Authors: Gary Ponzo
The ants formed two lines. One to enter and fulfill its biological needs for nourishment and the exit line where they would leave the host and purge any excess waste, then reenter the back of the entrance line. Years of biological engineering coming into play.
Padilla couldn’t see Trent Merrick’s chest rise and fall; therefore, the prisoner was now just a corpse taking up space.
“Manny,” Moreno said. “Is he still alive?”
“Yes!” Padilla barked louder than he should have.
Moreno seemed taken aback by the forceful response. “Okay. That is all I really wanted to know. The American president will be here soon and before he wires us the money, he is going to ask me to hear from his brother.”
“Well,” Padilla said, exiting the tent. “We will wait for your call.”
Moreno made small talk for a couple of more minutes, but Padilla didn’t hear a word of it. He was staring at the horizon where he felt as if he could actually see the Brazilian border. By the time he hung up the phone, he realized the dead prisoner had now forced his hand. He would need to leave for his brother’s place in Brazil before nightfall. Once he was over the border, he could stay secluded long enough to gather their supplies and fly to Portugal, where they would remain out of Moreno’s reach.
He turned around and faced east, where the American rescue team would be encountering his death squad of soldiers. Men who were trained to face this type of jungle warfare and had never lost a battle.
Padilla glanced at the time on his cell phone. There should be some gunfire at anytime now. The end was very close.
* * *
As usual, CIA agents Chris Garber and Tevin Martinez were having an argument about baseball. Martinez liked the American League with the designated hitter and Garber was partial to bunts and double switches. They were about to get paid for their services and the tension was mounting. It was always the final payment which was the most precarious.
Garber was behind the wheel making his final turn into the underground parking garage. He pulled off his sunglasses as they approached the security gate. An older gentleman made eye contact and waved as he pulled a lever to allow the wooden gate to rise.
The conversation had dried up as Garber pulled the Mercedes Coupe into the parking facility and stopped in front of a large metal door. He pounded the correct sequence of numbers into the keypad fronting the door and a moment later, the garage door slowly opened.
There were just five spots inside the inner garage, but only one was already taken. That was Pablo Moreno’s red Ferrari, gleaming in the overhead fluorescent lights. The two agents got out and Martinez tapped a button on the wall. The private garage door closed behind them.
While Garber hit the button for elevator, Martinez said, “So who handles the money?”
Garber turned. “What?”
The elevator chimed its arrival.
“The money?” Martinez asked. “Who takes it?”
Garber lost his cool. He pulled the 9mm from his holster and shot Martinez in the chest. The silenced weapon still popped and echoed in the cement enclosure. Martinez fell to his knees, grasping at the hole in his shirt and the blood seeping from it. He looked at Garber with complete shock.
“I’m your partner five years and you’re asking me who’s taking the money?” Garber spat at him, then plugged another two rounds into the man’s chest. “There’s your designated hitter.”
Martinez was alive another minute, making undecipherable sounds and struggling to survive. When he’d finally lost the fight, Garber opened the trunk to his car and lifted his partner’s corpse into the open space and looked down at the body.
“I was thinking you’d do this to me, Tevin,” Garber said. “I guess I was wrong. You really did expect us to split this payoff. My bad.”
He slammed the trunk closed and entered the waiting elevator. His paycheck now doubling in the past few minutes.
Chapter 26
Pablo Moreno heard the chime of the elevator and watched his two security officers man their weapons in a routine attack position. When the door opened, CIA agent Chris Garber stood with his hands up already, prepared for the antagonistic greeting.
“Geesh,” Garber said, exiting the elevator. “Hello to you too.”
Moreno kept a straight face and motioned for Garber to take a seat in front of his desk.
Garber took his place and crossed his legs, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles in his creased pants. He pretended not to notice the open briefcase on Moreno’s desk with thick layers of hundred-dollar bills piled inside.
“Where is your partner?” Moreno asked, folding his hands together in his lap and leaning back in his leather chair.
Garber shrugged. “He partied a little too hard last night, so he slept in.”
