalty to the U.S. or Panama, because they’re all Cubans.”

  “Fantastic, isn’t it?” Bastidas grinned like an idiot. “The grand con, and perfectly executed.”

  “No,” Felicity said, trying to flip her hair out of her eyes. “The misdirection was good, I’ll give you that. The con itself was sloppy. Once you get looking the clues are everywhere. Your people all move with military discipline because they’re all military men. And their hair is long for the most obvious reason. To make them all less recognizable. And your core team, all of them with names taken out of Panamanian history. Way too much of a coincidence. They didn’t even know anything about Panama City, for God’s sake. Torrijos even told me he was allergic to something around here. I’m betting that’s because he’s not from around here.”

  “Man, I feel like an idiot,” Morgan told Felicity. “You wanted to know why they drank so much rum. I wondered where they got the great cigars. It all seems pretty obvious now.”

  “The big giveaway was language,” Felicity continued. “It didn’t make sense that everybody here is always speaking English. But they had to, because nobody would be mistaking the Cuban Spanish dialect for a Panamanian accent.”

  Barton stared unfocused into space, his mouth open in disbelief. “And that’s why they needed me. If they were talking to Panamanians all the time the accent would’ve given them away. Sure, and I’ll bet my cover wasn’t even blown when they tried to blow up the boat. They just wanted to be rid of me because I’m not really a member of the team.” Then he looked at Bastidas. “You fucking bastard.”