“I see,” Moreno said, not liking the answer, but needing to accept it for the moment. “Let me ask you something.” He momentarily glanced at the briefcase. “What do you intend to do with that much money?”
Garber appeared uncomfortable about the question, but tried to look nonchalant. “Knowing me, I’ll probably keep most of it for retirement.”
“You are not much of a spender, eh?”
“Not really,” Garber said, tugging on the collar of his two-hundred-fifty-dollar shirt.
Moreno placed his hands behind his head. “The lease on your apartment ran out last month and you asked your landlord if you could stay just one more month. Were you planning on a long trip?”
Garber couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. “Well, I . . . was planning on vacationing overseas for a while and finding a new place when I returned.”
Moreno was nodding before Garber even finished his little lie. He was completely tired of the charade and wanted to continue with real work. He motioned to one of his security men toward the bar at the back of the office.
“Agent Garber,” Moreno said. “What can I get you to drink?”
The CIA agent clearly understood the gesture. He came to the edge of his seat with his hands planted on the armrests to promote a quick flight.
“Mr. Moreno, please,” Garber said, with a frantic look. “Keep your money. It’s not that important to me.”
A soldier handed the agent a short glass of scotch. Garber looked at it like it was a jar of plutonium.
“Take the drink,” Moreno insisted, his teeth grinding into a tight-lipped expression.
Garber took the drink from the soldier, but didn’t put it near his lips.
“The plane landed on the lake this morning as you advised it would.” Moreno attempted to control his temper. “However, the rescue team had jumped from the plane before we could destroy the aircraft. These agents were tipped off. They knew what we were up to.”
Garber placed his palm to his chest. “El Patron, why would I do such a thing? I was the one who told you about this rescue to begin with. Without me, you would’ve never suspected.”
Suddenly he was Mr. Moreno and El Patron, Moreno thought. Funny how respect worked. “Maybe you were playing on both teams, eh? Maybe you were going to take my money and run back to the States where you could return to your old agency for protection.”
“No!” Garber was almost on his feet, but he turned to see the two soldiers brandishing assault rifles. “Mr. Moreno, you have this all wrong.”
“Where is your partner?” Moreno asked.
Garber’s eyes flashed side to side. He seemed to be searching for the answer which would save his life. “He is dead,” Garber said. “I shot him in the parking garage and put him in my trunk. He wanted to do exactly as you said. Take your money and return home with the information they desired about the Camenos and your operation. But I was too loyal to you. I would not let him get away with it.” Garber fished into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He held them out. “Go ahead. Look and see.”
When Moreno had made up his mind about something, he never changed it. Indecision was the trait of a weak leader. And Moreno would never show weakness. Especially in front of his men.
“Drink your scotch.” Moreno’s eyes bored into Garber with extreme impatience.
Garber took a quick sip of his drink with shaky hands, more of it spilling on the floor then going in his mouth. “Mr. Moreno . . . please.”
Moreno nodded slightly to one of his soldiers.
Garber saw the signal and his drink went crashing to the floor. He jumped up and ran to the closest soldier who smacked him with the butt of his rifle. As Garber slumped to the side from the blow, the second soldier plunged his knife into Garber’s chest.
Garber fought the attack by grasping at the knife, but he was too late. The soldier had already plunged it a second time.
“Please,” Moreno shouted with a disgusted expression. “No more blood on the floor. I just had it cleaned.”
Garber’s response was slowing. His arms flailed spastically as the soldier stabbed him once more before dragging him into the open elevator.
Moreno looked at the second soldier and pointed to Garber’s keys lying on the floor. “Go check the man’s trunk and be sure his partner is truly dead.”
The man scurried into the elevator just before it shut. Garber was still moving but wouldn’t make it to the garage level. Moreno shook his head and shut the briefcase. He needed to be more careful about his alliances. His enemies were all too eager to find ways to infiltrate his cartel.
Pablo Moreno now set his focus on President Merrick’s visit in a couple of hours. From his conversation with Merrick, he could tell the man was passionate about his brother’s fate. The man would be ready to take risks and Moreno would be right there to take advantage of his haste. President Merrick would be killed in an ambush. President Santoro would claim to have received a communication verifying the FARC as responsible for the attack. Once the FARC was blamed for the president’s death, the global reaction would be overwhelming. The American government would throw all of their resources to eliminate the FARC from the region and Moreno would sit by and watch his competition deteriorate.
Less competition meant higher prices. Moreno looked at the spreadsheet on his computer screen and added just two percent to the price of the outgoing cocaine scheduled for the next three months. He clicked the appropriate tab and saw the increased profit instantly appear.
Millions.
Moreno slammed his hand on his desk and smiled broadly. He looked outside at the local residents who walked past his office on their way to work each day, trying to make enough to pay their bills. Moreno had a sudden flash of compassion. He pressed a button on the phone.
“Gabriel,” he said into the speaker. “Have a couple of men make another restaurant run. Make sure the Timmen Slums get more than enough food for their children today.”
He received the appropriate response and his chair creaked as he leaned back and folded his arms. He was doing good for the community. More than anyone else could do. He knew the Lord was on his side and was blessing his good deeds. Pablo Moreno would go down as a saint for his work in Medellin.
And how much higher could you go than saint?
* * *
Chappo Vargas saw the movement in the brush and summoned his crew to flank the American spies. He was using visual signals to maintain radio silence. The Americans had blundered into the jungle expecting to rescue their prisoner with just six soldiers. It was the height of arrogance. The camp had over fifty Cameno warriors prepared to fight to the death for their commander.
Vargas had taken the original team of a dozen men to shoot down the airplane as it landed in the lake, but the Americans jumped out just in time. Now Vargas had tracked them to this spot in the jungle, where they were surrounded and outnumbered.
The barrels of six machine guns were visible through the forest undergrowth and voices could be heard from the nest. His men had taken a wide perimeter to assure none of the Americans could slip through their ambush.
Vargas waved the three men to his right and they moved in concert, closing in on the intruders. The voices from the nest became louder and the movement in the brush became more fierce.
“Follow the damn instructions,” one of the Americans said, in a stifled tone.
“We do not need SEALs,” another said. This voice had an unfamiliar accent, maybe German or Russian. “They will get us killed.”
Vargas could not believe how divided the team had become. They must’ve known just how dire their situation was. He was within fifty yards of the nest now, low to the ground, his knees sinking in the moist rainforest floor.
“They’re here to do their job,” another voice said.
The movement in the undergrowth became more noticeable. This was the thickest part of the rainforest. Trees and vines stampeded over each other as they fought to reach the canopy to absorb even the slightest ray of sunlight. An experienced team could take an hour to move a quarter of a mile. They were in the most dangerous part as well. The greatest biological battlefield anywhere on the planet. Poisonous bats, snakes and spiders all blended into the terrain,
invisible to the untrained eye.
“Come out!” shouted Vargas. “We have you surrounded.”
The motion became more pronounced. Vargas could see a torso squirming for position. It looked like they were completely camouflaged with leaves and branches glued to their bodies.
“No!” came the response from the nest.
The muzzles of the Americans’ machine guns seemed to be stable and none of them were aiming directly at him, so it gave him confidence to move closer. He gauged his steps carefully on the soggy jungle floor, his boots making a sucking sound as they exited the ground.
“We will—” Vargas stopped. Why was he even bothering to add warnings? Through the thick spidery arms of the jungle, Vargas glimpsed his teammate twenty yards to his right. They were in their dark green camouflage gear with green ski masks. He gave the signal to fire at the Americans and his second-in-command returned a thumbs-up.
It only took a moment before the entire team had received the same signal.
“No!” the voice from the nest yelled again.
That’s when the firing began. The Cameno warriors blasted the Americans with their machine guns from their strategic positions in the trees, careful to avoid crossfire. The cacophony of noise erupted throughout the morning mist. There was very little echo as the rainforest absorbed the sound of automatic weapons spewing their anger at the interlopers.